On that day tell your son, 'I do this because of what the LORD did for me when I came out of Egypt.' (Exod 13:8 NIV)
I had one of those time travel moments recently that form part of life as a pastor. No, Scotty didn’t beam me up for a ride on the Enterprise and I haven’t passed through any time portals, at least not lately. But I did cover the distance from the Greatest Generation to the Latest Generation (1942-2010) in less than twenty-four hours. And I came away with a sense of how difficult and how important it is to transmit the virtues of the one to the other. I guess I should explain.
I spent an hour or so one afternoon with Rich Crum who, at 93, is our church’s oldest member. Rich was born in Kansas in 1917. He went to war in 1942 as part of the US Strategic Bomber Service, serving in Europe till war’s end. Listening to Rich talk about that era brought all of the danger and sacrifice, the courage and faith of that generation back to vivid life. The men and women of his time not only won that war, they built the America that you and I know today. They understand sacrifice and service and the cost of freedom better than most people now living in the USA.
Flash forward to 7:30 AM the following morning. I stood with about forty-five students and adults around the flag pole in front of the Middle School for the annual See You At The Pole ceremony. We joined with millions of students across America who met that day to pray for their schools and their country. My job was to offer a 9-11 remembrance. Middle Schoolers are 6th thru 8th grade students, 11 to 13 years of age. None of them were older than four years of age when the towers fell on 9-11. Rich's war is ancient history to them. That’s when the time warp hit me. How can we, who live in the present, possibly transmit to these kids the gravity of the moment, the enormity of the evil we faced on that fateful day and give them the virtues they will need to face the enemies of freedom in their own generation?
Scripture gives us the answer. After God delivered Israel from slavery in Egypt he gave them - through Moses - a number of instructions on how to keep the memory of those great events alive. He gave them the Passover, and other colorful ceremonies of remembrance. He gave them the law. And he gave them the tabernacle, with all of its forms of worship. Essentially, the Israelites were to model the great truths of their faith and history; mentor their children in its virtues; and memorialize the extraordinary events of the past. In this way each new generation would have a vital link, a time portal through which the ancients could travel forward in imagination and pass on the virtues that strengthen the foundations of freedom.
Let’s you and I commit to keep the portal open. The next generation is going to need it.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
IN MEMORY OF BIG MIKE
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. (Heb 12:1 NIV)
Nitrogen fumes from the Shell premium gas Mike burned in his Honda CBR 1100 XX motorcycle drifted back to us, threading their way into our helmets along with the mountain aromas of cool granite, green laurel and fresh-cut grass. Family friend Jessica McGill and I kept pace with Mike and my daughter Mikeala on a borrowed BMW, railing the tight curves and slowing to a walk on the one hundred and eighty degree switchbacks of Georgia SR 180 as we wound our way up Brasstown Bald, the highest point in the State. It would be our last motorcycle ride together before he died on August 5th and one of the best, climaxing as it did with a view of the world from 4,784 feet above sea level. He had already covered 200 of the 350 miles he would ride that day and wasn’t even tired. It stands as a metaphor to me of an even greater climb that the big guy made.
My older brother Mike, Uncle Fuzzball to my girls, suffered from a chemical imbalance in his brain diagnosed as a-typical bi-polar disorder. In the mid nineties I watched this disease grab him like the imaginary monsters of childhood, shake him like a ragdoll and fling him to the ground.
Big Mike, his nickname in the neighborhood where I was born, stood over six feet tall from the time he was twelve years old. He was always bigger and stronger than me and most of my friends. He was also a spiritual rock for me when I needed him most. Watching him break into a thousand mental pieces was almost more than I could bear. But watching him climb up out of that psychological black hole, a place from which few men return, was one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever witnessed. We talked about writing a book on it. I’m writing this today to encourage you and anyone else that you know who suffers from a mental disorder.
Mike’s ascent up the mountain of mental health was marked by three things. The first was humility. He was a proud man, a strong man that submitted himself to hospitalization under the care of competent, Christian professionals who prescribed medication and psychotherapy. Once out of the hospital Mike took responsibility for him self and worked the program. It took years and, like many bi-polar patients, along the way he decided he no longer needed the meds. This led to a relapse and another hospital stay. But the second time was the charm. He humbled himself by taking his medicine every day and visiting a counselor every week for years. Even when he no longer needed the counselor he stayed on the medicine and visited a therapist now and then just to keep a check on himself. He knew the monster all too well and as strong as he was knew he couldn’t handle it alone.
The second thing was his faith. In all the years of his suffering Mike never turned his back on his Savior. I never heard him blame God or use his illness and disappointment as an excuse to quit worshipping or neglect his devotions or stop fellowshipping with other believers. He wanted to be well and he knew that in the end, only walking with Jesus would give him the strength to get there.
The third thing that characterized his recovery was perseverance. Sadly, in twenty years of ministry I’ve known a lot of people who gave up, wallowing in the slough of self-pity, and let their illness define them for the rest of their days. Mike never gave up even after two years of fruitless searching for a regular job, something that spins many men down into depression. He was as healthy on that day at the top of the world as I have ever known him, enjoying the good gifts God gave and discussing plans for his new business. He was working in his home shop on the day his heart stopped.
So if you know someone who is struggling with a mental disorder tell them about my brother. Tell them there’s a guy in that great cloud of witnesses, cheering them on.
Nitrogen fumes from the Shell premium gas Mike burned in his Honda CBR 1100 XX motorcycle drifted back to us, threading their way into our helmets along with the mountain aromas of cool granite, green laurel and fresh-cut grass. Family friend Jessica McGill and I kept pace with Mike and my daughter Mikeala on a borrowed BMW, railing the tight curves and slowing to a walk on the one hundred and eighty degree switchbacks of Georgia SR 180 as we wound our way up Brasstown Bald, the highest point in the State. It would be our last motorcycle ride together before he died on August 5th and one of the best, climaxing as it did with a view of the world from 4,784 feet above sea level. He had already covered 200 of the 350 miles he would ride that day and wasn’t even tired. It stands as a metaphor to me of an even greater climb that the big guy made.
My older brother Mike, Uncle Fuzzball to my girls, suffered from a chemical imbalance in his brain diagnosed as a-typical bi-polar disorder. In the mid nineties I watched this disease grab him like the imaginary monsters of childhood, shake him like a ragdoll and fling him to the ground.
Big Mike, his nickname in the neighborhood where I was born, stood over six feet tall from the time he was twelve years old. He was always bigger and stronger than me and most of my friends. He was also a spiritual rock for me when I needed him most. Watching him break into a thousand mental pieces was almost more than I could bear. But watching him climb up out of that psychological black hole, a place from which few men return, was one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever witnessed. We talked about writing a book on it. I’m writing this today to encourage you and anyone else that you know who suffers from a mental disorder.
Mike’s ascent up the mountain of mental health was marked by three things. The first was humility. He was a proud man, a strong man that submitted himself to hospitalization under the care of competent, Christian professionals who prescribed medication and psychotherapy. Once out of the hospital Mike took responsibility for him self and worked the program. It took years and, like many bi-polar patients, along the way he decided he no longer needed the meds. This led to a relapse and another hospital stay. But the second time was the charm. He humbled himself by taking his medicine every day and visiting a counselor every week for years. Even when he no longer needed the counselor he stayed on the medicine and visited a therapist now and then just to keep a check on himself. He knew the monster all too well and as strong as he was knew he couldn’t handle it alone.
The second thing was his faith. In all the years of his suffering Mike never turned his back on his Savior. I never heard him blame God or use his illness and disappointment as an excuse to quit worshipping or neglect his devotions or stop fellowshipping with other believers. He wanted to be well and he knew that in the end, only walking with Jesus would give him the strength to get there.
The third thing that characterized his recovery was perseverance. Sadly, in twenty years of ministry I’ve known a lot of people who gave up, wallowing in the slough of self-pity, and let their illness define them for the rest of their days. Mike never gave up even after two years of fruitless searching for a regular job, something that spins many men down into depression. He was as healthy on that day at the top of the world as I have ever known him, enjoying the good gifts God gave and discussing plans for his new business. He was working in his home shop on the day his heart stopped.
So if you know someone who is struggling with a mental disorder tell them about my brother. Tell them there’s a guy in that great cloud of witnesses, cheering them on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
