Testimonies
Commentary
Object:
In Susan Howatch's novel Absolute Truths, the main character is a rather perfect man. Oh, to be sure, Charles Ashworth had his little peculiarities in his younger years and he needed the guidance of Jon Darrow to help him understand himself. But all in all he is a portrait of humanity at its best -- sound and sleek in body, steady in temperament, keen in intellect, faithful in relationships, and unwavering in morality. He is the consummate churchman. It is no accident of fate that has placed him in the high post of Bishop of Starbridge.
Just as he faces off against those in the church and society who seem to be changing the morals of culture, his wife suddenly dies of a blood clot in the brain. Charles is with her at the time and watches in horrified helplessness as she slumps lifeless to the floor.
Bishop Ashworth's world is shattered. Still, no one will hold him accountable for his depression and excessive drinking since these are the normal temporary responses to such a loss. He is still a perfect man, perfect even in his grief.
Then, as he finally clears their bedroom of his wife's clothes and cosmetics, Charles discovers her journal. For some years she had been penning her secret thoughts. It began as an attempt at prayer, providing a means by which Mrs. Ashworth tried to sort through the turmoil inside in order to present herself to God honestly.
Some of the pages of the journal retrace the minutia of life -- meetings and schedules, changing seasons, weather, and fashions. Woven throughout, however, is a remarkable analysis of Charles' own psyche. He was not aware that she knew him so perceptively. More than that, he did not realize that there were flaws in his own character that kept her and their two sons at a (dis)respectful distance. Formally, his life was in tune with the "absolute truths" of Christian behavior. Yet somewhere in the firmness of his propriety he had failed to grasp the one essential absolute truth of God: It is grace that drives love and not pedantic obedience.
Moses, Paul, Jesus. Part of the reason they stand both with us and above us as spiritual leaders is because they each knew this. Their lives stand as testimonies of God's grace and that is why they are remembered.
Deuteronomy 34:1-12
When Erik Eriksen wrote his famous biography of Martin Luther he observed that all of us endure similar experiences of life but that what makes some people special is their ability to ferret out their truest selves through those adventures. In Luther's case it became a matter of "greatness finding itself," and that's what Eriksen titled his study.
Eriksen said that one of the main crises of life was the quest to hang onto integrity. It is very hard, he said, for us to keep ourselves together. Even though we are mostly good people, we tend to break little pieces of our hearts off here and there, thinking we will serve some greater good in the long run. We may never destroy ourselves in some heinous crime or gross violation of decency. Still we frazzle the edges of our souls through compromise in a dozen minor matters.
Moses' life is a case in point. Raised at home in a hostile environment (imagine other families seeing how Moses' parents got to keep their baby while others had drown their own children!), Moses was then carried away to an entirely different culture to live out his teens and early adulthood. He was always the outsider. Then, just at the point of finding a mate and some political or business success, he was driven from Egypt as a murderer at the age of forty. Talk about being disenfranchised! Next, he manages to settle into nomadic seclusion for four more decades. Finally, just at the point of old age and retirement, he is abruptly visited by a strange God communicating with him in strange ways and is required to give up his peace and tranquility to take on the greatest political and military power of the day. When he finds the courage to confront Pharaoh and wins the "battle of the ten plagues," Moses rushes out of Egypt at the head of a column of misfits and slaves who then turn on him and make unrealistic demands. Moses lives out the last third of his life as single parent to a multitude of crying babies (we call them the "children of Israel") and gets blasted by God for getting upset with them. Now, after 120 years of schizophrenic readjustments to a changing life, Moses gives his last will and testament (the book of Deuteronomy) to the next generation of Israel and dies accompanied only by the God who has haunted, goaded, and loved him these past forty years.
Eriksen's review of Martin Luther could probably be rewritten for Moses' strange life story in this way: "obscurity transformed into greatness." No one could write a fiction more fanciful than Moses' true story. And none would be able to pen a finer eulogy than the words captured by the one who brought Moses' tale to a close in Deuteronomy 34:5-12. What Malvolio said in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night could well have been spoken of the life of Moses: "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."
1 Thessalonians 2:1-8
Paul's Thessalonians correspondence was written early in his career. The book of Acts does not help us much with a background to this letter, only telling us that Paul stopped briefly in the city on his second mission journey and spent at least three weeks speaking in the synagogue before the city erupted in a riot against Paul's presence and message (17:1-9). In the few verses of today's text Paul adds some of his own recollections to the tale and what emerges is a picture of graciousness that won the hearts of those who began to see a living testimony of God's goodness (see also 1 Thessalonians 1:4-10).
Graciousness is a rare commodity. Cecil Rhodes, the nineteenth-century expansionist, South African statesman, and financier, was known for his precise manners and impeccable dress code. Yet he wore these with a considerate heart. When Rhodes was hosting a formal dinner at his Kimberley home, for example, one of the guests was unable to arrive until the very moment of seating and had no time to change his travel-stained and rumpled clothes. The young man's obvious discomfort in this company of glittering women and dapper gentlemen was made more acute because Rhodes, usually so punctual, delayed his appearance at the table. The dusty fellow felt like pig in a hen house surrounded by clucking criticism.
When Rhodes finally entered the room to greet his guests and begin the meal, they were taken aback. Rather than sporting formal attire, he was clad in a shabby old blue suit! Now it was the young man's turn to feel at ease while the others wondered at their being overdressed.
Only the household servants ever knew the whole story. Rhodes had been descending the stairs as the last guest arrived. Noting his travel-weary look, Rhodes had returned to his dressing room, removed his black tuxedo, and quickly slipped into the sorriest suit he could find in his closet. It was his way of politely declaring the misfit to be welcome at his table. In this, Cecil Rhodes had class.
While we would all commend graciousness as a valuable social grace, Paul elevates it to the level of divine witness. What makes it so?
Maybe it has to do with the fact that a considerate person takes thought of others. Will Durant, the famous philosopher and historian, was asked for advice by one of his grandchildren. He summarized all his wisdom in "ten commandments." At the heart of them is this advice: "Do not speak while another is speaking. Discuss, do not dispute. Absorb and acknowledge whatever truth you can find in opinions different from your own. Be courteous and considerate to all, especially to those who oppose you."
Maybe graciousness is more than just thoughtfulness. Stan Wiersma, writing under his pen name "Sietze Buning," explored the religious roots of being considerate in his collection of folk poetry titled Style and Class (Middleburg Press, 1982). Much of what we display in life, said Sietze Buning, has to do with "style" -- we watch how others dress or act and then we try to imitate those we admire. But "class" is living out of the nobility of your inner character, said Sietze. He tells this little story to illustrate what he means:
Queen Wilhelmina was entertaining the Frisian Cattle Breeders' Association at dinner. The Frisian farmers didn't know what to make of their finger bowls. They drank them down. The stylish courtiers from the Hague nudged each other, pointed, and laughed at such lack of style, until the queen herself, without a smile, raised her finger bowl and drained it, obliging all the courtiers to follow suit -- without a smile (p. 17).
Sietze Buning ends with this note of judgment: The courtiers had style but Queen Wilhelmina had class.
While that makes for good storytelling, Sietze Buning takes it one surprising step further. He links style to the wisdom of the world and class to the wisdom of heaven. The former tries to get us to fit in with the right crowd, looking the right way, eating the right foods, while driving the right vehicles. That's style.
But class -- real class -- happens to us when we realize that we are children of God. If God is king, we are nobility -- princesses and princes in the realm of the great ruler! Children of the king do not need to prove themselves, nor do they need to flaunt their status. If they have learned well at home the true worth of their lives, they can treat others with courtesy and respect. They can be gracious and considerate. It is a religious thing, as Paul notes in these verses.
Matthew 22:34-46
Why can Jesus interpret the Law of Moses as he does here? There are several possibilities. First, Jesus could do so since it was the prerogative of any Jewish male to wrestle with scripture. Second, he could do so because he was identified as having some wisdom (cf. the appellation "Teacher" given to him by his interrogator). Third, he could do so because he has a commanding authority; the gospel of Matthew presents Jesus as king throughout and comments on Jesus' teaching prowess on several occasions (cf. Matthew 7:28-29). Fourth, Jesus can interpret the Law of Moses because he is, in fact, the author of that law by way of the divine Trinity.
This was, of course, the self-aggrandizing (from their perspective) assumption the Pharisees were looking for. Jesus had already silenced their opposing socio-political/religious leadership counterparts, the Sadducees (v. 34), and now the Pharisees attempt to corner and humiliate this charismatic leader. Jesus merely allows Moses to speak for himself. Jesus quotes Moses to interpret Moses, showing how in Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18 Moses himself clarifies the matter.
Then Jesus moves to the offensive. He becomes the questioner, seeking clarification of David's comments in Psalm 110. Matthew identifies Jesus as a descendent of David (cf. Matthew 1), something commonly known (see Matthew 9:37; 12:23; 15:22; 20:30-31). Matthew 21 opens with Jesus' arrival in Jerusalem being praised as "the son of David," which was both a genealogical designation and a religio-political appellation for the Messiah. Here Jesus throws back at his adversaries the charge they leveled against him: if Messiah is to be a son of David, Jesus has a right to that position.
There are few passages with more power than Jesus' summary of the law in verses 37-40. It is not intended to be a checklist but rather a worldview. How do we see ourselves, others, and God in this wild ride we call life? Jesus reminds us of the basics found in love.
In Ernest Gordon's book To End All Wars (Zondervan, 2002), a story that breathes with this divine perspective is told. It is the true tale of what took place in the Japanese prisoner-of-war camp made famous by the movie The Bridge on the River Kwai. The camp stood at the end of the Bataan death march that brought Allied soldiers deep into the jungles of Asia. Few would survive and everyone knew it. In order to make the best of a terrible situation they teamed up in pairs, each watching out for a buddy.
One prisoner was a strapping six-foot-three fellow built like a tower of iron. If any could come out of this alive, all felt he would. That was before his buddy got malaria. The smaller fellow was much weaker and very likely to die. Their captors did not want to deal with sickness so anyone who was unable to work was confined in a "hot house" until he succumbed to heat exhaustion, dehydration, and the collapse of his bodily systems.
The sick man was locked into a hothouse and left to die. Surprisingly, he did not die, because every mealtime his strong buddy went out to him, under curses and threats from the guards, and shared his meager rations. Every night, his strong buddy sneaked from the prison barracks, braved the watchful eyes above that held guns of death, and brought his own slim blanket to cover the fevered convulsions of the sick man.
At the end of two weeks the sick man astounded the guards by recovering well enough to be able to return to work. He even survived the entire camp experience and lived to tell about it. His buddy, however -- the strong man all thought invincible -- died very shortly of malaria, exposure, and dysentery. He had given his life to save his friend.
The story does not end there. When Allied troops liberated that camp at the close of the war in the Pacific, virtually every prisoner was a Christian. There was a symphony orchestra in camp with instruments made of the crudest materials. There were worship services every Sunday and the death toll was far lower than any expected -- all this because of the silent testimony made by a strong man toward his buddy facing death.
There is much that pretends to be wise in our world but nothing can match the profound wisdom and strength of true mercy. Can we love others without finding that love first in God? Can we love God without it coming to expression in our care for others? Perhaps the reason the Pharisees challenged Jesus' authority in verses 41-46 was because his testimony robbed their own of power.
Application
Here is the greatest rub for those who are mature in life and faith. It is so easy to presume that strength of character and moral uprightness are the goals of faith and life. Certainly they are admirable and obedience to God is a high value. However, there is something about love that stands just above them. A dear friend once explained it like this: in a dream he saw a marvelous apparatus of yellow silk billowing in the breezes next to a cliff. It was a transportation device of some kind, though he couldn't see either engines or supports. Like a magical tent, it floated in space.
Inside was a man whose face seemed so familiar and friendly my friend knew immediately that this was an intimate acquaintance. However, he could not seem to remember how they were associated or the man's name. The man, with a smile of warmth, invited him to step off the cliff into the contrivance and be carried on a delightful journey in the yellow tent.
My friend was so intrigued by the device itself that he wanted to try it on his own. He wanted to pilot the magical airship. So when he entered the craft he fought the man for control and pushed him out onto the cliff. Unfortunately, just as my friend felt the power of flight swell in his commanding grasp, the entire yellow tent began to collapse in on itself and plummet to disaster below. No matter what he did, my friend could not make the "machine" fly. He cried out for help and suddenly the man he had pushed out reappeared at his side. In that exact moment the airship began to billow and slow its freefall. Soon they were soaring together.
Without a further thought my friend knew that the strangely familiar man was Jesus. He also knew why Jesus said to him, "Don't you know that the power to fly is not found in the 'machine,' nor in your skills as a pilot, but in me?" Our testimonies only make sense when they point to Jesus.
Alternative Application
Deuteronomy 34:1-12. The story of Moses' death begs to be treated by itself. One way to convey the character of Moses would be to have people go through an exercise in which they write their own eulogies or obituaries. Garrison Keillor says it is too bad we miss our own funerals because people say such nice things about us and we miss it by three days. But if we were able to attend our own funerals or had the opportunity to write what we believed others should know about the meaning of our lives, what would we say?
If we were goaded into that exercise in a meaningful way, how would we seek to live our lives in order that the eulogies we wrote about ourselves would be fact, not fiction? In other words, what does it take to live like Moses in such a way that our lives are, in fact, testimonies to God's character and grace?
Just as he faces off against those in the church and society who seem to be changing the morals of culture, his wife suddenly dies of a blood clot in the brain. Charles is with her at the time and watches in horrified helplessness as she slumps lifeless to the floor.
Bishop Ashworth's world is shattered. Still, no one will hold him accountable for his depression and excessive drinking since these are the normal temporary responses to such a loss. He is still a perfect man, perfect even in his grief.
Then, as he finally clears their bedroom of his wife's clothes and cosmetics, Charles discovers her journal. For some years she had been penning her secret thoughts. It began as an attempt at prayer, providing a means by which Mrs. Ashworth tried to sort through the turmoil inside in order to present herself to God honestly.
Some of the pages of the journal retrace the minutia of life -- meetings and schedules, changing seasons, weather, and fashions. Woven throughout, however, is a remarkable analysis of Charles' own psyche. He was not aware that she knew him so perceptively. More than that, he did not realize that there were flaws in his own character that kept her and their two sons at a (dis)respectful distance. Formally, his life was in tune with the "absolute truths" of Christian behavior. Yet somewhere in the firmness of his propriety he had failed to grasp the one essential absolute truth of God: It is grace that drives love and not pedantic obedience.
Moses, Paul, Jesus. Part of the reason they stand both with us and above us as spiritual leaders is because they each knew this. Their lives stand as testimonies of God's grace and that is why they are remembered.
Deuteronomy 34:1-12
When Erik Eriksen wrote his famous biography of Martin Luther he observed that all of us endure similar experiences of life but that what makes some people special is their ability to ferret out their truest selves through those adventures. In Luther's case it became a matter of "greatness finding itself," and that's what Eriksen titled his study.
Eriksen said that one of the main crises of life was the quest to hang onto integrity. It is very hard, he said, for us to keep ourselves together. Even though we are mostly good people, we tend to break little pieces of our hearts off here and there, thinking we will serve some greater good in the long run. We may never destroy ourselves in some heinous crime or gross violation of decency. Still we frazzle the edges of our souls through compromise in a dozen minor matters.
Moses' life is a case in point. Raised at home in a hostile environment (imagine other families seeing how Moses' parents got to keep their baby while others had drown their own children!), Moses was then carried away to an entirely different culture to live out his teens and early adulthood. He was always the outsider. Then, just at the point of finding a mate and some political or business success, he was driven from Egypt as a murderer at the age of forty. Talk about being disenfranchised! Next, he manages to settle into nomadic seclusion for four more decades. Finally, just at the point of old age and retirement, he is abruptly visited by a strange God communicating with him in strange ways and is required to give up his peace and tranquility to take on the greatest political and military power of the day. When he finds the courage to confront Pharaoh and wins the "battle of the ten plagues," Moses rushes out of Egypt at the head of a column of misfits and slaves who then turn on him and make unrealistic demands. Moses lives out the last third of his life as single parent to a multitude of crying babies (we call them the "children of Israel") and gets blasted by God for getting upset with them. Now, after 120 years of schizophrenic readjustments to a changing life, Moses gives his last will and testament (the book of Deuteronomy) to the next generation of Israel and dies accompanied only by the God who has haunted, goaded, and loved him these past forty years.
Eriksen's review of Martin Luther could probably be rewritten for Moses' strange life story in this way: "obscurity transformed into greatness." No one could write a fiction more fanciful than Moses' true story. And none would be able to pen a finer eulogy than the words captured by the one who brought Moses' tale to a close in Deuteronomy 34:5-12. What Malvolio said in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night could well have been spoken of the life of Moses: "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."
1 Thessalonians 2:1-8
Paul's Thessalonians correspondence was written early in his career. The book of Acts does not help us much with a background to this letter, only telling us that Paul stopped briefly in the city on his second mission journey and spent at least three weeks speaking in the synagogue before the city erupted in a riot against Paul's presence and message (17:1-9). In the few verses of today's text Paul adds some of his own recollections to the tale and what emerges is a picture of graciousness that won the hearts of those who began to see a living testimony of God's goodness (see also 1 Thessalonians 1:4-10).
Graciousness is a rare commodity. Cecil Rhodes, the nineteenth-century expansionist, South African statesman, and financier, was known for his precise manners and impeccable dress code. Yet he wore these with a considerate heart. When Rhodes was hosting a formal dinner at his Kimberley home, for example, one of the guests was unable to arrive until the very moment of seating and had no time to change his travel-stained and rumpled clothes. The young man's obvious discomfort in this company of glittering women and dapper gentlemen was made more acute because Rhodes, usually so punctual, delayed his appearance at the table. The dusty fellow felt like pig in a hen house surrounded by clucking criticism.
When Rhodes finally entered the room to greet his guests and begin the meal, they were taken aback. Rather than sporting formal attire, he was clad in a shabby old blue suit! Now it was the young man's turn to feel at ease while the others wondered at their being overdressed.
Only the household servants ever knew the whole story. Rhodes had been descending the stairs as the last guest arrived. Noting his travel-weary look, Rhodes had returned to his dressing room, removed his black tuxedo, and quickly slipped into the sorriest suit he could find in his closet. It was his way of politely declaring the misfit to be welcome at his table. In this, Cecil Rhodes had class.
While we would all commend graciousness as a valuable social grace, Paul elevates it to the level of divine witness. What makes it so?
Maybe it has to do with the fact that a considerate person takes thought of others. Will Durant, the famous philosopher and historian, was asked for advice by one of his grandchildren. He summarized all his wisdom in "ten commandments." At the heart of them is this advice: "Do not speak while another is speaking. Discuss, do not dispute. Absorb and acknowledge whatever truth you can find in opinions different from your own. Be courteous and considerate to all, especially to those who oppose you."
Maybe graciousness is more than just thoughtfulness. Stan Wiersma, writing under his pen name "Sietze Buning," explored the religious roots of being considerate in his collection of folk poetry titled Style and Class (Middleburg Press, 1982). Much of what we display in life, said Sietze Buning, has to do with "style" -- we watch how others dress or act and then we try to imitate those we admire. But "class" is living out of the nobility of your inner character, said Sietze. He tells this little story to illustrate what he means:
Queen Wilhelmina was entertaining the Frisian Cattle Breeders' Association at dinner. The Frisian farmers didn't know what to make of their finger bowls. They drank them down. The stylish courtiers from the Hague nudged each other, pointed, and laughed at such lack of style, until the queen herself, without a smile, raised her finger bowl and drained it, obliging all the courtiers to follow suit -- without a smile (p. 17).
Sietze Buning ends with this note of judgment: The courtiers had style but Queen Wilhelmina had class.
While that makes for good storytelling, Sietze Buning takes it one surprising step further. He links style to the wisdom of the world and class to the wisdom of heaven. The former tries to get us to fit in with the right crowd, looking the right way, eating the right foods, while driving the right vehicles. That's style.
But class -- real class -- happens to us when we realize that we are children of God. If God is king, we are nobility -- princesses and princes in the realm of the great ruler! Children of the king do not need to prove themselves, nor do they need to flaunt their status. If they have learned well at home the true worth of their lives, they can treat others with courtesy and respect. They can be gracious and considerate. It is a religious thing, as Paul notes in these verses.
Matthew 22:34-46
Why can Jesus interpret the Law of Moses as he does here? There are several possibilities. First, Jesus could do so since it was the prerogative of any Jewish male to wrestle with scripture. Second, he could do so because he was identified as having some wisdom (cf. the appellation "Teacher" given to him by his interrogator). Third, he could do so because he has a commanding authority; the gospel of Matthew presents Jesus as king throughout and comments on Jesus' teaching prowess on several occasions (cf. Matthew 7:28-29). Fourth, Jesus can interpret the Law of Moses because he is, in fact, the author of that law by way of the divine Trinity.
This was, of course, the self-aggrandizing (from their perspective) assumption the Pharisees were looking for. Jesus had already silenced their opposing socio-political/religious leadership counterparts, the Sadducees (v. 34), and now the Pharisees attempt to corner and humiliate this charismatic leader. Jesus merely allows Moses to speak for himself. Jesus quotes Moses to interpret Moses, showing how in Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18 Moses himself clarifies the matter.
Then Jesus moves to the offensive. He becomes the questioner, seeking clarification of David's comments in Psalm 110. Matthew identifies Jesus as a descendent of David (cf. Matthew 1), something commonly known (see Matthew 9:37; 12:23; 15:22; 20:30-31). Matthew 21 opens with Jesus' arrival in Jerusalem being praised as "the son of David," which was both a genealogical designation and a religio-political appellation for the Messiah. Here Jesus throws back at his adversaries the charge they leveled against him: if Messiah is to be a son of David, Jesus has a right to that position.
There are few passages with more power than Jesus' summary of the law in verses 37-40. It is not intended to be a checklist but rather a worldview. How do we see ourselves, others, and God in this wild ride we call life? Jesus reminds us of the basics found in love.
In Ernest Gordon's book To End All Wars (Zondervan, 2002), a story that breathes with this divine perspective is told. It is the true tale of what took place in the Japanese prisoner-of-war camp made famous by the movie The Bridge on the River Kwai. The camp stood at the end of the Bataan death march that brought Allied soldiers deep into the jungles of Asia. Few would survive and everyone knew it. In order to make the best of a terrible situation they teamed up in pairs, each watching out for a buddy.
One prisoner was a strapping six-foot-three fellow built like a tower of iron. If any could come out of this alive, all felt he would. That was before his buddy got malaria. The smaller fellow was much weaker and very likely to die. Their captors did not want to deal with sickness so anyone who was unable to work was confined in a "hot house" until he succumbed to heat exhaustion, dehydration, and the collapse of his bodily systems.
The sick man was locked into a hothouse and left to die. Surprisingly, he did not die, because every mealtime his strong buddy went out to him, under curses and threats from the guards, and shared his meager rations. Every night, his strong buddy sneaked from the prison barracks, braved the watchful eyes above that held guns of death, and brought his own slim blanket to cover the fevered convulsions of the sick man.
At the end of two weeks the sick man astounded the guards by recovering well enough to be able to return to work. He even survived the entire camp experience and lived to tell about it. His buddy, however -- the strong man all thought invincible -- died very shortly of malaria, exposure, and dysentery. He had given his life to save his friend.
The story does not end there. When Allied troops liberated that camp at the close of the war in the Pacific, virtually every prisoner was a Christian. There was a symphony orchestra in camp with instruments made of the crudest materials. There were worship services every Sunday and the death toll was far lower than any expected -- all this because of the silent testimony made by a strong man toward his buddy facing death.
There is much that pretends to be wise in our world but nothing can match the profound wisdom and strength of true mercy. Can we love others without finding that love first in God? Can we love God without it coming to expression in our care for others? Perhaps the reason the Pharisees challenged Jesus' authority in verses 41-46 was because his testimony robbed their own of power.
Application
Here is the greatest rub for those who are mature in life and faith. It is so easy to presume that strength of character and moral uprightness are the goals of faith and life. Certainly they are admirable and obedience to God is a high value. However, there is something about love that stands just above them. A dear friend once explained it like this: in a dream he saw a marvelous apparatus of yellow silk billowing in the breezes next to a cliff. It was a transportation device of some kind, though he couldn't see either engines or supports. Like a magical tent, it floated in space.
Inside was a man whose face seemed so familiar and friendly my friend knew immediately that this was an intimate acquaintance. However, he could not seem to remember how they were associated or the man's name. The man, with a smile of warmth, invited him to step off the cliff into the contrivance and be carried on a delightful journey in the yellow tent.
My friend was so intrigued by the device itself that he wanted to try it on his own. He wanted to pilot the magical airship. So when he entered the craft he fought the man for control and pushed him out onto the cliff. Unfortunately, just as my friend felt the power of flight swell in his commanding grasp, the entire yellow tent began to collapse in on itself and plummet to disaster below. No matter what he did, my friend could not make the "machine" fly. He cried out for help and suddenly the man he had pushed out reappeared at his side. In that exact moment the airship began to billow and slow its freefall. Soon they were soaring together.
Without a further thought my friend knew that the strangely familiar man was Jesus. He also knew why Jesus said to him, "Don't you know that the power to fly is not found in the 'machine,' nor in your skills as a pilot, but in me?" Our testimonies only make sense when they point to Jesus.
Alternative Application
Deuteronomy 34:1-12. The story of Moses' death begs to be treated by itself. One way to convey the character of Moses would be to have people go through an exercise in which they write their own eulogies or obituaries. Garrison Keillor says it is too bad we miss our own funerals because people say such nice things about us and we miss it by three days. But if we were able to attend our own funerals or had the opportunity to write what we believed others should know about the meaning of our lives, what would we say?
If we were goaded into that exercise in a meaningful way, how would we seek to live our lives in order that the eulogies we wrote about ourselves would be fact, not fiction? In other words, what does it take to live like Moses in such a way that our lives are, in fact, testimonies to God's character and grace?
