It Was Not a Silent Night

"It was not a silent night
There was blood on the ground
You could hear a woman cry
In the alleyway that night
On the streets of David's town
And the stable was not clean
And the cobblestones were cold
And little Mary full of grace
With the tears upon her face
Had no mother's hand to hold..."

These opening lines from Andrew Peterson's "Labor of Love" remind me well that Immanuel's entrance into the world via a stable in Bethlehem was anything but picturesque. In our culture, we love to sanitize our manger scenes with fresh straw, sparkling lights, and exquisitely designed figurines all positioned comfortably around the babe wrapped snugly in swaddling bands. If the truth be known though, we would be far more historically accurate if we included the suspicious, gossiping villagers from Nazareth around Mary and Joseph ("Virgin birth? Yea, right!"). Or how about paranoid Herod and his "infanticide squads," ready to slaughter all the innocents in Bethlehem, two years and under? Oh, and make sure you find a place for old Simeon, who, instead of bringing "It's a boy!" balloons to Mary, brought this bit of cheer: "Behold, this Child is destined for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign which will be spoken against (yes, a sword will pierce through your own soul, also), that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed." (Luke 2:34-35) Indeed even the Magi's triumvirate of gifts (gold, frankincense, and myrrh) spoke prophetically of the Christ's triple roles as king, priest, and prophet, the gift of myrrh a gum resin used as an embalming agent in those days.

Our own Christmas season has not been so neat and tidy this year either. Coming on the heels of my dad's death in June (via lung cancer) and the earlier news during the summer of 2007 that my mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer that had spread to other areas of her body, we found out this month that Sabrina's mom has been diagnosed with stage four oral cancer. Initially, the doctors had considered a surgery where they would essentially cut out her tongue, then replace it with muscle from her thigh. They have since decided to forgo that drastic step, and treat the cancer with chemo and radiation. She now has a feeding tube in her stomach and they are treating other complications at the hospital here in Portland. On top of that, there are other issues I won't go into here which make the family dynamics challenging, to say the least.

Spiritually speaking, we have been stretched to move beyond theoretical love to practical love each and every day. The Lord continues to work on us and others, teaching us to die to ourselves and take up our cross daily. In that light, I wanted to share some fantastic insights I've been gleaning from William L. Lane's superb commentary on the Gospel of Mark, particularly as he addresses the section in Mark 8:34-9:1:

"The humiliation of the Messiah, announced in Ch. 8:31, is the mysterious prototype of that of the Christian. But even as Jesus spoke of death followed by resurrection, his followers may look beyond a pagan tribunal to the tribunal of the Son of Man where loyalty to Jesus will be honored by vindication. This unit amounts to a call for complete and confident identification with Christ...Jesus stipulated that those who wish to follow him must be prepared to shift the center of gravity in their lives from a concern for self to reckless abandon to the will of God. The central thought in self-denial is a disowning of any claim that may be urged by the self, a sustained willingness to say 'No' to oneself in order to say 'Yes' to God. This involves a radical denunciation of all self-idolatry and of every attempt to establish one's own life in accordance with the dictates of the self. This demand is reinforced and intensified by the horrifying image of a death march. Bearing the cross was not a Jewish metaphor, and Jesus' statement may have sounded repugnant to the crowd and the disciples alike. The saying evokes the picture of a condemned man going out to die who is forced to carry on his back the cross-beam upon which he is to be nailed at the place of execution. By the time Mark prepared the Gospel this had become a cruel reality, both for Jesus and the Church. Jesus' words were a sober caution that the commitment for which he asked permitted no turning back, and if necessary, a willingness to submit to the cross in pursuance of the will of God. His followers must be prepared to die, for they share in the same veiledness that permits his own humiliation. The call to follow Jesus, which recapitulates the action in which self-denial and cross-bearing are to be manifested, provides a vivid reminder that suffering with the Messiah is the condition of glorification with him (Rom. 8:17)."

All You Could Ever Want

For unto us a child is born,
to us a son is given,
and the government will be on his shoulders.
And he will be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

|| ISAIAH 9:6 || NRSV ||

"All we could ever imagine, could ever hope for, Jesus is. He is the wise royal Counselor who fills us with wonder, who holds the tangled story lines of history and will one day bring true understanding between all individuals and nations. He is the God of Might, whose power can accomplish any and every task his holiness demands. His power we need not fear for he is also the Father Eternal who is tenderness itself and who is ever motivated by his everlasting love for his children. Finally, he is the Prince of Peace whose first coming has already transformed society but whose second coming will forever establish justice and righteousness. All this, and infinitely more, alive in an impoverished baby in a barn.

That is what Christmas means--to find in a place where you would least expect anything you want, everything you could ever want."

(From Michael Card's "Devotions in the Studio" December 2008/Show #350)

Tim Meets Spurgeon in Duckland!

One of the more humorous ironies of looking back on my days at the University of Oregon has to do with the main library on campus. When you approach it from the front, you'll notice large letters on both sides of the entrance that quote Jesus from John 8:32: "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." Now if you know anything about Eugene in general and a college education there in particular, you'll find it amusing that the quote is still there today. Having ripped the war memorial cross down from the top of Skinner's Butte, I'm amazed that the "honor diversity" crowd in Oregon's second most populous city would stand for such a thing. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the library was renamed the "Knight Library" (funding compliments of Phil Knight, founder of Nike). I can assure you, though, that the "freedom" they suggest emanates from their professors and "higher learning" there is far from the kind of liberty or truth Jesus spoke of in the original context when he was responding to his Jewish followers. That being said, I did discover a set of old, musty books in that library that encouraged me and introduced me to someone I had, up to that point in the early 1980's, never known about: Charles Spurgeon.

Known as the "Prince of Preachers," Charles Haddon Spurgeon was to nineteenth-century England what D.L. Moody was to America. Although Spurgeon never attended theological school, by the age of twenty-one he was the most popular preacher in London. It is with great fondness that I look back on those college years in Eugene, when the Lord faithfully provided a set of sermons to one of his younglings struggling to trek his way through the obstacle course of an education laden with the truth enumerated in Romans 1:21-22 ("...but became futile in their thoughts, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Professing to be wise, they became fools...")

Here is an excerpt from one of his sermons ("Christ Precious to Believers"):

“Those who declare that the ancient valor of the church is departed, know not what they say. The professing church may have lost some of its masculine vigor; the professors of this day may be but effeminate dwarfs, the offspring of glorious fathers; but the true church, the elect out of the professing church, the remnant whom God hath chosen, are as much in love with Jesus as the saints of yore, and are as ready to suffer and to die. We challenge hell and its incarnate representative, old Rome herself; let her build her dungeons, let her revive her inquisitions, let her once more get power in the state to cut, and mangle, and burn; we are still able to possess our souls in patience. We sometimes feel it were a good thing if persecuting days should come again, to try the church once more, and drive away her chaff, and make her like a goodly heap of wheat, all pure and clean.”

The Prodigal Continent

I was recently listening to one of my favorite podcasts (All Souls Church, Langham Place), when David Turner was sharing a message from the New Testament book of Acts concerning the state of Christianity in Europe, especially in relationship to the rest of the world. He cited Patrick Johnstone, one of the editors of the marvelous Operation World, as referring to Europe as the "prodigal continent," due to the post-Christian worldview that now exists throughout much of the continent.

Here are just a few tidbits of intriguing information I gleaned as I listened and took notes:

1. In the mid-20th century, the gospel really moved east and south. For the first time since the Reformation, 70% of the world's Christians live outside the West and North.

2. In 1900, there were 380 million Christians in Europe; there were less than 10 million in Africa. Today, there are 370 million Christians in Africa...that's 1/5 of the world's Christians.

3. Today there are more evangelicals in Nepal than in Spain.

4. The typical Christian is no longer an affluent, white, and British Anglican male around 45 years of age, but a poor black Pentecostal woman of around 25.

5. The largest congregation in Britain is a Pentecostal church led by a Nigerian.

6. The largest congregation in the world is probably in
South Korea--the Yoido Full Gospel Church
in Seoul--presently at 700,000 members. The church's origin can be traced back to 1958, when five people started meeting in a living room in South Korea.

7. The fastest growing church ever is thought to be the church in China, estimated at some 90 million believers.

Mr. Turner concludes his talk by saying this:

"...Europe is not what is was...Yes, Europe has a soul, a soul imbued by the Christian faith. But the neglect of that soul is meaning that it is shriveling...Europe today is a place of believing without belonging, or restlessness, or searching...it needs the Gospel again..."

I couldn't help but draw the comparison between Europe and the country where I live. We are probably pretty close, if not right where Europe is today when it comes to Christianity and the general value our culture places on the worldview and claims presented in the life, teachings, mission, work, and call of Christ.

Maybe C.S. Lewis was a little too prophetic with this pithy statement:

"You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body."

Hamas Leader's Son Turns to Christ

I recently read the following news story on the Jerusalem Post's news website. It is an interview of the son of a Hamas leader who converted to Christ while imprisoned by the Israeli government. I thought it was an intriguing look inside the hidden world of power struggles within the prison environment in the Middle East and how very much it reminded me of the spiritual transformations we read of constantly in the Book of
Acts. God continues to work in the most unlikely of places, and it is clear He has an undying love and plan for every tongue and tribe under the sun to hear of the Son!

Our Darling Daughter Cortni's Olympic Dreams Come True in Beijing!

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Celebrating 25 Years of Marriage!

We celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary on July 9, 2008. Ironically, we chose to go on our first hike of the summer season a day earlier in the Columbia Gorge, with temperatures pushing 90 degrees. I should have taken the "difficult to very difficult" rating level on the Dog Mountain trail a little more seriously. We were certainly rewarded with a wonderful view of the scenic Columbia River Gorge, but only after consuming mass quantities of water, sweating like overwrought beasts, and grumbling over the aches and pains in our joints and muscles. (By the way, don't you just want to slap those twenty-something hikers who zoom up the trail past you while you imagine yourselves doing battle at Bastogne just to ascend a few miles?!)

On our way up, both of us were musing over how our hike was a fitting allegory of our 25 years of marriage. We started out young and naive, seemingly ill-equipped and oblivious to what would lay ahead. If someone had sat us down in July of 1983 and spread out the timeline of the next quarter century of life together, I think I would have collapsed with fright and looked to make a date with the nearest piece of porcelain. God has been so faithful and good to us, though, shaping his vessels into--hopefully--more responsive and useful bondservants as we've trudged up and down the trail of tears, laughter, and abiding joy. I have grown to love and appreciate Sabrina with a depth I could never have imagined twenty-five years ago. She has become more physically and spiritually attractive to me as the years have rolled on by. Many of the trials we have faced and are facing have, at times, seemed beyond our ability to cope with. The odyssey would have been unbearable without such a loving and spiritually sensitive partner at my side. It may sound cliche to say it, but it has truly been by the Lord's grace--and His grace ALONE-- that we have been able to survive (and even thrive) through the trials and tribulations of the past twenty-five years.

It is impossible to distill all that I'd like to reflect upon in a modest blog entry, but I like how Proverbs concisely expresses the value of a great wife:

"Who can find a virtuous wife?
For her worth is far above rubies. The heart of her husband safely trusts her;
So he will have no lack of gain. She does him good and not evil all the days of her life." (Prov. 8:10-12)

"Her children rise up and call her blessed;
Her husband also, and he praises her:
'Many daughters have done well,
But you excel them all.'
Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing,
But a woman who fears the Lord,
She shall be praised." (8:28-30)


Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove,
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark.
(Wm. Shakespeare's Sonnet 116.2-7)

Farewell to Loved Ones

After a long hiatus from blogging, I'm grieved to report that my dad, William (Bill) Paul Black, passed from this earth on Friday, June 13th. He was born on August 6, 1942 and was just shy of his 66th birthday. The cancer that had originated in his lungs moved to his brain and kidneys a couple of weeks ago, he was transferred to in-home hospice care, and his wife Lori took care of him to the end. Sabrina and I were able to join my younger brother and his wife in Redmond, Oregon right after he started getting hospice care at home. I'm very thankful I was able to spend some time with him while he could still recognize me with his eyes and ears. I also have fond final memories sitting in his living room with my three siblings and putting on a little musical "concert" of sorts, playing everything from Coldplay, Eric Clapton, and John Denver songs to much of my worship music repertoire from Athey Creek Christian Fellowship. I have my dad to thank for playing the guitar. He used to have his nylon string guitar sitting around the house when we lived in Orange County, California. I picked it up when I was in middle school and started playing songs from his folk music chord sheets--stuff like "Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley," "The Banks of the Ohio," and "Sloop John B." I also have great memories of being coached in Little League by my athletic dad, watching him play golf and lob ball, and fishing together in the lakes and streams of the Beartooth Country in and around Cooke City and Silver Gate, Montana (just outside the northeast corner of Yellowstone National Park). Above is a picture of my dad as we returned from a fishing trip on our trusty 15 m.p.h. "tote-goat." The pic below was taken last summer, just after my son Chris and I returned from a backpacking trip in the Three Sisters area. You can check out more pics in the "Black Family Potpourri" photo album on the right sidebar.


We also had to say "good-bye" to our precious yellow lab, Bahkit. He was nearly ten-years-old and a true and faithful friend, hiking buddy, water-lover, mountaineer, and family member. In recent months, his hips were really bothering him and, despite the pain and hip medication, was going from bad to worse. His entire hind end was fairly well immobile by the time I took him in to the vet to be put to sleep. I will miss kissing the top of his cute little head, petting his soft, velvety ears, looking into his faithful eyes, and having the best of all hiking and backpacking companions. We have wonderful memories in the Mt. Hood and Three Sisters Wilderness areas, hiking around, chasing butterflies, crashing through streams, and swimming for hours in the high lakes of the Oregon Cascades. Bahkit is a word that means "joy" in the Kazakh language, and he indeed lived up to his name!

Beyond a Doubt...He is Risen Indeed!

One of my personal traditions during Passion Week is to place various paintings on my desktop screen to visually remind myself of the myriad of scenes that make up the incredible week that spans Palm Sunday and Resurrection Sunday. One of my favorites is this painting--entitled The Incredulity of Saint Thomas--by Italian artist Caravaggio (1571 –1610). I like the look in the Apostle Thomas' eyes as he is invited to place his fingers in Christ's pierced side and confirm the historicity of the resurrection for himself. There's something very personal about this scene, especially as the Risen Savior tenderly guides Thomas' hand. This year I noticed something new: the torn sleeve of Thomas. Just a guess here, but I wonder if the artist wanted to symbolically allude to Jesus' shared humanity as the Son of Man. Perhaps it was a precursor of Thomas' own martyrdom years later in India where, as tradition would have it, he was stabbed with a spear for his witness on the subcontinent.

A few weeks ago, Sabrina and I had the opportunity to attend a Michael Card concert in Portland. A couple of his guests were from the Seattle area, and one of the musicians shared a song I have been working on the past couple of weeks. The lyrics tie into the scenes and themes of Passion Week so well, I wanted to share them. You can check out this website (http://www.byfor.org) and click on the "Sweet Sacrifice" link to download the song for free via something called the "By/For Project." Michael Card plays the banjo on it!

The Father's Love Is Deep and Wide
Artist: Brian Moss

The Father's love is deep and wide
For the Son and for His Bride
And His grace has been outpoured
Through the passion of our Lord
Down the road and up the hill,
Letting go of His own will
For the sake of all the lost,
Grace not cheap, but with a cost

The truth of God was tested, tried
Flesh was torn, they pierced his side
Through the crown his blood did flow
Going where we could not go
Savior God, the wounded King
Sings the song we cannot sing
Adam died, but Christ now lives
We have sinned still He forgives

The Savior calls our souls to bend,
Not to our will but to His end
And while His grace does satisfy,
He bids us come to come and die
The table stained with truth and grace,
The chalice poured and set in place
Hold the cup and lift it high,
Now drink with me we go to die

Not by our life, not by our death,
Not by the words we fill with breath
Not by the work our hands have done
Not through our daughters or our sons
Not by the treasure that we give,
Do we gain the right to live
The only way we will know life
Is through the One name Jesus Christ

On the home-front, my mother is doing relatively well. She had an upper body scan a couple of weeks ago, and the results were very encouraging. Basically, the cancerous spots throughout her body have either stayed the same size or have been reduced in size. Thanks to all of you who are praying, calling, writing cards, and emailing. It means a lot to all of us!

We hope all of you have a great Resurrection Sunday tomorrow, giving praise to the Father who was willing to pour out his grace through the precious gift of His Son: "Up from the grave He arose, with a mighty triumph o'er His foes..."

Are We Living an Epic?

In Leif Enger's novel Peace Like a River, one of the characters asks this question: "Is it hubris to believe we all live epics?" That question resonates with me perhaps because, in my general estimation, our lives are really rather drab and meaningless without some adventurous or "odyssey-driven" context to place them within.

In my midlife years I find my fingers flipping back to the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes more often than they had in my salad days, sometimes to frankly whine along with Solomon in his sardonic musings concerning the meaning of life. Though, in my better hours, I fall into the invariable and more predictable safety of the conclusion that, apart from God, there is only bitterness, a misty vanity, a chasing after the elusive soap bubbles borne on the winds.

Over fourteen years ago, our family moved to Almaty, Kazakhstan. Historically, this was an incredible time in the world. The Berlin Wall had just come down, and vast areas of the "Evil Empire" were now open to the advance of the gospel. In the pre-9/11 days, reaching out to Muslims with the love of Christ was an easier sell than in the heat of today's blast of cold-hearted assumptions and limited missiological horizons. Initially, it seemed I was on the crest of some wave of warrior service for God, slaying dragons under the banner of "Timurzhan." (A family we worked with had a housekeeper and language helper who gave us all new names upon our arrival. Mine could be translated "Iron Soul" in the Kazakh language, I was told.) After the trials of three years of cross-cultural living in Central Asia and spiritual immaturity took their toll, I came to discover I was composed of far weaker metal. As Dickens would put it, these were years best characterized as "the best of times and the worst of times." They were rich times because God was doing His faithful work as the Refiner of His children as we experienced an awesome and undeserved privilege; they were painful because I left that "warrior service" disappointed in myself and extremely ambivalent about what it meant to hitch your star to His clarion call to "stretch your tent curtains wide, to lengthen the cords, and strengthen the stakes" (Is. 54:2-3), merely to arrive at a soul-aching barrenness which only additional wilderness wanderings with my Shepherd could assuage.

Commenting on Jesus' first miracle at Galilee (the changing of water to wine), Michael Card makes this observation:

"When we examine the miracles, a consistent image of Jesus of Nazareth comes into view. It makes sense that the One who refused to grasp equality with God would perform most of his miracles in such an unmiraculous, almost hidden way. It fits the paradox of his life. Power through weakness, wisdom through foolishness, total victory through bloody defeat...The wedding at Cana teaches us that he is ready to transform every ordinary element in our lives into the glorious stuff of miracles. But this first miracle prepares us for the fact that the world around us will usually fail to appreciate or even see it at all."

I guess I'm taking the epic route, as Odysseus or Frodo would, to simply say I'm learning to accept the mundane reality of the journey for what it is. There is still wonder and splendor in a quiet prayer or a small fraction-step towards humility and contrition in a strained relationship. It may not bear the sweaty scent of "warrior labor," but it is nevertheless epic in its scope. The warning to the prophet Zechariah to not despise the day of small things (Zech. 4:10) still rings true today...even for a sardonic Timurzhan!

New Year's Greetings!

Happy 2008 to you all! We welcomed in the New Year with Amanda and Chris by dressing up as historical figures and attending the annual Costley New Year's Eve Party. You can undoubtedly figure out that you're looking at a suave William Shakespeare, an "80's chick," and one of the Bard of Avon's literary creations--Titania from A Midsummer Night's Dream. Our wonderful evening was filled with a mega-game of Bunko, a white elephant gift exchange, and engaging and witty conversation with our newfound family members. Needless to say, the evening served as an intriguing and exciting precursor of things to come in the Black-Costley clan.

On New Year's Day, Momma June, Cortni, Sabrina, and I traveled over to Sunriver and enjoyed several days of cross-country skiing, snowman construction, reading, rock-wall climbing at Maverick's (the new fitness center at Sunriver), and much more. I think my mom's favorite part of the trip was sitting in front of the beautiful fireplace and watching Cortni best her dad on the rock wall.

On the health front, there's not much new to report with Mom's cancer. She hasn't had a check-in with the oncologist for about three months, so she is due for one in the next week or so. She has been spending much of January traveling between Eugene and Vancouver, with a recent stay at Cannon Beach. She also recently purchased a Wii, so all her kids and grandkids are fighting for more "Grandma Time" as never before! (Mmmm, what's with that?!) My dad is currently in Kauai, having recently completed a dose of chemo and no doubt laying in a lounge chair somewhere soaking in some tropical sunshine. He told me he was REALLY looking forward to getting out of chilly Central Oregon and heading to the islands!

One of my favorite things about having time off in the winter is the time it affords for reading. This Christmas I received about $200 in combined gift cards from my own family and Bridlemile students, so I had a great time shopping at Powell's, Borders, and other bookstores around town. I'm certain it'll be August before I've ploughed through all of my new reading material.

I recently read a book by Walter Wangerin, Jr.--one of my favorite authors (I highly recommend his The Book of the Dun Cow, by the way)--that was entitled Paul. Wangerin is such a great storyteller, and he really has a way of sweeping you into the life and times of the man who brought Christianity to the world. The unique thing about this book is that he tells the epic story of Paul's life through the eyes of the apostle's coworkers and contemporaries. Timothy, Priscilla, Barnabas, Luke, James, and Seneca (the Roman tutor of Nero) all speak in the novel. Aside from the fact it is just a great book, the novel created a thirst to delve into the Book of Acts and the epistles as various episodes occurred in Paul's life. If you're looking to gain an even deeper appreciation for what the early church went through in the first century, this is definitely the book for you! You'll come away with a real sense of the true cost of discipleship and Paul's brutal battle to preserve the simple message of grace through Christ.

Another great discovery I made at the bookstore was Abraham J. Heschel's The Prophets. I've only just gotten my feet wet with this one, but if his introduction and his chapters on Hosea, Isaiah, and Amos are any indication of things to come, I'm really in for some very deep and rewarding stuff. Our pastor at Athey Creek Christian Fellowship has been preaching through the last half of the Old Testament for some time now, so my Bible reading and personal meditation has been right up this alley. Here's just a taste of some of Heschel's work on the prophets:

"Prophetic utterance is rarely cryptic, suspended between God and man; it is urging, alarming, facing onward, as if the words gushed forth from the heart of God, seeking entrance to the heart and mind of man, carrying a summons as well as an involvement." (pg. 7)

"The prophet is human, yet he employs notes one octave too high for our ears. He experiences moments that defy our understanding. He is neither 'a singing saint' nor 'a moralizing poet,' but an assaulter of the mind. Often his words begin to burn where conscience ends." (pg. 12)