Antiquarian Anabaptist

Apologetics from an Anabaptist perspective

Every Day With Jesus – booklet report

My wife has informed me that the book reviews I have posted are not reviews. I have thought about that and decided that she is right. I should have called them book reports.

What I have before me today, though, is not really a book; it is a booklet of daily devotions giving a page per day for two months at a time. I trust that all Christians use the Bible as their daily devotional book, preferably reading a book of the Bible all the way through, in daily bite size pieces. But if you would pick up this booklet from time to time and read several articles,I believe you would find in them a deep spiritual wisdom.

These articles are refreshingly free of feel good, it’s all about me, pop psychology.  The current issue (January/February 2018) spends a number of days each on themes such as repentance, grace and worship. We are told that becoming a Christian is the beginning of a journey not the end.

These booklets are published in the UK and distributed all over the English-speaking world; there are distributors in a number of African and Asian countries, plus Australia, New Zealand and Canada. The Canadian distributor is also the distributor for the USA, and I expect these publications are not well known there. I was introduced to Every Day With Jesus by a Nigerian who lives in Saskatoon. I buy it in the Christian book store.

The publisher is CWR. They publish a vast variety of other Bible study materials. I would be pleased to hear the thoughts of readers of this blog who are familiar with Every Day With Jesus or other CWR materials.

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Fire Road – a book review

FIRE ROAD – The Napalm Girl’s Journey through the Horrors of War to Faith, Forgiveness and Peace, by Kim Phúc Phan Thi.

June 8, 1972, a nine-year-old girl had the clothes burned off her back by napalm during the Vietnam war. The photo taken by AP photographer Nick Ut won him a Pulitzer Prize and became one of the most iconic news photos of the twentieth century.

This is the first person account of the girl in the picture.  To his immense credit, Nick Ut gathered up the children burned by the napalm and drove them to a hospital in Saigon. Kim Phúc was the most badly burned and doctors doubted that she could be saved.

But survive she did. When she started university, news got out around the world that she was still living and reporters began coming to Vietnam wanting to meet and interview her. The communist government seized upon this as a propaganda opportunity.  Kim Phúc did not understand the words interpreters spoke in foreign languages when she answered the interview questions but realized they were not repeating what she had said, but telling a story that the communist officials wanted the world to believe.

These interviews came several times a week and prevented her from continuing her university studies. She finally got permission to go to Cuba to continue her studies. There she met Toan, a Vietnamese man and they married. They could only go to another communist country for their honeymoon, so they chose Moscow. The choice was not made because of the appeal of a trip to Moscow, but because Kim Phúc had no intention of returning to Cuba, or any other communist country.

She had learned that the return flight from Moscow to Havana would make a refuelling stop at Gander, Newfoundland. The passengers all disembarked from the plane into the terminal at Gander. Kim Phúc didn’t know what to do next, who she could trust. After some time, she decided to pray; when she opened her eyes she saw a door that she had not noticed before, leading into a narrow hallway. She knew this was the way she had to go. She took her husband’s hand, went through the door and soon came to an office where an official said “Welcome to Canada.”

Doctors have done all they can to lessen the effects of the brutal scarring on Kim Phúc’s back and arm, but she still lives every day with pain. The emotional pain she suffered was even worse. Her family, like most South Vietnamese, were devotee’s of the Cao Dai religion. She found no help, no solace in this religion. While still in school she met a Vietnamese Christian minister and found peace and strength to face her problems through faith in Jesus Christ.

Toan and Kim Phúc have become Canadian citizens, they are parents of two grown sons and now grandparents. She has speaking engagements around the world to tell her story of hope, that the only way to peace is forgiveness and love, which is only possible through faith in Jesus Christ. Her story will move you, perhaps even change your life.

FIRE ROAD, © 2017 by Kim Phúc Phan Thi, published by Tyndale Momentum, Carol Stream, Illinois.

Another use for a station wagon

640px-Ford_LTD_Country_Squire_--_05-23-2012_front.JPGWhy is this style of car called a station wagon? And what’s with the faux wood trim? Well, the original station wagons were horse drawn conveyances for hauling passengers and baggage between hotels and railway stations. When motor cars started to become common, some people had the bright idea of putting such a wagon box on top of a motor car chassis.

The first station wagons coming off the automobile companies’ assembly lines still had mostly wood bodies behind the engine compartment. Eventually they switched to steel but maintained the wood look as a tribute to their heritage.

In its heyday the station wagon was the ultimate family vehicle. There was seating for eight people, but the seats were bench seats and there were no seat belts, so large families were able to stuff all their little ones into the wagon. This involved a good deal of squirming and squabbling, but it could be done, as most folks my age can testify.

A year ago we attended the funeral of the wife of one of my cousins and heard of a different use for a station wagon. Back in the 1950’s this lady and her siblings were young girls living a couple miles out of town along a busy highway and they walked to and from school along the shoulder of the highway. Those were simpler days, that was a totally normal thing to do.

After school they were often able to catch a ride home with a passing motorist. One day a station wagon pulled over to offer them a ride. The three girls piled in, noticing another man seated in the rear seat. They chattered with the driver, telling him who they were and where they lived, commenting on the heat of the day.

Then the oldest girl said to the driver “Your friend doesn’t have much to say.”

“No,” said the driver, “he’s done all the talking he’s ever going to do.”

She considered this odd statement, then took a good look at the driver. She had seen this man somewhere before. Slowly it came back to her. He’d looked different then because he’d been wearing a suit and tie. It had been at a funeral. Then she knew. This was the undertaker from the big town up the road. That meant the man in the back seat was . . .

Despite the heat and the lack of air conditioning, she began to shiver. Right about then the station wagon pulled up at their driveway and they piled out, thanking the driver for the ride. They ran to the house, happy to let the undertaker and his forevermore silent passenger continue on to their destination.

The Toronto Interlude

There was a bond between my mother and I that never existed between me and my Dad. The bond with my mother was established at birth and nurtured by years of talking together, working together and playing together.

My older cousins have told me of their appreciation for their Uncle Walter. The man they described was someone that I never knew. I wish that I had and I sometimes think that if we could meet now that we would find each other interesting and even likable. I wish that could have happened in his lifetime. I don’t think of him as an evil man, I don’t hate him, but there just was never a warm father and son relationship. Most of the time the relationship was cool, at best lukewarm, and sometimes it was fiery hot.

It was good for me to get away again. I still didn’t have much of a clue about anything, but I must have grown a little more backbone and a little more interest in others during that time at home.

I don’t remember the train ride to Toronto, registering at the school or how I found a place to live. But I have clear memories of the place I first lived. Karl Frey, a German from Romania was a painting contractor and he had acquired three big old houses on Lyndhurst Avenue, just a block or two from Casa Loma. He and his wife, with their young son, occupied the main floor of the middle house. One house was rented to a family. The rest of the rooms in the middle house and the third house were rented out, mostly  to students at DeVry Tech.The school was on Lawrence Avenue, a good distance away, so Karl provided a van that we all piled into to get to school and get home again. This was old Toronto, stately old houses, tall trees on both sides of the street whose branches formed a leafy green arch over our heads.

I lived in the same house as the Frey family. I think there were seven of us in that house,  myself, Peter Nassler and Lyle Mitchell, both from Saskatoon, Donald Kim Chu from Vancouver, a Bourgeois from New Brunswick, a young man from Québec and another from Sudbury. We occupied the two upper floors of the house, sharing a bathroom on each floor. There was a kitchen for our use in the basement and a TV room. There must have been laundry facilities also. Peter, Lyle, Don and I became good friends and spent long hours discussing subjects of national and international importance. We were quite sure that we westerners saw things clearly and the eastern people around us were all lost in the fog.

I even remember two of the teachers at the school. Mr. Wolf was German, taught math, had an off colour sense of humour and a very disorderly classroom. Mr. Foucault was French-Canadian, very serious, taught electronics and there was no nonsense in his classes. The office manager was a very nice lady named Ariel.

I’m not sue how long it took to finish the course, I believe it was a good year. I found work as a quality control inspector at Renfrew Electric, a manufacturer of resistors and other electrical stuff. One of my co-workers there was a young man named Gallant Gainsiegge (I’m not at all sure of the spelling, but I think that is close). He had grown up in East Germany, escaped to West Germany and then came to Canada. At that time there were still a number of European companies manufacturing very small automobiles. One of them was DKW of West Germany. Officially, DKW stood for Das Kleine Wunder (the little wonder), but Gallant told me that people in Germany called it Deutsche Kinder Wagen (German kiddie car).

After finishing school, Peter, Lyle and I moved together into rooms in the bungalow of Mr. and Mrs. Nussbaum, an older Jewish couple on Lyndhurst Drive in Downsview. Don had found work in northern BC. Mr Nussbaum still had a pickup that he used to go around to various factories to collect scrap metal to sell. I went with him to help a couple of times. I also cut their grass with a reel mower. That’s what I was doing the day of the total solar eclipse on Saturday July 20, 1963. There were warnings not to watch the eclipse directly. It had rained recently and there was a 40 gallon drum in the back yard and the top was filled with water. At each pass with the lawn mower I would glanced at the sun’s reflection in that puddle to follow the progress of the eclipse.

Downsview was north of the 401. One day us three Saskatchewan boys stood on the Dufferin Avenue overpass and watched the bumper to bumper traffic beneath us, three lanes in each direction. We could hardly comprehend the enormity of such a thing. By now I can see the same kind of traffic in Saskatoon and in places the 401 has grown to 12 lanes in each direction (counting feeder lanes).

Mixed in with our discussions of how to fix the world were discussions about starting a business together. We got as far as getting permission to put up a sign in a local store for our appliance repair business. I successfully fixed a toaster and a mixer but soon we moved again and that was the end of our big business.

I guess my backbone still had not stiffened up enough as I found myself looking for another job. What I found was a job in the Admiral factory in Port Credit (now part of Mississauga). This was a long way from where we were living so the three of us moved again to the west end of Toronto. It took me an hour to get to work, first by street car and then two buses. I had been making $1.25 an hour at Renfrew, Admiral paid $1.60, a huge increase.

I was given a spot at the end of the radio assembly line. My job was to plug in the finished radio, turn it on and adjust it so the needle lined up correctly on the dial. If it didn’t work, then it was my job to find the loose connection and add a bit of solder to make it work. Then I would insert the radio in its plastic cabinet and it was ready to go.

The TV assembly line was not far from my work station. In the afternoon of Friday, November 22, 1963 I noticed that the TV workers were leaving their work stations to cluster around a TV at the end of the line. I wandered over and asked what was going on. Someone said that President Kennedy had been shot.

The work day was soon over and I made my way home. We spent the next two days watching events unfold on TV, seeing Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald on live TV on Sunday afternoon.

I did an enormous amount of walking during those two years in Toronto, exploring the city. I believe I attended church three times. Twice in a massive old brick Anglican church on St. Clair Avenue, not far from the place I was staying on Lyndhurst Drive. There I at least got a warm welcome from the black usher, but that was all. When we moved to Downsview I made one more attempt, attending a newer Anglican church in that area. That left me completely cold.

My job at Admiral eventually came to an end and in 1964 I made my way home to Saskatchewan again, only home was now in Moose Jaw. I never used my electronic training again.

Walking Towards Hope – a book review

One day in October of 1997 Paul Beckingham, his wife Mary and one of their young sons were taking a Kenyan boy back to his home on the edge of Nairobi. They came over a hill to find a massive Kenyan military transport coming towards them and taking up the whole road. Their lives changed forever that day. The boys survived with no major physical injuries, Mary had a broken collar bone.

It took several hours to pry Paul from the mangled remains of his car. He lost massive amounts of blood, had many broken bones and one foot was severed. He was rushed to hospital where a team of Christian Kenyan doctors pieced him back together, re-attached his foot and stopped the bleeding. His heart stopped three times during the surgery.

After a few days he was flown back to Vancouver to continue his recovery. Over the next two years he moved from a hospital bed to a wheelchair, to crutches, then to a cane and was finally able to put the cane away. He began to look more and more like the old Paul Beckingham from before the accident.

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t always think clearly, couldn’t concentrate, didn’t always act appropriately and became immensely frustrated. He began to realize that the accident and his continuing disability did not only affect him, but was also hurting his wife and their five children.

Doctor Mel Kaushansky, an expert in neuropsychology, put him through a bank of tests, then sat him down to explain what had happened to his brain in the accident. He told Paul that all parts of his brain were affected and it could be compared to a blueberry muffin, with the blueberries being the damaged areas of his brain. Or it could be compared to Swiss cheese with the holes being the gaps in his mental capabilities. He would never again be able to take on the level of responsibility that he could handle before the accident.

As Paul accepted the devastating verdict and determined to pursue the things he was still able to do, it led him to the reality of Christian hope. He began accepting public speaking engagements and found that telling his story touched many others just whee they were hurting. He began to study again, but needed to take copious notes to compensate for the frailty of his memory.

And he wrote this book about his experience. Near the end of the book he quotes the words of David in Psalm 43:5 and says:

“His hope is not groundless. It is no mere wishful thinking springing from an overactive, positive mental attitude. Nor is it the idle daydreaming of someone who has finally lost touch with reality. This is no escape from reason. The psalmist’s hope is built on confidence beyond that of his own making. He trusts, instead, a hand that is greater than his own. It is a hand that steers his future, moving him from this place called I Don’t Know towards a place called A Hope and a Future.”

I highly recommend this book.

Walking Towards Hope – Experiencing Grace in a Time of Brokenness, ©  205 by Paul M. Beckingham. Published by Castle Quay Books, Kitchener, Ontario. Available on Amazon and Chapters Indigo. Also available as a e-book fro Kobo or Kindle.

A Teenage Failure

It was good to be home again, to eat my mother’s cooking, to sleep in my own bed in my own room, to help out around the farm and to visit the old buffalo rubbing stone, my rock of refuge. I was sure that the people in town thought of me as already a failure at the age of eighteen, so I avoided contact with them as much as I could.

After a few weeks of this my father exploded into my room one Sunday morning to angrily demand that I get dressed for church and come with them. He was right, I needed to get out among other people, but his way of forcing the issue did nothing to make me feel any less a failure. However, the rejection I dreaded at church never happened and I slipped back into the familiar rhythm of Anglican worship services.

There was perhaps some solace to my soul in the magnificent words of the Scriptures, prayers and hymns, but I don’t recall much spiritual sustenance in the sermons. The preacher at that time was a young man from England who never really got acclimatized to the prairie way of life. One sermon that I remember was about what an evil game hockey was and how cricket was the proper sport for Christians. He was that much disconnected from reality in rural Saskatchewan. I don’t think anyone ever tried to set him straight, they just politely ignored him.

Gradually I dared to peek out from my protective covering a little bit at a time and found that I suffered no painful consequences. I still went to find the peace and quiet of the old rock, but perhaps the long walks along the ravines did as much for my mental state.

This is long ago, I have repressed these memories for years and many things are no longer clear to me. I believe it was at this time that I worked for a few days helping to pour the foundation for a new high school. It has come back to me that the incident of my father burning himself and me taking over his farm duties and janitorial duties at the hospital occurred during this period.

I must have been home at Craik for almost two years. In the summer of 1962 I was off to Toronto again, this time to attend DeVry Technical Institute to learn electronics. Not that I was terribly interested in learning electronics, but it was a field that offered many job opportunities and once again my parents were ready to pay my way, so off I went.

The Gate of the Year

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I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year,
“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”
And he replied “Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known Way.”
So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night.
And He led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.
So heart be still, what need our little life, our human life to know,
If God hath comprehension?
In all the dizzy strife of things both high and low,
God hideth his intention.
God Knows. His will Is best.
The stretch of years which wind ahead, so dim to our imperfect vision,
Are clear to God, our fears are premature;
In Him all time hath full provision.
Then rest; until God moves to lift the veil
From our impatient eyes, when, as the sweeter features
Of life’s stern face we hail,
Fair beyond all surmise God’s thought around His creatures
Our minds shall fill.

-Minnie Louise Haskins

A Vagrant Without a Clue

I didn’t report the theft of the money to anyone. I never considered asking anyone for help or advice. To admit the theft would be to admit how stupid I was and face the humiliation of being publicly denounced for my stupidity. That was my state of mind at least.

I don’t remember many details from so long ago, but I packed all my stuff into a trunk and sent it by rail to Toronto. For all I know it’s still sitting in the baggage storage there. And I bought myself a ticket to Ottawa. I didn’t have any purpose or goal in mind; I didn’t have a clue. I just wanted to get away. What did I want to get away from? I didn’t have a clue.

I still had some money and I spent a couple months in a seedy hotel. I walked the city, the paths along the Rideau Canal, around Parliament Hill and the ByWard Market. I did a lot of reading. People I avoided. I was still wrapped in my protective wadding, seeing, watching, but not a part of anything that was happening around me.

When the money had about run out I spent a night or two at a men’s shelter. Then I decided to hitchhike to Toronto. I didn’t have a clue where I would go in Toronto or what I would do. Maybe something would work out.

I must have gotten a ride that took me almost to Smith’s Falls. I don’t remember; all I remember is walking down the highway near Smith’s Falls and getting a ride from there that took me right into Toronto. The man who picked me up was disappointed. Driving up from behind I must have looked like a girl as I hadn’t had a hair cut for several months. Before he dropped me off he gave me money for a haircut.

Here I was in downtown Toronto, still with no money and still without a clue. I was hanging around one of the big stores to keep warm when a young police officer asked to see my identification. He was startled when he saw my name and showed me his identification. His last name was Goodenough! He kindly advised me to move on and try to find a proper place to sleep and keep warm. I had no clue how to find such a place.

A night or two later a couple of homeless men led me to an abandoned house where we could at least have a little shelter for the night. In the middle of the night men with flashlights discovered us. They were police officers and they hauled us off to jail.

The next morning we were summoned to appear in court on charges of vagrancy. When my turn came a Salvation Army officer intervened and said he would take responsibility for me. The judge discharged me into his care. I was taken to the Salivation Army men’s shelter and led to curtained off space with a proper bed.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. It was warm, the food was decent and I dimly remember hearing a gospel message or two in their chapel. Not that the gospel registered on me in my state of mind. People sometimes came to the Salvation Army looking for workers for a day. I remember going out with a few other guys to distribute flyers in a prosperous looking part of the city. I was intrigued bythe houses; remember – I had wanted to be an architect. I wondered what they looked like inside and what kind of people lived in them. The guys I was with had no patience for that kind of dreamy talk. The more flyers they could distribute, the more money they would make. This was my first time doing something like this and I didn’t do all that great a job of keeping up with them.

A few days later the officer in charge of the shelter asked me to come into his office. He told me that the Salvation Army operates a missing persons service and through that service my parents had found out where I was. He dialed their number and let me talk to my mother. A few days later I was on the train again, going home to Saskatchewan.

Brain benumbed by beastly biting cold

We are in the midst of a Canada-wide cold wave, with temperatures 15 to 20 degrees below seasonal averages. (Those are Celsius degrees, too. Each one is worth 1.8 Fahrenheit degrees.) The National Post reports that it was colder in Winnipeg this morning than it was at the North Pole, the South Pole and the Gale Crater on Mars, where the Curiosity rover is located.

Sounds awful, doesn’t it? Yet it was really only -30° in Winnipeg, and the three locations mentioned above are usually much colder than that. Still, the lowest temperature ever recorded in Scotland was -27° at its far northern tip. And the Canadian Forces Station at Alert in the NWT was -7°.  That has to be a fluke, since Alert is farther north than any Inuit settlement. The sun will not be seen at Alert for another two months.

My car started Christmas morning at -28°. When I went to open the rear lift gate it was frozen shut (I washed the car last Thursday). But it unlatched enough to turn on the interior light above the door. I guess that was enough to run down the battery, because the car would not start two days later. The -31° temperature wasn’t in it’s favour either.

This is now our third winter with this car and I knew that I had plugged it in a time or two each of the previous winters. But I suffered a brain freeze in the cold weather and couldn’t for the life of me figure out where to find the plug for the block heater. I looked all over the engine compartment and the grill and found no sign of it. Eventually I noticed it just poking its nose out of a vent under the grill.  I plugged it in and after a few hours the car started.

Today I went to Saskatoon. That is a 150 km round trip and depending how much we crisscross the city it could be as much as a 200 km trip. I got to wondering just where an electric car would die in this weather. Our car has a good interior heater and defroster, plus heated seats and a heated steering wheel. Add that load to the battery load in an electric vehicle and how far would it go? I believe a comfortable driver is a much safer driver than a driver wearing layers of clothing, felt-lined boots and two layers of mitts who can hardly see out his frosted windshield.

Forty years ago we had a little Asian car and in weather like this we had a choice between keeping ourselves warm or seeing out the windshield. It couldn’t do both at the same time. I won’t name the maker, because their cars have improved immeasurably since then. The car I’m driving now comes from another Asian manufacturer and is about as good as one can get for driving in our winters. What are the chances that electric cars might improve that much over the next forty years?

Boxing Day musings

Feasting on Christmas Day has a long and noble tradition and one is at risk of being branded a heretic if he suggests it might not be necessary.

Noble in that first sentence is meant to be taken literally – for many centuries it was only the nobility and the rich who could afford to feast on Christmas Day, or any other day.

Many years ago it became the custom in England for rich families to give their servants a day off on the day after Christmas. They had served their masters on Christmas day, now it was their turn to go home to their families and celebrate. They didn’t go empty handed. They were given boxes with gifts, a little money and some of the food that was left from the Christmas day feast.  Thus was born the tradition of Boxing Day.

Boxing Day is a statutory holiday in Canada, but alas, it is no longer a day of giving. Rather it is a day when merchants put all their left over Christmas stock on sale at deep discounts. This means that everyone gets the day off except store employees. This is their busiest day of the year.

Sunday morning our minister in his message pointed out many of the things that most people believe about the birth of Jesus that are not found in the Bible. It’s about time. These things are being pointed out in newspaper and magazine articles and we’re getting to a situation where non-Christians know more about the facts of Jesus’ birth than Christians do.

My parents told me that my gifts on Christmas morning came from Santa Claus. It was almost 70 years ago, but I still remember how I felt when they told me that Santa Claus did not exist. My first thought was “What other lies have they been telling me?”

What do we have left when we strip away all the fanciful stories that have been added to the account of Jesus’ birth (why not just call them lies)? We have the account of the miraculous birth of the only begotten Son of God, coming into a fallen world to make a way for our redemption. And that is everything.

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