How the boy had come to live with
the gypsies was not clear. They insisted
that they had discovered him as an infant, abandoned, wrapped in a blanket with
a card on which was penciled only his name.
Finnish government officials doubted their account. The gypsies’ Russian accent and dubious
reputation made them the bane of Finland’s city streets. On the other hand, the lad’s blonde-hair and
blue eyes made him an unassuming thief and profitable peddler of their
wares. The eight-year old was seized and
placed in a children’s home.
In the orphanage the boy proved
himself to be exceptionally bright. In
1987 a smartly-dressed American arrived at the children’s home. He sought an intelligent young man who could
speak Russian and had absolutely no family ties whatsoever. The boy was removed from the orphanage and
began training to become a member of the Special Operations Forces of the
United States Government. Four years
later, at age 20, he signed his first contract.
His initial salary was set at $12,000 per month. He was ordered to move to the Ural Mountains,
assume the life of an ordinary citizen, and wait for the wheezing Soviet Union
to collapse. Six months later, it
did. The gypsies’ former pawn became a
pawn of the U.S. government, one of their killer elite.
Some years later, while on a
mission, the Special Ops agent stepped on a mine that threw him 20 feet and
slammed him headfirst into a concrete wall.
The accident resulted in hemiparesis, and at age 38 he retired. Shortly thereafter, while wandering at a
classic car auction in Florida, he met a young woman who had emigrated to the
U.S. from Cuba with her devoutly Roman Catholic family. The two married and relocated to Denver,
Colorado. An acquaintance of the Finnish
lad, who was also a former member of the Special Ops, had requested his help
with a floundering door-to-door windows and siding business there.
And so it happened that the Finnish
orphan came to our front door. He came
not by chance.
. . . . .
Some might not believe me if I were
to tell them that when I turned 30 I’d never had a conversation of length with
a person who believed that God doesn’t exist.
Those people are likely not familiar with my unremarkable life, nor with
Northwest Iowa, where I was born and lived until a year ago, when my husband
accepted a teaching position at the Protestant Reformed Christian School in
Loveland, Colorado.
Around 500 people – give or take a
hundred – live in Doon, the town near which I grew up. There are four churches in the community. Three of those churches bear the name
“Reformed.” The fourth is a Congregationalist
church, which, among other horrors, once had a female pastor. That church was small, and I would have
forgotten about it all together had it not been located directly across the
street from the library. And as a matter
of fact, the only person I knew who was a member there was the town librarian,
a sweet, elderly widow whose dyed brown hair was fixed in a permanent beehive.
Yet already as a child I felt that
we “Prots” were distinct. Or perhaps I
felt that way because I was a farm kid, small and not athletic. Either way, I never felt at home on the
little league team. I went to the “north
Prot” school, not the “south Christian” school.
I wasn’t a member of the Calvinettes, which met on Tuesday evenings in
the Reformed Church. One of my
classmates was, though, and on Wednesday mornings she would bring to school crafts
and tales of making ice cream by kicking a can down the street and other
similarly fabulous things. I dreaded
walking down Main Street Saturday mornings after catechism. The trip to Vince’s Foods for a Laffy-Taffy
meant passing all the other kids who’d spent the morning shooting hoops in the
park.
I remember one sermon that I heard
as a child that made me consider in a small way what it was that set our church
apart. That sermon was preached by my
childhood pastor, the now Prof. Russell Dykstra. It commenced yet another go-through of the
Heidelberg Catechism, and in it Rev. Dykstra asserted that preaching the
Heidelberg Catechism, a practice that had been abandoned by many Reformed
churches, assured that we followed the old paths of the Scriptures and saints
gone before. The sermon must have made
an impression on my parents as well – a cassette copy of it still sits in a
dusty case in a cabinet in their kitchen.
Enter high school. On my first day at Western Christian my Bible
teacher presented our class with a blank check.
The check covered the bulletin board.
It was made out to “Me” by the “Almighty God” in the amount of
“salvation.” All it awaited was my
signature. And so I assumed the role of one
who “didn’t.” Didn’t sign the
check. Didn’t go to movies. Didn’t do the drill team or the homecoming
dance. Didn’t do Chamber Singers – they
sang in the worship services of area Reformed and Christian Reformed churches
on Sunday evenings. Didn’t. Didn’t.
Didn’t.
I was a “good girl.” For the most part I didn’t do what I wasn’t supposed
to do. But all those “don’ts” made it
more and more difficult for me to view the Protestant Reformed Churches in a
positive light. Our Thursday night
Heidelberg Catechism class was just one more thing on a schedule littered with homework
assignments, cross-country and track meets, and two work schedules. I believed the Word that I heard each
Sunday. I knew Jesus Christ to be my
only comfort. But for me, riding to
catechism in my sister’s Taurus, memorizing the Catechism took the backseat –
literally and figuratively.
I made confession of faith shortly before
making a big twenty-minute move to college.
The circumstances of my confession made my membership in the PRC a
matter of even more serious consideration than usual, I think. Four out of the five in my class met with the
elders that evening. One confession was
not accepted, and that was confession of my childhood friend, the
Calvinette. As we nervously reviewed our
essentials near the back door of church, she had wondered if what she planned
to say would pass the elders’ careful scrutiny. She intended to confess her
faith in Jesus, she said, but, if asked, she said she would share her
intentions of eventually joining the CRC.
Following the events of that evening, not only my friend, but her
parents and younger sister also left our church. The pews felt especially empty on the day
that the remaining three of us publically professed that we believed the truths
of Scripture as taught here in this
Christian church.
It was at Dordt College that I was
confronted for the first time with the idea that one should have no creed but
the Bible. This vibe came not only from
the group who walked around campus barefoot year-round and lingered late in the
lobby discussing the ramifications of using Styrofoam and how best to redeem the
theatre, but also from some of the professors and a few of the serious, more
spiritually-minded of my acquaintances. I
had difficulty answering why we preached the Heidelberg Catechism. After all, we acknowledged that the creeds
were not inspired, not infallible. How
then could we preach sermons using the Heidelberg Catechism as our text?
Remnants of this doubt lingered even
when I left college, married, and became a mother. But they were nearly obliterated at a funeral
that my husband and I attended several years ago. A baby girl whom we loved died while still in
her mother’s womb. On her funeral
leaflet, her parents had printed the beautiful, familiar first question and
answer of the Heidelberg Catechism.
Q. 1. What is thy only comfort in life and in death?
A. That I
with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong unto my
faithful Savior, Jesus Christ; who, with his precious blood, hath fully
satisfied for all my sins, and delivered me from all the power of the devil;
and so preserves me that without the will of my heavenly Father, not a hair can
fall from my head; yea, that all things must be subservient to my salvation,
and therefore, by his Holy Spirit, he also assures me of eternal life, and
makes me sincerely willing and ready, henceforth, to live unto him.
The man who
officiated at the funeral service, a pastor of a “ministry of the Christian
Reformed Denomination,” acknowledged Lord’s Day 1 with the leaflet in his
hand. But in his message he asserted
that the devil, not God, is the one responsible for evils like stillbirth. Our comfort?
God is powerful enough to make good come out of bad situations.
I sat numb with shock, my arms
wrapped around my own pregnant belly. At
a vulnerable moment I had been confronted by one who outwardly subscribed to
the creeds, though his theology blatantly denied the doctrines they so clearly
set forth. Not only was I astounded by
what I heard, I was all the more grief-stricken for the young parents who clung
to one another in the front pew. As I considered
the minister’s meditation during our lengthy drive back home, I was struck by
the realization that I was angry not because I felt the creed had been violated,
but because I realized that God Himself had been violated.
And yet, perhaps Northwest Iowa,
with its plethora of at least nominally Reformed Churches, was too gray a place
for me to grow like I should. Perhaps
that is one reason the Lord led us west, across the flatlands of Nebraska to
the foothills of the Rockies. To the red
brick ranch house on Birch Drive in Loveland, Colorado.
. . . . .
“Nope. Never heard of the CRC.”
“What about the Reformed
Church?” Nope, not that, either.
“The Protestant Reformation?”
Wade purses his lips and offers B.J.
another bored, “Nope.”
It is new to us, this whole business
of having neighbors. Wade lives across
the street, usually by himself, sometimes with his daughter and her son and her
boyfriend, when he shows up. Then there
is Paula, with her wide-brimmed straw hat and fashionable Chihuahua, Taco. She hobbles to our house, all smiles, with
bags of fresh peaches, sunscreen, fabric scraps, homemade egg rolls, stories of
what is was like to live through World War II in Thailand…anything that might
seem a worthy excuse to get near our children.
“Love children. Love your bootiful children,” that’s her
mantra. She’s proud of her and her husband
Joe’s church wedding, pleased to share that they sent their three children to a
Roman Catholic school.
“I not go no more,” she says, when I
ask her if she drives herself to church.
“I learn dat de priest hurt all de children, and I say, ‘Why he need my
money?’ and I not go.” She dismisses the
church with an irritated wave of her wrinkled hand.
There are Tommy and his Filipino wife,
who rarely leave the house. There are
Chris and Kayla and their two little boys, who are as used to us storming the
van on Sunday mornings at 9:00, dressed in our suits and skirts, as we are used
to them working in the yard in their sweats on the Lord’s Day. And then there are Kurt and Angie, with their
seven well-behaved children and their eagerness to discuss the Bible over the
back fence. They attend a “gathering”
that confesses one “creed”: WE LOVE JESUS.
. . . . .
My husband groans as he hangs up the
phone and returns to the dining room table, where we are finishing supper. Lentil and rice tacos with all the fixings. I spoon the last of a mashed avocado into
baby Eli’s mouth.
“The window guy. Says he’s stuck in traffic by Denver and
won’t make it here until around 6:00.”
B.J. gulps down his milk and reaches for his Bible from the shelf above
Willem and Leah’s heads. “He sounds
foreign. Said his name is Marko.”
I am loading the last of the dishes
into the dishwasher when the doorbell rings.
I’m also fuming. How did we get ourselves into this situation? We’ve made similar mistakes before...you’d
think we’d learn our lesson.
I recalled the telephone call I’d received
shortly after Willem was born. The man
on the other end was suspiciously aware that we had a new baby. He wanted to come to our home to talk to us
about fire safety. In answer to his prodding
about how we heated the house, I divulged the information that my husband was
revamping a wood burning stove. He
became more insistent, and I agreed that he could come, provided B.J. was home
when he did. He came. The evening began with the thorough, measured
paging of a four-inch wide binder that contained newspaper clippings about
house fires in Iowa – so many of them that the clippings must have dated back
to around the time newspapers were invented.
It climaxed with the man offering us a system of fire alarms that he
assured us would ensure the dilapidated home that we rented from fire…to the
tune of $2300. It ended with him,
red-faced and sputtering something about driving an hour and a half one way for
“this waste of my time,” slamming the door, and stomping his way down our
crooked front steps.
The other time we’d fallen for such
a ploy was shortly after we’d arrived here in Colorado. When my husband announced that someone would
be coming to talk to us about installing a reduced-rate home security system, I
made careful plans to be at the grocery store at that exact hour.
Now here I am, forcing a smile and
shaking hands with a square-shouldered, blonde-haired, blue-eyed man. He stoops to retrieve his brief case from the
floor, then gestures toward where our five children are playing in the living room
and smiles, shaking his head.
“Wow. Uh…dis something you…uh… don’t see very
often. Wow.” The man named Marko does have
an accent. His speaks through a clenched
jaw, his words halting and punctuated with pauses and throaty “uhs.”
“These…uh…all yours?” B.J.’s eyes meet mine. How many times had we been asked this question since moving here?
“Yep. All ours.”
My husband, always at ease with himself socially, leads Marko to the
table, which is still damp from being swiped after supper. Marko moves stiffly, swinging his left leg
out as walks.
There are the customary polite exchanges. Remarks about the weather. Marko, we learn, has a wife and two young
children. He learns that B.J. is a
teacher and that I stay home with the children, then litters the table with
brochures and a big binder. Just as he’s
about to begin his presentation on energy-efficient windows, Willem appears, wearing
his Wildcats t-shirt. Nathan, he claims,
has stolen his LEGO plane.
“Loveland P.R. Christian School,”
Marko reads the navy letters on Will’s t-shirt.
“That’s where I teach,” B.J.
interjects.
“Uh…Christian school?”
“Yep.”
“P.R.?” Marko queries.
“Protestant Reformed.”
“Uh…Protestant. My wife be Catholic. So…Protestant.”
“Yep. Are you familiar at all with the Protestant
Reformation?” (B.J. learned with Wade
that it was better to start a ways back.)
“No, no.” Marko shakes his head and makes some marks
with his pen on the paper in front of him.
“I not Christian.” He rolls his
eyes. “My wife, she read to me da Bible when
I go to bed. Efery night. And…uh…listen because…uh…I have to…you
know. To make da wife happy.” The rest of our children have gathered around
the table, all eyes. Who is this man? He talks even funnier than Paula does. Nathan taxis the LEGO plane along the
table. B.J. shoos them to the living
room.
“Leah, go read your siblings a
book.” They vacate.
“You lif here long?” Marko queries.
“No, no, not long. Less than a year.” Marko grunts and nods.
“I not lif here long, either. Fife years?
I used to work for U.S. government.”
B.J. starts. “Really?”
“Ya.
I not…uh…sell windows because I haf to you…you know. It…uh…something to do. So I not get bored.” Marko glances out the window and waves a hand
toward our small, wire-fenced yard. “You
haf much land here.” Much land? I reel inwardly. We’re
surrounded by houses on all sides! What
would he have said about our home in Iowa?
“In Finland, where I from, we not
waste land. We make the land to be
useful.”
“Finland. OK. I
was trying to place the accent,” says B.J.
“Ya.
I haf accent. English da fourth
language.”
B.J. twitches again. “Ya,” Marko affirms. “There is Russian, Finnish, German, den
English.”
“Wow. So what brought you here from Finland?” my
husband asks.
“Well…” Marko pauses.
When he speaks, spit gathers at the corners of his mouth. Now he pulls in a breath through tight lips,
garnering all the saliva in the back of his mouth. He offers a wan smile. “Long story.”
. . . . .
It is well past the children’s
bedtime when Marko shows them the scar in his left shoulder. He reaches back and grips the shoulder with
his good hand.
“Back here, da bullet come out. Leave much bigger scar, with…uh…rays. Like da sun.”
I lead them, wide-eyed, to bed. Hear their prayers. Tuck them in.
When I return to the table, Marko’s moved from his life story to
ruminating about the weekly mass he attends with his wife. My eyes are starting to get heavy, and we
have yet to discuss windows.
“I hear da priest…uh…talk about hell. Scare me.”
He grips his forearms and feigns a shudder. “I think, how do da people listen to dis?”
“Well…” B.J. inserts.
“You belief
dat? What da priest say about hell?”
“Yes. We do.”
“So…uh…God
make you not able to keep da law and kill you because you don’t?” B.J. offers a hesitant nod. Marko forces a breath through his lips and
shakes his head.
“Dat God a
dictator. I not serf dictator! If what da priest say be true, I will…uh…burn…forever. You…uh…not know all I do. I kill many people.”
“I
understand that,” B.J. responds. “But my
wife and I believe that we are as guilty before God as you are.” I nod.
“Jesus
taught that hatred is murder. That lust
is adultery.”
Marko raises
an eyebrow, incredulous.
“You belief
that hate be the same as killing?”
“Well…yes. We believe that both break the sixth
commandment.”
“Uh. I don’t hate.
I never hate no person. I…uh…kill
them. For da job, you know.”
Q.106. But this commandment seems only to speak of
murder?
A. In
forbidding murder, God teaches us that He abhors the causes thereof, such as
envy, hatred, anger, and desire of revenge; and that He accounts all these as
murder.
There’s a long, silent pause. “Why,” I break the silence, “Why, if you
believe that God does not exist, does the thought of hell ‘scare’ you?”
“Well…uh…I do not mean scared.” Marko casts a wry face, then continues. “It hard for me to sit there, to listen to da
nonsense with all da people who do not use deir brains. I need much wine, you know,” he grins, “to
sit dere.” “Tree-tousand years ago, if a
person be sick, or…a big storm come. De
farmer’s field destroyed. What do da
people say did dat?” He looks at B.J.
and repeats, “What do dey say?”
“God,” B.J. replies hesitantly.
“Ya.
God. Now, we have da science to
know how da body work. What make da
disease. How da storms work. And all dese people, dey do not use deir
brains! We have da science, and dey
still say, “Ah…it twas God.” Marko folds
his arms, sits back in his chair, raises an eyebrow as he looks at my husband. “I belief dat Jesus lived. I belief dat he was good man. And den dere were de other men, and dey haf
big brains for dere day. And dey know
this, that humans will ex-ter-min-ate demselves. So dey tink.
And dey invent de religions, de commandments, so dat de people do not
exterminate demselves. Dat is why. Dat is why we have da religions. All da religions. Dere were some smart men.” Marko taps his temple and nods.
There is something about this man
that intrigues me, and something about him that terrifies me. I stand up.
“Would you like some tea?”
“No, no. Eat one time a day. Stay healthy dat way. And fast.
Fast for 10 days, tree times a year.
Stay healthy dat way.”
I stare at him from the stove. “Ten days at time!” I exclaim.
“Ya.
Tree times in my life I haf fasted for tirty days. And I do not jus sit, either. I run.
I run eferyday. Drink only
distilled water.” He looks at me. “To…uh…show myself, I haf a big brain. My brain is bigger and stronger dan de hunger.”
The kettle whistles. I pour the
steaming water over the strainer and wrap both my hands around the mug as I
make my way back to my seat.
“Didn’t you ever wonder, say, as a
child, ‘Why am I here? What is the
purpose of my life?’” Marko answers emphatically before the final
words make their way out of my mouth.
“No, no! Dey teach us in da school – at da orphanage –
how da world evolve. In Finland, da
people do not talk about God. And dey
are always happy. Eferyone is happy! Dey work four days a week, six hour. And dey are rich! Da schools are good. Da magazines in da United States, dey say
Finland is da best country in da world.
Happiest country in da world.”
Q. 2. How many things are necessary for thee to
know, that thou, enjoying this comfort, mayest live and die happily?
A.
Three; the first, how great my sins and miseries are; the second, how I may be
delivered from all my sins and miseries; the third, how I shall express my
gratitude to God for such deliverance.
Marko continues as I process what he
has just said. “Da Christians are so
proud. Dey do not understand da
universe…uh…how big it is.” His right
hand trails in an arc over his head. “Dey
think dis world revolve around dem. Dey
tink dat dere God cares about dem. Who
dey sleep wif. Where dey go. Dey haf the people who tell dem, ‘when you
die, da party starts.’ Dat is the other
purpose of da religions…uh…you know?”
B.J. and I look at him quizzically.
“So dat da people will not be scared
to die. I haf seen so many people, dey
are jus about to die. Dey are da same as
da animals. Dey haf terror. Da people wif da big brains, tree-thousand
years ago, dey see dat, too. And dey
tink, ‘We will help da people. We will tell
dem, ‘when you die, da party starts.” He
smirks at us. “All da religions, dey say
da same. Dat is why we haf so many men
in de military, dey come home, and dey are sad, and dey kill dere selves. Dey are quick to do dat because dey think,”
Marko drills the table with his forefinger as he finishes, “Now da party will start. But
I know dat I haf one life. And I will fight,” he growls and rakes the
table with his fingernails as he speaks, “I will fight for efery moment.”
Q. 42. Since then Christ died for us, why must we
also die?
A. Our death is not a satisfaction for our sins,
but only an abolishing of sin, and a passage into eternal life.
My husband is rarely as silent as he
has been this evening. He’s been sitting
with his hands on the table, chin on hands, taking in this man’s story and his
case against the faith. I long for him
to say something now, and he does. Marko
interjects as soon as he begins, but B.J. raises his hand and continues.
“You’ve lived a remarkable
life. You have. I cannot even imagine going through half of
what you’ve gone through. I really
can’t. And you know, there is nothing
that I can say to you that would convince you to believe what I believe about
God – that He is sovereign, and the Creator – and the Bible, that it’s infallible…about
Jesus, that He’s the Savior. There is
nothing I can say. There isn’t. You are a brilliant man. I can see that. You obviously thought all these things
through…logically. But we,” he points
toward me, then himself, “We believe these things by faith.”
“Faith,” Marko nods skeptically.
“That’s right. Faith.
And that faith is a gift from God.”
Q. 60. How are thou righteous before God?
A. Only by a true
faith in Jesus Christ; so that, though my conscience accuse me, that I have
grossly transgressed all the commandments of God, and kept none of them, and am
still inclined to all evil; notwithstanding, God, without any merit of mine,
but only of mere grace, grants and imputes to me, the perfect satisfaction,
righteousness and holiness of Christ; even so, as if I never had had, nor committed
any sin: yea, as if I had fully accomplished all that obedience which Christ
has accomplished for me; inasmuch as I embrace such benefit with a believing
heart.
“Uh…gift?” Marko shakes his head. “I don’t have dat gift.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure,” B.J.
responds. Marko glances warily at
him. “Do you
believe in chance?”
“Ya…uh…chance. Maybe,” Marko offers a half-hearted nod. “I belief in my big brain. I use my brain to come here, to
Colorado. I tink, ‘Where is nice place
to lif? No hurricane? No tornado?
No earthquake?’ and I like ski.
And Peter call me. Not chance.”
Now he shakes his head “no.” “My big
brain.”
“We don’t – believe in
chance, I mean.” B.J. straightens. He’s entering his “teacher” mode, I can tell.
“We believe in providence. Think about
all of the things you’ve been through, Marko.
Some amazing things. You’ve been
shot, you survived a mine blast...your experiences even as a child! And now you live a fairly normal life. God
has given you a wife who’s a Christian – granted, we are Protestants and we believe
that the Roman Catholic Church holds to some serious errors [The mass, at bottom, is nothing else than a
denial of the one sacrifice and sufferings of Jesus Christ and an accursed idolatry.]. But that wife reads to you from the
Scriptures every night. And now you’re
here, and you’re supposed to be selling us windows, but you’ve just spent
nearly 5 hours attempting to justify your lack of faith in God instead. My wife and I, we believe that those things
happen not by chance, but by the hand of God.”
Q.27. What dost thou mean by the providence of God?
A.
The almighty and everywhere
present power of God; whereby, as it were by his hand, he upholds and governs
heaven, earth, and all creatures; so that herbs and grass, rain and drought,
fruitful and barren years, meat and drink, health and sickness, riches and
poverty, yea, and all things come, not by chance, but by his fatherly hand.
Baby Eli wails from his crib in the
room at the end of the hall. I get up
from the table and go to him. He reaches
for me, and I pick him up and bury my face in the soft skin below his ear. B.J. and Marko’s voices carry on in the
kitchen.
. . . . .
Attention
writers that love the Heidelberg Catechism.
The announcement in the bulletin comes the Sunday following our visit
with Marko. It opens for me the
questions with which I’ve always wrestled.
Do I love the Heidelberg
Cathechism? Is it to me a warm and personal confession? It always seemed to me that the more the
ministers in our churches lauded the creeds and confessions, the more distant
they seemed to me. When I heard, “Creeds
and confessions,” I felt as though I had just stepped into a cathedral with
elaborate arches and an ornate ceiling.
As if I’d entered a beautiful place, but a formal one. A place cool, and damp. High above and removed from me.
My search for the answer to my
questions leads me the stash below our basement steps. There I dig through the Rubbermaid tote that Mom
sent with me when I married. I rummage
through the manila envelopes, on each of which Mom had written a date in permanent
marker. I look through 1992, the year my
grandma and great grandma died. Maybe
the first Lord’s Day was printed on their funeral leaflets as well? No.
Grandma’s – Psalm 27.
Great-grandma’s – Psalm 42:1, in Dutch, and the 23rd
Psalm. What about 1997, the year that
Grandpa died? Perhaps on his
leaflet? No. Just an inadequate obituary.
But what is this? From that same year, a crinkled sheet of
notebook paper. A single paragraph
written in blue ink…in my hand-writing.
I am writing this paragraph as punishment
for having a big mouth. I talked back to
my parents following an argument and lost control of my temper. God tells us in His Word that we must honor
our parents; I was directly disobeying this commandment. In the future I hope to prevent this from
happening again by consciously holding before me the truth that I am a child of
the God who created and saved me and that I must show my gratitude to Him by
living in obedience to His laws to the utmost of my ability.
“What dismays me when I read this,”
I wave the paragraph at my husband, “is that if I had to write that paragraph
today, it would sound exactly the same.
Where is my progress in the living the Christian life?”
Q. 115. Why will God then have the ten commandments
so strictly preached, since no man in this life can keep them?
A. First, that all our lifetime we may learn
more and more to know our sinful nature, and thus become the more earnest in
seeking the remission of sin and righteousness in Christ; likewise, that we
constantly endeavor, and pray to God for the grace of the Holy Spirit, that we
may become more and more conformable to the image of God, till we arrive at the
perfection proposed to us in a life to come.
But what comforts me when I read it
is that I see the Heidelberg catechism written there. I see my misery expressed. My deliverance acknowledged. And recognition of my calling to live a life
of thankfulness to God. The progress,
perhaps, lies in the realization that I no longer struggle with the same
sins. Oh, sin is there, still to be
fought, but it’s assumed a different, more seasoned form. And, I think, the progress lies in the
realization that what I was taught as a child had taken hold, already at 13,
and – what joy! – continues to sink deeper even now.
Rev. Smit, the pastor who taught me
the Heidelberg Catechism as a teen, recently visited Loveland while on furlough
from his missionary work in the Philippines.
“How do you answer those who contend that the Christian needs no creed
but the Bible?” I ask him.
“Like this,” he responds, sitting
upright on the loveseat. “You hand them
a piece of paper and a pen. And you say, ‘You’ve told me that you believe what
the Bible teaches. Could you write out
for me a summary of the basic truths that you believe the Scriptures set
forth? They write it out and return it
to you. And there you have it. That’s their creed.”
I have a creed. It is a warm and personal creed. It acknowledges my misery and my sin. It sets forth my need for salvation. It leads not only others, but me also, to the
only Savior. It does so very
logically. And then it directs me to
serve this God – not a dictator, but a Father – with even my smallest
inclinations and thoughts.
It’s a creed that’s been tried and
proven true. It links me to saints who
have gone before and to saints still fighting the fight of faith. It is the mortar that joins the living stones
of the cathedral of the God who governs heaven and earth.
. . . . .
“You’ve lived in Finland?” I stare
at Grace’s pale, freckled face, incredulous.
She and her husband, Richard, have just moved to Colorado from Great
Britain. We are visiting with them on
our patio after eating Sunday dinner.
“Yes,” she says, smiling at me. I lean back in my seat.
“Tell me what it’s like,” I
say. She tells me that Finland is a
beautiful country, dotted with woods and lakes.
That the churches are Lutheran churches, ancient stone structures, and
that they are empty.
“A man once told me that Finns are
the happiest people in the world,” I say.
It is her turn to look surprised.
“I wouldn’t say that at all,” she
responds. “Finns to me seemed to be very
reserved…very distrustful of other people.”
She pauses. “The country is so far
north that in the winter there are several weeks when one doesn’t see the
sun. It seemed to me as if the only way
they could tolerate the darkness was by drinking a lot of wine.” She says this with a laugh and glances toward
where our children are jumping on the trampoline.
Two year old Nathan bounces beneath
the intense mid-day sun, all smiles. His
eyes sparkle, his face shines, and when he leaps into the air, his pin-straight
blonde hairs fly out from his head like rays from the sun. A child of light.
. . . . .
In the end, the window we got from
Marko was not the material kind. Instead
we got a peek into the unremarkable life of a man who lives without comfort. Into the mind of a man not delivered from the
power of the devil. A pawn of sin. In contrast, I am bound to creeds that set
forth the wonder that all things in my life come to me not by chance, but by
the hand of the Almighty God, my Father.
“Dis has been memorable.” Marko
reaches for B.J.’s hand.
“It has,” my husband agrees, opening
the door. The clock on wall strikes 1
AM, and I pull the Lord’s Prayer afghan – a Christmas gift from Paula – up and
around my shoulders. Marko shifts his
briefcase from his left arm to his right.
From his bad arm to the good.
“I will…uh… never forget dis.”
“Nor will we,” I say.
“Good-night.”
“Good-night,” B.J. and I reply in unison.
As Marko exits we shut off the
lights and stand together by the living room window. Marko climbs into his car and fumbles for his
cell phone.
“He said he’s going to call his
wife,” B.J. said. “C’m on. Let’s head for bed.”
And so we do. I settle down on the pillow and cuddle close
to my husband. The taillights of the
Finnish orphan round the bend and disappear out of sight.
