The Kailyaird* School of Scottish fiction was a literary form popular at the end of the nineteenth century that sought to present Biblical truths through idealized (usually, rural) settings. Representatives of this style included J. M. Barrie (author of Peter Pan) and George MacDonald (who profoundly influenced C. S. Lewis).

Another writer in this genre was Ian Maclaren, which was the pen name of the Scottish author and theologian John Watson. His book Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush is a collection of stories set in the mythical village of Drumtochty. The excerpt above comes from the character Donald Menzies, an elder in the Drumtochty Free Kirk (i.e., the Free Church, a Scottish denomination formed in 1843 when it broke from the Church of Scotland). Donald was known in the village as a religious eccentric, but also as a man who was a true believer and who loved the Lord. But as he admits to the narrator, “It was not always so with me”; much of his life had been lived without any spiritual inclination—until a serious illness made him realize he wasn’t prepared to die.

It was then, in desperation, that he asked his wife to call for the preacher, “hoping he would tell me what I was to do for my soul.” When the preacher arrived he talked kindly about Donald’s illness, and his farm, and the sheep market in Amulree. But he left without saying one word that assuaged the despondency Donald felt.

The next day being Sunday, Donald decided to attend church in the nearby village of Aberfeldy. His wife was afraid he would die on the way, but he insisted they go. “There is,” said he, “a man there who knows the way of the soul, and it is better to die with my face to the light.” When they arrived, Donald found a seat in the corner, hoping he wouldn’t be seen, silently praying that the Lord would send him words he needed to hear. It so happened that the preacher’s text that morning was John 11.44, where Jesus at the grave of Lazarus said, “Loose him and let him go.” When Donald grasped the import of this statement for his own situation, his crisis of fear broke and he felt as if he had been “carried out into the light of God’s face.”

It’s a quaint story, even a little sappy. But it says something that preachers—and all saints, but especially saints who preach—ought to remember. Whenever you encounter a person in crisis, speak to their soul. Don’t beat around the bush, or patter about the weather, or scrape the theological Milky Way. Speak to their soul! If they’re a believer needing assurance, reassure them (Colossians 4.12). If they’re a sinner needing to know what to do, tell them (Acts 2.37–38). Talk about other things if circumstances afford, but above all else speak to the need of the hour; speak to the need of their soul.

The other day I ran into Don, a longtime acquaintance, who told me he had cancer. Like Donald Menzies, Don has lived his life with no ear for God’s voice. He hasn’t called for me, but I’m going to find him this week and talk to him, not about his sickness, or his business, or the price of gas, but about faith, and hope, and love—things that help turn a person’s face to the light. Maybe there’s someone you know for whom you can do the same.

*A loose translation of Kailyaird would be “cabbage patch.”

Designed to prop up papal authority in Europe, justified by Augustine’s specious doctrine of “holy war,” and encouraged by the propaganda that Muslims were subhuman, the First Crusade was launched in 1097 AD to wrest Jerusalem from the infidels. Along the way, at Nicea, in their first encounter with the enemy, Crusaders sought to terrorize the city into surrender by cutting off the heads of the Turkish dead and wounded, which knights then hung from their saddles, or stuck on the ends of spears and paraded before the city walls, or catapulted over the city walls. At Antioch, captured Muslims were lined up outside the walls and beheaded in plain sight of the city’s defenders. When the Crusaders finally gained entrance into the great city, the slaughter was indiscriminate; no Muslim was spared on the grounds of age or gender. And then came Jerusalem. When the crown jewel of the Crusader’s quest fell on July 15, 1099, beheadings, immolations, torture, the slaughter of women, infants seized by their feet and smashed against walls, and the intestines of Muslims cut open in a search for gold coins or precious stones that might have been swallowed were the rule, not the exception. And through it all, the Crusaders’ rallying cry was “God’s will, God’s will.”

Ruthless, murderous brutality carried out in the name of Christ. Is it any wonder that for a thousand years Muslims have typically despised anything associated with Christianity?

The wars called the Crusades (the English equivalent of jihad) serve to remind us that

• Atrocities have been committed in the name of Christ. Give the devil his due: by prompting in Christ’s name something utterly abhorrent to Christ (John 18.36, 2 Corinthians 10.4), he successfully disguised murder and brutality as a holy cause.
• Atrocities in the name of Christ encourage the rejection of Christ. Far from conquering unbelief, Christian atrocities promote it. Scripture contains numerous examples wherein the ungodliness of God’s people made Him a stench to outsiders (2 Samuel 12.14, Isaiah 52.5, Romans 2.17–24; cf. Genesis 34.30).
• Any crusade that is not an offensive of love is not of Christ. Any act of hatefulness, or arrogance, or prejudice, or close-fistedness, or bullying, or mercilessness, etc. perpetrated by a Christian should be recognized for what it is: an act from hell, not heaven (1 John 3.8–10). To the extent that we veer from a course of love and service in our dealings with others, to that extent we have departed from Christ.

The skeptic Hume was right when he called the Crusades “the most signal and most durable monument of human folly that has yet appeared in any age or nation.” No one admires the bravery of a Bohemond of Taranto, the genius of a Richard the Lionhearted, or the sincerity of a Louis IX more than I. But we should never have the illusion that personal virtue can ever transform an ungodly venture into something glorious.

When Chicago police superintendent Jody Weis was asked to comment on the incident, here’s what he said. “I hate to say it, but the parents are to blame for that 8-year-old being shot. They choose to engage in this activity. Now we have an innocent 8-year-old who is shot… [The boy’s step-father is] engaging in gang activity… As long as we have people who are willing to break the law and engage in criminal activities, these are some of the consequences that we face. We have an innocent boy whose dreams will be shattered, whose family’s dreams are shattered… it’s horrible, and we’ve got to do something about it!”

When I heard this it hit me like a breath of fresh air: finally, someone in a position of authority with the guts to state the obvious and say what needed to be said! And do you know what Weis got for his candor? The threat of a lawsuit from Josue’s mother. Jessica Perez has threatened Weis with a defamation suit if he doesn’t publicly apologize for including her in the blame for her son’s gunshot wound. According to her lawyer, “Even if someone does have a criminal record, it doesn’t matter; they’re not responsible for their children getting shot.” Let me see if I’ve got this straight. A parent who puts their child at risk by failing to buckle them in a seatbelt is responsible if the child subsequently suffers an injury in an accident, but a parent who puts their child at risk by living in a neighborhood where lawlessness is rampant, violence is endemic, and the parent consorts with thugs who frequently shoot at each other is not culpable if the child gets caught in the crossfire?

How stupid do these people think we are?

“On an Egyptian tomb when the first dynasty was falling into ruins someone inscribed the words, ‘And no one is angry enough to speak out’” (Edith Hamilton, 1957, The Echo of Greece, New York: Norton, 154). A lack of righteous anger—the kind that gets white-hot at corruption and injustice—will bring down any nation. Anger is a volatile emotion, but it is an important one. Too often it is sinfully used to destroy people. But when controlled and channeled, it can be used to destroy problems and threats that imperil society (Ephesians 4.26). God intends that a reflection of His wrath against evil be present in every civil entity; read Romans 13.1–5, especially verse four, if you don’t believe that. When a government loses this quality, that nation, like the first Egyptian dynasty (3100–2890 BC), is on the road to extinction. I don’t know how this will turn out for Superintendent Weis, but I hope they give him a medal. He was angry enough to say what needed to be said. If we’ve lost it, may we all recover such a sense of moral outrage.

And please, say a prayer for little Josue.

This excerpt from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations (New York: Signet, 1961, 195–198) is a classic illustration of what Dickens did best: he created characters who personified universal feelings and emotions. When Miss Havisham learns on her wedding day that she has been jilted, her response was to literally stop the clock, and for the next fifty years live in the pain of her rejection. She closed all the drapes so that daylight could not enter the house; she never took off the wedding dress she had already put on when the letter arrived from her former fiancé; she had just put on one shoe, so for the rest of her life she hobbled about with one shoe on and one shoe off; the wedding cake that had already been placed on the banquet table, she refused to let be removed (over the years, however, the cake was removed, crumb by crumb, as spiders and mice nested in it and ate away at it).

It is in the very unbelievability of Miss Havisham’s response, that the memorability of this character is found. I’ve never known anyone to literally react the way she did to rejection or a broken heart, but I have known people to metaphorically stop the clock on their life. Take Jacob, for instance. After being led to believe that his son Joseph had been killed by a wild animal, he “tore his clothes, put on sackcloth and mourned for his son many days. All his sons and daughters came to comfort him, but he refused to be comforted. ‘No,’ he said, ‘in mourning will I go down to the grave to my son’” (Genesis 37.34 –35).

When there is a God who can “make us to lie down in green pastures” even after we have received a crushing blow, isn’t it a foolish and utter waste of our life to choose decaying cake, tattered dresses, a single shoe, mice, spiders, and gloom over the peace that passes understanding (2 Corinthians 1.3–4, Philippians 4.6–7)? Our name may not be Havisham, but our life can be a sham.

We ought to remember that the potential for the greater tragedy never lies in what life can do to us on the outside, but rather, in what we can do to ourselves on the inside.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34.18).

Jim was a real catch.

Seeing him, however, reminded me of another husband who was a real catch. This husband:

• told his wife to pack the Ye Haul because they were moving—leaving everything they knew (home, family, friends, job, religion)—even though he didn’t have a clue where they were going
• not once, but twice, lied about his wife to save his own neck, thereby potentially exposing her to great shame and humiliation
• jeopardized his and his family’s financial well-being by agreeing to a business deal he wasn’t obligated to make with an upstart nephew
• after being unwilling to risk his life for his wife, did risk his life to rescue the aforementioned nephew who had been kidnapped by some marauders
• got a girl pregnant who was young enough to be his granddaughter

If you’re familiar with the Genesis story you know that I’ve been talking about Abraham. Yes, that Abraham—the prototypical believer and father of the faithful. And it’s important to remember these things about him, because it’s against the backdrop of these scenes from his life that this statement by Peter derives its power.

For this is the way the pious women of olden times, who set their hope on God, used to adorn themselves. They were submissive to their husbands, as Sarah, for example, obeyed Abraham and called him master. You have become true daughters of hers, if you practice doing right and cease from every fear (1 Peter 3.5–6, Williams).

I suspect there have been wives who read this verse and thought, “Big deal. Who couldn’t have been a good wife if they had Abraham for a husband?!” The Bible, however, indicates that there were times when Sarah’s marriage was far from “happily ever after.” In fact, many wives have left their husbands for far less than Sarah put up with from Abraham. There were times when her patience had to be at its limit and she was awash in exasperation and anger. Yet Peter reminds us that she called Abraham “master”—which means that despite her husband’s shenanigans, she continued to respect him and fill her God-ordained (and Christ-emulating, 1 Peter 2.21–25) responsibility to submit.

In order to be like Sarah when dealing with a less-than-ideal husband, wives must determine to do the right thing (3.6b: maintain a submissive heart and adorn the soul, 3.1-4), without being scared into doing the wrong thing (3.6c). I once read 1 Peter 3.6 and asked a class, “what are wives afraid of?” I’ll never forget one lady’s response: “We’re afraid it won’t work”—that is, many women are afraid that if they try to be the wife described by Peter, their unloving and selfish husbands will only take further advantage of them, while continuing to make their lives miserable.

Given this possibility, I would like to speak in praise of those women married to the Jims and Abrahams of this world, who refuse to give into fear, while doing their best to be a godly wife. Even if their goodness never changes their husband, it always catches God’s eye (3.4).

After losing 4,000 men in a battle with the Philistines, the Israelites sought to win the war by fetching and carrying with them into the next encounter their most sacred artifact—the ark of the covenant. But despite the ark’s presence: 30,000 Israelite soldiers were killed, the ark was captured, and news of the disaster so shocked the high priest that he fell backward, broke his neck, and died (1 Samuel 4).

The Horns of Hattin, north-central Israel, 4 July 1187

A Crusader army led by Guy of Lusignan, the king of Jerusalem, marched from its camp near Acre to relieve the town of Tiberius, then under siege by a Muslim army led by Saladin. To ensure victory the Franks carried with them the “relic of the true cross.” At Hattin, about fifty miles northeast of where the Israelites and Philistines had fought, the Crusaders were surrounded by Saladin’s forces and annihilated. Knights Templars and Hospitalers who survived the battle were beheaded. Guy was taken prisoner. And the relic of the cross was carried to Damascus where it was paraded through the streets, upside down.*

Two armies, different ethnically, religiously, and chronologically, but alike in thinking that no infidel could defeat the true believers who bore a sacred object of the true God. Wasn’t it Hegel who said that history teaches us that man learns nothing from history?

Jezreel and Hattin testify to our propensity for wanting a magical fix, a talisman that, when calamity threatens, will override all our unrighteousness and cause God to bless us in spite of ourselves. Our fix may be a phylactery, or a sacrament, or lighting a candle, or reciting a prayer, or contributing a huge amount into the church treasury, or making sure our name is on the membership roll of some church, or last rites, or some other person, place, or thing that we ignorantly venerate. And it often seems that the least spiritual are the most superstitious in this regard. Ungodly men will rely upon a thousand spiritual rabbits’ feet before they will seek God’s favor by giving up their ungodliness.

If Jezreel and Hattin say anything, they say that God isn’t charmed by our lucky charms. There is no artifact, priest, prayer, or ritual that will automatically cause Him to reverse the consequences of disobedience. David understood this (read Psalm 51.16–17), and so did Micah (read Micah 6.6–8). What charms our Lord is a soul wherein all traces of pride and rebellion are replaced by rightness, mercy, and humility.

Without these qualities of the heart, we might as well leave our arks and crosses at home.

*The 2005 movie “The Kingdom of Heaven” offers a sometimes accurate depiction of events surrounding the battle at Hattin and the subsequent capture of Jerusalem by Saladin. It was the loss of Jerusalem and the relic of the cross that prompted the Third Crusade led by Richard the Lionheart.

As the weeks passed and the therapy progressed, my aunt did regain some use of her arm; but her leg remained dead. When it was eventually decided that her leg could not be restored to usefulness, the therapy was discontinued. Since her paralyzed leg precluded her from caring for herself, and since she could not afford to pay for home care, her only viable option was to remain where she was—in the nursing home.

Her reaction to all this wasn’t good. She became angry in spirit, abusive in speech, and ugly in outlook. Her vitriol was such that several staff members finally refused to tend to her. No longer was she the upbeat, quickwitted, decorous aunt I had known all my life; she had become a bitter, crabby, choleric old woman.

The 29th chapter of Jeremiah contains a letter God sent to Jews undergoing a social and emotional turmoil similar to my aunt’s. His advice to those taken from Judea and transported into captivity was this: make yourselves at home (v 5), get on with the business of life in your new home (v 6), and pray for the peace of your new home (v 7). The exiles needed to accept the reality that Chaldea was their new home.

I really think this message has something to say to our contemporary culture. Increasingly (and, so I believe, to our society’s detriment), socialized care is the fate of the elderly and infirm. Everyday people are carted from their homes to sterile facilities where they are locked in with malodorous smells and linoleum-tile floors, where they are cared for by people they’ve never met, eat food they can barely stomach, and live among people who have lost their mind. And like it or not, a probable scenario for me and my fellow baby-boomers is that the time will come when we, too, will “be taken where [we] have no wish to go” (John 21.18, Moffatt). When that day arrives, we can stage an angry rebellion, hang onto lies and false hopes (Jeremiah 29.8), or become so sour in heart that we are shunned, even by those closest to us.

Or . . . we can accept the fact that the nursing home is now our home. And there we can remember that a situation doesn’t have to be ideal to be good (Phil. 4.11–13), and that doors can open, even when our spirit is disquieted (2 Cor. 2.12–13), and that the Lord’s mercies fail not, but are renewed every day (Lam. 3.22–23). Believing such things is all that is necessary for a Daniel or Ezekial to flourish.

About a week ago, during a visit with my aunt, she suddenly confessed that she had become a terrible person once she realized she wouldn’t be returning home, and that she had finally accepted the fact that her hospital-style room, with her 103-year-old roommate on the other side of the curtain, was now her home. Further, she said she was determined to return to her old, agreeable self. May the Lord bless my aunt to achieve this good aim.

And if the day should come when institutionalized care is my lot, may God grant me a remembrance of Jeremiah 29, so that I might learn to be at home—even when the time comes for me to leave home.

On a basic level, Matthew’s prologue (1.1–4.16) simply introduces his story of Jesus. But at a deeper level, the prologue is a carefully crafted text that highlights two key Christological themes—sovereignty and submission—that bracket the book. Christ’s sovereignty (1.1–2.23) and submission (3.1–4.16) at the beginning of the Gospel anticipate His submission (26.36–27.66) and sovereignty (28.1–20) at the end.

Contextually, the narrative in 4.1–11 furthers the point of 3.13–17. Matthew wants us to know that Christ fulfilled all righteousness not only at the Jordan but also in the wilderness when “evil appears before Him in all its tremendous strength and naked horror in the personality of the devil” (G. C. Morgan).

There are so many important angles from which to study the temptation that trying to say something about it on one page is almost an injustice. Nevertheless, here are some thoughts concerning Satan’s methodology in the temptation of Christ (2 Cor. 2.11).

First Temptation (4.3–4) If I am right in understanding Jesus’ baptism (3.14–17) as expressing His solidarity with sinners, it seems that this became Satan’s first target of opportunity. Sensing opportunity in Christ’s hunger (4.2), the devil said, “Fix yourself something to eat.” Makes sense to me. He who turned water to wine (John 2.8–9) could have easily turned stones to bread and eased His intense hunger. But to have done so would have been at odds with the identification implied in the baptism. If Christ, who claimed a willingness to limit Himself by our limits (Heb. 2.11–18), refused our limitations because He was hungry, what assurance was there that He wouldn’t bail out when facing the horrors of Calvary (cf. 26.37–38, 53; 27.40)? Christ, however, saw through the reasonableness of this temptation to its lethalness.

Second Temptation (4.5–7) The next temptation flowed from the first. Christ answered the first temptation with Scripture (Deut. 8.3), and the next thing you know the devil is quoting Scripture. “So, you’re going to trust God and follow his word? Let’s just see about that. If you’re as trusting of him as you claim, why don’t you prove it by jumping off the temple. After all, Psalm 91.11–12 promises that he won’t let any harm come to you.” Satan never hesitates to quote the Bible when it serves his purpose (2 Cor. 11.13–15; 2 Pet. 3.16). His use of Psalm 91 betrays just about every way he perverts Scripture

(taking texts out of context, applying figurative language literally, etc.).

Third Temptation (4.8–10) Twice repulsed, my sense is that Satan loses patience and goes for the knockout by offering a Faustian bargain that required Jesus to just once (the devil used aorist verbs) take the road most traveled—the shortcut, the path of least resistance where the end justifies the means. Christ, however, refused to rationalize disobeying the first commandment.

Three strikes and the devil was out.

To see why Christ could hold firm in the wilderness (and everywhere else), study His four sayings in the prologue (3.17, 4.4,6,10); they reveal an attitude of total devotion to God’s will and an absolute belief in the authority, harmony, and applicability of God’s word.

Oscar Wilde said he could resist everything but temptation. Christ resisted temptation. Utilizing nothing unavailable to us, He routed the archenemy and showed the potential resident within us all. On a mountain, He rejected an offer of world dominion (4.8–10) for a course of obedience—which ultimately led Him to another mountain where He was given all dominion in heaven and earth (28.16,18)—because of His obedience. It was His submission that enabled His sovereignty (Phil. 2.5–11).

Could Jesus have succumbed to temptation? Absolutely! But He didn’t. And in that truth is His glory and our hope.