Fine Prints: April, 2007

All We Like Sheep April 7

Let Us Not Become Weary in Doing Good  April 14 

Brain Storm  April 21  

Eats, Shoots & Leaves April 28

All We Like Sheep 

Spiritual truths aren’t always easy to explain. Even Jesus seems to have had trouble.

Have you noticed how many times Jesus said that the kingdom of heaven was like something—only to then say it was like something else? And then like something else yet again? Obviously, the kingdom of heaven was only kind of like the thing to which Jesus compared it, but not exactly like it.

I face the same dilemma in explaining why Jesus came to this world. I know that whatever I say will barely scratch the surface, but I’d suggest that one of the reasons He came can be illustrated by a recurring situation I faced as a youngster growing up on our farm.

For those who don’t know from personal experience, let me tell you: Sheep aren’t the brightest creatures in the animal world. Which concerns me—because Jesus more often compared humans to sheep than to any other creature.

Anyway . . .

The fences on our farm were made of woven wire. Horizontal strands of smooth wire were held a consistent distance from each other by vertical wires at intervals of about six inches. The resulting six-inch-square holes in the wire were too small for a sheep to get through, but not too small for a determined half-grown sheep to poke its head through.

Because the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence—even for sheep—it wasn’t uncommon for a young sheep to wedge its head through one of those tight little squares in the fence, only to discover that it couldn’t pull its head back out when the tempting blade of grass had been eaten.

Fortunately, we counted the sheep when we put them into the barn each night. So no sheep ended up being stuck for more than about 12 hours. But having your head caught in a "trap" for any length of time is a frightening experience—even for a dim-witted sheep.

By the time I’d find the missing animal, it would be in no mood to cooperate. As I’d try to push its ears flat against its head so it could slip out the way it slipped in, the sheep would inevitably struggle, negating my efforts.

All my gentle words were to no avail. The sheep viewed me as a threat rather than as someone seeking its good. I often thought how great it would be if I could talk to the sheep in its own language—because it definitely wasn’t understanding mine.

Which takes me back to the Garden of Eden. When God came as God to see Adam and Eve after their sin, they ran from Him because they viewed Him as a threat rather than as someone seeking their good. And humans—"like sheep," the Bible says—have been pulling back from God ever since.

God’s Son, came to correct our humans-afraid-of-God problem. To achieve the goal, He came in a form we could understand, lived among us as a human, spoke our human language, shared our human experience and showed us—wayward sheep that we are—that God is our Friend.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

Let Us Not Become Weary in Doing Good 

The wording of my title is taken from Galatians 6:9. The passage actually reads: "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Following is a real-life commentary on the foregoing verse.

My first pastoral posting (31 years ago) was to a town of about 30,000 in Australia. I quickly discovered that Adventists had a bad name in that town, especially among local clergy. As far as I could tell, the negative reputation was well-deserved.

About three years before I arrived, an Adventist evangelist had conducted a series of meetings that lambasted every religious system that didn’t bear the name Seventh-day Adventist. And he did it so vociferously that three years after he was gone his denunciations were still ringing in people’s ears.

In Australia, state schools provide a period each week for religious instruction. Students are free to sign up for the denomination of their choice. Or they can go to the library to study. Local clergy come to the school to conduct the classes.

In the town where I was, the clergy would gather for refreshments and socializing at the conclusion of the religion classes. Despite my best efforts to be charming, I couldn’t break through. I would try to engage my fellow clergy in conversation—only to recognize that they couldn’t wait to get away from me. I was persona non grata. However, every Tuesday morning I was there—smiling, jovial . . . and shunned.

About two years into my third pastoral posting, I was talking to a fellow Adventist pastor from a parish about 300 miles from where I worked. "Do you remember meeting a clergyman named ____________ when you were working in ___________?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, deciding to say nothing about how I’d been ostracized.

"The reason I ask," my pastor friend continued, "is that I’ve become really good friends with him. And the other day he asked me if I’d ever met an Adventist pastor from America named Jim Coffin. When I told him I definitely knew you—in fact, that you’d taken my place at my previous posting—he asked me to apologize to you on his behalf if I ever happened to see you."

I was stunned.

But that wasn’t all. Twelve years into my ministry, when I was working as senior editor at the publishing house in Australia, I received a phone call from another Adventist pastor. He asked if I remembered a particular clergyman in the town where I was first posted.

"He and I have become good friends," the Adventist pastor told me. "The other day he asked if I’d ever come across an American Adventist pastor named Jim Coffin. When I said I knew you, he asked me to apologize to you for how badly he and his fellow clergy treated you back then."

Stunned again.

What does that text say? "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up."

It’s a text worth remembering.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

Brain Storm 

Just in case you didn’t notice the title, it’s "Brain Storm." Which isn’t the same as "brainstorming."

Years ago I once invited some people to a brainstorming session. One woman thought I said "brain-strumming" session—which sounds a little painful, doesn’t it? Brain-strumming may actually cause brain storms.

A storm is nature out of control. A brain storm is a mind out of control.

Anyway, the other day I was listening to a cynical comedian poke fun at the expression "If it saves just one life, it will be worth it." Mere cliché, he said.

As the comedian was talking, I got to thinking about traffic fatalities. (My mind was out of control in a full-blown brain storm.) We have something like 40,000 traffic fatalities in the United States every year—not to mention the hundreds of thousands of people who are seriously injured, sometimes permanently.

So if we could adjust driving in such a way that it would save just one life, would it be worth it? Or was the comedian right? Is the statement just so much hot air? Because, the reality is, it would be relatively easy to all but eliminate traffic fatalities. But do we really want to? Is saving 40,000 lives annually worth the sacrifice?

All we’d need to do is strictly enforce a 30-mph speed limit in all rural areas and a 15-mph speed limit in built-up areas. In addition, we’d need to strictly enforce seat-belt laws. And requiring every occupant of every motor vehicle to wear a helmet would help. But, truth be told, for the sake of rapid transport, we’re prepared to sacrifice 40,000 people per year and let hundreds of thousands sustain injury. Think about that.

While pondering traffic fatalities, I remembered something I’d heard years ago (I was having a brain storm, remember): If you drop a frog into boiling water, it will leap out. But if you put him into a pan of cold water, set it on the stove and bring the heat slowly to the boiling point, he’ll sit tight—and get boiled alive.

Applying the slow-heat principle to traffic fatalities, I imagined Henry Ford talking to the Federal Government’s Secretary of Transportation (if such a character existed in Ford’s day). "Mr. Secretary," Ford says, "I’m in the process of creating a vehicle that, within a few decades, will be developed to the point that people will be able to travel almost anywhere in the country at speeds of 75 mph. The only problem is, my vehicles will kill about 40,000 Americans every year and injure hundreds of thousands of others, many of them permanently."

The response, at least as I imagine it would be. "What’ve you been smokin’, Henry? Do you take me for crazy? You want me to support a transportation system that will kill 40,000 people each year and injure hundreds of thousands more, many of them permanently? Fat chance. The American public would never tolerate it. What kind of ghouls do you think we are?"

If we so clearly suffer from the boiled-frog syndrome in secular life, how much and in what ways are we suffering from it in the spiritual realm?

Maybe a brain storm will reveal the answer some day.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

Eats, Shoots & Leaves 

I’m a little weird. Maybe a lot weird, in fact.

I say this neither to boast nor to seek sympathy. Rather, I say it to save you the bother of making the observation yourself. You see, for Christmas I received a really great, captivating, I-don’t-want-to-put-it-down-even-to-eat book about—get this!—punctuation. Yes, I said punctuation. Those little dots and squiggles we refer to as apostrophes, commas, colons, semicolons and the like.

This exhilarating book’s title—Eats, Shoots & Leaves—derives from an incorrectly punctuated description of China’s panda species. The reality is that the panda eats (verb) shoots (noun) and leaves (noun). Pandas don’t eat (verb) and then shoot (verb) and leave (verb)—which is what the sentence seems to say when one unnecessary comma gets added.

Just how much difference can a dab of punctuation make? Quite a bit, according to Lynne Truss, the author of Eats, Shoots & Leaves. For example, "No dogs please" (i.e. they’re never pleasing) says something altogether different from "No dogs, please" (i.e. a polite request to leave your dog elsewhere).

Punctuation makes a significant difference between: "A woman, without her man, is nothing" and "A woman: without her, man is nothing." And the following set of the same words definitely don’t say the same thing: "Leonora walked on her head, a little higher than usual" and "Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual."

So why all the fuss about punctuation? Because it’s "a courtesy designed to help readers to understand a story without stumbling." The rules of punctuation aren’t there to make reading more difficult. Rather, they seek to make it less so.

Having acknowledged my weird fascination with the rules of punctuation, I’d like to introduce you to another weird guy. His name is David—as in David the Hebrew king, a man after God’s own heart.

Note what David has to say about his own unusual (weird?) area of fascination—God’s law: "Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law" (Psalm 119:18). "I delight in your law" (verse 70). "The law from your mouth is more precious to me than thousands of pieces of silver and gold" (verse 72). "Your law is my delight" (verse 77). "Oh, how I love your law! I meditate on it all day long" (verse 97). "I love your law" (verse 113).

Jesus said: "I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full" (John 10:10). And He was talking about you and me.

Our lives. Through His law, God’s seeks to ensure and safeguard our full-life experience. David understood that. That’s why he was such an unapologetic nomophile—lover of the law. (If such a word doesn’t exist, it should—from the Greek nomos, law, and phileo, love).

Punctuation is "a courtesy designed to help readers to understand a story without stumbling." And, if I understand it correctly, God’s law is a courtesy designed to help humans avoid a lot of stumbling as we seek to revel in the full-life experience Jesus wants for each of us. I think that explains David’s unique fascination.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor