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The April edition of Pen&Pulpit is posted online here. To whet your appetite, here’s an excerpt from my introduction:

As you read these poems, keep in mind the sort of world that Bradstreet lived in—in colonial New England. Although she was by no means among the poor (her father and husband both served as governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony), she couldn’t pick up the phone or email her husband while he traveled, or her children when they moved away. The fire that took her home was a constant threat, as was disease. Consider how our own relative lack of discomfort might make our own faith less hardy—less masculine, if you will—than Bradstreet’s.

Did you hear about the Danish husband who loved his wife so much he almost told her?

We Danes are notorious for our Stoicism. We keep our emotions under the surface, ”where they belong.” But I’m only a fourth-generation Dane, so by now there’s enough Mediterranean blood in me that—once in a while—those hidden emotions sneak out (or blow out, as the case may be).

What does all that have to do with a book review and a warning to readers? Well, when I got to the end of Gilead, which I have highly recommended and still highly recommend, I made a foolish mistake. The book had already stirred me deeply, and in that state of stirredness I was unable to restrain myself from reading to Paula a delightful passage in which the narrator, John Ames, recounts his “courtship” with his bride. I had to stop at a few points to collect myself before going on, but when I got to the line that reads, “Love is holy because it is like grace—the worthiness of its object is never really what matters,” it was over. I burst into a state that I can only remember falling into once before: I was sobbing out of control, and laughing at the same time. It made some pretty funny sounds come out of me, which made me laugh harder, and I know I looked downright ridiculous and very un-Viking-like. The sobbing kept up right alongside the laughter, so it was just plain weird. I guess it was joy, but probably mixed with some other things. I’m not sure I can even analyze it—at least not as well as Ames could.

But I do know this: Paula loves me with that grace-like love, and that moves me. What’s more, God does too. And that’s worthy of an outburst of weeping laughter.

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Today I tendered my resignation. My last day at Dell will be April 30.

Of course I’m happy, because this is a necessary part of answering our calling. Still, God has been quite gracious to us through Dell, so my emotions are mixed. I had imagined that the day I finally walked away from Dell would be delightful—but I can already feel that April 30 will be, at least in some way, terrifying….

Stay tuned. In five weeks I’ll let you know.

I’ve already recommended the novel Gilead—and I renew that recommendation here with all the enthusiasm I can fit into the pixels on this screen. The story is told by John Ames, a 77-year-old minister, who is writing a journal to give to his seven-year-old son (yes, there’s an allusion to Abraham here). He’s passing on his heart, some of the deepest thoughts and feelings that fathers and sons rarely share.

But that’s beside the point of this post: my interest here is in a comment that is almost intrusive in the book—as if the author steps into the foreground to give her opinion through the voice of Ames. I didn’t find it annoying (probably because I sympathize with the opinion), but it did sort of dart in:

I blame radio for sowing a good deal of confusion where theology is concerned. And television is worse. You can spend forty years teaching people to be awake to the fact of mystery and then some fellow with no more theological sense than a jackrabbit gets himself a radio ministry and all your work is forgotten. I do wonder where it will end.

I bother to quote this because it highlights a need for much of the growing church around the world. You know that the church is booming in places like Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Do you realize that in many such places there aren’t enough trained ministers to go around? We’ve got enough seminaries in the U.S. to crank out a glut of ministers, while in many places, “the hungry sheep look up and are not fed” (Milton). In fact, their ideas about Christianity are often primarily shaped by what they find beemed into their living rooms through satellite TV.

Think about it!

That’s why ministries like Miami International Seminary and Third Millennium need your prayers and support. Third Mill is creating a “seminary in a box” in the major languages of the world, and Miami Seminary is helping to get that training to the hands of the people who need it. So please visit their web pages, and think about how you can help.

This is Ethan. He is eleven, and will share some of the best years of his life with us in Slovakia. One of the most striking things about Ethan is his concern for others and his gentleness. He’s always been quick to share, and he even anticipates what others need or want. Some children (and a few adults) will reluctantly share their Amy’s ice cream with you if you ask; Ethan will beat you to the punch, and ask if you’d like some.

But a more subtle characteristic of Ethan that you won’t notice till you spend more time with him is his uncanny power of observation. I used to think that it was impossible for anyone to notice all the details that Sherlock Holmes did; but knowing Ethan makes me believe it’s possible. He notices when Grandma changes the paint in the bathroom; he helps me remember where to turn when I’m trying to find a place we’ve only been to once; he remembers where a book is laid (no small feat in a house with hundreds and hundreds of books, many scattered over the dining table, coffee table, hearth, bedrooms, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera). If I had to make a wager, I’d bank on his becoming a detective when he grows up. Whether he becomes one or not, I know he’d be a great one. (more…)

This is Kristian. He is our 13-year-old son who will be going with us to Trnava, Slovakia. He may not realize it for years, but he’s a missionary. And we believe that he will be a more effective missionary than we will. And part of what will make him so effective is the same reason he doesn’t like this whole idea of moving to Slovakia.

One morning last summer Kristian went to Robinson park to spend the day playing soccer. He left with his backpack, his ball, his sunscreen, and his water, and we didn’t see him again till sundown. When he came home his face beamed as he proudly told us that he met everyone in the park. (more…)

You can pretty much bank on a book recommendation when it comes from someone who loves reading, and when they are so enthusiastic that they buy you a copy of it. Yes, that brings a sense of obligation with it, and that can sometimes be a burden. But with the obligation comes an expectation of fulfillment. The expecation is heightened when the book happens to have won the Pulitzer Prize….

Last weekend we were hosted by Charlie and Lynne Wingard in Huntsville. They both insisted that we would like Gilead, and we clicked well during our time together, so I planned to get the book immediately. But I didn’t get a chance—they had Amazon send me a copy. I’m on page 15, and I’m already telling you that you should read this book—but I can’t afford to get everyone a copy.

Here’s why you have to read it: I read the first paragraph to Paula, and she started crying. I felt like crying, but I’m a big boy, so I decided I would read it to myself so as not to be embarrassed.

It isn’t just that a writer’s ability to make you weep is a good thing; it’s the way she goes about it. C. S. Lewis, in his Studies in Words, says that “one of the most important and effective uses of language is the emotional.” But he explains that “it is the facts, not the language, that arouse emotion.” He makes clear what he means in his Letters to Children in a letter of advice to a girl named Joan (26 June 1956):

In writing. Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was “terrible,” describe it so that we’ll be terrified. Don’t say it was “delightful”; make us say “delightful” when we’ve read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers “Please will you do my job for me.”

And this is what Marilynne Roninson does in Gilead. She lets the “facts” of her story speak for themselves—and the facts themselves are charged with pain, sorrow, glory, joy—love.

BTW, this is good advice for preachers as well—but that takes us down another trail. Read Gilead.

In The Dance of Life, Edward T. Hall comments that as Americans “… we assume that love will be a precondition for marriage, whereas in the Middle East, wherever marriages are arranged, other considerations take priority. if everything works the way it should, love is said to follow almost automatically.”

Now I confess that at first I didn’t set my heart on Slovakia. Just a year ago if you had asked me where I would like to live and work, I’m not sure Slovakia would have been in the top five. But God in his providence arranged this marriage, and I’ve been spending the last several months getting to know more about my betrothed. I’ve played with her language, pored over her maps, and explored some of her history. Yesterday I picked up a book by one of her beloved poets (Milan Rúfus). And, just as Hall predicted, I’m falling in love with her.

I think it’s about time to consummate this marriage….

The latest edition of Pen&Pulpit is posted here. You can see an index of all issues on my site—look under the “Menu” in the column to the right.