After all the discussion and controversy I’ve been reading, I went tonight to see the film War Room, and decide its quality/worth/heresy for myself. Here are my thoughts on the film. Be patient, because it will take me a bit of time to express them. For one thing, I think I know now why someone said that film critics are not the target audience for this film. One simple reason would be that War Room is intended to speak to believers. No one else could even begin to connect with it or understand it. It would be foolishness to them.
Let’s remember that the Kendricks began as a couple of guys on a church media staff. Their films began as an outreach ministry of their church, and this latest film is in the same vein. Each film has examined a certain theme/issue and has aimed to leave a personal challenge in the viewer’s lap. They were:
1) Flywheel – simply intended as a church outreach to be shown for a few nights in the local cinema. Basic theme of the movie – make sure, for Pete’s sake, that if you call yourself a Christian, you really are one and then endeavor to live like one. It was a big surprise when demand for this fun (and funny!) little movie spread wider than expected.
2) Facing the Giants – Basic theme was faith, particularly faith exercised in times of defeat and discouragement. (I love this funny, heartwarming film and occasionally rewatch it.)
3) Fireproof – Basic theme was the importance of marriage. Kirk Cameron starred. (I think this is my favorite of the bunch. It made me laugh, gasp, tear up, and yes, appreciate my husband more, too!)
4) Courageous – Basic theme was fathering, its strategic importance in all our lives. (A fun film, as well. I love the scene in the back of the police cruiser, where the bad guy is freaked out by a Chick-fil-A order given in Spanish.)
Just imagine you’re the Kendrick brothers. You started out making a little film for your church. Here you are years down the road, successful beyond your wildest – yes, truly wildest! – dreams. Along the way, you’ve challenged folks to check out the genuineness of their Christianity, to trust God in tough times, to reaffirm and value their marriages and their commitment to their children – what next?
Well, what’s the one thing most neglected in the lives of Christians? I think it is prayer. After all, “we wrestle not against flesh and blood.” Let’s be honest and admit prayer is the most neglected aspect of the Christian life. We’d much rather brainstorm or teach or write or lobby or almost anything than pray. This was a worthy theme. The Kendricks hit the nail right on the head with this theme choice. Hats off to them for addressing it!
There were a couple of things that I felt weakened the film. (Spoiler alert!) One weakness was the short timeline. Apparently from the time the prayer war room was initiated until the answers were received was only a matter of weeks. This can happen, of course – God could change things instantaneously, if He so willed – but I felt it was a weakness. There is something to be said for perseverance in prayer, as well. And I didn’t like it when the husband read a strategic text on his wife’s phone. I just don’t think husbands usually read their wife’s texts, and so that seemed contrived.
On the other hand, I did not find the scene where Satan is rebuked to be a serious doctrinal problem. It was a somewhat literal response to a verse from 1 Peter, which the character was repeating to herself, considering how to implement it – “resist the Devil, and he will flee.” Many of us would never think of challenging the devil outright in this way. Is this because we truly think it is unscriptural? I do have reservations about it. But then again, perhaps whether it is unscriptural or not may be irrelevant; we might not have the faith to do it, anyway.
I was impressed and touched by the list of colleges and universities who were credited at the end, along with several dozen churches. Also, the list of the prayer staff of the film was eye-catching. Yes, they had a prayer staff with its own leaders and organization. These people walked the talk! They have prayed over every day of every film since the very beginning years ago, and it was good to see that they are still doing it.
Do I think War Room is a timeless classic of cinema achievement? I do not. Do I think it is worth watching? Yes, I do. Do I think it teaches heresy? No. Has it challenged me? You bet! And I’m guessing that, warts and all, it will have a ministry with lots of other folks, too.
I’ve been thinking lately about the etymological relationship between the words “integer” and “integrity.” An integer is a whole number – un-fractured, un-decimaled, one might say intact. Yes, in-tact, from the Latin, meaning untouched. Integrity includes the concepts of unhurt, unchanged, sound, fresh, whole, entire, pure, honest. It includes 1) steadfast adherence to a strict moral or ethical code, 2) the state of being wholesome, unimpaired, and 3) the quality or condition of being complete, pure. A human “integer,” then, would be a person who is whole, someone untouched by hypocrisy, a person who is one – the same inside and out.
I just came home from visiting my sweet “Second Dad” in Greenville Memorial Hospital, where he is busy fighting a particularly virulent strain of clostridium difficile (C diff.) I treasure him. Plenty of kids don’t even get a decent original dad to begin with. I had a wonderful one, and then was blessed again when I married my Steven to receive a top notch second dad in Glenn Lewis Case. He decided early on to simply accept, like, support and encourage me, and has never stopped doing just that.
So Dad, a man who’s hardly been sick a day in his long life, a man who at 80 takes just a few daily medications, who until a month ago was working a few days a week at Wal*Mart and planning his garden, has been confined to a hospital bed for the past 2 1/2 weeks. Tubes and wires are everywhere. The mobility he enjoyed for so long is now gone. His personal dignity has taken a major hit. At times he’s confused. He worries about his flowerbeds, or why he had to push a cart all night, and when can he have his pants. He called mom tonight to ask her to help him get up and dressed, because he knew that he needed to go to the hospital. He sounded quite relieved to find out he was already there.
But one thing I’ve noticed throughout all of this is that the traits and tendencies that make up my Second Dad have not changed. The sincere Christian faith that once motivated him to encourage the spiritual lives of his coworkers is seen now in his praying with a doctor or nurse. The kindness I’ve always enjoyed is clearly seen, as he repeatedly thanks his caregivers for their service to him. His calm disposition, so free of temper or bitterness, is still there in full force. His love and care for his wife, his appreciation and affection for the people in our church family – all these things are essentially unchanged. If you cut a cross section of Dad’s character – even in pain, fear and discomfort – it’s the same all the way through. He is whole. He is one. He has true integrity.
Like gold, integrity is comparatively rare. So much of human life seems to involve hiding our hurts and fears from others. How often we focus on our image, on the face we present to our bosses, to our subordinates, or at social occasions. Far, far too often, believers do the same at church. Oh, the effort we expend to protect our secret selves! Dad’s illness has made me face the fact that for many of us the time will come when the infirmities of age will make it impossible to keep those walls up. Our bodies will weaken, a random microbe will find us a suitable host, and suddenly our independence, our personal space, the comforts and habits we relied upon will all be stripped away. And then, what’s inside will be revealed.
The psalmist prayed, “Teach me Your way, O Lord. I will walk in Your truth. Unite my heart to fear Your Name.” A united heart, with no layers of secrecy. A true integer, the same through and through – at all times and in all places. Integrity. Wholeness. What you see is what you get. Yep! That’s my Second Dad.
Olivia was born on December 20, 1988. She was delivered in a doctor’s office by a Papua New Guinean doctor and his down to earth, blunt nurse. In America if the cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck, the nurse might say, ‘Hold off on pushing, dearie. Breathe, breathe, Ok, there we go, all good now.’ My PNG nurse simply shouted, ’You are keelling de baby! Stop pushing! You are keelling de baby!’ That works too. I obeyed her, the cord was untangled and our little girl was safely born.
That was Monday. Kim and I and our new baby came directly home to the Lae guest house and introduced our fifth child to the other four.
On Wednesday of the same week, I went to the local hospital for a minor surgery. In no time at all I was wrapped in a stained -but clean -white sheet. What looked like baling twine was tied around my ankle and attached to it was a note which had my name, procedure and doctor written on it. I lay on a gurney as it was pushed out one building, down an outside alley and into another building to await my turn in the operating room.
That done, home we went again to anticipate Christmas two days hence. Because we were away from our island home and in Lae City to have our baby, we did not have Christmas decorations with us. A friend gave us a small plastic tree complete with lights. We put it on a coffee table, made a few decorations and called it good. It was a lovely time. We had our new baby. Our family was complete, 3 boys and now 2 girls. How happy we were.
On Christmas Eve after the kids went to bed Kim and I put the presents we had brought back with us from the states under the tree, filled the stockings, snuggled our baby and counted our blessings.
Early Christmas morning I went outside and picked several hibiscus flowers, brought them inside to place among the branches of our little plastic tree. Now it looked extra pretty and festive and PNG appropriate!
Hibiscus flowers, once picked, live only a few hours. For the time we opened gifts they remained bright and beautiful. By afternoon they were drooping. By nightfall they were closed up and finished.
This month of Olivia’s birth I think of her short yet lovely, bright, happy life. I push past the pain and bewilderment of loss to savor with love and thanksgiving the dear lovely happy gift she was and is to our family.
Last Sunday in church we sang, ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord. Blessed be His name. He gives and takes away. My heart will say, blessed be his name.’ My husband and I cannot sing that song without tears in our eyes. Our trembling lips can barely form the words. But I like to think this. God did give us Olivia and for her short life she brought joy, delight and laughter to our family. And God did not just ruthlessly take her away. He took her away to Himself. His grace was in the giving her to us and his grace is also in the welcoming her home to be with him forever.
I don’t know if there will be hibiscus flowers in heaven but if there are, they will forever be alive and vibrant. As will Olivia. As will we. ‘And forever we shall be with the Lord.’ This then is our comfort and hope.
Clink clunk clink….dawn is close to breaking, the sun is barely coming up and across the gully between our two bush houses, I hear the clink of ice being put in a thermos for the day’s drinking water. It is 1984 and we are in the Mouk village of Gigina on the island of West New Britain, Papua New Guinea.
Our coworkers are up and at work. They breakfast early, ‘red up’ the table and continue their study of the Mouk language. Mark and Gloria worked hard; after all, said some, at 35 they were a bit old to learn a language.
But learn it they did – and well. Then Mark started teaching. Beginning with Genesis he told the story of God – creation, the fall of man, and OT stories showing the character and plan of God. And then he told the rest of the story – Jesus, his sinless life, vicarious death and victorious resurrection. The Mouk people, amazed by God’s grace and love in sending a savior, believed. They rejoiced in their salvation boisterously, singing, dancing and even grabbing Mark and tossing him in the air. I remember hearing Mark say (via an old cassette tape) that ’If I were to die today, I would feel my life had been worth it.’
Our part in the Mouk work was temporary. My husband Kim built the airstrip and I did medical work; when the airstrip was completed we headed off to another village to do the same thing. Across the island in the Yombon hamlet of the Asengseng people group, we rejoiced when we heard via our two-way radio the news that the Mouk believed the truth of the Gospel.
Many years later, in 2011 we were back in PNG helping where we could. One of the Mouk men who was visiting Hoskins town where we were living handed Kim an envelope with a letter of thanks and a one hundred kina note for the work Kim had done in building the airstrip. To say we were humbled would be an understatement. We were touched by the sacrificial gift – a way to show their ‘tenk yu tru’ for something done years ago. It seemed to us to be another evidence of God working in their lives.
Later that year we flew into the Mouk village of Gigina for a weekend. As the plane landed on the small airstrip, a midweek church service had just finished. The people came to greet us, the women with Bibles on their heads.
Those Bibles, by the way, were translated into the Mouk language by those ‘early to rise, hardworking people’, Mark and Gloria. Now, more than twenty-five years later, the next generation in the village was reading their Bibles and faithfully following God. So much had changed from the time long ago when we had lived with them. Fear of the tumbuna was gone. Family relationships were healed. Husbands were kind to their wives. Children were learning to read. There was a school, a church and a medical building.
We visited with the people, telling them about our family and hearing about theirs and we laughed together as we remembered the olden days when we were young and our children were little. And then we had a good time worshiping with them in their dirt floor, plank walled church building.
As we chatted about life in general and the things important to us, one of the women said to me, ‘Life here is hard but we are trusting God every day.’ I thought of that as I got on the plane to leave. I was going back to a clean house in town with running water. There would be bought food which I could prepare on my stove – or perhaps microwave and I would be sleeping in a comfortable bed. My Mouk friend would be walking a mile or two to her garden for food which she would cook over an open fire, bathing in the river and sleeping on a stick bed in her thatch roof house. Her life was hard but her faith strong. She was clear and emphatic about that! There is no question that God’s truth had brought hope, joy and freedom to these people.
Just weeks ago, Mark passed away after a short battle with cancer. All of these memories came dancing across my mind – the challenging and blessed beginning days, the early mornings, the hard work, the reward, and the continuing faith.
I think of Mark and his split second journey across the ‘gully’ to his new heavenly home. He has joined the many Mouk believers who have gone on before – all a part now of a great cloud of witnesses from various tribes and tongues and people and nations singing praises to God in a place not bound by time, limited by language or touched by sorrow. With complete joy and hope realized, they are at home with Jesus. For them the beginning of Forever is at hand.
Don’t forget to look up. I say this to myself when I am in the ‘home place’. Greenville, Maine is a beautiful picturesque town with mountains, lakes, rivers and forests. But here, as everywhere, there are things that must be done so it is easy to be busy. There is wood to stack, windows to clean, dishes to wash, card games to play and so on and so forth, as Gramps would say. And I need to get my daily run in. I enjoy these wonderfully normal moments of everyday life but sometimes I forget to look at the beauty all around me.
Amazing. Beautiful. Lovely. Truly awesome. I think the beauty of this place is a reflection and reminder of the Creator. I will lift up my eyes to the hills, says the Psalmist; My help comes from the maker of all.
As I look at all the beauty around me I realize I need to look up with more than my eyes. Like how about my heart, my soul, my mind. It is easy to get all caught up in the everyday circumstances of life. I am in that muddled state on a regular basis. So look up, I say to myself.
Look up …..at Jesus on the cross. See his love.
Look up…at the Risen Christ. See his power.
Look up …..at the Author and Completer of your faith, the Lover of your soul, the Keeper of your heart.
So I am looking up and sighing and resting and smiling and laughing with thanksgiving and joy.
He is more amazing than his creation, more beautiful than the stars, more lovely than the most exquisite flower. He is powerful, and loving and truly awesome.
There is a phrase in Pidgin English that expresses the superlative in a simple and clear way. Bilong winim ol. The nth degree. The most. The extreme. That is the God we look up to. He is good and powerful and just and loving – bilong winim ol!
I was thinking about all this while on my way to visit a friend this week and the song, Turn Your eyes upon Jesus
just happened providentially played on the radio. So I have been singing it both reviewing and anticipating God’s kind and never-ending work in my life.
The first verse begins, O soul, are you weary and troubled? I have been making up new verses to fit my day. Oh soul, are you muddled and harried? Oh soul, are you sad and worried? Oh soul, are you happy, busy, hurting, rejoicing, desperate? Every day’s story is unique and different with an infinite number of circumstances or choices.
But the chorus is always the same….
Turn your eyes upon Jesus.
Look full in his wonderful face.
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim
In the light of his glory and grace.
Yes, indeed. Whatever your story is today, don’t forget to look up.
I’ve never liked the name Gramma. It goes against the grain to hear this grammatically incorrect version of what could be a lovely name for a lovely position. I mean, think of the alternatives— Grandmama, Nonna, Nanny, Mimi…anything but Gramma! At least that’s the way I always felt.
And then it happened. There I was, wandering through Hobby Lobby —- not really for any reason since I am not a ‘craft’ person. I think I was simply there to support their business, but that is an entirely different issue — yes, there I was with my little granddaughter, wandering. Now, normally, Sofya calls me Baboushka and I call her Sofya, with the accent on the first syllable, not Sofia. That is the American translation.
When suddenly, she said it! She called me Gramma! What? And not once, but repeatedly. Each time she spoke to me, she used THAT word. Her mom looked at me and chuckled,
“She must have heard it on TV. American children call their Baboushkas Gramma.”
Hmmm, I’d never really thought of myself in those terms. That was for someone with a house dress on. (Forgive me if any of you wear house dresses. I remember older women, somewhat heavyset, wearing those unattractive articles of clothing when I was growing up. I don’t DO house dresses. And now would I be relegated to THAT group?)
The next time Sofya visited, Gramma was forgotten and the familiar Baboushka was back in her vocabulary. I breathed a sigh of relief. We would escape the dreaded word yet.
This year Sofya will begin her first year of education at home. It brings back all of the glorious memories of placing curriculum orders and the excitement of materials arriving in the mail. It was like Christmas each year when our books arrived. I remember those years as some of the best of our lives; books, books, books, and the delight of opening the world of learning to my children. What a privilege it is to see Sofya beginning this same journey. A shopping trip for school supplies was just what she and I needed.
We made our plans for a sleepover and the next morning Sofya and I hit Office Max and Walmart with a vengeance; we had important work to do. We found construction paper, pencils, crayons, scissors, even some nice little school dresses….when suddenly in the midst of it all, Sofya exclaimed,
“You’re the best Gramma I ever had!”
My eyes filled. My throat constricted. I held her tight.
“Oh Sofya, I’m going to cry right here in the store!”
And I did. Then, I wiped my eyes, pulled myself together, and rejoiced that I was a Gramma. Because it’s really fine. It’s a fine thing to be a Gramma, especially to a little girl like this. As we finished up our shopping trek and headed for the registers, Sofya humbled me with one more comment,
“I hope I live in America forever!”
You will, Sofya, if this Gramma has anything to say about it. Get those house dresses ready, I’m up for this!
“Do you know this dog’s name, Sofia?” I asked my little granddaughter. The stuffed toy I held was a little worse for wear. His original overalls had been tattered and torn and he now sported a new pair. His conductor’s hat was firmly attached to his head, though he HAD lost one ear. Yes, Casey dog had traveled the world in his 34 years…..
‘When your mom was a baby, just about the size of Mariana, her father, your Dyedushka, brought Casey home. You see, Casey lived in a store. He always wanted a family and when Dyedushka picked him up, tucked him under his arm, and paid for him, Casey was excited. Dyedushka brought him home and laid him next to your mom on her blanket.
Casey lived in your mom’s crib and then later on her bed all the while she grew up. Then one day your mom began to pack for a journey far away. She put her special things in a trunk to store while she was gone. Casey was one of those special things, and as she picked him up and gently tucked him in the trunk, he wondered where he was going.
For five years Casey waited. He wondered if Noel had forgotten about him…if anyone remembered him anymore. Meanwhile, Noel was learning Russian and living far away on the other side of the globe.
One day, she met a handsome man, named Maksim (your father). They fell in love and soon they were married…the American girl and the Russian man. They were happy and hoped for children of their own. Soon, they found they were going to have a baby.
Meanwhile, Casey waited. Didn’t anyone notice he was gone? Would he EVER get out of this trunk?
One special day, Noel and Maksim welcomed a little girl into the world. They named her Sofia (that’s you). As she held her little girl in her arms, Noel thought of Casey dog and how much she wished she could give him to Sofia as Dyedushka had given him to HER. She wondered if, somehow, Casey could come to Russia.
Plans were being made for Sofia’s American Baboushka to come for a visit and Noel thought about how great it would be if Casey dog could make the trip too. She gave Baboushka directions on where Casey dog was.
Casey heard the lock being turned. Was it really true? Were they coming to get him? He KNEW they wouldn’t forget!
Gently Baboushka lifted him out of the trunk. His clothes were tattered. After all, he was 29 years old! Some of his stuffing was escaping from his ripped seams. As the days passed in preparation for the trip to Russia, Baboushka and her daughter Caroline worked on Casey dog. They sewed new overalls for him. They stitched his ripped seams. He began to feel young again!
And then the day came when Casey was placed in a suitcase and began the long flight from Los Angeles to Khabarovsk. It seemed the flight would never end. Casey could hardly believe he would soon be with Noel again. He felt the plane settling down for a landing, then felt the bumping of the bags being unloaded. Brrrr…it seemed awfully cold.
Before he knew it, Casey dog felt the suitcase being rolled across a floor and heard the voices of Noel and Baboushka, along with a new voice.
“That must be the husband, Maksim,” he thought.
Everyone climbed in a car and the bags were loaded in the trunk as the long ride home began.
“Will I ever see my Noel?” thought Casey. He floated off to sleep. It had been a long trip.
After a couple of hours Casey knew they must be home. Car doors were opened, and again the bags were moved….this time they were carried inside. Casey could hardly contain himself! Soon! Surely soon they’d open the suitcases! And then it happened. Casey heard the zipper being pulled and a hand reached in and picked him up. He tried to look calm and collected, but he just KNEW he HAD to have a peek at his girl.
There she was, his Noel, the one who had snuggled him as a little girl and whom he had watched grow into a beautiful young woman. And here she was, picking him up, gently looking him over and then, ever so gently placing him in a crib with a new little girl—- HER little girl. He had another little girl to take care of! She hadn’t forgotten! He looked at this new baby and smiled as she snuggled up next to him. This was where HE belonged.’
“And so Sofia, even though you left a lot of things in Russia, Casey dog came back to America with you. He’s 35 years old now, but he needed to be with you, and your mom, and now with little Mariana. He’s come a long way since that day when Dyedushka picked him up from the store shelf…around the world and back!”
Casey dog’s heart swelled as he listened to Baboushka tell his story….no, they hadn’t forgotten and HE wouldn’t either. No matter how far he had to travel, he’d always be here for his girls.