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Doug Blair and Family

Possessing All Things

It’s a story
That came to me,
Late spring, early one
Thursday evening.
We were walking
The university grounds.
(Still hoofing it
Or busing or taxiing-
No car in the driveway.)
We had been to the
Main Library.
Hilary dabbling in Huguenot history,
Celtic folklore,
Charles G. D. Roberts’
Animal stories for the kids.
I, following the canoe
Of Grey Owl,
Or the letters of
My beloved Rutherford
And Scottish Covenanters.

The evening was
Lazy-warm and the
Leaves on the maple and oak
In full splendour.
The little campus stream
Was trickling toward
The duck pond,
And the two of us
Leaned on the aluminum
Bridge rail,
Arm-in-arm, silent, contented.
Watching Mother Mallard
Convoy her paddling brood of nine
Toward overhanging bushes.
No students passed.
(Campus population at
A seasonal minimum.)
Waterloo traffic noise
Muted through
Surrounding wood-lots.
I was impressed by
A suggestion from within:
“All things are yours,
And ye are Christ’s
And Christ is God’s.”

(A morning’s reading
Had prompted this thought
Some days before…
Seems a little house-maid
Worked in a large mansion.
Many rooms, exquisite.
Lots of dusting, cleaning, polishing.
She reserved a special time
Each day to enter
Her employer’s study to work.
There it was.
Four-by-five oil-painting
Of the Scottish Highlands.
For him, “a good investment
Picked up on tour overseas
With his wife.
Last appraisal – hundred and twenty-five
Percent jump in value.”

To the maid, this scene
Was Heaven. Multi-coloured
Heather, dramatic variable skies,
Distant snow-capped peak,
Ruddy little Highland cattle,
And one old Jock following
With plaidy and staff.
With such a feast for the eyes
Work became a luxury,
Day’s chores completed with joy.
Now who owned that painting?)

Hilary tapped my elbow:
“This is nice, isn’t it.”
The two of us headed down
The path,
Fragrance of lilac from
Somewhere up ahead.

Sometimes, Strange Help

Oh, I could not touch the process
As you neared the Living Fire,
As He pained and purified you,
As He raised your standards higher.
Though I heard your cries of quandary,
And I saw your tears of shock;
It was clear you were His project.
(I refrained from soothing talk.)

There was only my prayer corner
Where I dared to let it out.
Where I got beneath your burden,
First with moaning, then with shout.
And His Spirit reassured me
This was how it had to be,
That you might receive your treasure
And a gracious victory.

It must all be of His working,
Measured out to challenged trust.
Marvelous, such metallurgy!
Making gold of baffled dust.
Dare I frustrate such a Craftsman,
As He works His glorious art?
As He gives the form and purpose?
As He re-creates the heart?

No, I could not, and I would not,
For I had my times alone.
When the arm of flesh was absent
And I had to storm His throne.
And the bounty from the battle
Seems my richest gain to date,
Which the Living Fire had purposed
In His mercy, as my fate.

Oh, I love you brother, love you,
And it hurts so much to stand
At the outskirts of your struggle
Clenching tight the helping hand.
But the Master sits beside you
As your bark braves wind and wave;
And the passage proves Him able
To the uttermost to save.

Our High Priest

I am troubled by what I see these days of Kingdom Now attitudes challenging the Church. There is a new kind of citizen, they say, on the planet, neither Jew nor Gentile, but rather Kingdom worker.

This person purportedly has been redeemed by the blood of Calvary, indwelt by the Spirit and is exercising remarkable gifts to bring to completion the agenda of Jesus. He is not looking for the imminent return of the Saviour in glory, because his community must first win the battle of correcting this world in righteousness. Use politics if necessary. Then and only then will Jesus arrive to take the reins.

At first blush the ambition of it all sounds admirable. Better to be working in obedience to Matthew 25 than to be found idle, cloud gazing on the “rapture watch”. It is flattering to think that we might literally be the hands, voice and power of Jesus bringing His Kingdom to fruition.

Sorry friends, although redeemed, we are still made of the “flesh stuff” which fell in the Garden. Our challenge is to lean more on the sweet influences of the Spirit and thereby to have our minds renewed day by day, walking out a living likeness to the Gospels.

The ultimate victory will only come as forecast in Ephesians 5: 27:

“That he (Christ) might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish.”

This full “cleaning up of the fish” is only accomplished at the time of His miraculous gathering of His own:

1 John 3:2 - Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.

I tremble when I consider the description of Jesus’ present day ministry in the mind-set of Kingdom Now. Jesus has become the mystical head of the Kingdom Now Body. They say that the only Jesus one will get to see or hear now is the sum total of the corporate members. In effect they are deputizing many little gods.

Here they are messing with the trinity, as difficult a concept as it might be. They are denying that the glorified God-Man, forever liberated from death, our wonderful High Priest is seated at the right hand of the Father, constantly making intercession for us, and preparing even now for the glorious reunion. (Mark 16: 19; Acts 7: 56; Romans 8: 34; 1 Corinthians 15: 24-26; Philippians 3: 21; Hebrews 1: 3; Hebrews 7: 24, 25; Hebrews 12: 2; Psalm 110: 1)

Beware. Without Him we can do nothing.

Robert Moffat

Gang awa frae tha Glen
Tae a fearsome place;
Where tha darkened souls
Hae na gleemps o’grace.
Where tha work must fit
A new tongue and race.
Gang awa frae tha Glen for a wheel.

“Tis for certs He has ca’d
Ye, and ye must roon;
Tae a land o’ plagues
And o’ blastin’ sun,
Where tha rule o’ richt
Hae just sceerce begun.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, Robbie, chile.

There be muckle tae ken
O’ tha people’s need;
O’ tha crops that thrive,
O’ tha life they lead;
O’ tha daily thirst;
O’ their warfare, greed.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, and be wise.

Tho’ tha ship be worsted,
Tho’ tha trail be long,
Tho’ tha beasts be awful,
Ye’ll arrive anon;
And commence tae cant
Tha sweet Gospel song.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, in His love.

And ye’ll spot tha dee
When it starts tae click.
As they bring their young,
And they bring their sick;
For o’ Jesus’ kind
They ken nae sic lik..
Gang awa frae tha Glen, tae be used.

An’ it’s nae sa muckle
That their needs ye know,
Whuch’ll fan tha flame,
Cause your strenth tae grow;
But tha confeedence
“Tis your Laird says, “Go!”
Gang awa frae tha Glen, ‘til you’re gone.

(Robert Moffat, Pioneer Missionary to South-west Africa)

Note: The story is told of the early day in the mission of Moffat when his camp was confronted by a prominent chieftain. The man demanded to know the purpose of the missionary's visit and the authority who sent him.

Through an interpreter, Moffat advised that he represented the greatest of all Chiefs and that he was bringing news and help for the best in life. The native said that he would kill Moffat and his chief. The territory was under his absolute control. He brandished a menacing spear. His retinue stood at the ready.

Calmly Moffat loosened the breast of his jacket. Striding to within inches of the man's face, he pointed to his own heart and said, "My Chief lives here. If you intend murder, do it now, for I will not be held back from my purpose."

The other's jaw dropped. His spear hand faltered. His bluff had been called. The two would soon become fast friends.

Setting Captives Free

I’ll have to think about it.
Something is happening here.
This morning,
H Block’s exercise period,
East-side fitness yard.
Usual pick-up basketball,
Games of catch,
Half-hearted aerobics.
Twenty minutes out.
Kipper got into trouble.
Dealer Kipper, old-timer,
The Joint’s entrepreneur.
Smokes, bandages, magazines, canned treats.
(No rumours of hard stuff.)
Went long for a pass.
Still pretty fit.
Lost track of where he was;
Barreled into Dutch’s corner.
Dutch, the Man.
Protection boss. Double-lifer.
Hand in every trick in the Joint.
Favours, payments, or else.
No love lost between the two.
(Something about a disputed “tariff”.)
Dutch’s corporals,
Lonzo, Turk and Kruger
Slammed him against the chainlink.
Flurry of arms, feet and
Shimmering steel.
Kipper, down, motionless,
Twisted in frightening posture.
Bleeding from the nose, throat, shoulder.
Hands on the abdomen.


“Doc, get over here, now!”
Call me Doc.
(Short stint as a para-medic
In Philadelphia.
Before the armed robbery career.)
The scene, heavy:
Guts spilled, shoulder perforated.
Expert shiv work.
Tower guards not moving.
Kipper, unresponsive to my efforts.
Five terrible minutes.
Buddy pressing torn jacket against open wounds.
No vital signs; plodding C.P.R.
Somewhere behind me
Voices- the guards?
Sounds like praying.
Parson Eddy on the scene
With his hallelujah bunch.
Bible class-“born-againers”.
I step back.
Circle of prayer moves in:
“We rebuke death.
Devil, Kipper will not be taken!
Raise him, Lord, raise him.
For your glory.”
Variations on this rap continue.
Hands on our fallen friend.
Three guards, Ed, Nelson and Donny
At the periphery,
With the stretcher,
Watching.
“Devil, you have already lost.
Our Lord whipped you at Calvary.
We rebuke you, in Jesus’ name.
We plead the blood of Jesus.
Lord, now, like Lazarus.
Bring him back.”
And then it happened.
I swear it.
Kipper inhaled.
Long and beautiful.
A smile graced the bloody lips.
The rascal-eyes blinked open.
Alive! Jesus!
Had to be thirty-five men around,
Between us and Dutch’s
Dark corner.
Bible class will never be the same.
Stretcher work underway.
Eddy’s hand placed on my shoulder:
“Check out John Chapter Eleven,
Doc, John Chapter Eleven.”

Lazarus

Is there news of his arrival?
Have they seen him on the way?
How we need his hand of healing,
How we need his strength to pray!
Yet this waiting, wretched waiting,
While our brother slips away.

Was the message given promptly?
Was he begged to make all speed?
Was he told our fears for Lazarus?
Was he made to see our need?
Oh be coming, please be coming,
Jesus, hasten! Intercede!

Down the road at last, his figure,
But alas, then much too late.
“Had you been a little sooner,
Lord, you might have changed his fate.
But our brother, precious brother
Has already passed death’s gate.”

Then he asked that we might take him
To the place where Lazarus slept;
And we passed through friends and family,
All who tearful vigil kept;
And we heard the Master groaning.
And we watched as Jesus wept.

At the tomb door, still our champion,
Praying through our wicked doubt,
He addressed the bitter fact of death
With victory and a shout;
There the Master, still the Master,
Crying, “Lazarus, come out!”

And the place of death was shaken
By the challenge which he hurled.
And the soul of him once taken
Was recovered to our world.
Thank you Jesus for our brother!
And the graveclothes were unfurled.

How I pale now at the memory
Of my thoughts and words of fear,
And of pitiful self-pity
Which would deem Christ insincere.
He was caring, deeply caring,
Ever strong and ever near.

He had purpose in delaying
Which was far beyond our view;
And when everything seemed lost he proved
Both trustworthy and true
To a mighty love that neither
Grave nor death could e’er subdue.