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Personal Favorite Posts

December 30, 2021 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

I’ve noted before that popular posts tend to be ones that incite. There’s a place for pushing people’s buttons if you want to encourage them to change their thinking or behavior, but I don’t think muckraking or demagoguery is healthy for either the writer or the reader, and there’s no shortage of bloggers these days eager to do that sort of thing for the clicks. That’s not me.

But I’ve found the personal discipline of writing 2 posts every week to be good for me—for my thinking processes, for my communication skills, for my character, for my soul. And I’ll confess that there have been some posts along the way that were good for me, and, I hope, good for the readers. Occasionally writers have the delightful experience of writing something that seemed to turn out better than they intended, or even better than they felt capable of.

Here are 10 of mine that I like, for various reasons, in no particular order.

Photo by HENCE THE BOOM on Unsplash

On Thanksgiving

November 25, 2021 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Here’s my annual Thanksgiving post.

Even in tumultuous times, we have much to be thankful for.

Photo credit: Wikimedia

No Matter What

September 13, 2021 by Dan Olinger 3 Comments

I had an impactful experience recently that I’d like to share.

I’ve had a hearing problem since I was a boy and had a disagreement with a calf on the family farm; I wanted to ride him, and he disagreed. I landed on the right side of my head and heard something pop. That ear has been significantly impaired since then.

In recent years, with aging, the other ear has been declining as well. This summer I decided to get hearing aids, and I’ve been delighted with the experience; I should have done that long ago.

Six weeks later, one morning I woke up deaf. The “bad ear” was its normal self, but the “good ear” was just gone; it was now by far the “bad ear.” (I came to that realization when I flushed the toilet and heard absolutely nothing.)

Popped in the hearing aids—I’m glad I had them to fall back on—and found that when I cranked them all the way up, I could hear juuuust a little bit.

This was the first day of meetings for the returning faculty to start the school year, and I really needed to be able to hear at least some of what was going on. Made it a matter of prayer and headed off to work.

I managed to get through the day hearing enough to fulfill my responsibilities, but any of you with hearing aids knows that having them turned all the way up means that all the ambient noise is screaming inside your head all day, so it was fairly unpleasant. In fact, a colleague took me aside at one point and asked if I was feeling OK. I was surprised that my distress was noticeable and tried to make it less so for the rest of the day. :-\

That night I tinkered around with possible solutions, to no apparent effect, and went to bed.

Next morning, still deaf.

I did my usual personal devotional time, and in my prayer time I asked the Lord, if he was willing, to clear up the problem. I presented him with a couple of reasons why I thought my being able to hear would be better than the current situation—

I teach the Bible to Christian students, and they seem to benefit from it, and hearing their questions enables me to teach more effectively.
In times of worship, I’m much more inclined to rejoice when I hear the congregational singing of my church family—even though, truthfully, I don’t contribute much musical quality to it.

So I asked him to intervene.

And then.

I thought for a minute, and I told him something else.

“Father, if you don’t enable me to hear ever again, I’m going to serve you the best I can, without complaint. You have been unfailingly good to me for 60 years as a believer, and for several years before that. I trust you, and I will still trust you and serve you for every tomorrow. I’m with you.

No matter what.”

And I meant it.

That was a deeply significant moment.

I finished my devotional procedure and then, as was my custom, I took a shower. And during the shower, my hearing came back. I don’t want to get all TMI here—the queasy can look away—but the problem was a simple mechanical blockage by earwax.

So it was really no significant problem at all.

But I didn’t know that when I was praying, and I meant what I said. I will always remember the volitional significance of that experience.

And here’s what occurred to me then.

It was my ignorance that made the moment powerful. If I had known that this was just wax, and that the (completely nonsupernatural) solution was just moments away, I would never have faced the opportunity to make that significant choice.

God could have taught me that lesson by making me really deaf for the rest of my life—and that would have been fine, good even. But he knew he didn’t need to do that. All it would take was a little lump of earwax and a couple of days. And my limited knowledge. And so he did what it took.

He’s a gracious, merciful God, who brings good things even out of ignorance.

I’m all in.

No matter what.

Photo by nikko macaspac on Unsplash

Respect

August 9, 2021 by Dan Olinger

This weekend a great man and spiritual mentor passed to glory. In tribute, I recall a past post about how he changed my life.

Rest in peace, good doctor.

E Pluribus Unum

July 19, 2021 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

My wife and I were eating lunch in a restaurant yesterday when a girl walked by in a T-shirt that said “Lexington Soccer.” I caught her eye and asked, “Lexington where?” She said, “Massachusetts”—as I hoped she would. I smiled and said, “I graduated from Lexington Christian.” She said, “So did my Dad.”

Small world.

And that got me to thinking about all the places I’ve lived and people I’ve known—which leads me to recycle what follows, a minor reworking of something I posted on Facebook on September 4, 2016.

I spent the first half my youth in the Pacific Northwest (Spokane, to be precise), and the second half in greater Boston (Newton, mostly). (And when I say “half,” I’m being precise; we headed east 3 days after my 10th birthday.)

But I’ve spent well over 2/3 of my life in the American South. There are lots of things I like about the region:

Barbecue. And to my friends in California, bless your hearts, you’re not “barbecuing”; you’re grilling. It ain’t barbecue unless you’re usin’ wood and takin’ more than 8 hours.
- Side note: in South Africa they “braai,” and they use wood, but they cook hot and fast rather than low and slow, so that’s not barbecue either. Though it is delicious.
The way Southerners soften their insults with “bless your heart.”
Biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast.
Calling other adults “Sir” and “Ma’am,” even when they’re younger than you.
Dinner on the grounds. And persimmon pudding. Preferably simultaneously.
Fireflies.
The good people in mill towns like Poe and Slater and Zoar and Lockhart. (RIP, Eunice Loudermilk.)
The way everything’s sweeter here–cornbread and potato salad and of course iced tea.
The sound of the kudzu growing on a dog day afternoon.
Grits. Yes, really. Fresh and hot, with butter and pepper—and not a single crystal of sugar. What were you thinking!?

I am blessed for having lived in multiple regions. It’s helped me realize that despite our differences, we are all more alike than we think–that there really is more that unites us than that divides us. That reaching across regional boundaries and disbelieving stereotypes is good for the soul. And for the country. And that as polarized as we are in this country, “e pluribus unum” really is possible. But it starts with us, one at a time.

Our leaders, and our journalists, and social media are united in their efforts to keep us ginned up, angry and hostile toward the “other side.” They’re doing it almost entirely for the ratings, for the money, for the power. They’re posturing; they don’t believe half the things they’re saying, and you shouldn’t either.

Don’t buy it. You’re in the image of God; you’re not a beast. Think for yourself. And reach across the unbreachable boundary. Because they’re in the image of God too.

Photo by Joey Csunyo on Unsplash

One Body

June 10, 2021 by Dan Olinger 3 Comments

This post is going to be a little different. It’s about an experience I had this weekend. I just feel like telling somebody about it.

Every so often I do an internet search on my name, just to see if somebody’s saying something I ought to know about. Some years ago when I did that, I found a web page giving the history of a church. Well, I was interested right away, because I’m interested in churches, and it involved a fellow with my name, and surprisingly, it was a Black church in Hazard, Kentucky.

Apparently back in 1886 a preacher traveled from Virginia over the ridgeline into eastern Kentucky and did some circuit riding, accompanied by a teacher named Dan Olinger. A few years later some of the converts organized a church with 9 charter members, including a guy with my name, who I assume was the same person who had come from Virginia. (Perhaps he came up from Olinger, Virginia?)

Eventually a couple of former slaves gave the church a small piece of land just west of Hazard, up against the side of Town Mountain. The story on the web page stops in the 1990s, when one Dr. John Pray was the pastor. But that story resonates with me, not just because my family name is part of it, but because it tells of a handful of people who had experienced God’s gracious regeneration and who sought to gather regularly for worship in the face of considerable difficulty.

These are my people, in the most significant way possible.

Another family name that shows up repeatedly in the story is Combs. Back when I first encountered the web page, I emailed the address at the bottom of the page and asked about the history. The respondent gave me the name of a member of the Combs family and said, “He knows as much as anybody.” So I emailed him, and we began a brief exchange. My first question was whether the Dan Olinger mentioned in the story was Black. Mr. Combs said he was. I’ll admit to being a little worried at that point; I knew that some of my general line were substantial landowners in the area of Staunton, Virginia, before the Civil War, and I wondered if perhaps they had owned slaves. So I asked, “Do you know where the Black Olingers came from?” Mr. Combs said that he thought there had been an interracial relationship in North Carolina, and that Dan was descended from that.

I don’t know if there was any love involved—we all know that the rape of Black women by white men was not at all uncommon in those days—but it does seem to indicate that the relationship between the white and Black Olingers is biological, not just the legal fiction of a slave taking his owner’s last name.

Hazard isn’t a place you get to by accident; it’s not really on the way to anywhere. So I filed that story away in my memory, thinking, “Boy, I’d sure like to see that place someday.”

This past weekend I was asked to participate in the ordination of a former student in eastern Kentucky, about an hour or so from Hazard. I thought immediately of Town Mountain.

After the ordination service on Sunday morning, I got in the car and headed for Hazard. The trip was complicated by the fact that for most of the drive I had no cell service and thus no GPS; I had to stop at a convenience store and ask directions. (Yes, sometimes we men do that.) But around 2 pm, thanks to directions from a guy with an apricot-sized wad of tobacco in his cheek, I found US 451 heading west out of Hazard, crossed the steel bridge, and saw the road sign: “Dr. John Pray Memorial Highway.” This has to be the right road.

On about the 19^th bend in the road there was a yellow diamond sign: “Church.”

I hadn’t been this excited in a long while.

Rounded the bend, and just past Fred Combs Road (paved) and Olinger Lane (not so much), there she was—a little red-brick church building, with two small white-sided extensions, and a parking lot and picnic area just beyond. She’s snuggled up alongside the road, the drop-off so steep that the entry door is six feet down from the road. Beside the front door is a plaque:

I’ll confess that I was hoping they had scheduled a dinner on the grounds for that day, so someone would be there to talk to. Afraid not. I left a business card and a brief note on the back.

The globe is covered with little groups of believers who gather and worship, who laugh and weep together, who care for one another through hard times, who celebrate weddings and mourn at funerals.

And we are all one. Often biologically, which should be expected in social communities, but more importantly, because we are united in a single body in Christ Jesus.

May it be so for as long as earth endures.

On God’s Ongoing Speech

April 12, 2021 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

The Reformers were well known for their battle-cry, “Sola Scriptura!”—“The Scripture alone!” They were battling the teaching of the Roman Catholic Church that Scripture and tradition—as defined in the statements of the ecumenical councils and the papal encyclicals—were equally authoritative.

I’m a sola scriptura guy too. And so is everybody I work with at my school.

So my students are sometimes surprised when I tell them that the Bible isn’t the only place where God speaks—and that the Bible itself tells us that.

God speaks to us through his Word, most certainly. But he also speaks in other ways.

Theologians have long recognized two classes of revelation: special revelation, or divinely inspired prophecy, which used to happen in different times and different ways (Heb 1.1) but today is confined to his Word (Heb 1.2); and general revelation, or what he shows us through his works—most notably in creation (Ps 19.1ff); in his direction of human affairs, or providence (Dan 2.21); and in human conscience (Gn 1.26-27). God is still speaking today in those ways.

We should note, as we always do when teaching this principle, that general revelation is not authoritative or inerrant in the way special revelation is, because the world and everything in it is broken by sin; what we’re seeing today is not exactly what God created. But the heavens still declare the glory of God, and humans at their worst are able to be informed and moved by what they see all around them.

Paul is a good example of someone putting this to work in ministry. When he’s introducing the gospel to members of a Jewish synagogue in Pisidian Antioch, he references primarily the Scripture, because they know and recognize it. His sermon (Ac 13.14-41) focuses on the metanarrative of Scripture and Jesus’ fulfillment of the messianic prophecies. But shortly later, when he’s addressing pagan Greeks in Athens, he takes an entirely different approach. Rather than quoting the Hebrew Scriptures, which would mean nothing to this audience, he cites their own poets—Epimenides and then Aratus (Ac 17.28)—because anyone in the image of God is eventually going to say something worthwhile. And he argues not from biblical authority but from logic—because even imperfect images of God can be logical.

Throughout history people have found spiritual meaning in the beauties of nature. One of my favorite examples of this, because it’s both observant and deftly rendered, is a poem written by Odell Shepard in 1917. Shepard was a professor of literature at Trinity College in Connecticut and then served a term as Lieutenant Governor. In 1938 he won the Pulitzer prize for biography for his work on Bronson Alcott, Louisa May’s father.

“Whence Cometh My Help”

Let me sleep among the shadows of the mountains when I die,
In the murmur of the pines and sliding streams,
Where the long day loiters by
Like a cloud across the sky
And the moon-drenched night is musical with dreams.

Lay me down within a canyon of the mountains, far away,
In a valley filled with dim and rosy light,
Where the flashing rivers play
Out across the golden day
And a noise of many waters brims the night.

Let me lie where glinting rivers ramble down the slanted glade
Under bending alders garrulous and cool,
Where they gather in the shade
To the dazzling, sheer cascade,
Where they plunge and sleep within the pebbled pool.

All the wisdom , all the beauty, I have lived for unaware
Came upon me by the rote of highland rills;
I have seen God walking there
In the solemn soundless air
When the morning wakened wonder in the hills.

I am what the mountains made me of their green and gold and gray,
Of the dawnlight and the moonlight and the foam.
Mighty mothers far away,
Ye who washed my soul in spray,
I am coming, mother mountains, coming home.

When I draw my dreams about me, when I leave the darkling plain
Where my soul forgets to soar and learns to plod,
I shall go back home again
To the kingdoms of the rain,
To the blue purlieus of heaven, nearer God.

Where the rose of dawn blooms earlier across the miles of mist,
Between the tides of sundown and moonrise,
I shall keep a lover’s tryst
With the gold and amethyst,
With the stars for my companions in the skies.

Photo by Steve Carter on Unsplash

On Cultural Understanding, Part 2: The United States

February 18, 2021 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Part 1: The World

For all of America’s geographical isolation and reputation for cultural closed-mindedness, I’d suggest that the US has much more cultural diversity than many people realize—diversity from which we all can gain the same benefits enjoyed by multicultural societies in the rest of the world.

I spent the first half my youth in the Pacific Northwest, and the second half in greater Boston. (And when I say “half,” I’m being precise; we headed east 3 days after my 10th birthday.)

At that tender age I was given the pronounced privilege of glimpsing a sample of the cultural diversity of my own country.

The American West is still driven by its frontier past, which includes ranching (“cowboy,” if you will) culture: you herd animals, not people. You don’t tell people what to do; you show them a more efficient way—by example—and you leave them to make the free individual choice to adopt it. Discovery learning at its best.

My Dad, born on the frontier in 1918, always groused at the stanchions and cords set up to direct large crowds through long lines. “Sheep,” he would mutter.

Westerners are more likely to stop and help somebody who’s stranded on the highway. It’s big country out here, and we look out for one another. In many ways this thinking is similar to the hospitality culture of the Ancient (and modern) Near East.

Moving to Boston was an experience. New England is older than the PNW—Washington had been a state for only 80 years when I lived there—and considerably more set in its ways. (The phrase “Boston Brahmin” means something.) People are more taciturn, less likely to run on about their opinions or to listen to yours. My public schools in Newton were considerably more liberal politically than those in the hard-scrabble desert farmland of Eastern Washington. I had a lot to learn.

(An aside—of course we’re in danger of stereotyping here. But there are real and significant distinctions between these cultures, observed and catalogued by serious sociologists.)

I left Boston for college in the South when I was 17 and moved there permanently, as it turned out, at age 27 after my graduate work. Now, in my sixties, I’ve spent nearly 3/4 of my life in the American South. This is a region that, frankly, is held in low esteem by much of the rest of the country, often the target of stereotypes and ridicule, as well as a certain level of distrust that is historically well-founded.

But there are lots of things I like about the region:

Barbecue. And to my friends in California, bless your hearts, you’re not “barbecuing”; you’re grilling. It ain’t barbecue unless you’re usin’ wood and takin’ more than 8 hours.
The way Southerners soften their insults with “bless your heart.”
Biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast.
Calling other adults “Sir” and “Ma’am,” even when they’re younger than you.
Dinner on the grounds. And persimmon pudding. Preferably simultaneously.
The good people in mill towns like Poe and Zoar and Lockhart. (RIP, Eunice Loudermilk.)
Country roads slicing through the kudzu.
The way everything’s sweeter here–cornbread and potato salad and iced tea.
Tommy’s Country Ham House, which is closing due to Tommy’s imminent retirement, an announcement that has us all reeling.

Our leaders, and our journalists, and social media are united in their efforts to keep us ginned up, angry and hostile toward the “other side.” Don’t buy it. You’re in the image of God; you’re not a sheep. Think for yourself. And reach across the unbreachable boundary.

You won’t be sorry.

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

On Sloth

January 14, 2021 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

Since my previous post was on doing less and thereby getting enough sleep, I suppose I should balance it to keep folks out of the ditch on the other side of the road.

Life is about stewardship. We’re given abilities and responsibilities by the Lord’s providence, and he holds us accountable for how diligently we carry out those tasks. My assumption in the previous post was that we do better when we have enough sleep; I’ve learned that from long experience, and so, I suspect, have you. Sleeping, then, is a stewardship responsibility, and we should adjust our commitments to allow for enough of it.

But rest and recuperation are not laziness, and the same principle of stewardship is no call for us to lie around doing as little as possible; it calls for us to use our waking hours, which are limited, to the best and most efficient purpose. When we wake up, we should get going—since we’ve gotten enough sleep—and use the day wisely. Maybe that means taking care of other people—little ones, perhaps, or disabled ones—or producing things—shoes or artwork or widgets. Maybe it’s playing a part in a process, through meetings or paperwork or organization. Your mind’s well rested, and you jump in and give it all you’ve got.

Part of stewardship, I suppose, is doing your best to devote yourself to tasks that you’re good at. Some people absolutely thrive on an assembly line; others would go insane working any kind of a regular schedule. Different folks, different strokes. God made us all different, and we really should celebrate all kinds of diversity. (And no, that phrase is not redundant.)

Not everybody can get a job that’s a good match for his skills. Sometimes you just have to take the job you can get. How do you steward that? By diligence, of course—being on time, doing what you’re told, working hard (and if you do those three things, you’re ahead of 90% of the workforce, it seems). By learning all you can about your responsibilities, to make up for lack of natural ability. By finding your joy in God’s empowerment to do well the things that don’t come naturally to you.

Over the years I’ve worked a lot of different jobs—custodial, food service, retail, security, facilities management, writing, publishing (with some marketing and sales along the way), and now teaching. I feel most qualified for what I’m doing now—for which I’m grateful—but I can honestly say that I’ve enjoyed all the jobs I’ve had, and I’ve benefited from all of them beyond just the paycheck.

Our culture has come to view work as something you do to pay for the stuff you really want to do—whether it’s partying on the weekends, or summer vacations, or retirement. That’s a shame. We’re much healthier psychologically when we’re given to a mission, especially one that’s bigger than we are. We’re designed to spend our time making a difference, in ways great and small.

An even worse trend in our culture is to come home from work, fall onto the couch, and watch entertainment for the rest of the night. We’ve conditioned ourselves to sit passively for hours on end, even to the point where we’ll give up sleep for it. How profoundly unhealthy, both physically and spiritually.

When she was in early elementary school, one of my daughters observed that if she watched TV for a long time, she felt sad—she was happier when she was up and about and accomplishing things (though I don’t think she knew the word accomplishing at the time).

She was right; I’m glad she learned that lesson so young.

We’re made to accomplish things—different things, in different ways, certainly, but accomplishments all.

If you haven’t though about that lately, why not sit yourself down and spend a little time thinking about what you’re good at (it’s probably the same as what you love) and how you can invest in that activity for the good of others?

Photo by Stephen Tafra on Unsplash

Dan Olinger

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