Grandchildren will teach you much about life. One of mine, Jackie, age 5, taught me about human nature recently. My wife and I had gone to take care of the girls while their parents were away, and we came, as always, armed with things to do – arts and crafts, games, books, the whole gamut of tools to occupy little girls. Our older grandchild, Olivia, was most cooperative. She was ready to do anything we offered. If it was to learn how to weave, Olivia learned how to weave. If it was to read, Olivia plopped down in a chair and immersed herself in a book. If it was to play a game, Olivia was ready to play and predicting that she would win. A totally cooperative spirit.
But then there was Jackie. She’s always been a quiet child anyway, but that day she was more reserved than usual. She passively resisted everything we offered. She didn’t really say no; she just turned her back. “Let’s do some crafts, Jackie.” She turned and looked out the window. “How about a book, Jackie? You want Grandpa to read to you?” “Hmpf; if I wanted to read a book I would do it myself.” (She’s not quite up to the Encyclopedia Britannica yet, but she’s moving in on it.). “Then how about a game. Let’s play a game, Jackie. Grandma and Olivia and I want to play ‘Crazy Eights’” I thought we were getting somewhere this time. She came over to the table, messed around with the cards a bit, but then proclaimed, “I don’t want to play this game.”
Now this is getting to be a little dicey, don’t you think? Grandpa has not only exhausted his store of tricks, other than giving horsey rides, which is no longer a good idea for a nearly-seventy-year old back and a sturdy girl; but also the problem is that you really need four people to play this card game. It doesn’t work very well with three. But, no, “I don’t want to play this game.”
So the three of us went ahead anyway. We dealt our hands, we matched our numbers and our suits, we gloated when we took a trick, the whole bit. And Jackie just sat there, watching and waiting. Every now and again I would say, “Jackie, you can play if you want to.” That little head would snap to the side, and that little mouth would spit out, “Nope.”
So on we played, game after game, the three of us enjoying one another’s company and one of us willfully on the side – probably for half an hour. But then I heard it; at last I heard what I had been wanting to hear: “Grandpa, can I play now?” Jackie had seen what fun it was to be a part of the family, and had finally toned down that will of hers to accept our invitation. I do not have to tell you what Grandpa’s response was, do I? “Of course you can play, Jackie. Join the fun.”
These wills of ours are interesting indeed. With a willing spirit we can join in whatever is available to us. Or with a strong will we can resist almost anything offered. The question is how you direct that will. How do you guide that will? And when is it time to let go of that will and receive what is offered?
The Greek word for “will”, found many times in the New Testament, is thelema. As in, “Thy will be done” – thy thelema be done. As in, “Discerning what is the will of God” – the thelema theou, the will of God. From that word thelema is derived the name, “Thelma”. Thelma, thelema, will. Isn’t that appropriate? Doesn’t that seem about right to you? Thelma Mann was indeed a strong-willed person. She knew what she wanted and said so. She knew what she did not want and said that too.
One day word got to me that Thelma had been sick. I had not known it, but when I found out, sad to say, I did not respond right away. I got busy with other things, I procrastinated – until the phone rang and there was Thelma, “Pastor, are you coming to see me or not?”
Let me tell you, it’s not very far from here to Butternut Street, and I think I made it in record time that day. Thelma had let me know what she expected. Her will was strong. And when I arrived and began to talk with her about her illness, trying to provide pastoral comfort, she honed in on one thing: did she matter to me or not? Was her illness important to me or not? Strong medicine, but valuable, for a pastor who did not always get his priorities in order. She knew what she wanted; she said so clearly; and her will was done.
Thelma’s health continued to deteriorate, as we all know. She was placed in Fox Chase Nursing Home, and this errant pastor made certain he went to see her with some regularity. She knew what she wanted; she said so clearly, and her will was done.
I remember stopping by there one snowy Christmas Eve, not long before leading the Christmas Eve service here. It had become important for me to visit her regularly, because she expected it. She knew what she wanted, she said so clearly; and her will was done.
But the last time I saw her there, just before I retired, the dynamic was different. Our relationship changed. I found Thelma in the day room, and when I sat beside her chair, she said, “I want you to go talk to her.” Talk to her? “Yes, talk to her”. She motioned toward another patient sitting nearby. “She needs to talk with a preacher.” I protested a little, “Well, Thelma, I came to visit with you. I’m not her pastor.” “I want you to talk with her; she needs to talk with a preacher.” And so I scooted over to the other patient; I found out that her church had not sent any visitors to see her, and she just wanted to hear the Scripture read, she just wanted a moment of prayer. Of course I was happy to do all that. But do you know, when I finished and turned back to Thelma, Thelma was gone. Back to her room, they said. So I walked down that long hall, past that desk, all the way to Thelma’s room, and got the word: “You go on now. She needed you; I don’t.” She knew what she wanted, she said so clearly; and her will was done. But it had been different this time.
Friends, some things are born of the will of the flesh, and some things are born of the will of God. Some things rise out of sheer human grit; and others rise out of following the leadership of the Spirit. In that moment I saw that Thelma’s thelema, her will, had been submitted to God’s thelema, to God’s will. For now it was not about her; it was about her friend. It was not about attention to her own needs; it was about attention to others’ needs. What made the difference?
But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.
There comes a time when it no longer makes sense to fight. There is a moment when you no longer want to struggle to have your own way. There is a time when you can turn your will over to more important things, and let go.
Jesus faced a moment like that in the Garden of Gethsemane, when He prayed, “Father, if it be your will – your thelema – let this cup pass from me.” It was clear what He wanted. But His prayer went on. “Nevertheless, not my will, but your will.” Not my thelema, but your thelema. Even Jesus, the most authentic person who ever lived, had to struggle with turning His will into the Father’s will. If He had that struggle, how much more must you and I struggle with that? If Jesus had that issue, how much more did Thelma have that as an issue in her life? She knew what she wanted, she said so clearly; and her will was done.
But the day came when she knew what she wanted and she turned her will over to God. For her, as for all of us, life is a continuing set of submissions. Day by day we have to decide whether we are going to have our will about everything or whether God’s will matters more. Thelma made a crucial decision at one point in her life, and that was to say yes to the gracious invitation of God as extended in Jesus Christ and to receive the gift of salvation. But every day, in countless situations, she had to learn how to say yes to the will of God and to set aside the will of Thelma.
Believe me, that is not easy. I too am one who knows what he wants and expects to get it. My prayer is all too often, “O Lord, my will be done – and be quick about it.” But it is important to learn that what God wills to do in us far surpasses anything we might want for ourselves. He is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we can ask or think. And so as Thelma’s thelema slowly but surely turned toward God’s thelema, so also did she become more contented, more settled, and more prepared for this last and final journey.
For you her family, often driven by her will, and probably resisting it many times, be comforted to know, as John’s Gospel says, that to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. Not Thelma’s thelema, nor yours, but God’s.
Surely you must be comforted to see that, as the Apostle Paul writes, He destined us for adoption as his children through Jesus Christ, according to the good pleasure of his will. Not Thelma’s thelema, nor yours, but God’s.
And surely you will hear the benediction of the author of Hebrews, who sings, Now may the God of peace, who brought back from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, by the blood of the eternal covenant, make you complete in everything good so that you may do his will. His thelema, not just Thelma’s thelema, nor yours, but God’s.
And just as finally, after so long a struggle, I told my little granddaughter, “Sure, come on and play with the family. It’ll be fun”, so also the Father has said to His child Thelma, “It is not my thelema, Thelma, that anyone should perish.” Come on in. Come on in.
She knew what she wanted, she said so clearly; and God’s will was done.
