The Least of These

It's a good thing to be humbled, but difficult. Especially when humbled by another person - someone you look at and realize that they have it right, live it right, and I don't. Especially when that person is a 15-year-old Indian orphan.

Taken Care Of

I've never experienced God's provision quite like the time I let myself need it.

An Unlikely Calling

There was a time when I thought I was too good for missionary work - that God had bigger, better plans for me. I was to ascend to the 'high places' in this world, leaving the lower places to lower people.

Now I know that I am not good enough for missionary work. But God has brought me here, to this point of departure, and He has said 'Go.' I will go humbly, haltingly into His work, looking always to Him for guidance like a nervous child to his father.

I sit confused that God would use even me for His work. But grateful. I praise Him that He can use such as my selfish heart to call the hearts of those He has chosen.

God, the glory is yours. All of it. I am weak and distracted and ungrateful. I can do nothing, but Your Spirit can do so much through me. I give you myself tonight. All that I can. Use me well, keep me humble, be God.

Drowning in the Shallow End

Often times I feel that the church lets herself get washed away by issues that should be easily waded through. And as with most criticisms, this comes from an indictment of myself.

Lately I've done some research on the emergent church. A child of a postmodern time I have asked many of the questions that the emergent church is acquiescing to. Sorry, I don't know how else to put it. Is scripture reliable? How well do we (can we) know God? What is God's plan for mankind? How exclusive is God in his plan?

Diving into those points of my faith that I have long known are the weakest (in terms of traditional protestantism) seemed like swimming into a riptide that I knew I couldn't swim out of. But I found, to my grateful surprise, that I could touch bottom, that still I could plant my feet on Solid Ground.

Jesus is alive, you see, and he is strong. The tide might have washed me away, but it cannot budge my Lord, and he holds me in place. Paul knew this as he told the Thessalonian believers to "test everything, hold on to the good, avoid every kind of evil."

We needn't fear being washed away by such things. We can wade through them and find the good, leaving the evil behind. We have been told to do so.

Praise be to Jesus, my living Lord, valiant protector, and doctrinal guide.

A Quick Word

God has challenged me to search the depths of my depravity. It is a wonderful paradox of Christianity that as I dig into the mud and manuer of my sin, I am also probing the depths of His mercy. And from down here, you should see the heights of His grace.

To know myself in this way is to know the Gospel more clearly. It is good news because I am bad. And it is very good.

Begetting Grace, cont.

The torrent of wrath and
Abundance of grace
That poured through your son
As he hung in his place
They flowed down like water
They flowed down like blood
From a spear in his side
And thorns in his head

His final day an archetype of pain
His death the moment of earth's surest loss
Yet also that of mankind's greatest gain
So great the hope that hung upon that cross

This morning I wake
Pull your grace off the shelf
Will I remember your wrath?
Will I die to my self?
Grace flows down like water
Wrath flows down like blood
From everlasting scars
And the truest of loves

His final day an archetype of pain
His death the moment of earth's surest loss
But I hail that moment as my greatest gain
So great the grace that hung upon that cross

continued from an earlier post.

Distant Shores, cont.

Awake from deathlike sleep I stand
On beaches of the finest sand
And breathe at last, deeply in
Of potent scents and living wind.
Vitality, the end of rest
Engulfs my lungs and burns my chest.
Now sprint or fly but do not stay
Greet with life the coming day!

The soft white sand is met above
By firsttrees of a marv'lous grove
And further up 'gainst furthest skies
The silhouetted mountains rise.
Crowned with brightening rays of gold
They watch the land as rulers bold
But only in their master's stead-
You see! They bow before his head

All is humbled, still and small -
No lapping waves or bluejay's call.
A gasp of joy caught in my mouth
As I join West and North and South
In bowing to the priveleged East.
Ascending star, a sun at least
Parts the mountains, to their delight
And cracks the sky with morning light

Seconds, hours, or even years
A thousand longings, hundred tears
Passed before this sun had rissen.
I know not time, day, or season
But I know that I needn't know,
There is no cold here, and no snow
But always spring bursts forth from spring
Always a sweeter bird to sing.

A Moment's Carry

Over the past couple of weeks I have intermittently received short words of encouragement from brothers and sisters in Christ. This is what it is like:

Sore feet. My legs ache and tremble
with each step further up this graph
of limitless convexity.

But with a word I am lightened
and I soar upon the arms of
my brother. Ahhh, encouragement.

Praise God, by whose Spirit we are made into the type of people that care to encourage each other. I pray for community steeped in encouragement, where God smiles.

Distant Shores, continued

(This poem, started below, looks like it will be an ongoing project. Hopefully you enjoy seeing this little bit of the process behind it.)

Awake from deathlike sleep I stand
On beaches of the finest sand
And breathe at last, deeply in
Of potent scents and living wind
Vitality, the end of rest
Engulfs my lungs and burns my chest
Now sprint or fly but do not stay
Greet with life the coming day!

The soft white sand is met above
By firsttrees of a marv'lous grove
And further up 'gainst furthest skies
The silhouetted mountains rise
And crowned with growing rays of gold
They watch the land as rulers bold
But only in their master's stead
You see! They bow before his head

All is humbled, still and small
No lapping waves or bluejay's call
A gasp of joy caught in my mouth
As I join West and North and South
In bowing to the priveleged East
Ascending star, a sun at least
Parts the mountains, to their delight
And cracks the sky with morning light

Beneath This Leaden Face

I have heard that when Queen Elizabeth died her face was already buried beneath three inches of heavy white lead makeup. She began using it to cover the scars left behind by smallpox, but it turned out the stuff was toxic. After too many days the skin underneath the mask began to deteriorate and, all the while, the queen became known by her ghastly countenance. To remove the leaden stuff would have rendered her unrecognizable to her world. Her mask became her face.

So it is with my person, but with a startling difference. As God scrapes off the layers of accumulated 'personality,' 'reputation,' and 'identity' the true state of my self is being revealed. But instead of finding the ugliness of old scars and flaking skin I am finding a new creature, smooth and strong and swift. It is not the 'me' of emptiness and ugliness that I feared, to the praise of His glorious grace.

But neither is it a 'me' of comfort and complacency. Its newness and passion are frightening - who knows where I will take me when I am him. And so I find myself waking in the morning and smearing on that old makeup, trying to maintain some vestige of my leaden personality. Despite its smothering nature.

But daily, too, I pray God to remove those layers that I add, and those that remain from past years. It is a great credit to His patience that he has not left me to such neuroses. Instead he consistently scrapes away more than I can cake on, bringing his new creature more fully into this world every day, making me daily less 'of the world.'

God, please continue to scrape away that old semblance of personality that I called a self. I want to let your new creation shine in me - I want to be him.

The Distant Shores

Awake from deathlike sleep I stand
On beaches of the finest sand
And breathe at last, deeply in
Of potent scents and living wind

Vitality, the end of rest
Engulfs my lungs and burns my chest
Now sprint or fly but do not stay
Greet with life this wondrous day!

The soft white sand is met above
By first trees of a marv'lous grove
And further up 'gainst furthest skies
Platonic forms of mountains rise
...

This poem, like the one below, to be continued on another night.

The Acts of the Apostles

You can almost hear the low hum of excitement coming off the page. Hushed voices punctuated by gasps of faithful disbelief.

"He's doing what? Where? The Holy Spirit? Who told you that? You're kidding? THE Saul?"

These disciples, apostles, appointed as the physical leaders of the burgeoning church, watch in amused awe as their Master spreads His message, their message, over their ancient world. The Holy Spirit is falling upon the gentiles, cripples are walking, the blind are seeing, and it's happening everywhere.

They almost got used to it from Jesus, and when they themselves were the conduits of such tremendous grace at least they were there to take stock of the ramifications. But this is getting out of control, certainly out of their control. I wouldn't be surprised if The Original "The Rock" Peter shook his head occasionally as the group of believers that he was to call his flock spiralled into the thousands, tens of thousands, and spread throughout the Roman world.

Peter: 'Feed my sheep,' he says. I should've asked for a head count!

But it's said with the wide-eyed smile of appreciation and wonder. Daily they were blessed by reports of God's grace. New churches forming, established fellowships growing and persevering, offerings taken, gifts given, possessions sold, prophecies fulfilled.

Excitement every morning. 'What will God do today?' they must have thought as they tightened their sandals, expecting the miraculous.

'What will God do today?' I ask.

Thanks, tonight

Father, thank you for answering questions. Bluntly, unequivocally.

Father, thank you for granting wisdom. Quietly, generously.

Father, thank you for opening doors. Smilingly, insistently.

Father, thank you for closing the same. Stalwartly, unapologetically.

Father, thank you for being holy. Completely, unapproachably.

Father, thank you for giving grace. Abundantly, daily.

Father, thank you for pardoning me. Decidedly, eternally.

Father, thank you for changing me. Remarkably, continually.

Father, thank you for being my father. Tonight, thankfully.

For The End

God, for the last year you have been teaching me a lesson that I have yet to learn, one that I may not fully learn until it is null. But I want You to know that I am beginning to understand its importance, and here tonight I will praise You in my utterly limited capacity for a blessing that deserves far more.

It is the promise of The End. The point of faith and hope that tells us that despite daily inequities and lifelong struggles, in The End, everything will be alright. It will be better, it will be All Right.

Jesus the Christ, my savior and lord whom you have set on a throne with universe and Heaven as his domains will return to this little planet. But this time there will be no starlit birth. This time there will not be thirty years of humble training. This time there will not be a quiet submission. This time there will be no cross. Instead of writing in the dirt, trumpets will call Your message from the skies.

That throne Christ so rightly occupies beyond our world will find its match upon the earth and Jesus will inhabit in bodily glory that place of lordship that we are setting ever so slowly aside in our own hearts. The Great Conquerer of death will conquer also this little outpost of biological life and will right those wrongs that have marred our species and their hearts.

And this End, my Great Father, is there for us to hope upon every morning. It awaits us in the day of your choosing, eons or seconds from now, but eternally present to your unblinking eyes. It is Your promise to Your children, another teeming measure of grace.

Tonight, LORD, I hope upon The End in my stunted way. I look through the fog of falty hopes and misplaced securities to a day that will surely come, when that curtain of fog will be torn from top to bottom and I will look upon the glorious face of Christ. The End, the Great Beginning. Amen.

A Night.

There are times when the appropriate praises to God cannot be transcribed, when the Spirit must intercede with groans. Tonight’s groan is something like a sigh mixed with an utterance of wonder, but also of remembrance.

Since the purpose of my writing this, though, is that some might share in my praises I will try to describe the night that led to such groans. And perhaps the Spirit will groan for you as well.

The heat of the day lingered in my house, especially around the computer monitor into which I had been staring for too many minutes. I could feel coolness sifting in through the screen door.

I followed it outside.

The moon lounged brightly in the Southeastern sky polishing the backyard to a shine. Such a quiet as man rarely knows hushed the voice even in my mind.

I walked slowly through firm, wet grass to a back fence that I have known since childhood, its white paint made young again in the moonlight. Leaning there I was serenaded by a chorus of crickets, prolific in its breadth, if not its harmony. As with most choruses the number and variety of voices more than compensated for their lack of training.

Over my right shoulder, to the northeast, a flash. A low cloud that I had thought unworthy of attention was actually the expanding top of a distant thunderhead. Lightning rebuked my judgment and for separate moments detailed the intricacies of a boiling storm.

Now sitting on the wooden fence I cherished my own stillness and smallness. The nearest crickets, silenced by my approach, took up their song again and joined the harmony, a song now punctuated silently by cymbals of popping fire.

How content I was to watch and wait for the next flash! How utterly satisfied with God’s sovereignty – His choices of when to snap a lightning bolt and in which chords his crickets would play.

And then, groan. Sweet groan.

Minefield

God had it in for me the last two days. He knew every step that I would take and he wired the path perfectly. Landmines and tripwires and holes covered with palm fronds. There was no trap that I wouldn't hit and He sat watching and smiling, just waiting for the fun to begin.

Little did I suspect, as I fumbled through my morning routine yesterday, the volatile reality that awaited me. I walked right into it.

Explosions of grace and freefalls of joy. Arrows of hope that pierced and opened my heart. Ropes that took me by the foot and yanked me to heights of thankfulness.

His timing, as they say, is perfect. And his grace is very, very good.

Foreign Exchange Siblings

The fire was small and orange, caged in by a rectangle of bricks, but its light was warm and rich and free. It waltzed on faces that were becoming familiar. Five of us sat in this light, trying to know each other without sharing a thought. Tom and I spoke very little Russian, the three girls spoke very little English. And it was only the five of us in the middle of a Ukrainian forest.

Vika was the first to speak, her words like a held breath released. “We sing for you?” A question to which the only answer was yes, enthusiastically yes, with heads nodding. Vika began a song, the other two followed. It was beautiful.

The words, if there were any, escaped me but the tune was unmistakable. The three orange, dancing faces sang a song of praise to the God that the five of us together called Father. Melodies and sweet harmonies, their words encrypted to my ears but their hearts lain open before me as picture books.

Tom and I thanked and praised them for their performance.

Vika: “Now you sing.” How could we say no?

We began a duet of the same song that the girls had just finished so beautifully. Their flickering faces showed us that the connection was complete. We, the five of us, knew each other because God had first known us, adopted us, and shaped us.

Because we called upon the same Father, the words that we called with ceased to matter.

The Greatest Auto Mechanic

I’ve driven a certain Jeep Cherokee for the last seven years. Someone else (supposedly the dealer’s son) drove it for 10 years before that. My car, though I call her classic, is just plain old. About four years ago she started to show her age. She needed a new alternator, a catalytic converter – one time the harmonic balancer, a five-pound piece of metal, just fell off. Clang. It got to the point that I would not feel comfortable driving anywhere over three hours away; she didn’t do well over three hours.

Then I got optimistic. A friend and I wanted to go camping. He drove a little sports coupe at the time and we all know that you don’t go camping in a sports coupe. We took the Jeep. I have to hand it to her, she did well driving north to the Sierras. It’s a long way up that 395 and she chugged through it. Then we turned off and headed up the mountain. Soon something was wrong. She wasn’t idling right, she wanted to cut out. We got to the campsite, turned her off and I decided not to worry about it for a week. We were camping.

After a wonderful few nights in the mountains we headed back down the hill. Something was definitely wrong. Anytime that my foot wasn’t on the gas she would die. To brake I had to shift her into neutral, keep my foot on the accelerator and hit the brake. It was an interesting style of driving.

I asked the mechanic in the nearest town if it was something easy – a busted hose, a lose gasket, anything. It wasn’t.

I drove her all the way back to L.A. in her limping, wounded state. My mechanics patched her up, but she would never be the same. To this day she dies if I don’t give her the right amount of gas in first. And she’s an automatic.

But that being said, she hasn’t had a problem in two years.

There was a year or so where I was dumping a few hundred dollars a month into her to keep her running. Soon I was broke and had little faith in my car to get me anywhere. It’s amazing how much trust we put in our cars. We are very, very dependent.

Finally, at the end of my rope, or exhaust system as it may be, I broke down and prayed to God. I told Him that I needed a car; that I wanted to do things for Him and myself that required transportation. I told Him that I couldn’t afford a new car. I asked that He either keep my car running or provide some new means of transport.

Since then it’s just been brakes and oil. Praise God! Not only for His faithfulness, which is what I now trust rather than my car. But also for his aptitude under the hood.

God does not discriminate

A young, energetic missionary trekking through the hills of Northern India… God will use him.

A wise old pastor, seasoned with the endless questions, problems and issues of his flock… God will use him.

A compassionate mother who finds herself burdened with a love for Romanian orphans… God will use her.

A sophomore in high school, recently saved and on fire for his Savior… God will use him.

An old married couple living in the suburbs on retirement money… God will use them.

A young woman who recently married an ambitious man, and who more recently found a loving savior… God will use her.

A confused twentysomething, searching for meaning and direction in life… God will use her.

A recovering alcoholic whose family remains broken and hurting… God will use him.

A traitor, a prostitute, a Pharisee, a cynic, a cripple, a beggar, an adulterer, a murderer… God will use them - he has before.

God will use you. God will use me. God will use us all.

Praise God.

I, The Obstinate Instrument

My Lord Jesus, and my Father God, how can you use me? Even as you finish a magnificent work through me I slip out of your hands and into my own selfishness. Like a dog, the moment that I find myself cleansed but free I sniff out the nearest mud and roll myself in it.

God, never stop using me, that I might never find myself in such a place again.

The Best of Friends

What does it mean to have a friendship with God? Looking up from my little room in Jamul, squinting to see that all-powerful Creator staring unceasingly down from his enormous throne, the prospect of friendship is meaningless. No one with a hundredth part of His power would care to listen to the happenings of my day. No one with a minute fraction of His wisdom could bear to see me blunder as I do through my life. In fact, no part of my life merits the least moment of His attention.

But His perspective is not high above me, looking down as I, in miniature, toddle through my days. For He has come to this world as a man and can look me in the eyes. He has made His home in my very heart, looking out upon me as I do the stars. He has humbled Himself, knowing that I am nothing, and yet making me his world. And so, although I merit nothing of His friendship, He has made me important to Himself and extended His hand to me. I take it gladly today, gratefully and gladly.