My Biggest Battle

My biggest battle.  Prior to the last few weeks, I might have listed any number of things had someone asked me what is the biggest battle I have faced.  Addiction (to any number of things) might have topped the list.  Depression might have been there as well: that feeling of despair that seems to sink into me every so often and from which I must continually pull myself.  Lust.  Lying.  I have fought, and in some cases, continue to fight these things, but recently, God, through the use of my pastor, my friends, and the leaves on the trees in my front yard, has made me aware of a deeper issue, one that, time and time again, has taken me away from his work for me.

I suppose it really began on Saturday, two weeks ago, as I was mowing the lawn.  The leaves on our wooded lot have begun to turn, and the colors, this time of year, are startling.  Reds, golds, silvers and greens all seem crown the trees in a palette that dwarfs the imagination.  I was marveling at the change, and the colors that this change brings, when I stooped down to pick up a newly fallen leaf.  It was that shade of red that is only seen in fall, and really was quite beautiful as it fell, but as with everything, I suppose, as I began to look more closely, the color did not seem as bright as it had when it fell, and there were dark spots there that more-than-hinted at the shades of brown decay that would soon come.  I thought at the time that there was a sermon there, some little nugget of wisdom, along the lines of "Don't look too closely" or "If you are searching for a fault, then you can be sure to find one."  As usual, when Papa is trying to tell me something, I'm a little slow on the uptake.  

Though my relationship with Papa is, as it has always been, more a product of his patience than my ability to do as I am told, I could tell (and in all honesty, have been able to tell for quite some time) that things were not quite as they should be.  On the surface, everything was fine and, in some instances, more than fine.  I was in church, if not as frequently as I had been. My prayer life was good.  My job, which I firmly believe to be part of my calling, had never been better.  But, on Saturday night, as I began praying in earnest for the service the next day, wanting and needing an outpouring of his spirit, I heard Papa whisper, "Look closer."   I didn't even have to think.  My heart dropped into my stomach and I knew.  Oh.  The leaf.  And there, in a moment, my biggest battle, one that I have faced countless times since first surrendering to the call to preach His Word, was laid bare.  

There, on a life colored by the Master's hand in the blue of a little girl's eye, the brown in the hair of my loving wife, and the greens and golds of the home he has given me, lay dark spots of hurt and resentment with which I had never truly dealt.  There is that thing in me, in all of us I believe, that wants to be well-liked, and it is that thing which the Devil, time and time again, has used so effectively against me.  Since I was first called into the ministry, there have been those, who, at just the right moment, managed to speak some hurt or criticism in my life that would, ultimately, lead to me sitting like Elijah, sulking, under a juniper tree waiting on that still small voice to tell me to move.  This is certainly not to say that anyone is at fault, other than myself, and I am struggling to come to terms with the reality check that Papa placed before me.  Ecclesiastes 7:21 says, "Also take not heed unto all words that are spoken, lest thou hear thy servant curse thee."  And, as always, this little gem finds its way effectively into more modern phrasing: "What people think about me is none of my business."  Sitting thereon that quiet, prayerful Saturday evening with this thought in mind,  I took a moment to read about the juniper tree and the prophet who ran from the words of another.  Then, when my pastor referenced the same scripture the next morning, I made a decision; I chose a path, a path which I pray that God will give me the strength to walk.  Neither my service to God, nor the church that I feel led to attend, can be based upon the opinions of others.  I must, in this and all things, choose to follow God without any consideration to what people might think or believe about me.  What others think of me is none of my business, and their opinion (good or bad) cannot be allowed to shift me from my determined purpose.  I am, and I know this now for certain, exactly where God wants me to be at this moment in my life and until his voice says move, it is there that I will stay.  For too long I have let the words of false friends, foolish leaders, and church members frustrate me, condemn me, and provide me with an excuse to walk away.  No longer. This, then, is my prayer, from Psalm 16:7-8,  "I will bless Jehovah, who hath given me counsel; Yea, my heart instructeth me in the night seasons.  (8)  I have set Jehovah always before me: Because he is at my right hand, I shall not be moved."

Sunrise

I awoke this morning in the silent dark, that quiet time where the birds and the winds are still, the stars are beginning to fade, and the moon has long since sought its rest.  I moved like a ghost through my house, taking great care not to wake my wife or my daughter.  The routine is the same as always: drift by the coffee pot and start it on its way; stumble to the laundry to knock the wrinkles out of my clothes and then to the bathroom to let out our dog who, if left to roam in the evening, will viciously sound the approach of every wandering breeze.  Then it’s a quick return to the coffee pot to pour a cup of liquid warmth that allows me to begin the business of the day.  This morning, however, Papa has a gift, handcrafted just for me, greeting me through my small kitchen window. 

The fog lays thick between the trees that border our backyard; the warmth of the coming sun met by the coolness of the lingering night.  As I stand, peering drowsily out my window, coffee in hand, there is an almost imperceptible lightening in the trees that causes the blanket of mist to shine.  Then, deep within the thick stand of trees, colors start to emerge from the blackness:  first, the darkest of blues, then purples and reds and oranges and colors in between that only God can name.  Finally, the sun itself breaks the line of the horizon and beams through the trees - the silent dark retreating before calm advance of the sun’s golden light.  As my eyes adjust, painfully, to this new light, I am reminded once again of how often the Creator chooses to reveal himself through his creation, and I am immediately put in mind of a scripture from 2 Peter. 

In the New Living Translation of the Bible, 2 Peter 1:19 says, “Because of that experience, we have even greater confidence in the message proclaimed by the prophets. You must pay close attention to what they wrote, for their words are like a lamp shining in a dark place—until the Day dawns, and Christ the Morning Star shines in your hearts.”  In the revealing light of morning, this scripture stretches and blooms revealing layers of color that I had never before seen.  Suddenly, my walk with Christ is revealed differently, and the process that is my growth as a Christian makes even more sense.

I can recall when the light of the gospel first reached me, shining through the fog of pain and hurt into a life that, at times, has been darker than I care to admit.  It began, as dawn did in the woods behind my home, as an almost imperceptible lightening, then as piercing ray, painful even, to eyes that had never known true light.  Then it began to spread, expanding to encompass more and more of my little “postage stamp corner of the world.”  And in my life, the dawn continues.  As I grow closer to Christ, the strength of the light in my life grows and pushes the darkness of sin and doubt further and further away.  The process is never easy, and is often times painful, as the light stretches into those darker places, those forgotten (ignored) areas in my life, forcing me to acknowledge, and then deal with, those issues that have been in shadow for far too long.  Slowly, like a fog-shrouded sunrise, Christ begins to shine more completely in my heart, and though I am certain that I am often the cause of parental sighs of divine disappointment, I know that the same God who graced me with this sunrise and who placed me lovingly on this path will “keep at it and bring it to a flourishing finish on the very day Christ Jesus appears.”^{1}

{1} Php 1:6, The Message

I'm not crazy...

It is strange what God will use to remind us of those lessons that he most wants us to know.  I have recently seen a quote floating around the internet on various sites like Facebook, Twitter, and the ever-popular Pinterest.  Usually, the quote, written in some jagged script, is accompanied by the twisted visage of the newest rendition of Lewis Carroll's Cheshire cat.  The quote, shortened in its present form from the original, simply states "I'm not crazy, my reality is just different from yours."  Every Christian should, at some point in their walk with Christ, feel the need to respond to their critics and naysayers with a thought very near this one;  for make no mistake, the reality in which we live is very different from the one with which we are presented daily, and as we come to operate more fully in that reality, those who live in this other reality will, if you will pardon the gratuitous Wonderland reference, find us "curiouser and curiouser."

Paul's second epistle to the church at Corinth rightly explains the curious phenomenon.  After an attempt at explaining to the Corinthians the treasure that had come to them through Christ which would allow them to suffer and still remain faithful, Paul notes in chapter 4, verse 18, "we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal."  Paul’s speech seems to point to the fact that there is a world, an eternal world, that serves as an invisible backdrop to the world in which we find ourselves, a world where what is seen and what is are two very different things.   In order for Christians to live the life designed for them by God, we must come to understand that, no matter what the world says, our lives are governed by another, stronger, more pervasive set of rules and that these are the rules we must follow.

Image from: http://thefaithpal.
blogspot.com/2010_09_01_archive.html

To begin with, we must acknowledge the fact, that there is a war going on behind the scenes.  It is a war that began long before we ever came to be, yet it is also a war of which we have become the focal point.  God, through Christ, stands with his arms outstretched, welcoming us into a permanent, everlasting relationship with him, while Satan, using every tempting, trying trick at his disposal, attempts to lure us away from that fellowship.  We see the war played out in the stories of Daniel, where God’s messenger must pause to contend with one of the fallen, in Michael’s battle with satan over the body of Moses, and perhaps most graphically in the story of Job.  Here, as author John Eldridge so aptly notes, “God… [places] the perception of his own integrity as well as the reputation of his whole kingdom on the genuineness of Job's heart” (See Job 1:6-12; 2:1-10), and provides us not only a glimpse into this unseen world, but a role to play in it.

Following this recognition, all one has to do is look, carefully, at some of the instructions in God’s Word to understand that we, as Christians, are using a different playbook.  The world demands that you do what you have to do to get ahead; God reminds us that “the first shall be last and the last shall be first.”   The world says, “Get even”; God says, simply, “Forgive.”  The world operates on a principle of getting and taking, God pushes us to give rather than receive, and the list goes on.

So when you see us give until it hurts, we’re not crazy; our reality is just different than yours.  When the doctors hand out a death sentence and we begin to pray, fully expecting that prayer to be answered, we’re not crazy; our reality is just different than yours.  When we sing right through the storms in our lives: through the flat tires and flatter wallets, through the broken bones and broken homes, don’t presume to judge.  We’re not crazy.  Our reality is just different than yours.  

Beautifully Broken

As I look back over the rough and jagged road that has been my life, and as I am greeted in the faith by others who have walked a similar road, I am always humbled by the revelation of God as the master craftsman.  Jeremiah 18:4 describes him as a potter, carefully working the wheel, when the work becomes "marred" in His hands (an imperfection in the clay, no doubt).  Rather than simply discarding the creation and beginning again, the potter reaches down deep and reforms the clay into a vessel fit for use. Repeatedly throughout scripture, and often in the lives of His children, we see God reach down and begin to work with those things that are broken, stained, or disfigured to create a masterpiece that speaks to the skill and passion of the master craftsman.

His passion for those things that are broken is evident from the beginning.  At the start we see him take an absolute waste and from it create a world of unimaginable wonder.  He refashions an orphaned murderer into a man who would free his people.   He takes a freckle-faced, red-headed whip of a boy and with him slays a giant.  He takes twelve of the most unlikely candidates and with them, He changes the world, but  His passion for the broken may be no more beautifully displayed than in the all-too-familiar story of the alabaster box.  Invited to the house of a pharisee and seated before a well-prepared table, I imagine that Christ relished the look of horror that crossed the face of his host when this woman stumbled into the room:

Luke 7:37  And, behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster box of ointment,  (38)  And stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet, and anointed them with the ointment.

It didn't matter that Christ was in the house of one of the most devout religious groups of the day.  She did not consider the rudeness of her behavior, nor the fact that she would be interrupting His meal.  It mattered only that she had heard where Christ could be found and knew that she must find him.  A precious, priceless alabaster box cradled in her arms, I can very nearly see her standing, tears streaming, as she finally lays eyes on the carpenter's son.  Broken by the weight of her past and stained by the opinions of the present, she speaks not a word, but kneels at the feet of her Savior, shattered but unashamed.   Humbled enough to wash the dirt from the feet of a road-weary Jesus, she uses her tears to do so, tears that the Psalmist tells us are taken note of by God himself.  Then, in the ultimate act of surrender, she takes her hair, her glory, and lays it quite literally at the feet of Christ.  As she continues to kiss and anoint His feet, her message seems clear:  "Nothing - not my alabaster box, not my dignity, not my pride, not the opinions of others - nothing is worth more than being in His presence."  Yet, the message, as is often the case with "church folks," was lost on the pharisee, and immediately the questioning, the second-guessing, begins:

 Luke 7:39  Now when the Pharisee which had bidden him saw it, he spake within himself, saying, This man, if he were a prophet, would have known who and what manner of woman this is that toucheth him: for she is a sinner.  

The cynicism is readily apparent.  "Just as I thought," Simon says, "If he really knew who was touching him, well then..."  This same feeling finds its way all too easily into the hearts and minds of modern Christians, and, as a result, we miss the examples being provided here, both in the person of Christ, and in the woman with the alabaster box. Christ, knowing full well the opinion of the pharisee, doesn't stop the woman in her ministrations, nor does he pull away; he allows her worship, for it can be termed nothing less, knowing, as he does, that it stems from a broken heart in desperate need of love and forgiveness.  He doesn't reprimand the sinner, but rather allows the sinner to teach the church a lesson in humility and holy abandon:

Image from:
http://www.godlywoman.co/2011/12/alabaster-box.html

Luke 7:44 And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head.  (45)  Thou gavest me no kiss: but this woman since the time I came in hath not ceased to kiss my feet.  (46)  My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment.  (47)  Wherefore I say unto thee, Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much: but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.

In how many of our church services could the same question be asked of us?  How often do we invite Christ to dine with us, but hope that he doesn't require too much of us?  Do we, sensing his presence, disregard the thoughts and opinions of those around us and begin to worship with reckless abandon, or do we judge those who do?  Every story, every character in God's Word provides us the opportunity to see a reflection of ourselves, and all too often, that reflection looks nothing like Christ.  Many times have I read this story and seen myself as the Pharisee, quickly passing judgement based on what I think I know.  A few times I have been able to follow the example of Christ, and allow others to worship in their own way, praying only that they would feel the loving restoration that can come only from the hands of the Master Craftsman.  Most often, however, I find myself in the position of the woman with the alabaster box, burdened with failures and disappointments, desperate for his presence, needing to be restored, wanting nothing more than to hear him whisper, "You are forgiven; go in peace."

The Real Issue

Image from:  http://morallaw.org/Monument.htm

 I had the privilege of attending a child safety conference yesterday where the keynote speaker's topic was "Why Teens Kill."  With all the prevailing media attention to tragic events like Columbine, Virginia Tech, and Newtown, the topic of any child safety conference these days is a foregone conclusion.  We talked about teen killers, their motivations and triggers; we were shown graphic images of crime scenes and murder victims; we were shocked by language and lyrics, images and icons, and yet, as the conference wore on, I was struck by the fact that no one seemed to be discussing the real issue, or, if they were, they were doing so in language so vague as to be almost unrecognizable.  We have removed every last vestige of God and his son, Jesus Christ, from the halls and the walls of our classes and courtrooms and expect that the devil will not take advantage of the situation.

I particularly like the King James translation of 1 Peter 5:8 that describes the devil as a roaring lion, “seeking whom he may devour.”  The verse does not say “will devour;” it says may, implying that there must be some sort of permission granted, some concession of ability to allow this devouring to take place.  Many will see this as semantics, but in the unseen world of Christian warfare, it is vital.  If it is true that when we submit to the will of God and resist the devil, then the devil flees, then the reverse is also true.  When we no longer consider the will of God in our decision making and greet with apathy the advances of the enemy, then we are allowing the predator his prey. 

I was struck recently by a verse from Genesis that I had read countless times previously but which had never jumped from the page and demanded that I consider it more closely.  The verse reads thus:  “And they said one to another, ‘We are verily guilty concerning our brother, in that we saw the anguish of his soul, when he besought us, and we would not hear; therefore is this distress come upon us’” (Gen. 42: 21-22).  I was startled by the clarity that seemed inherent in this verse, especially considering the current state of things.  We are guilty in that we have allowed swear words to be more readily acceptable than the name of Christ.  We are guilty in that we have not poured love and life into the lives of children who so desperately need it.  We are guilty in that we have allowed our children to believe that being important, or being first, or being the best is more important than being kind, patient, forgiving, and loving.  We are guilty in that when we see a child who is hurting, crying out for attention, begging to be loved; when we see the anguish of their souls, we refuse to hear.  We label them as trouble-makers and deviants; Goths, skaters, and punk kids; as sinners in desperate need of a Savior.  And the latter, in many instances, is true - the problem is that they have never met him, nor have we taken the time to introduce Him.

Image from: http://www.withagratefulheart.com/2007/09/
jesus-loves-little-children.html

It is past time that we begin to pour Christ back into the lives of our children, not just those that are biologically ours, but also those who God places in our path.  We must, as Casting Crowns so eloquently put it, “love them like Jesus,” without hesitation or reservation, in full knowledge that this type of love is the only thing that can truly begin to correct the enormous issues that we face.  When we love our children, and teach our children to love, then the root of bitterness that causes so much anger and destruction is plucked like a weed and replaced by an unshakable faith and hope for a brighter dawn.