Rise Up, O Church of God!

A challenge to churches to rise up to their calling

Often a friend of mine tells the story about when his wife became a Christian, "She started reading the Bible in Genesis and began to get bogged down. I told her to skip all that and start with Matthew." Sometimes I wonder if his wife ever got horribly confused to begin reading the story three-quarters of the way through. It would be like reading The Magician's Nephew first on your initial reading of The Chronicles of Narnia. Yes, you would see how Narnia began, but the significance of many seemingly arbitrary pieces of the story would be lost on you until you read the rest of the series.

I've wondered if my friend's wife ever went back and read the old covenant parts of the Bible. Are there things that still seem puzzling or arbitrary to her—even now—because she is missing so much of the story? Sadly, I don't expect the church to have taught enough from that first chunk of Scripture for the connections to be made. Nor do I expect, with a husband battling cancer and two high-energy children, that my friend makes the effort to figure out the Old Testament on her own. She has been told it is difficult to understand, that it is boring and outmoded—why devote what little time she does have to something like that?

Many churches across America do Christians a disservice with these well-worn lines. From implying that—or saying straight out—"The Old Testament is boring," to playing only upbeat closing songs, churches are defrauding their members. They are giving people the Instagram version of God, His word, and the set-apart life. Too many churches focus on the sentimental aspects of God's character, read mostly the New Testament or “practical” Old Testament books, drive worship by emotion—rather than emotions by worship and thanksgiving—and offer no place of refuge, silence, and healing.

Real life in a fallen world includes cluttered minds, broken hearts, and deep sorrows. We cheapen words like “grief” and “tragedy” through hyperbole and overuse, and so have no language to lament with those who experience tragic loss when it comes. How does the church help people who are grieving? Pointing hurting people to professional counselling is good and loving, but what about training up a body of wise, kind, and honest counsellors to help one another? Churches could teach people truth—the good, the hard, even the ugly; they could teach people the value of life, the good of life, and what weather-all-Hell's-darts love looks like in daily words and actions.

What if churches taught God's story from the beginning? Then people would know how catastrophic the Ffall was; would see its sinewy hands reaching long fingers out into every part of God's story that it could; would see how desperately God's people tried and failed—and tried harder and still failed—and how utterly wretched they would always be until the promised Messiah came. Then we might understand why the Incarnation was so monumental, pivotal, in the narrative—because after bondage, struggle, failure, and darkness, the Light dawned, the captives were set free, and God's people were given a Saviour who would succeed. We might see that the Cross truly is the crux of the story, and that our lives and times flow directly out of that turning point in history. We might begin to understand that God is making all things new, which means this earth as well as human beings—and what we do now matters for eternity in a way that keeps us from being apathetic Nihilists.

What if churches allowed silence in their worship—no background music, no mere twenty seconds to pray silently—but minutes of silence to enter into the presence of God? What would people do if they had to be still—no phones, no talking, no noise to distract their minds? Would we come face-to-face with our mortality, with grief, with our own brokenness, with the overwhelming grace of God which is deeper than all our vilest sins? What if there were no distractions to console or ease our minds? Would we have to stand naked before God in wretchedness and let him begin to heal us?

What if churches regarded their enemies as a threat? "The only thing which consoles us for our miseries is diversion, and yet this is the greatest of our miseries,"1 said Pascal. Diversion—distractions and amusement—are where we seek solace for misery, and irony of ironies, we are made miserable by diversions. They drag our attention from the God who is there—present with us in every moment—putting our minds on what we don't have or making us feel emptier than when we first reached out for those glittering distractions.

Aside from the distractions we choose on our own, we are constantly occupying a space where spiritual hosts of wickedness rule and war. "For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places."2 What if churches reminded us frequently that we are in a battle; that we must take up the armour given by God; that we must seek refuge in God; and that we must use the word of God as a weapon on the battlefield of our minds, wills, and emotions?

In short, I am issuing a challenge to churches to rise up and take their calling seriously. Be ekklesia "called out ones". Don't be like the world or use its gimmicks—be a training ground for saints, helping us to be holy and presentable to God through Jesus Christ. Let the word of God—old covenant included—order the teaching, not the speaker ordering God's word to do as He wishes. Let us seek lament and silence and raucous joy in turn in worship. Remind us that our enemies are active and that we need protection and proaction. Teach us the truth, and pray for us to speak it with fierce boldness and tender love. Oh that we would see Jesus!

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1. Pascal, Blaise, Pensées (Public Domain, Project Gutenberg) 49

2. Ephesians 6:12 (NKJV)

Splendour in Every Crack and Crevice

The night skies sing the glory of God!

Dark and light, clouds and constellations are crafted by His deft hands.

Daily they declaim, night upon night they raise a chorus of praise.

Even though our ears cannot hear their speeches and symphonies,

Still their message of God's glory and splendour has filled

Every crevice and crack in all of the cosmos.

Thus I paraphrased the opening verses of Psalm nineteen a few weeks ago. I was out on a snowy tramp in the mountains, seeking some solitude under the night sky. The Milky Way was so thick with stars that it was more like seeing specks of black space in a sky of silver light. My heart responded with the opening lines of Psalm nineteen and the Doxology. 

In my life I find that Beauty leads me to worship. Beauty soothes the wounds inflicted on various fronts. No, let me rather say that Beauty heals our wounded souls. It enriches our lives. This is because Beauty is not an end in itself, but is a reflection of God's holiness. Beauty heals our hearts by leading us to worship and thank the Almighty One.

This giving thanks (eucharisteo in Greek) is our connection to life in Christ Himself. Think for a moment of what various church traditions call the Lord's Supper—the Eucharist. Growing up in a more evangelical set of churches, I thought that the Lord's Supper was a time for seeing how wicked I was and for repenting. Earnestly I would examine myself, tell God I was sorry, eat the bread, drink the juice, and go home. 

Years of conversations and reading Scripture more deeply have reshaped my understanding of the Eucharist. Yes, I examine my heart, I agree with God that the things I have done or left undone are sin, and I ask to walk in newness of life—the spiritual life of Christ received in the bread and the wine of the common cup. My response to His sacrifice and His life is spoken by the chalice bearer: "Take this in remembrance that Christ died for you and be thankful." 

God, Who is good (eu), offers me grace (charis) through Christ. My response is to give thanks (eucharisteo). It is a daily rhythm, like the steady beating of my heart, or breathing in and out. Every day I am greeted with Beauty in various places, ways, and individuals. I am offered the healing and grace of God, if I will keep my eyes and heart open to see and receive His gifts. In response, I breathe out my thanks, my praise of His goodness and holiness and Beauty. 

I am learning that healing and thanksgiving do not come in one fell swoop. They are an everyday process. As it is an existential request to be emptied of myself and filled afresh with God's Spirit, so it is with practising eucharisteo. Only Jesus can accomplish something "once for all", whilst we must take daily steps toward Him and His completeness. 

Stars have never put a scrap of silver in my pocket, but I am richer for their beauty shining into my eyes and heart. The person I am, fragmented by the Fall, is becoming more like Jesus, made whole by Beauty that leads to worship—by grace flowing in, thanksgiving flowing out. Every crevice and crack in me is being filled with the splendour of God. Like the stars in the heavens, I shine out with the glory of God. Yet unlike those silver spheres, my words of praise to God can be heard by my fellow men, if only I will speak them.

Childlike. . .Wonder

Chill air makes me pull my covers closer just as my alarm buzzes. I roll over, swat my phone, and snuggle back under the blankets. Then I slit open one eye to see what the morning has brought. Suddenly I am all awake: the sky is grey, but the evergreens are shadowy jade, frosted with feather-flakes of snow. Snow! It is early this year, and cold, and...delightful. I can hear sleigh bells in my dreams, and though I am quick, I can never quite catch a glimpse of Jack Frost as he paints my windowpanes—which is a stunning feat, as I have a dozen panes before my desk.

My blood quickens at the thought of wandering out in those downy flakes, listening to the strange hush that snow always brings with it. My body is slower to answer the fairy calls—after all, covers are warm, the air in my house is decidedly not. After a good amount of standing by the heater, I am layered enough to sally forth into a world drenched in cold and quiet. There is wonder in the wintry wind. Magic laces the limbs of Old Man Cottonwood.

I stop on the bridge to watch the morning. Great puffs of snow shake off branches and glide into the stream. They are gone, liquid water once again, what moments before were airy snow-castles. The aching chill in my legs prods me to walk again. Still I watch the morning—the dancing snow, the plump little birds along my path—and I wonder about things. Do other people wonder about "things?" I wonder. I walk on, thinking of how the brown hedge next to me was teeming with living colour this Summer. How I clipped a lavender flower from it to wear in my hair. Do people my age wear flowers in their hair?

I question more and more whether I am an adult, or just a child inside an adult's body. Certainly I have learned some tact since childhood. Wait, is that tact, or have I learned to lie? Have I learned to gloss over something that I obviously see and am curious about? When does snow lose its magic and become merely an obstacle on the road? Do you become a grown-up when you step around a puddle rather than jumping in it? Does progress in years mean regress in seeing details like feathery finch bellies, pale peach against the snow? Does paying bills mean you stop chasing the rainbow's end? Does reality awaken us from our dreams?

The lenses of child-eyes have been mine for quite a long time. I think folks snicker at me sometimes after I walk by, wreathed in flowers or Autumn leaves. People often try to tell me that reality will burst my bubble; outlining various horrors, as if they are reality's servants, sent with sword in hand. One of my neighbours thinks I only appreciate happy endings, that I just pretend the Fall didn't happen, and that I need a dose of darkness to snap me out of fairy tales. Yet I realise that fairy stories have plenty of dark and morbid moments; many end unhappily-ever-after. I know the darkness of the Fall in my own heart and brain; in bitterness, betrayal, and broken bodies. I know Sorrow's shears, clipping off friendships that should have grown; snipping life out of loved ones, far too soon. It is always too soon, too young, too much...The Fall is too much with us.

The Fall is too much with us—should we shrink away in fear? Do we pretend it isn't real? No, that is a childish response, like hiding under the blankets from invisible night-fears. Thin quilts won't turn the blade of the Black Riders. What then is our defence? A heap of philosophy books to explain away the evil in the hearts of men? That is a cheap grown-up trick. Let us then be childlike—not childish—and revel in the fairy snows, walk so that we may see Beauty—rather than to burn calories. Let us know that the Fall happened, but not allow it to be the end of our stories. As Chesterton asserts, "Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey."1 Indeed, I need childlike faith that Smaug can be defeated—I already know that he exists. So for the Fall, I need to know it will one day finally and fully come untrue, because it daily threatens to undo me.

Yes, there is roadkill by the sidewalk, graffiti on the dumpster, and scraggly undergrowth along the river path where I walk. I do not deny these things. But there are majestic trees, glimpses of a snow-capped peak between branches, delightful bridges, and cheery little birds piercing the morning with sweet songs. It is Beauty that leads us to worship. Beauty, that restores sanity to our weathered souls. It is Beauty that turns our focus toward the One who made all things Beautiful in their time.2 That One is trustworthy and true, and He will make everything sad come undone one day...Interweaving myth into a Man and fairy stories into facts. 

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1. Chesterton, G. K., “The Red Angel” in Tremendous Trifles (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1920) 130
   
2. Ecclesiastes 3:11 (ESVUK)

Without Injuring Eternity

You say grace before meals.
All right.
But I say grace before the concert and the opera,
And grace before the play and pantomime,
And grace before I open a book,
And grace before sketching, painting,
Swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing;
And grace before I dip the pen in the ink.1 

―G.K. Chesterton

23 August

Yesterday I woke to a pink, cloud-studded sky. I smiled at the rose-grey dawn and pulled the blankets a little closer to enjoy the early morning from my bed. My smile grew as I realised that it was Saturday. Quite by plan, Saturdays are my "solitude days." As tourists crowd the sidewalks, crosswalks, pubs, and coffee shops in my little town, I pull away from the world for a day. There is no schedule for these days, nothing pulling or pushing me toward itself. I often bake or do housework, as there is joy and satisfaction in the work of one's hands. Usually I read, write, and and mute my phone.

This day I rose to read a bit over breakfast. As usual, my phone was on silent; when I looked at it for the time, I saw I had five or six missed calls and a couple of voicemails. A friend asking me a quick favour, no problem. Another friend in town, wanting to know what I was doing for the day. The morning calm, leisure, and quiet broke into feeling restless and harried. Just the day before, as I was about to eat brunch, a friend knocked on my door, coming by to chat for an hour. I had the sinking feeling that this was about to happen again and I wanted nothing more than an uninterrupted day of solitude. In that moment I decided to run away.

I let my friend know I was unavailable for the day, packed a lunch, grabbed my hiking shoes and keys, and drove off into the late Summer day. Thirty minutes later—and three thousand feet higher—I was ready for a hike in the mountains ending in a fen. I had no set course, thus general tromping employed me for a while. When my stomach complained that it was empty, I settled on a flat boulder in the side of the hill to eat and be still. The wind whirled up from the pines, tickling the hair around my neck; its river-rushing roar filled my ears, quickened my blood. A pair of rooks were rising on the same draft of air, coal-black against shining white clouds in the deep, dark blue sky. The warm odour of sunshine-infused pine filled my lungs. Ants crawled around me. When the wind broke its run, there was a silence at once full and empty. Empty of sound, yet expectant and weighty upon my soul.

Closing my eyes, I let the afternoon sunshine and stillness sweep over me to freckle my skin and quiet my heart. I left chronos* time, the time of ticking seconds, and entered into kairos, the time of eternity. Kairos, the time of being without feeling the constraint of time. I may have been on that rock for ten minutes or an hour, just listening to the silence. Before returning to the path, I read a few pages of Walden and was arrested by the line: "As if you could kill time without injuring eternity!"2 Bubbling up within me was an exultant "yes!" to something that has vexed me for years. Like being "only human" or getting general studies "out of the way," the phrase "killing time" grates on my heart. God made us to be fully human. General studies are the strong foundation for a narrowed field. And time, time cannot be killed "without injuring eternity!" Though I disagreed with the next few pages of Thoreau's treatise, that little line rang a resounding bell of truth inside of me. 

We do injure eternity often, I realised as I rambled along the path. It is not that we must be employed in charitable deeds every waking moment, or that our leisure must be spent only in reading great literature, or some other legalism of that sort. No, we injure eternity more widely and subtly than  by outright sin. We live in fragments, sound bites, and megabytes. Our attention is constantly divided from one tab to the next, from a person's face to the screen of our "device", from our task at work or around the house to our e-mail. Whole software and websites exist to make sure we have constant variety in our music, going from slow to fast in the matter of three seconds, our moods changing just as rapidly. I am not a complete luddite, as I am typing these thoughts via my macbook. I have switched tabs to look up various things and even abandoned writing altogether several times since beginning. I am not free from this disintegration of thoughts and actions, but I am often repulsed by how technology supplants reality.

A question I once read has resurfaced in my thoughts many a time since its introduction: If you have fifteen free minutes how do you use them? Perhaps I would answer that I clean around my house, wash the dishes, read, sit on my porch, or say hullo to my neighbour... But more often, I flip open my computer to check my e-mail and the weather for the tenth time. I do not intend to write an e-mail to anyone, mind you, I simply want to see if anyone has written to me. I am decidedly the centre of my own universe in those fifteen minutes. If I choose to do a few chores or look at the sunlight on the leaves or greet my neighbour, I am often removed from myself into thinking of others, into thanking God for Beauty. I am forced out of chronos into kairos—out of the immediate, pressing time into the unhindered eternity. When my thoughts are scattered and disoriented, I do violence to eternity. Rather than bringing God's Kingdom (as Jesus exhorts in the Lord's Prayer), I seek only my own.

These thoughts were budding as I tramped on through filtered sunlight. I turned onto a loop never taken before, deciding to see new things. There was no spectacular view, though there was plenty of fuzzy green moss and a small rabbit with wide eyes. As I set one foot in front of the other, I realised that there is hope and abundant life ahead of me. There are the familiar ways and new paths to travel, much like my hike that very moment. Disappointed expectations sometimes derail me from this truth. Yet I am learning to lay down those dying expectations in order to pick up the gifts I have been given for this time, in this place. I am learning to give thanks in all things.3

When I reached the end of the circuit, I sat on a log looking out at the Pikes Peak mountain system. There are several smaller peaks and various rock formations within the one mountain, and I have yet to tire of the spectacular view. Pulling out my notebook and ink pen, I began listing the things I was thankful for that day. Memories pulled me out of that place and I saw neither the mountains or the trees. Forty or more lines were filled with gratitude. The sun slanted and I knew that kairos and chronos were somehow mixing in a precarious, wild dance. I was both outside and inside time. In that place, yet in my memory. In that moment, but in eternity, too. The giving of thanks for the graces given set me on the edge of time, like a knife blade—not slicing asunder—rather, thin enough to touch. This was where time and eternity met and kissed. As I remembered, as I gave thanks, the Kingdom of God was made a little fuller on earth, as it is in Heaven.** As I received the Beauty of that day, as I prayed often for open eyes and an open heart on that hike, God's Kingdom was enlarged in me—through me.

Nature, as Wordsworth, Thoreau, and others thought, is not an end in itself. It cannot save us from the ills of men, for it too is affected by the Fall. But Beauty—in nature, through art, in words, through music—does something to us. Beauty baptises our imaginations, breathes life into our souls. Thanksgiving joins chronos with kairos, now with eternity. Memory pieces together fragments into mosaics, full pictures of not just our story, but God's Story. Good days, dark nights of the soul, big events, every day graces, tears, laughter, all are fitted together precisely to shade and illuminate the living, shimmering image of God's Story. When we take time to remember, when we let Beauty lead us to worship and give thanks, God's Kingdom is flung abroad more fully on earth, as it is in Heaven. It is where God fills us with His Spirit—where He lives and moves and has His being in us.4 This is the Kingdom arriving. 

*For more on chronos and kairos see Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art by Madeleine L'Engle
** For more on the Kingdom of Heaven coming to earth, see Surprised by Hope by N. T. Wright

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1. Chesterton, G. K. "A Grace" in The Collected Works of G. K. Chesterton (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1994), 43
2. Thoreau, Henry David Walden (New York: Signet Classics, 1999), 5

3. 1 Thessalonians 5:18 (KJV)
4. Acts 17:28 (KJV)

Rain-glory

Yet again the eaves are drip-drip–dropping, and thunder throbs above the clouds. Rain scent falls, hushes the neighbour children, and breathes its sweetness in at my open windowpane. Pattering droplets sing their song slowly today, and my heart is glad. Glad for slow rain to cool the day. For dark clouds brooding over the mountains, so I might see their creases and lines differently, like an ever-changing face on those long-standing rocks. 

If you ask me, the glory of Summer is not sunshine, but storm clouds. Rain makes me want to shirk my work more than any other Summer attraction. I want to write, to read, to sit on my porch feeling the keen wind waken my soul. There is a holy mystery in the shroud laid over the far foothills. Wet pine is the incense of this moment, the fragrance lifting my senses to the Storm-maker. With the first crack of thunder I throw off the torpid stupor of Summer heat and come alive. Suddenly, all my senses are engaged, awake.  

Rain is a revival of the earth and of the soul. It is life and drink to a thirsty ground, a communion of the heavens and the earth. Perhaps the mystery behind the silver veil made by sheets of rain, the incense of rain and pine, the eyes dazzled by lightning, the earth beneath my feet shaken by thunder, and the cool wind rushing over me engage my whole self in revival. Like the holy mysteries of bread and wine, the scent of smoking incense, the act of kneeling in prayer, and eyes drawn to the cross at the altar bring my whole body to worship, repentance, and renewal. 

Like a lightning bolt to the heart, I see it: I love rain because it leads me to worship. Rain stills my soul and quickens my creativity because it affects all of my self. Those icy droplets, fresh wind, solemn thunder claps, and the life showered on the earth are a reflection, a pantomime, of my worship and communion at church. Ah! Rain really is the glory of Summer. The glory and communion of this season. Each season has its own reflection of the worship service, of communion, of coming alive. Even the Autumn and Winter speak of death as but a precursor to new life. 

I inhale the scent of wet earth. I feel the flecks of cold water in the breeze. I rock gently with the thunder's thrumming. I peer through the veil of rain at shadowy wonders. And I give thanks to God for watering the earth and the flowers and the trees. I give thanks that wildfires are not ravaging the foothills. I give thanks for the break from the heat. I smile in joy, just listening to the rain. It is the worship service of the Summer, and I am invited. I attend.

Admonishing Our Souls

Do you ever have to remind yourself to calm down in a stressful situation? Have you spoken out loud to help your heart listen to the truth? Do you ever call a close friend to process something you are going through?

I will admit that I have done all of these things. I have to speak out loud to myself sometimes to  remember that I am not the only person stressed or angry about a problem. I have to tell myself not to believe the lies that I am defined by my intellect or looks. In fact, I must tell myself large doses of truth: that I am defined by being made in God's image, I am defined by God Himself.

In the Psalms, the sons of Korah admonished their souls as well. They exhorted themselves with the truth that God was still their salvation, even when they were depressed.

As a deer pants for flowing streams,

so pants my soul for you, O God. 

My soul thirsts for God,

for the living God.

When shall I come and appear before God? 

My tears have been my food day and night,

while they say to me all the day long,

“Where is your God?” 

These things I remember,

as I pour out my soul:
how I would go with the throng

and lead them in procession to the house of God
with glad shouts and songs of praise,

a multitude keeping festival. 

Why are you cast down, O my soul,

and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise Him,

my Salvation and my God.
(Psalm 42.1-5)

Many persons look at verse one and think that the sons of Korah are so in love with God that they cannot get enough of Him. Yet the next two verses clearly show they are longing for God because they are sorrowful, depressed, and no longer have the gladness that caused them to lead others to worship God. They state the problem explicitly. 

Yet the sons of Korah do not wallow in their depression. Nor do they act happy-go-lucky, as if they have no grief or turmoil.  They do something far better than either of these common pitfalls: they reminds their souls of truth. These descendants of Korah admonish their minds, wills, and emotions, asking themselves why they are downcast. Then they speak hope to themselves: do not worry, we will yet again praise God. It might not be today, but a time is coming when we will praise God, Who is our salvation. 

There are days when we must admonish our own souls to praise God. There are times when we have to remind ourselves to bless God. To bless God means "to consecrate, make holy, give thanks, to speak well of, to praise, to bend the knee, to worship, to invoke blessings". Some days we must tell ourselves "Bless the LORD O my soul!", as David did later in the Psalms:

Bless the Lord, O my soul,

and all that is within me,

bless His holy name! 

 Bless the Lord, O my soul,

and forget not all His benefits,

Who forgives all your iniquity,

Who heals all your diseases, 

Who redeems your life from the pit,

Who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, 

Who satisfies you with good

so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.
(Psalm 103.1-3)

Recently, three dear friends of mine all had a grandparent die (two had funerals Christmas week). When I was home for Christmas, I saw how much my own grandma's memory is beginning to fail. She is my last living grandparent, and realising that she may not be able to live on her own much longer (she is 93, and quite active) has been hard. Knowing that life is fragile has been weighing on my heart. Seeing the state of our economy, presidential administration, and the lack of logic or understanding in the general public has depressed my soul. I am tempted to fret, to despair, to  see only loss. 

At these precise moments I must remember the kindness of the LORD, His benefits, that He has filled my soul with good things, how He has redeemed me, that He gives me Love and mercy, how He is my strength in weakness. I must speak truth to my soul, and I must admonish myself to bless God. He alone is worthy of all praise and glory, forever and ever. Amen.

The Lord is My Strength and My Shield

The Lord is my strength and my shield;
My heart trusted in Him, and I am helped;
Therefore my heart greatly rejoices,
And with my song I will praise Him.
~ Psalm 28:7

Gilded sunlight is filtering through the gauzy clouds of morning. Birds pipe their morning carols, joined by a choir of crickets. Across town, Pike's Peak is mostly visible through what appears to be the last remnants of fog. However, if I think about it, when I take a deep breath I can smell smoke. I have smelled it for so many days that I don't think about the scent any more. That probably will not change soon. Nor will I soon cease dreaming of glowing orange balls of flame. Ashes still cover my car in a thin layer, or drop onto my computer screen whilst I type. When I hear sirens I will praise God for our firefighters and emergency workers. It is going to take some time before I stop bursting into tears of grief for those who have lost their homes and livelihoods. 

 The last several days have felt like a month. I have slept in my own bed once since the fire began on Saturday. This is mostly due to the hospitality of friends all around town who are offering their homes to shelter evacuees or former evacuees (like myself). Persons all over my community have given food, clothes, money, time, their homes, dinners, and most importantly, their prayers, non-stop over the last five days. Churches have opened their doors to evacuees, set up prayer services, and have visibly been Christ to the watching world.

Tuesday afternoon and into the night, I watched the most horrific sight I have ever personally witnessed. Clouds of smoke, and ash that fell like snow, swelled over all of Colorado Springs. The front range was covered in hundreds of orange bursts that looked like lava swelling down the close side of the foothills. It was as if Mordor had sprung to life before my very eyes. I could see circles of fires, whole housing communities  lighting up the night's darkness. Two of my friends lost their homes in what looks like a war zone.  

(The photo above, courtesy of someone on facebook, is my friends' neighbourhood. I do not show this to be sensational, but to explain the heartbreaking loss incurred, and how persons are praising God through it all.)

Yesterday I was back at work, listening to worship music as I packaged books and curriculum for Summit customers. One song, Our God is Greater by Chris Tomlin, came on and these lyrics caught in a lump in my throat: "Into the darkness You shine, Out of the ashes we rise. There's no one like You, None like You." Indeed, though nearly 29 square miles of my city and national forest have burnt, there is no one like God. Job's response to God after great calamity now makes more sense to me: "Then Job arose, tore his robe, and shaved his head; and he fell to the ground and worshipped.  And he said:

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,

And naked shall I return there.

The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away;

Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

 There is great grief and sorrow at the loss of so many homes - I even feared losing my home for a brief time. However, the LORD reminded me it is only 'stuff'. No persons have been seriously injured or killed in this fire. Our firefighters have tirelessly protected us from extreme danger at their own risk. God is still worthy of our praise, no matter our circumstances. I am seeing this over and again in my own life, and I have seen it displayed in the lives and attitudes of my friends who have lost their home.

Last night the fire was more contained. I didn't feel like I was in the midst of Armageddon or Chernobyl. During conversation with my friends, we looked up and saw a rainbow over Colorado Springs. God is still faithful to keep His promises. God is still good. He gives us hope, strength, and wisdom.  In our very weakness He is our Strength and Shield, no less. He is still worthy of worship and praise.

I am reminded of this truth: "Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day.  For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal." (II Cor 4.16-18)

*Please keep praying for our firefighters and city personnel who are tirelessly fighting on the front lines or behind the scenes. I praise God for them daily.*

Under His Mercy,

~ Johanna

What your life says about what you worship...

Imagine, crowds pressed into an amphitheatre watching with disgusting eagerness a man being ripped apart, limb from body, by wild horses. Smell the stench of the sweat and excitement of those around you. Breathe in the terror and agony of the man in the ring. Feel your heartbeat accelerate at the squeals of the horses being driven mad in order to torture a human.

Now, smell the sweat and excitement of another crowd. Listen to the roar of those around you. See the wild colours, vulgar gestures, grimacing faces (both in the crowd and in the ring) raging about you. Where are you this time? In an amphitheatre filled with thousands upon thousands of persons, yes. Unimaginably huge monitors flash replays. The smell of beer and sweat hang in the air - your favourite sports team has just taken the field in the second half of their game.

In the gladiatorial theatre those in the crowd worshipped the emperor, but they also exalted violence and entertainment.

In our current culture many persons give lip-service to God, but in their hearts they worship something else.

My question to you is, what does your life show that you worship?

You probably know (or are) someone like my neighbour. She has a Colts jersey, hat, and autographed card from Peyton Manning. She sports a Colts flag and tire cover on her porch and vehicle. Sundays after church you can find her watching the big game. Everyone who knows her knows that she is a Colts fan.*

Maybe you hate sports... But perhaps you cannot stand being single. You are always hoping that you will meet someone to spend the rest of your life with. You want to raise a family with them and grow old together. Or you may have met that special person and now you have children. Are your children the apple of your eye? Does their love, approval, happiness, or success mean more to you than anything else?

Are you like me, reading [somewhat less than] copious amounts of books, articles, and essays? Does your conversation focus on philosophy or historical figures and writers? Do you value a reader, an 'intellectual', over someone who watches liberal amounts of television?

Maybe you spend much of your time at work, working out, cooking organic meals, eating fast food, trying to follow rules, living a raucous party life, trying to look young, or one of a myriad of other things.

What do your habits say about what you worship?

When someone walks into your home or room, what will they see that you value? What do most of your conversations focus around? How do you spend most of your hours each day? What do you think about when you do not have to focus on something in particular?

For many walk, of whom I have told you often, and now tell you even weeping, that they are the enemies of the cross of Christ: whose end is destruction, whose god is their belly, and whose glory is in their shame—who set their mind on earthly things.

~ Philippians 3.18-19

What is your functional saviour? You might know that no one and no thing but Jesus can save you from the end result of sin (death). But what are you setting your mind upon? Where is your focus? What is that one thing more that if you had it you would be happy? What is something that if it were taken from you, you would want to cease living? Is it your job, your house, romance, marriage, children, parents, your physique, your country, your talent (singing, writing, athletic ability, etc.), sports, a person, or something else?

Paul finishes out his thought in Philippians thus, "For our citizenship is in heaven, from which we also eagerly wait for the Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body that it may be conformed to His glorious body, according to the working by which He is able even to subdue all things to Himself."

Are you willing for Jesus to subdue even you to Himself? Are you eager to spend time with Jesus? Do persons you talk with know by your actions alone that you are a Christian? What does your prayer life look like in God's eyes? Do your thoughts go naturally to Scripture or praise? Does knowing that it cost God the very lifeblood of His Son to make you His child overwhelm you, or does it bore you?

I am not saying that I am always eager to spend time in prayer, praise, or Scripture. However, I want to be eager to know God more deeply. I want to see God's holiness. I am willing to know God through suffering and sorrow. I want to practise loving others like Jesus loves me... Even though it costs, and even though it hurts, and even if it is not returned. And I am scared to death that the LORD will actually take me up on teaching me to be more like Him in these ways. But I am willing.

If then you were raised with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ is, sitting at the right hand of God. Set your mind on things above, not on things on the earth. For you died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is our life appears, then you also will appear with Him in glory.

~ Colossians 3.1-4

For a more in-depth look at the idols of our hearts and how to shift our focus, listen to Tim Keller here.

~ Johanna

*My neighbour, mentioned above, is also a Christian... I am not bashing her love for her team, nor sports as sports. I was merely showing that even a good thing (even morality) can become an idol if not submitted to Christ.