The Discipleship Paradigm

Been thinking about the total package of following Jesus. including helping others walk with Him. What all does discipleship entail? What paradigm must I switch to in order to go from a weekend-only Christian to an everyday, on-fire follower of Jesus?

Here are a few short musings of mine on the various layers of living a passionate, sold-out life for Jesus:

The COST of Discipleship- following Jesus and helping others to do the same requires sacrifice of time, energy, and resources. And it’s much more serious that just that. Whether in life or in death, discipleship also costs you your life.

The JOY of Discipleship- following Jesus and helping others to do the same taps into a wellspring of soul-level blessing, allowing you and those you influence to experience ridiculous amounts of joy that can only come from God. As we grow in closeness with Jesus, we see our lives change from the inside out. As we help others grow, we have front-row seats to the work of God in the lives of those we are investing in!

The ACHE of Discipleship- The more time I have walked with Jesus, one thing consistently comes into clearer focus- my permanent need for a Savior. We must live in the tension of, on one hand, seeing God work in our hearts and change us, but on the other hand, seeing our sinful selves resist those very changes. From here until the grave, we wear an earthsuit that is soiled with sin. We are bent toward selfishness. As the Holy Spirit works in us, we will definitely see our character change. But until we are perfected on the day of His coming, we must live with the ache of following Jesus and helping others do the same IMPERFECTLY. We long for home, and we ache.

The TOOLS of Discipleship- In order to follow Jesus and to help others do the same, we must have love. Love for God, love for people, a love for God’s Word, and a love for prayer. These ingredients will open your eyes to God’s priorities.

The POWER for Discipleship- Galatians 2:20 shows us that the Christian is no longer on his own to try to live, but by the power of the Holy Spirit, Jesus lives THROUGH us! There is only One who can successfully live the Christian life, and that’s Christ Himself. Our feeble attempts are powerless and can lead to frustration for us and heartbreak for God. Pray and ask the Lord to live through you as you follow Him and help others do the same.

The PASSION of Discipleship- As we grow closer and closer with Christ, we can’t help but be involved in His work here on earth. Whether you are a pastor or a painter, a church planter or a chiropractor, we all are on a mission from God. The idea that we should leave ministry up to the professional clergy is ludicrous and lazy. We each are especially equipped with GIFTS and OPPORTUNITIES in order for us to reach the world for Jesus. Let the Holy Spirit take you where He wants you to be. Don’t be afraid. Passionately follow the footsteps of Christ!

God’s Emergency Room

PREFACE

I love Michael Card’s music – his integrity, his lyrics, his musicality. And I appreciate how his work is always grounded in hope. Nothing sugar coated, just an honest darkness-broken-by-Light truth that he conveys in every single song. I’m thinking just now of his “Joy in the Journey.”

i’ve been listening to that song since I was a teenager. It was a blessing then, but I hadn’t yet experienced the depth of what that song captures. I had to traverse the journey a ways first before I could truly appreciate the joy that can only come from Christ while we’re in the middle of hardship.

I’m thankful that we don’t just have a some-day sort of hope for the day that Christ returns and we go home to live with Him forever. The joy and assurance that come from knowing we’re secure in our relationship with our Heavenly Father here and now is meant to be a “foretaste of glory divine,” a constant reminder that we have been ransomed by the King of the Universe from the clutches of sin and hell.

Life is hard, and I’m not about to paint a rainbows-and-roses picture of life on earth. For me, compared to starving children in Ethiopia, to little girls home and abroad who are swept away by the sea of sex trafficking, to men who have been wrongfully imprisoned for most of their adult lives, to women who have been raped or abused by their husbands, compared to MOST PEOPLE around the world, I have lived a sheltered, safe, comfortable life. Our struggles in life are unique to us; the level of pain and heartache is relative. While my life’s hurts don’t compare to those of, say, Sarajevo’s cellist, whose beloved city was pummeled to pieces in the mid-90s, I have never experienced a civil war within my own country’s borders.

On the flip-side of the coin, no one else has experienced my particular brand of depression or grief. Countless people are immersed in severe clinical depression and grief over the loss of a loved one, but no one has lived through the exact same circumstances that I have.

While I write, I’m not trying to say “Oh, woe is me. See I what I went through.” While the cellist’s specific circumstances and mine are different, we can dig through the rubble of both our tragedies to find common ground, underlying pieces of evidence that God is good and that He is in control.

My life, in the grand scheme of things, is not that special. We’re not little “snowflakes,” entitled to special attention from everyone and anyone. But I write because my God is special, my God is holy, and my God seeks to draw men unto Himself. In every trial and tribulation I’ve been through, I’ve seen the hand of God at work. You see, this piece of writing isn’t about ME, it’s about the God of the Universe who desires that “none should perish, but that all should have eternal life.” While no one has sinned precisely just like me, the reasons for sin and the consequences of our selfish choices are quite similar.

 I’m a messed up guy in constant need of a Savior.

These anecdotes are not mine, but I’m merely a steward of them. They were especially coordinated, woven, and ordered by an all-powerful God who is, at the same time, loving, gracious, and good. I pray that as I share these episodes of my life, that I treat them with honesty, clarity, transparency, and humility. My hope is that you can see that through my life God’s love and work have been quite evident, and that in whatever it is you experience – now or down the road – this same God will be diligently at work. I want you to know that He loves you.

Thanks in advance for reading…

SELF-SUFFICIENT

Winnie the Pooh galoshes. Hated ‘em. They were bright, colorful, hard to get on, and they prevented a boy from being, well, a boy. Mom insisted that my brother and I wear our galoshes any time we went out in the rain and mud. This day was no different.

In a small section of our expansive back yard, we had an area with a swing set that we called “the play yard.” Perfect place to play in the dirt, to defy the limits of the swings, to enjoy our Tonka Trucks (to clear away any misunderstanding – it was I who buried all those dump trucks and dozers deep in the soil, just for fun. My brother was not even an accomplice in the case.) It was a place to just get lost in!

Well, we were goofing around in the play yard, yes, in our galoshes. The rain was intermittent, and the soil was soggy. I don’t remember, but for some reason, my brother went in the house. I was addicted to the play yard, and I want to goof around some more. Typical elementary school behavior.

After sliding and swinging and climbing some more, I found myself near the ladder of the slide. I paused for a moment before looking down. I couldn’t move my feet, galoshes and all. As the rain began to pour, I began to sink into the soft mud. I was completely stuck. Those shoe-enveloping rain boots wouldn’t budge.

Instead of calling for help, I fought and I fought with with the elements. Yet, for what seemed like an hour, I could not win. Did I yell for Mom or Dad to help me out? No. I felt like I had what it took to get me out of my jam. Definitely a matter of pride and especially self-sufficiency.

Finally, someone randomly came out of the house looking for me. I don’t recall who it was, but they found me in my sad, soggy state and helped free me and my Winnie the Pooh Galoshes from the muck and mire.

PRIDEFUL

When I was eight years old, I broke my femur on the first day of summer vacation, right after I was done with the 2nd grade. What an ordeal! Missed the Olympic Torch which was carried through my hometown, missed the yearly visiting carnival, missed hanging out with my friends and family. I was in traction for over a month, then a hideous body cast for over a month, and then in physical therapy for a few weeks before school started up again. However, one thing that I was thrilled about was the beginning of my nine-year soccer career at the end of that summer. I had gained a lot of weight, but I wanted to get some exercise and to be on a team, like my older brother.

At some point early in my soccer years, I recall asking one of my older sisters a very revealing question after a game. I know now that I was not a great player, but at that time I thought I was somethin’ else. After a game in which I thought I did particularly well, I asked my sister, “So, do you think I’m the best player out there?”

My ever-diplomatic and sensitive sister replied, “Well, I thought you did a very good job today.”  Even after pressing her to clarify her stance, she didn’t seem to have arrived at the same conclusion I had. I thought I was better than all the kids on my team, and I wanted to be acknowledged for it. I wanted to be valuable.

COMMON THREAD

Yes, I might appear to be hard on my younger self. I imagine most kids that age want to be affirmed and that they want to know they can do things on their own. I wasn’t at all unique in those ways. What I do want to draw out, though, is that I see these two issues – self-sufficiency and pride- as the common thread that was been a part of my whole life. They are a permanent part of my inner wiring, part of my earthsuit that I will wear until I go Home.

And, as I carefully dig through the story of mankind throughout the Bible, we have always leaned toward our default positions of pride and self-sufficiency. Look through the prophets of the Old Testament. Ezekiel passes on several rebuking message from God to the Israelites regarding these two ever-present issues. Not only do men and women of old demonstrate these glaring flaws, trace the trajectory of all of our lives and I bet you will find these two issues intertwined all throughout.

I know that all through my life I have thought higher of myself than I ought, and I have aimed to pull myself up by my own boot straps (or galoshes, take your pick).

While I can tell countless stories of how I have been prideful or self-sufficient all throughout my life, this isn’t the focus of this work. Paul the Apostle tells the church in Rome, “…but where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.” The deepest part of my story isn’t my sin, but the deepest part of me is the grace that saved me from that sin.

While we talk about sin and call it what it is, our gaze mustn’t stop there. We must see that forgiveness of sins is available because of the death of Someone who didn’t have any sin in His life at all. He died on my behalf in order to give me that deep grace.

Legacy of Despair

My mother was quite adept at her use of the English language – her vocabulary was impressive, her grammar impeccable, and her writing engaging. Although she did graduate from high school, her depth of learning came from her own initiative. She was largely self-taught when it came to language arts.

She was also a lifelong musician, having played the piano from the time she was five until her death at 57. During her younger years, she was also quite the vocallist. Both areas of music garnered her quite a bit of success and potential collegiate attention, though she never attended due to circumstances out of her control. Our family certainly benefited, enjoyed, and to varying degrees carried on her musical legacy.

I happened upon an old poem she had written, probably at least 30 years ago. She’s been gone now for almost 16 years, but I’m thankful to have bits and pieces of her legacy, including her music and writing. Her poem, though, deeply troubles me. I think my mom battled with depression most of her life, and this poem, entitled “Despair,” is suffused with hopelessness.

From my understanding, most types of depression are not hereditary, except for maybe manic depression or bi-polar. But what is handed down through generations are ways in which we handle the stressors in our lives. I know my mom withdrew when she was under stress. So do I. She had a fiery temper which flared when she was under stress. Until I was about 20, so did I. When things got significantly difficult for my mom, she had an escapist mentality – she had things that she clung to beyond moderation to try to take the edge off of stress. I’ve seen that trend in my own life. Bottom line – I appreciate the legacy she left behind, her writing, her musicality. But she, in part, helped pass on to me a less-than-ideal way of handling small and big stresses.

I am not saying that she is to blame for my severe depression that I’ve been climbing out of for the last 11 months. However, I believe I have followed the model she set for me in handling tough stuff for the majority of my childhood and adult life.

Reading my mom’s poem is a renewed wake-up call for me. How did I used to cope with stress? How do I handle it now, now that I’m aware of my depression, now that I am aware of what triggers my knee-jerk reactions to stress? Am I making progress?

I want to encourage each of us to take inventory of what we do under pressure, under stress, in the midst of difficulties. Write down all the habits and thought patterns that you revert to by default. Examine them each carefully and determine whether they are healthy and helpful. If not, talk the list over with someone you trust. Ask them for advice and accountability in trying to overcome those things. Pray and ask for God’s supernatural help, that He’d transform those stress reactions. Replace any of those negative stress reactions with productive, positive things. Learn to talk through your frustrations with people in constructive ways. Discover new hobbies. Take a daily walk. Whatever it takes to turn the tide on detrimental behaviors related to stress.

Here is a copy of my mom’s poem. While it’s well written, it’s sad, melancholy. Enjoy and appreciate her words in an artistic sense, as I do. More importantly, let her poem be a compelling reminder of how stress can suck the joy out of life. Conversely, if stress is handled properly, we open ourselves up to many avenues of joy we otherwise would have missed out on.

Despair

Oh, for the gift of tongues
That I might speak of that
Which is hidden in the
Deep, dark corners of my mind!

I have struggled -in vain-
To plumb the depths of my very soul
To find some breath of reality –
Just some hint of meaning.

Long have I probed
With cold, cruel fingers –
Trying to penetrate the
Very core of my feeblemindedness.

But look! See there?!
A small glimmer of light!
The light of truth, and
The reason for these truths:

The reason for death and destruction –
Hatred and cruelty; the reason for
Sorrow and pain, agony and heartache;
The reason for living.

It is the light of hope!
Hope for your world -and mine
And for all the worlds to come –
And ————the light of love!

Oh, no! ——–Please, no! It’s gone!
The light is gone! And now,
Now, truth, reason and love
Shall remain unrevealed—

Locked up in this —- this
Damnable dungeon —
Buried in this grey, cold
Lump of clay —
To lie there —
Meaningless —-
Forever!

~Bette Miller~

Comfort for the Weary

I don’t know if there’s something particularly out of the ordinary about the last two months, but it sure seems like there has been a drastic increase in the number of people in my world who are hurting, sad, confused, or just plain overwhelmed.

*two people I know have attempted suicide (one of them has attempted multiple times)

*a young man I know was just arrested for selling drugs and is now on his way to prison for a
few years

*four students I know are wrestling with their belief in God, and are frustrated and confused

*a student I know lost a classmate to a freak accident on campus, and another classmate was
severely injured in the accident

*a man I know has been struggling to find work to support his family. At the same time, he has
been battling some major health issues, some possibly life-threatening

*a couple I know is going through a bitter divorce

*several marriages I know of are on the rocks

*a gentleman in the neighborhood is slowly killing himself through severe alcoholism

A strong dose of comfort seems to be in order for a lot of us. I have very little to offer from my own satchel of compassion to these hurting people. The one thing potent enough to truly heal a hurting heart is the comfort only God can give.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows.”
~2 Corinthians 1:3-5~

Thanks, Lord, for providing Your care and comfort to us in this dark, oft-discouraging world. Amen.

We are Never Alone

Someone shared with me a wonderful, powerful story about the difference we can make in someone’s life, that each of us has the potential to touch a life in significant ways. Here is the story, an excerpt from A Cup of Comfort Big Book of Prayer:
_____________________________________________________________________
Korlane, one of the college students in my public speaking class, walked up to me before class and whimpered, “Can’t you just choose a topic for me, Mr. Drum? It doesn’t really matter what my topic is, does it? This is just speech class. Nobody really listens to other people speak.” Korlane certainly did know how to make me feel good about my teaching discipline. Still,if I had a penny for every time a student had said this to me the weekend before speeches were due, i would be a mogul of the copper-tubing industry. it is a disturbing trend– so many young people have so little faith that they can make a difference to anyone else. It is a symptom of a world that has slowly convinced generations of people that life matters only when a person achieves great things in significant ways. But we couldn’t be more wrong.

I looked at this young lady, seeing the potential she couldn’t. I asked her to think about experiences in her life that were emotionally moving, persuasive, angering, frustrating, or simply interesting.

“Like what?” she asked, peeking over the top of her glasses like a wise old granny.

“I don’t know. Everyone has something different to share. Your view of life is unique, and it’s quite possible that something you have experienced or observed is a subject someone else needs to hear about. perhaps somebody in your family works for a company you admire. You could talk about that company or the careers it offers. Or, on a more serious note, maybe you have a friend who has suffered through a tragedy, and you want to inform others about how to be helpful to friends in need. Who knows? Maybe you’re a pizza connoisseur, and you can tell us all how to make the perfect pizza right in our own homes. See what I’m getting at, Korlane?”

She nodded at me, the gears starting to spin. “Thanks for the help. I’ll see you Monday.” I quickly reminded her to call or e-mail if she needed anymore help over the weekend. I had a gut feeling I might hear from her, but Saturday and Sunday ticked by with no communication. I took that as a good sign.

Monday morning arrived and lugged with it sleepy students dressed in casually formal, albeit wrinkled, attire. You could tell it was speech day and that most students were ill-equipped to work the complexities of an iron before 8:00 A.M. I arrived in the classroom a few minutes early to check out the audio-visual equipment, and I noticed Korlane in the back, rehearsing quietly. “Looks like you figured something out,” I said with a bit of reassurance in my voice.

“Can I go last? I need to work up my nerve before I speak.” She paused for a moment but started up again before I could answer. “I don’t know if my speech will knock anyone’s socks off, but I feel good about the topic I’ve chosen. You really helped me figure it all out on Friday, Mr. Drum.”

“Last you are, Korlane. Consider it your reward for all your hard work. I’ll look forward to hearing what you have to say.” I smiled, proud that she had found her voice. As other students began pouring into the class in their mummy-like states, Korlane took her seat and continued to go over her note cards. I made a few announcements and reminded the class about the timing signals that I would use in order to help them properly pace themselves in their speeches.

I moved to my seat and called for the first speaker. I listened to speeches on topics ranging from how to properly sheer the hair off a sheep to how to quickly create irresistible pickup lines to fanatical arguments about why golf should not be considered a real sport. it was a tasty smorgasbord of topics that kept class lively and interesting.

Finally the time came for Korlane to give her speech. She smiled nervously as she stood and made her way to the podium. Her first words were sturdy, full of confidence, and quickly tuned the audience in to the personal nature of her speech. “A few months ago, I was diagnosed with depression. For a long time, I had felt helpless about life and came to a point where I cried every day and often wished I could find a way to end my life quickly. A lot of people suffer quietly from depression. Today I want to help you to be able to identify the signs of depression and give you ideas about helping such people out with their pain and struggles.”

Korlane’s willingness to share such a personal side of her life captivated the audience, and when she finished, a few class members stood up to hug her while others wiped tears from their eyes. One student in particular sat motionless, immersed in her own private thoughts, large tears trickling down her cheeks.

Korlane came over to me and quietly asked, “Did I say something wrong that made her cry?”

“No, you didn’t say anything wrong, Korlane.” I patted her on the back. “Your speech may have just reminded her of some tough memories or something. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it. You did a very good job. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.” She grabbed her backpack and began to walk out of class, glancing back at the other student, worry in her eyes.

I made my way over to the tearful and distressed young woman. I knelt down in front of her and said I would listen if she needed to talk. She looked at me with bloodshot, glassy eyes and began telling me a story that left me speechless. “I came to class today,” her voice filled with a rush of emotion, “only to tell you good-bye.”

I spoke softly. “Are you going somewhere? Has something happened?”

“No, Mr. D., I came here to say good-bye for good. I wrote you this note.” She took it from her bag and slid it across the desk to me. She then reached back into the bag and started to speak again. “I was also going to swallow these pills in the bathroom after class,” she whispered as she handed me the bottle, weeping a river of tears. “I thought I was alone with all of these feelings of despair that were tearing up my heart. I thought it was just me, alone with this craziness in my mind.” She paused to calm her tears, but to no avail. “I don’t want to die. I want to feel better.”

I reached out to hold her hand, and she rested her head on my arm and let her pain pour out in deep sobs, gushing tears, and what seemed to be sighs of relief releasing the secret that was killing her.

Two days later, Korlane showed up at my office looking a little down. “What’s up? I asked.

“Oh, I feel stupid. Since my speech the other day a few people have started to sort of treat me different, like something is wrong with me. On top of that, I just cannot stop thinking about that girl who was crying after class. What kind of speech makes someone cry like that? I probably should have talked about how to bake cookies or something.”

“Hmm.” I leaned toward her to make sure I got her attention. “I have something I was told to give you. I think it might make you feel better.” I pulled an envelope from my desk, handed it to her, and leaned back in my chair. “Read this before you say anything else.”

Korlane looked at me with wide eyes. She slowly opened the letter and unfolded it with care. As her eyes moved over each line of the letter, I could see overwhelming emotions rush through her cheeks and tears begin to well in her eyes. She whispered the question rolling through her mind. “I did this?”

“Yes. you helped save this girl’s life. She wanted to say thank you to you but didn’t know how before she left for home. So I encouraged her to write you a note and tell you how she felt. This is what she wrote.” I pointed to the letter in her hands.

“She said she wants me to call her so we can talk,” Korlane said.” What do I say to her?”

“Say what comes from your heart, Korlane. Your willingness to share the story about your depression gave her hope. She didn’t feel alone anymore. Speak from your heart, and I’m sure whatever you say will be just fine.”

“I guess I could do that,” she said with a bit of both timidity and hope in her voice.

“Remember when I told the class that even your smallest words can have great power? We may not think what we are saying makes a difference, but we can never know that. That’s why we need to measure all our words with care, especially since we now realize that seeds of hope can be planted even in a speech class.” Korlane smiled at me, held the letter to her chest, and told me she needed to make a phone call. In that moment, my heart was full to overflowing, uplifted with a new sense of faith, hope, and love.

This event reaffirmed my belief that all of our actions and words, whether small or large in scope, are sacred, potent, and chock-full of potential. Indeed, if faith is what we hope for, then the unexpected gift of hope shared that day in my classroom was nothing less than a testament to the miraculous and mysterious power of God at work. I am humbly reminded that even my small and unwitting encouragement of a college student who was apprehensive about speaking could be a part of God’s healing hand.

Korlane’s message is God’s enduring proclamation to us all: We are never alone.

Matthew Nelson Drumheller
excerpted from A Cup of Comfort Big Book of Prayer, pp. 365-371

The Presence of Pain

My heart is aching this week. One calamity after another has bombarded me.

Found out that a good friend of mine from high school – a model student, upstanding citizen, infectious laugh – has had a tumultuous 17 years since graduating. He married a wonderful gal, had a couple of children, had a great career. One day while riding his mountain bike, he wrecked and hit his head. This injury helped precipitate the onset of multiple personality disorder.

Over the course of a couple of years, he developed at least five distinct personalities, all warring within his brain. He ended up leaving his wife and children, and has been roaming the streets as a homeless man on the east coast for quite some time. He has no desire to receive treatment, and does not want to come home. He is content to wander and remain within his confusion and pain.

Also this week I found out that a friend of mine from the midwest passed away from cancer. She was the mom of one of the kids I knew from youth group. Wonderful, godly family. She was only six years older than me, and her cancer spread rapidly. I ache for her husband and their children.

On top of that, about 80 coworkers will be losing their jobs sometime within the next few days (possibly me, too) due to corporate downsizing. I don’t have as much at stake as many of the others do. Of course I have bills and a dog to feed and rent to pay, but there are so many single mothers who are extremely nervous about their possible fate. The morale at work is at basement level, and I’m eager to be done with the waiting game.

The common thread passing through each of these experiences is the presence of pain. Pain, while unpleasant, is a vital part to being alive. I’m currently going through Philip Yancey’s book, Where is God When it Hurts. Thus far he points out the physical necessity of pain, how we absolutely must feel pain in order to protect ourselves, to know that danger is imminent. He gave an example of a basketball player whose ankle had been broken while playing an important game. He was the star. Instead of calling it quits while the game was on the line, he went to the locker room and received treatment. He received a shot that completely wiped out any pain that he might feel. He returned to the court and played a bit, but when he came down hard from jumping for a rebound, he landed awkwardly on his ankle, and an echoing “CRACK” was heard throughout the arena. He could not continue to play. His ankle bones disintegrated on impact. The lack of pain caused him to be careless, to think that everything was okay.

While I don’t wish my pain on anybody – the pain of childhood abuse, the pain of losing a parent, the pain of betrayal, the pain of needlessly hurting someone you love, the pain of divorce, the pain of severe clinical depression – the pain I’ve experienced has shown me my severe spiritual, emotional, mental, and relational need for help, for a Savior. While I am not a masochist, I am eternally grateful for the pain that I’ve endured (some of it I heaped upon myself).

Even just in the last three months, I’ve become increasingly thankful for my life’s experiences. A friend of mine challenged me to not waste what I’ve been through. At first I thought his advice was absurd, but I see clearly that all that we are allowed to go through is for our good, for our benefit, for our maturation as believers in Christ.

Pain is an integral, ever-present part of life this side of the grave. But I am holding out hope for the day when the Savior’s touch from Revelation 21:4 comes to fruition – “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore…”

Between now and the grave, regardless of my profession (debt collector, editor, teacher, counselor, missionary, pastor), my heart’s desire is to help the hurting make sense of their pain, the pain that reveals our need, points to the cross, leads us to heaven. Thank you, Lord, for not wasting our pain.

Weapons of our Warfare….

The Turkish invasion, 2008. The voice on the loudspeaker announced, “Run, don’t walk, you’re lives are in danger. The Turks are overtaking the nation as we speak.” My brother and I were crouched together behind some military compound buildling, watching as chaos unfolded before our eyes. Bullets zinging by, debris flying all around, and people attempting to run for cover, but most of whom falling to their untimely deaths.

My brother and I were armed with pistols, and we were trying to protect those around us and ourselves from the approaching Turkish soldiers. I vividly recall shooting a couple of enemies, watching them topple to the ground. But just as one would fall, two more would come from behind the shadows.

The man who appeared to be a general began walking straight toward my brother and me, machine gun at the ready. I took aim and shot him in the shoulder, knocking him down. My brother and I were the only two Americans in our area who were left standing. We stood to try to escape, but the general gathered himself, arose, and continued to move toward Steve and me.

The last thing I remember is feeling a sense of sad defeat as my eyes closed for the last time.
**********************************************************************

I don’t normally dream such bizarre, macabre dreams, but when I do, I ponder warfare, battle, and the possibility of victory and defeat. When that general got back to his feet after I had shot him, I had a sense that my weapons were useless. Although my pistol vanquished other members of the encroaching army, the general was too powerful for me.

In looking at the things that have hit me this weekend, the bullets Satan has launched at me, I need to remember who it is I’m fighting against, which weapons I’m supposed to use.

Eph 6:12 For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.

Also, the weapons that I often try to use to combat the enemy are useless – whether relying on my own strength, hiding from the enemy, or pretending he’s not in our camp. I’m encouraged by 2Corinthians 10:4 “for the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh, but divinely powerful for the destruction of fortresses.”

There is a real battle going on, and we are engaged. I’ve seen brothers fall because of not using the armor of God, the spiritual weapons God gives. I’ve seen myself nearly become a casualty of war because of not using heavenly tools of battle. I’m wounded, but I still have the ability to fight these battles with God’s resources and His strength.

While I don’t believe Turkey will be the next country to try to invade the U.S., I definitely believe Satan has launched a full-scale invasion on Christians today. He’s trying to carve us each away from the body of Christ, out of fellowship with Jesus and with our brothers and sisters in the battle. He’s trying to render our weapons useless. But he’s not invincible. My dream ended poorly, but I’m eternally grateful that the real war’s outcome is already decided. I can’t wait to stand with my Savior under the banner of victory God plans on waving for the universe to behold!

Melancholy Menagerie

Today has just been a surreal day for me. I’ve been especially drawn to revisiting pieces of my past. Even just now I’m listening to old cassette tapes from high school and shortly thereafter. Band and choir concerts, as well as mix tapes for various life events, including the passing of my mom in ’95. I’m not particularly missing her just now, just magnetized toward the last twelve years of my life. It’s the same sensation as going through my journals over the past decade – I almost feel like a peeping tom, looking at my life from the outside. The ups, the downs, the victories, the failures. All of them seem like they’re from another lifetime, from somebody else’s life. While I’m peeking at my life from afar just now, I am experiencing a coctail of emotions. Very strange mood I’m in…

The one thing I’m hanging on to just now is the thought of the Lord calling Himself the Alpha and the Omega. He’s not just the God of the Old Testament, or the New Testament, or the present, or the future, He is the God of all history, beginning through the end. He is in full command of all the universe and all time, including everything that He happens to choose to involve us in. He alone is stable, and He alone is trustworthy, He alone is good.

Even when I feel a sense of melancholy like tonight, I praise God in my heart for who He is, and what He does. Thanks, Lord.

Getting Rid of the Wood, Hay, and Straw

A couple nights ago I had a disturbing dream.  Without going into all the details, I was a 3rd person observer, and I watched as I died in a terrible car crash. That wasn’t disturbing, actually. But as I, the observer, approached the car, I saw myself awaken from death and begin walking toward heaven. There were several others with me, and I had the distinct impression that I was escaping something.  The “escaping” part is what has been bothering me…

Ever since I awoke from that dream, I have been thinking about what I possibly could have been “escaping” from in my dream.  Then I remembered a verse in Scripture that made me freeze in my tracks.

1 Corinthians 3:10-15 talks about our deeds, and how those deeds are built upon the foundation of Christ.  All of our deeds fall into the categories of “gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay, or straw.” Verses 13-15 say, “his work will be shown for what it is…..It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each man’s work.  If what he has built survives, he will receive his reward. If it is burned up, he will suffer loss; he himself will be saved, but only as one escaping through the flames.”

Wow. The thought of all my idle, useless deeds being revealed for what they are is overwhelming. More overwhelming to me, though, is the though of making it to heaven but only “as one escaping through the flames.” Man, I want my deeds to withstand the test of fire!  Yes, in my dream, I made it to heaven.  That’s worth celebrating.  However, as I saw myself stand up from the car wreckage, there was a sense of regret, of sadness.  Loss.  I don’t want my future reality to parallel to what I experienced in my dream – I want to run to the throne with no regret, sadness, or loss. My reward will be hearing my Savior say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” 

The encouraging thing comes from the next verse in 1 Corinthians 3, verse 16: “Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit lives in you?” While I’m building on to this foundation of Christ, I have a constant choice of tossing a handful of hay on the structure or carefully setting a brick of gold on what’s been previously built. When I choose to obey the Spirit who lives in me, it becomes a pleasure turning away from the burnable materials and sticking with the fireproof stuff.

My heart’s desire is to be mindful of all that I build with, and to get rid of the wood, hay, and straw. And to keep on buildin’!