You Might As Well Pitch Your Rags

It was one of those days where I realized (again) what a horribly human person I am. I made some mistakes (like normal) and made a choice I regretted. 

As I was talking to Jesus about it, a picture came to my mind. It was a scene from over 2000 years ago, and all I saw was a ramshackle group of motley disciples bumbling along behind a well-composed Master. They were young and inexperienced. Some had tax collector histories. Some lived in dishonesty. Some fought with brash words and fiery tempers. Some were determined to topple the immense Roman Empire. Some argued over who was the greatest, and many of them had no idea what their Master had in mind.

Have you ever wondered why exactly Jesus picked the crew of young men that He did? I mean, they weren't necessarily the type most people would pick as future church leaders and evangelists. Yet, He said those well-known words, "Follow me." And they simply did. 

Now what would have happened if that imperfect called-to-be-disciples group would have begged Jesus to give them a year to prepare first. Maybe earn a little more for better clothes, and get their manners back in shape. Leave a little money behind for their parents, and at least sharpen up on their camping skills. 

Yet, I wonder if sometimes we try to ask for an extra year. We want a little space of time to make ourselves presentable for such a Great Lord. So we get busy sprucing ourselves up, making sure we wear the right clothes, working on our attitudes, cutting out those undesirable words. And You know, I imagine Jesus sitting there with an expression of sympathy and also sadness. Sympathy because He knows we'll never get it just right, and sadness because we're not accepting the terms that have already been negotiated.

All He wants is for us to come and follow Him: mistakes, rags, dirt, and all. If we simply see and confess our desperate need, He will gladly take care of the cleaning and do a much better job than we ever could. 

We will not have it altogether. We'll make mistakes along the way, but He will gladly give us what is His. And as He gifts us His Spirit, we will slowly become more like Him. Little by little, we will learn more about who He is. Whisper after whisper, we will define the Spirit's voice more clearly. Choice by choice, our actions will begin to reflect Who is now living inside us.

We need to be a little more like Mary who sat at His feet, or the woman who wiped His feet with her tears. Like the kind of folks who worshipped because of who He was, not who they were. They lost their identity of sin and shame when they got close to Him. Perhaps we ought to bring our tattered, spattered, ragged garments to Him and sit so close that our lives become wrapped up in who He is instead of staying stuck in our torn and greasy condition. Maybe instead of trying to sew the ripped seams and wiping off the grease, we ought to go to the One who gives out brand new clothes for free.

There are still spots on the trail open. Following this Master has been the most beautiful, (albeit humbling) and awe-inspiring life I could ask for. I'm not perfect - I hate to break it to you, but neither is anyone else. But He takes us anyway and gives us the privilege to be part of a group of individuals who are loved before they are worthy, accepted before they have made the grade, and been extended forgiveness before they earned it.

Are your rags really worth hanging onto?

 "For by grace you have been saved through faith, and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast." Ephesians 2:8-9

Comfortable or Courageous?

A few months ago I came across a statement that made me lean in and pay attention. The author titled it, "Why Men are Leaving the Church" and then went on to explain his point. He stated that much of church life today (in some congregations) consists mainly of following rules and keeping a proper perfect life; in some ways feminine and neat. In addition, much of the bold, blaring, mission-hearted parts of the church are dwindling. How many times does a "Paul" almost get killed for his faith in North America? How often does a "Peter" preach to a large crowd who thinks he is drunk? 😏

The author continues his argument with the thought that men are becoming discontent and edgy because they don't have "manly" things to do. I agree that this is true to some extent. Men are typically, if not always, made with a sense of adventure and daring. They have a strong drive to conquer. This is clear in the way little boys go hunting with sling shots, give their utmost in an arm wrestle, and like to play cops and robbers. It shows up in the teenage guy's big and definitely loud truck with a modified exhaust system. A boy's play is often louder than a girl's and typically more dangerous. 

Since men are called and literally made to fight, they MUST be given battles. We do them a great disservice if we try to bundle them up into neat packages of dos and don'ts with no space left to risk and to conquer. If they don't become engaged in a spiritual battle, they will expend their energy elsewhere, often in flimsy earthly fights that carry no eternal weight. 

As I thought about this topic some more, I began to wonder if perhaps this is not really an issue about letting men be men, but rather of the church being filled with fire and true Gospel-heartedness once more. I read a Martyrs Mirror account of two individuals who went up to a Prime Minister to share the Gospel in a country where it was strictly forbidden. Of course they were thrown into prison for it, but years later this Prime Minister remembered their words and accepted Christ as His Lord and Saviour. Perhaps our careful protective Western ways need some boldness infused into them once more. Maybe we need to remember what it actually looks like to be completely unashamed for the Gospel of Jesus Christ. 

What if we would be willing to leave the predictability of our own comfortable agendas to bring souls in for the kingdom? Perhaps we could travel to the unreached people groups that have yet to hear the Gospel and risk our lives for a good cause. Perhaps we could take a meal to that neighbour that is difficult to love. Maybe we could even take time for a conversation with the sour-looking clerk that we usually pass by.

A few weeks ago, I came across an ancient group of people that intrigued and inspired me. The Spartans reigned over the Greek city-state of Sparta a couple centuries before Christ was born. This tribe was unique in many ways, but it was widely renowned for its fierce and elite warrior culture. At the young age of seven, boys would enter the Agoge, a school of intensive and brutal military training. By the age of twenty, they were fit and ready to join the army in which they remained for active service until the age of sixty. 

Now we get to an interesting but powerful part of the Spartan story - their women. I've written about fierce warriors, and there is a saying that behind every good man there is a good woman. This section of history lends itself to that very philosophy and gives us a glimpse into part of why the young Spartan men were so successful. Apparently the Spartan women were every bit as cruel and war-driven as their men were. So much so, that some of them went to extremes such as killing their sons who came back from battle as cowards. Now in no way do I suggest that we ought to treat our young men in such a manner, but I believe we can gain a little bit of inspiration from these people. An ancient Spartan legend states that before battles, a Spartan mother would hand her son his shield and impart five words of wisdom to him - "with it or on it." What she was saying was, "Son, you go out there and fight, and you give it all you've got. There is absolutely no room for cowardice. Come back carrying your shield in victory, or come back being carried on it by others because you died courageously." (Sparta-history.com)

aces.edu

 Mothers, would you let your sons go and follow Jesus Christ in the great battlefield of life as courageously as these Spartan women did? Would you let them go out to a hostile area in order to share the Gospel if it meant the expense of their lives? Would you let your daughters leave home if God called them to, even if it meant your grandchildren might grow up somewhere else? What if like the Spartan mothers we were more focused on faithfulness and courage than safety? How would that change our churches and how would that change our world? 

Now I have mentioned mothers, but this challenge belongs to all of us. Will we risk or play it safe? Will we encourage others to live a life of self-sacrifice and humility like our Lord, or try to keep them safe and comfortable just so we feel better in our own zones?

I have met many types of Christians in person and also through books of history, but the people that always inspire me the most are those who truly made a difference in the Kingdom. They would serve faithfully in whatever place they found themselves, and they were all marked with courage and great faith.

Unfortunately, I see a complicated trend in North America toward all things safety. We live for comfort and feel-good things. We do our very best to protect ourselves and others from all harm. To the point, that I fear this interferes with our commitment and self-sacrifice for our Master of Masters. We think about missions, but the cost is danger. We consider talking to someone about the Gospel, but then our reputation is at risk. We ponder giving generously, but then wonder what will happen to our needs. We almost invite that person to church, but then we're afraid of what they will think or how they'll be treated. We debate about speaking hard-to-hear truth to a fellow Christian, but opt out for fear they'll get angry at us. 

I read the pages of Scripture and see the Apostles laying down their lives one by one for the Gospel. Then I remember the story of Felix Manz's mother who stood on the shore and encouraged him to be faithful as he was drowned for his faith. And I feel sad because I see us losing out on the greatest call of all, simply because we are too busy playing it safe. 

As life goes on and God keeps teaching me new things, I am becoming more and more aware of the intense battle that we as Christians are engaged in. Like it or not, we have an adversary and an enemy that would absolutely love to wipe out our souls entirely. If we sleep on the battlefield or enter without the Lord's armour, we will be taken out. I believe we all know that true battles require courageous soldiers - the dedicated, lay-your-life-on-the-line type of people, the kind that would rather die trying, than stand by observing.

What are we here for and what were we made to do? The time is short. The harvest is ripe. The church is in need of active, engaged members more than ever. If we focus only on our safety and maintenance, we are not truly following the call of our Lord to reach all nations. Let us go. Let us bid others go - some to the nearby neighbours, some to the pulpits for truth, and some to other continents. Let us never put a cap on what the Holy Spirit may call us to do, and let us stand firmly in the fight - for Christ and His Church.

My Favourite Family

I lie here with toes outstretched on a friend's comfy bed in the wonderfully wild country of Belize, and I realize again the beauty of God's people. I look back over my life and the life of my family and see them show up in so many places. 

The men that brought their tractors to haul manure when my dad was lying in bed for six long dark months. The women that would pull me aside after church to ask how mom and our family were doing and if there was any way at all that they could help. The friends who sat and listened without offering a word of advice, simply presence. The pastors and their wives who showed up with anointing oil. The ladies who made casseroles in their kitchens for our freezers. The board members that were always ready to help in whatever way possible. The people who became adopted family simply because they cared that much, and the souls of wisdom who saw and understood just enough to go home and pray.

And now I sit here in Belize with the showers of blessing raining once more. Meals with laughter, beds for the taking, excursions to new places, great conversations, and a lot of love all around. I am finding people that talk about the help my parents gave them years ago when they were newbies in our old province of Ontario. They talk about meals and babysitting and a lot of love passed around, and now they jump at the chance to pass that kindness on to me. 

I see this beautiful cycle and am convinced that God's family is one of the best families on earth to belong to. It is one where we take turns to serve, and turns to receive. It is one where we show up for each other even when it is inconvenient. It is one where we get bumps and scratches and have misunderstandings just like any other family, and we must work them out in order to function. We talk things through, share ideas, live beside each others' shortcomings, and drink from the Fountain of Life together. 

At the end of the day, there's no family I'd rather belong to - this glorious family made out of imperfect people from all kinds of nations, who are gathered together under the perfect umbrella of Love.

How Fear Steals Us

I thought about that yellow coward

Grappling with its jaws.

It howls and yells

Threatens and curses,

Before shoving us deep under a mat where we lie dormant:

Away from life, 

Away from beauty, 

Away from potential, 

Away from radical existence.

We lie there in depression

Waiting for that panther to move. 

Staring at its gory power, but trapped angry inside.

Menacing, roaring, deceitful,

That coward will have you in the depths of nonexistence.

But, oh if you only knew my friend,

Fear has a chain.

That old cat is stuck tight to that floor with a bark worth far more than any bite.

So push your face at it and yell back.

Crawl out from under that rug into whole beauty,

And dare to live.

Say yes to the call that quivers inside your soul, waiting to be born.

Push past the accusations, false flattery, and gossip to new heights of achievement.

That old cat will scream at you, but leave it sobbing in its den.

Walk out the door and don't look back.

Let it howl and let it screech.

It never needed your sympathy or service anyway. 

You were born for more. You were born for such a time as this.

You'll find faith is true

On the other side of courage.

David said to Saul, “Let no one lose heart on account of this Philistine; your servant will go and fight him.” 1 Samuel 17:32

In Spite Of

I lie there snuggled close in the toasty gray of our fuzzy bean bag. I am safe and warm, and I feel the smile of Someone watching close overhead. 

I've looked at a myriad of bright lantern stars twinkling in the heavens and scanned for their patterns. I've lain under blue skies clouded with fluffy abandon and looked for shapes in the whiteness. I've heard thunderstorms pound incessantly and watched lightening scratch a jagged wound across the darkened sky like an angry sword. I've watched the shreds of soft sunlight filter gently through groves of poplar and spruce and stood there with tears filling my eyes. I've woken up like a child on Christmas morning to view the wildly colorful sunrise that my Creator painted in the early morning. (He could have picked brown you know.) 

And I have come to believe in Him soundly. People may call me crazy, or ridiculously optimistic. They may think I am a religious nut or someone gone completely off the deep end. But perhaps if they would see what I have, and understand what I do, they would also believe. 

You see, I have come to know a God in spite of pain. His presence has become more dear to me than any physical or mental strength ever could have been. His love is the kind that walks through any fire and outdoes any darkness. He shows up in the places that no one else can enter and understands the situations no one else can decipher. He is the kind of God who carries His children when they can't stumble forward anymore, and the kind of God who holds His children when the questions outweigh the answers a million to one. He is the One Who follows His prodigal to a thorn bush just to pull him out and gently dress his self-inflicted wounds. I hear Him cry in anguish over His people who walk away when He gave everything for them.

I know He is a God who redeems and restores the most broken of places. You see, He never avoided pain, even though He could have. In fact He walked right into it - on purpose - just because He loved us all. And as I lie in my bean bag memorizing the woolly threads before me, I know that He is here too. Pain is no longer to be avoided, but embraced. I am small and broken, but He is still strong and good. My soul thrills, and my aching brain clears, at the simple thought that He is here. I remember the nail prints in His hands, and understand the paradox of a deep heavy pain meshed with an aching heart of love. And the more pain I see, the more I feel my Saviour's heart. 

Perhaps I am odd. Perhaps I am different, but I have come to know a God who finds us in our dark places. He rejoices over us with singing and reminds us that we are His - always. And I rejoice in my fuzzy little corner, because I have found a God who is good, regardless of circumstances. I have tasted a Presence so true, I wouldn't trade it. I have found a truth so holy, I wouldn't deny it. I have found a love that nothing can uproot or undo. He is mine and I am His. ❤️

The River Still Runs...

A couple days ago, I was standing beside the tiny creek that runs through our property. It comes from somewhere up in the mountain, and during spring it is at its peak for pressure and beauty. I stared at the foaming water for awhile, feeling the sound, and watching the constant eddies swirl and turn. I noticed the jagged and mismatched trees that were left behind after some bull-dozing, and was a little disturbed by their insanity. They seemed to wreck the perfect image of nature before me with their scraggly reaching arms. But a picture came to my mind as I surveyed the scene. I looked at the strewn trees once more, and saw the destruction and ruin we can experience in life. They held a metaphor for the days when questions run deep and the answers are few. They showed the damage of unjust pain and the sheer misery of the things this cursed earth offers. 

Then, I looked down and noticed faith in the river. It danced in and out under the hanging branches, never threatened by their presence. It foamed over rocks and even created shallow pools of stillness along the river's edges. It never stopped and it never diminished. It just kept moving on its course. It had a destination and nothing would stop it. I knew too, that if I were to throw a branch into the moving current it would simply carry it along in a quiet victory. 

Perhaps this is us. When the days look long and things seem senseless, when the sky is dark and there seems to be more rain than blue sky, we simply must offer a tiny mustard seed of faith and see what our Lord does with it. Faith is quiet, but it is true. It can survive the news of another cancer diagnosis. It can live through an unjust and painful childhood. It can handle misunderstandings and mockery, and it can continue walking when the directions are given only a day at a time. Have faith. ❤️

The Jagged Way

I will praise my loving Saviour

Even though my heart is thick with pain,

When I'm walking through a valley

And the sky is ripe with rain.

All I see are thorns and thistles

Prodding in from every side.

Rocks and pebbles jar my pathway

Like the nagging doubts inside.

Joyful thoughts of yester's sunshine

Cloud their way into my gaze.

I remember them with envy

Seeing only darkened haze.

Cups of cheer turn into weeping

I can't hear the words of hope.

All I see is dark foreboding

Stealing every buoyant note.

Yet I lift my hands to silence

Trusting that He still is good.

Knowing that He's always held me,

Even in the deepest flood.

Maybe some day I will reason

All the trials into truth.

Seeing all my Master's purpose

And the beauty it produced.  

                           - C.H.

I May Have Begun to Like Dogs 🙄

I used to struggle with dogs. They seemed to be everyone else's favourite non-human except mine. I mean, I could handle chickens better. At least they stayed in their cages and produced eggs for my morning breakfast. I could be thankful for that, but I struggled mightily every time I walked out our front door cleanly dressed for school to find a muddy, scraggly belly rolled out in front of me for a rub. I mean, really?! Mocha didn't seem to get the fact that I was clean and had places to go. But, me trying to be good-natured and kind like I was supposed to, would begrudgingly find the cleanest spot in all that mud-infested fur and gingerly rub the toe of my shoe across it. After a brief minute, if that, I would retrieve my shoe back to myself and head off on my merry way to school. 

But then, some things changed. When I was in a lot of pain for a few weeks due to my knee injury, I would often find some place to lie completely flat. Since I am an outdoors person, I would pick places like the grassy front lawn, the porch swing, or even the solid deck floor. Then, something interesting happened. The dogs showed up. We have five on our property between all the family members and they would come over to see how I was faring. The first time, the three pups bounced all over me. Tumbling and bumbling completely oblivious to any pain it could be causing. My well-meaning siblings yelled at them, but they just wouldn't leave. Strange to think, since their was no strong attachment on my end. But they were puppies, and blissfully unaware of any rules of etiquette with hurt people. 

As the other two puppies finally listened and made their way over to my siblings, the third and most awkward and clumsy one, Waffles - yes you heard his name right, and no I definitely didn't pick it - climbed right up into the crook of my arm and laid there, belly-up, snuggling against me like an infant. Now I have never held such a hairy, snuffly baby in my life, but really, how can a person resist when a creature seems to think that you are one of the very best humans in the world and they have no other place they'd rather be than with you. I felt a little too much like the cantankerous grumpy Grinch who slowly got melted by acts of love from an innocent young child. Truly, it did melt some of my puppy prejudice and I began to see these wiggling creatures through slightly different eyes. 

Over the next few days, the puppies, my slowly becoming friends, would visit me whenever I chanced to make it a few steps outside the door. I remember one specific incidence where I was sprawled out on the porch steps with my blanket and the three puppies came to pay their respects. I lay there looking miserable and they mirrored the mood excellently. Carefully positioning themselves around me at various angles, they settled down to stare mournfully at me or off into the distance. I felt strangely akin to Job with his three friends sitting solemnly in the dust and misery. 

Now, it has been a few months since this tale happened, but I do believe I like dogs a little more than I used to. To the point that on our first snow day from school, I put on my snow gear and travelled out to the steps for a wild leap into a snow drift. As I landed with a poof of white powder, I felt a whole bunch of wriggling bodies join me in a tornado. And, it was hilarious! I giggled and tried to get them off of me and then we did it again - a couple times - until my knees had all they could handle and we went back to our Job-style positions in the snow bank. I sit and they sit. I think and they must be thinking too. I am silent and they are very still. 

So now, when I come home from school and get out of my red ride, my words go like this, "Hey Swaffles! Hey Oreo! What's up Shadow?" And they bounce around like the most delighted things. Perhaps we shall be friends after all.