Wandering Far January 24, 2011

Each morning I wake up, boil water for a cup of tea, slide my feet into slippers, light a scented candle, flip on my space heater, turn on some worship music and open my bible to my current readings. I pathetically read a chapter a day, currently in Acts. Occasionally I follow this reading with a brief journal entry containing a comment, observation or question I had about the passage. This takes maybe seven minutes. I close the bible and exchange it for one of my study books. Again, a few minutes of reading and writing response and I’m done. Sometimes I sing a bit or pray a bit before blowing out the candle, rinsing out my cup, and moving on with my day. It’s the lamest morning quiet time routine ever, yet I walk away proud that I’m developing the consistent discipline of time with God. What??!! Was He even there? Did I even talk to Him? Did I even LISTEN to Him? My motivation is far, far from holy.

 Yesterday I read a simple paragraph from a short booklet titled “The Lord’s Work Done In the Lord’s Way” by K.P. Yohannan. He said “Our emphasis-no matter what we do-must always be to know the Lord and His ways. Only then can our work bring Him glory.” (Pg 10) These words slapped me with conviction. Thanks, Holy Spirit. Such a simple, repeated idea has lost all visibility in my life. I meander through my morning routine (and the rest of my day for that matter) with an attitude of prideful legalism. My motivation isn’t passionate desire to further know and understand my Creator, my Abba. So are any of my labors bringing Him glory? I wonder and I doubt. I strive and work and over-commit and lead. I write discussions, pray for people, guide and listen. But out of what motivation?? A selfish one. I’ve strayed far from the power of the gospel to transform my daily actions and wandered close to the deceptive grasp of the enemy.

 The Holy Spirit used the very same little booklet again this morning. I finally moved past the intro and found myself again surrounded in conviction all of three pages into Chapter 1. Here Yohannan shares a story of his ministry losing focus on loving Christ in the midst of their success, passion and growth.  A direct picture of this is painted in Revelation 2 when God addresses the church in Ephesus:

“’I know your works, your toil and your patient endurance, and how you cannot bear with those who are evil, but have tested those who call themselves apostles and are not, and found them to be false. I know you are enduring patiently and bearing up for my name’s sake, and you have not grown weary. But I have this against you, that you have abandoned the love you had at first. Remember therefore from where you have fallen…’” (Rev 2:2-5a, ESV, emphasis mine)

One of the most powerful things about this passage and Yohannan’s story is the lack of harshness. Yes, the words of the Lord are strong and direct, but seemingly brokenhearted instead of angry. God so desires His beloved to return to the place of their beginnings: a love for the truth of the Cross and the mercy of a Holy God. I haven’t brought the wrath and bitterness of God upon myself, I’ve simply made Him sad. And that thought is far more convicting than any other. He misses sweet fellowship with me. He yearns for me to know Him. He is anxious for me to discover deep, intimate truths about who He is. Not that He needs me; no righteous perfect being needs a broken, sinful, disobedient servant like me, He wants me. And I’ve denied Him my worship, my time, my energy, my focus, and my heart. Talk about conviction.

 Let’s take this a shameful step further. If I’m not burning to know God, what am I burning to know? Where is that energy drifting off to? Easy answer: horses. Each day I wake up wanting nothing more than to see, touch, ride, feed, brush, and clean up after a horse. My desire to gain as much possible knowledge as I can about horse care, training and riding consumes my thoughts, my free time, my library card, and my google searches. I stalk craigslist for horses for sale and allow my mind to dream of ownership and cute horse names. My bank account now revolves around financial planning for a future purchase, board, vet bills, feed, and tack costs. Yes, I praise God for the opportunities I have to enjoy such incredible animals. Yes, I seek to discover new truths and revelations about His character through the joy I feel while with horses. But I have yet to find the balance between loving and wanting to know horses and making each action with them revolve around bringing glory to Him who created them. Is an animal more important than a Savior? Is a joy ride more important than a journey down the road of sanctification? Where along the road did I abandon the love I had at first? I need to go back and find it. Thankfully, I have most merciful Guide.

If I Were May 7, 2010

I am not a poet by any means nor do I remember the rules of rhythm taught in 9th grade English. I lack talent and skill in the poetry realm and am not a huge personal fan of it myself. And yet I’m posting a poem. Mind you, it’s a poorly written one. Nothing about it would pass Creative Writing class standards (not that I’ve taken one to know said “standards”). This is simply a statement; a summary of what’s been rolling around in my head the past few weeks and months.

I  just opened a new book this morning that will address some of these issues with the gentleness of God-given wisdom. I recommend not only the book, but also any other works by the authors: Shane Claiborne and John M. Perkins (the book is titled “Follow Me To Freedom”).

Don’t grade this poem. I apologize in advance to anyone who is bothered by poems that don’t rhyme or carry out proper rhythm. I, too, am often that person. But today I’m letting it slide.

If I Were

 

If I were to give up my bed to one whose needs are greater

Would I not still sleep in comfort?

Blankets, pillows, carpeted floors, a heating vent and wool socks

Would dissolve the satisfaction missing from curling up atop a mattress

I would survive with deep, restful sleep

 

If I were to give half my meals to one whose stomach growls always

Would I not still get my fill?

Fruit, milk, steak and dessert

My palate would consistently be satisfied, my stomach contented

I would lose some unneeded pounds

 

If I were to share my wardrobe with one whose clothes are ripped

Would I not still dress in fashion?

Plenty of socks, shoes, sweaters and scarves

My friends would not look down on my daily attire with disdain

I would still be acceptable to society

 

If I were to give some cash to empty bank accounts

Would I not still purchase a cup of tea?

Gasoline, dinners out would still be routine

My bank would not kick me out and loans rest unpaid

I would still have money

 

Why are we content with giving half to society?

Food, clothing, shelter are all one needs, right?

Still I live in comfort however I so please.

 

Are we not called to give our all?

To run to the foot of the Cross

Where blood ran down to thirsty ground

To quench the greed of the Evil one?

“I am the least of these, to whom you give

Nothing or your all”

He is the man without a bed, and child without a ball

He is the woman who cannot find work

The empty stomach at the mall

We have a bed, we have a ball

We have money to support us all

We have tables filled with food

Closets filled with warmth

Yet here we sit, on numb asses,

Reflecting the enemy who wants us to fall

 

Let go of what is clenched so tight

Stop whining every day and night

And obey the resounding call

Of Isaiah and prophets of old to

“Loosen the bonds of wickedness

And pour yourself out for the hungry

Bring poor in through open doors

Cover the naked with your clothes

Take away the yoke from your midst,

The pointing of finger and speaking wickedness”

 Says the Lord of the harvest, fire and water

“For this is the fasting I so desire”

 

*Read Isaiah 58  and Matthew 25:31-46 for more contextual detail on the passages referenced.

The Ultimate Ungodly Scream March 18, 2010

Christmas is long past, yes, but every once in awhile the Spirit brings my mind back to the manger. My guess is He desires to draw us there much more often than we allow Him to. The ideas of the incarnation of Holiness and the invasion of Perfection into imperfection overwhelm me, but I can’t stop seeking the mysteries of them. Too much beauty and heart wrenching love dwells at the foot of the Cross and in the muck of a stable. While recently reading through Luke 2 and reflecting on the birth of Christ, my mind drifted to what I call the “spiritual climate” of that night. Stick with me; I can assure you this isn’t turning into yoga class. Turning to my spiritual mother and father, I asked this question: Did Satan know Mary was pregnant with the Son of God? I believe yes, he did. Whether or not a demonic force was able to hear the message delivered to Mary from Gabriel is unknown, but I can’t imagine the evil prince of the earth didn’t catch on. He knew the Old Testament prophecies and witnessed them being fulfilled through the virgin. He could see the angels protecting Mary from possible stoning and treacherous journeys. And I highly doubt he missed the proclamation of the heavenly chorus on the hills outside of Bethlehem. Not that it mattered on God’s end. The Sovereign, all-knowing, all-powerful Creator doesn’t have to worry about the bad guy eavesdropping on His master plan to save His children. But it’s interesting the think about.

Then the labor pains began. I’ve never personally been in labor, but I can imagine Mary would have enjoyed an epidural. Tears most likely flowed down her cheeks. Some fingers may have been broken as she squeezed hands with too much force. And I’m sure some sort of scream or groan would have broken the quiet stable air. The shepherds were shocked and astounded by the immense majesty of the redemptive announcement. The spiritual entered the physical.

What would it have been like for someone from the physical to have entered the spiritual realm at the moment when an infant’s innocent cry rang through the night? Loud. Have you ever been in a room with junior high girls when someone turns off the lights and yells “BOO!”? An innocent victim of such experience may walk out and make a comment like “what an ungodly sound!” to a fellow innocent victim. What defines an ungodly sound? The lack of the presence of God? If so, then the ultimate ungodly scream would have exploded human eardrums on the night of Christ’s birth. The enemy of God, the fallen angel without a speck of goodness in him finally had to accept the fact that he was completely defeated. The battle was over. He had lost.

Maybe, once upon a time, Satan thought he had a chance. Maybe, after seeing how easily fallen mankind submitted to his desires to destroy them, Satan smirked. Perhaps evil COULD win. Perhaps the pride of man could defeat the gracious King. Maybe God would become so damn angry with the disobedience of His most precious creation that he would turn around and walk away. Give up. Desert. Abuse them to the point of destruction. Anyone who has children or has cared for children knows how frustrating it can be to be disobeyed and ignored. When a child is asked to do something that needs to be done and sticks out his tongue as he turns his back, it’s sometimes hard to suppress the urge to give that child a spanking. God would be completely justified in hitting us. We’re the most rebellious of them all. He is nothing but good yet we are rarely obedient children. We lie. We kill each other with our words and actions. We reject His call to love and serve and give. We speak out against Him and walk selfishly in our desires. We might as well spit in His face. Oh wait, we did that too. We basically handed Satan all hope of victory. We became the cheapest slaves to fight in the war against God.

But God the Father isn’t human. God doesn’t have any pride and arrogance. He has no ability to lose His temper. He doesn’t smack us. Instead God gives Himself to cover our mistakes. Knowing that because He is perfect the only way to bring us back to His arms would be to cleanse us with perfect blood, HE took the beating. He stood in our way. Justice demands that we pay the price for our selfishness and ignorance of God. Mercy demands nothing from us. God knew we’d fail if we tried to reach Him by our own weak strength, so He lifted the weight off of our shoulders and carried it on His own. Now we can approach the throne of grace with confidence. There’s only one thing we need to do: accept the gift and receive the Holy washing of our broken souls with the perfection of the blood of God Himself.

And Satan screamed. Mankind once again can walk back into the Garden. All was lost for him. All was won for us.

“Your hand reached into the depths of darkness. Your arms pulled me to the light of above.” (Jason Upton, Psalm 23)

How did Jesus Smell? March 7, 2010

There are multiple aspects of God’s great creation that instantly prompt me to adoration of such a brilliant Creator. Neon green algae in the oceans of Mazatlan, the constantly fluctuating blaze of the Northern Lights, the ever-changing intimacy of a sunset, the warmth of my dog, and the regal presence of horses. Recently I’ve had the grand privilege of spending a few weekends at the Camp Shamineau ranch saddling, riding, grooming, and just chillaxing with a multitude of lovely horses. My horse fever has arisen with fervor. But I don’t have to ride to be fulfilled. As much as I adore the feeling of the reins in my hands and stirrups under my boots, simply dwelling in the presence of horses brings joy to my spirit. It is an all-around sensory experience. Their thick winter coats are soft to the touch, the tickle of their lips on my hands makes me giggle, the sound of their fervent sniffing of my pockets for treats is endearing, and the smell of the leather, hay, and fur is calming. Nuzzling up to a giant Percheron, coating my mittens with his loose hairs, and hauling a leather saddle onto his back all bring vibrant scents to my nose.

After of weekend of an enjoyable horse high, I return home to the stifling cities (yes, I’m a complete north woods girl). Walking through the front door of my home causes an instant change of my voice. The moment my eyes glimpse my loving golden puppy, a ridiculous cooing emerges from my throat. It is astounding that my family puts up with my nonsensical adoration of a dog. Typically my belongings fall to the floor, my shoes fly off and in an instant I’m lying on the floor incessantly running my hands through his fluff and burying my face in his coat. Obviously dog smell doesn’t bother me either.

I recently noticed how distinctive each animal scent is. Zach the Percheron and Kory the Golden Retriever do not smell the same at all. When this epiphany dawned on me, (oh, PLEASE don’t laugh too hard) my first thought was: “I wonder how Jesus smells?” You will all be in agreement that different people smell differently. Adolescent boys stink of locker room, Abercrombie models smell overpoweringly of cologne, mothers of infants smell like baby powder, some people smell like Downy, others like Tide, others like campfire smoke or coffee; each distinct and identifiable. Everyone’s house smells unique. Everyone’s car smells unique (especially pizza delivery people). Some scientists even hypothesize that we are subconsciously attracted to people based on their physical scent. So how did Jesus smell?

Being as he lived a life defined by travel, sweat, dust and fresh air probably emanated from him. As he waded into lakes and seas to baptize and preach, salt water clung to his flesh. When he broke bread and distributed it to his followers crumbs fell into his garments. When he knelt before his Father in quiet adoration grass and flowers pressed into his prostrated body. When a prostitute realized her need for redemption her perfume and tears mingled on his feet. When he mixed mud and saliva on the blind man’s eyes the earth clung to his fingers. When a crown of thorns was thrust onto his head, his hair soaked up the wounds. And when his flesh was pierced on Calvary’s peak, his own blood flowed down his body.

So what did he smell like? A man; all blood, sweat and tears. God became man. Fully man. Fully chromosomally structured like us. Fully brimming with warm blood. 90% water. Pumping heart, expanding lungs, stinky feet and all. Jesus was the whole human package. No matter how thoroughly I emphasize his humanity, the thought still blows my mind. The humility of divinity becoming destitute, holiness become filth, is unfathomable. What wisdom inspires such ruin? What brilliance thinks up such a solution to depravity? What depth of love drives such brokenness?

Yet he was divine in nature. He was placed amongst the greatest of society, accused of crimes he did not commit, and kept his mouth closed. The man with the greatest right to defend the senseless words against him didn’t utter a single phrase in the mocking face of his people. Like a sheep he was led to the slaughter. Human blood ran through his veins yet heavenly wisdom propelled his actions.

A horse smells like a horse. A dog smells like a dog. A Savior smells like a human while his actions speak of the unquenchable, perfect, undeniable love that could only be displayed to broken mankind by the Father of Truth.

Clueless (reflections from Mexico #1) February 11, 2010

The day could have been labeled as a typical one. The Mexico City weather proved to hold to the consistent pattern of sunny and 70 degrees. My cold-resistant Minnesota blood had long ago faded into a flow spoiled by the 90’s of Mazatlan deeming a sweatshirt and jeans as appropriate attire. Our familiar 12 passenger van was once again filled with the members of my outreach team as we pulled out of the smog covered populous of the city and headed north. We plugged in the iPod, selected our favorite songs, stopped at an Oxxo gas station for snacks, checked our bags and pockets for the presence of our cameras with a confirmatory pat, and only slightly observed the passing countryside. After an hour of driving, we turned off the freeway following the signs to Teotihuacán. Before long, a large pyramid was spotted on the horizon and our excited banter focused on our observation.

Fast forward an hour or two. Sweatshirt has been removed. Sweat has broken out. I’m lying next to my friends in the sun, attempting to regain the bronze of weeks past. Chatting and snapping some photos for scrapbooks, we chilled and socialized, on top of the third largest pyramid in the world. We took pictures of the hundreds of steps our sore feet had traversed to get to the top. We posed where an altar formally stood.

Rewind a few thousand years. By 600 AD the builders of this great structure had disappeared and the Aztecs explored their ruins, the same Aztecs who believed a constant flow of sacrificial human blood was necessary to keep the sun burning in the sky. They were wrong. I soaked up the warm rays, reclined on the spot where hearts were sliced out of chests. I panted and huffed up the hundreds of steep steps where an unknown number of bodiless heads rolled down (and I thought the climb was tough. At least I wasn’t climbing to my impending decapitation).

Am I missing something? Was my relaxed acceptance of modern tourism slightly sadistic? How clueless was I? I tanned, enjoyed a scenic view, closed my eyes and attempted to doze off next to my friends. I smiled pretty for great facebook profile pics. We just had a grand ole time making a joke out of history. Clueless. The ancients would be dumbfounded. There I was, casually disregarding loss of human life on the altar of their gods.

And here we are, casually disregarding the loss of the fleshly incarnate God. Even the jaws of the Aztecs fell when the Spanish conquistadors explained the significance of the crosses they carried. To a people who constantly sacrificed each other to appease the gods, the idea that a God would sacrifice Himself for the cleansing of lowly humans was astounding. How backward. What Holiness would do that? Aren’t we always supposed to be striving towards goodness by “doing the right thing”? Isn’t God angry and bitter with our stupid screwed up lifestyles? Why in the world would the true God of the Sun come down to us, lay Himself on an altar, and allow the blood to drain from His body to cover our filth? A God that does that must be a God of love, of mercy, filled with fatherly affection for creation.

“He sacrificed for their sins once for all when he offered himself.” Heb 7:27b

BFF February 1, 2010

This afternoon I was diligently continuing the process of moving out of and cleaning my old bedroom. I’ve moved down the hall to bigger and better (and more maturely colored) living space. The drawer of my nightstand sat in front of me and the half-filled storage box to my right. While transferring items from the former to the latter, a few dozen pictures of my old dog appeared, along with her collar, vet records, and my tearstained good bye letter written to her post-death. Why yes, I am a bit of a packrat and a thoroughly sentimental young lady. Sitting, stroking my new blessing of a dog, I briefly reminisced of my childhood character. I was a dramatic child when it came to most things, especially my passionate love for animals. Hundreds (no exaggeration…we counted once) of stuffed friends overflowed from my bed and shelves and were graced with bedtime stories and prayers from me, their “mommy”. I frequently told people that my best friend was my dog, Tiffany. I asked my friends to sign a birthday card for Tiffany on her 10^th birthday; I found it today. I tearfully protested each time my father threw on a camo jacket, grabbed a fishing pole, and headed out for a weekend hunting or fishing adventure. Subsequently, upon his return with frozen meat, I refused to touch or speak to him for at least 24 hours. At age 10, the thought of eating cow made me nearly sick to my stomach and I acquired a vegetarian diet for the following five years. I provided refuge for box elder bugs in the basement closet when asked to squish them. Multiple times over I shared the gospel with Tiffany and adamantly begged her to receive Jesus in her heart. Needless to say, my love for animals far exceeded that of any other human on the planet, and I didn’t give much of a rip for my fellow two-legged mammals.

Sad, isn’t it? A little lame? Silly? Yes. Thankfully, God is molding my childish obsession into the true purpose for which He placed that softness of heart for creation in my spirit. On Friday, I headed up north with 70 of my fellow Fusion (New Hope Church’s young adult community) brothers and sisters for a chilly retreat. Saturday morning we were provided with three hours of silence for an extended, intimate time with the Lord and in His Word. For some unbeknownst reason (that I now know), while packing I had grabbed my fairly worn paperback bilingual bible that had traversed across Mexico with me 2 years ago. While curled up in a stairwell (when I have alone time, I really want alone time) I began paging through the bookmarked pages filled with messy side notes, underlines, smiley faces, and question marks. Verse after verse, note after note, began reminding me of the purpose for which I am called to serve my Savior. The vision God has been developing in me since my emotional, compassionate childhood smacked me in the face. My calling, along with that of each follower and lover of Christ, deeply reflects the heart of God. Here is my journal entry:

“Lead out those who have eyes but are blind, who have ears but are deaf.” Isaiah 43:8 To those who have eyes yet cannot see the beauty of who God is and those who have ears yet are deaf to the glorious truth of His love for us I am called to lead into the shelter of His atonement.

“One generation shall commend Your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts. On the glorious splendor of Your majesty, and on Your wondrous works, I will meditate. They shall speak of the might of Your awesome deeds, and I will declare Your greatness.” Psalm 145:4-6 Followers of Jesus Christ are called to commend His deeds, greatness, acts and splendor to the generations walking behind or perhaps ahead of us.

“For I have derived much joy and comfort from your love, my brother, because the hearts of the saints have been refreshed through you.” Philemon 7 Oh how deeply I desire to always be a comfort, loving supporter, and bearer of refreshment to my fellow brothers and sisters!

“to say to the captives, ‘Come out’ and to those in darkness ‘Be free’” Isaiah 49:9 May chains be broken, may lives be healed, may eyes be opened, as Christ is revealed. May freedom reign in this place, showers of mercy and grace, falling on every face. There is freedom.

Perhaps my childhood compassion wasn’t so far fetched at all. Perhaps the truth of the Gospel was beginning to permeate my heart in such a way that led me to an unquenchable desire to see living things be overwhelmed with love. Tiffany, my BFF, taught me what it means to care for someone with fervency. She allowed me to practice sharing the truth of who God is with her. She patiently sat through my prayers and VBS song recitals. She, along with the box elder bugs, pink teddy bears, and innocent dead walleye in my freezer, was the vessel through which I learned how to show love, in a way only God could have conceived.

Haiti January 14, 2010

YWAMers have a small world. It seems as though we are constantly meeting brothers and sisters from across the globe and building mutual connections all over. My former fellow staff member, Manny, hailed from Haiti and served along side me for much of the time I was in Mazatlan. Just last year we sent a team of DTS students and staff members to Haiti for 2 months. Soon after, YWAM Haiti sent a team of DTS students and staff to our base in Mazatlan, Mexico. Not only did we serve each others countries and YWAM bases, we served each other. I was blessed to meet such wonderful people and share in their cultural heritage. I was blessed (but a little discouraged) to be slaughtered by them in a rousing game of futbol. I was blessed to share midnight swims in the pool with them. I was blessed to serve in the kitchen with them. I was blessed to hear about their mission, vision, and dreams for the people of Haiti.

And I was broken when opening the newspaper this morning. Of course, fear quickly streamed through my system as I read the words “Port-au-Prince in ruins”. I grabbed my laptop and began facebook stalking my friend. Relief flooded over the fear when I discoverd that Manny had been in the Dominican at the time of the quake. Mourning once again took over as I read his status saying this: “I am heading Home tomorrow, searching for my Dad and the rest of my Family… Jeremiah 29:11 (Love you all !!)”. Manny’s hometown is Port-au-Prince.

Next, I googled YWAM Haiti. The base is located in a town about 60 miles from Port-au-Prince and therefore only felt minor effects of the quake. The director has been posting updates and information about their relief efforts on the website (link below).

Thus far, my friends are safe. Thus far, none of them have reported casualties. Thus far, there is still blood on the streets, dust is still arising from the ruins, food and water are still absent, and millions of broken hearts are still in desperate need of comfort.

Let’s pray for Haiti. May God be glorified. “This is my prayer in the desert, when all that’s within me feels dry. This is my prayer in my hunger and need, my God is the God who provides.”

http://www.ywamhaiti.org/NewsCenter/2010EarthquakeUpdates/tabid/2326/Default.aspx

Lying on Cement January 3, 2010

The Minneapolis Star Tribune published a perfect holiday heart-warming tale last week. To briefly summarize, a baby was left on a cement front step 20 years ago. Two fifteen year old kids found her, brought her home, called the police, and gave her a teddy bear. This baby was adopted and raised in a loving home. Twenty years later, a young woman tracks down the names reported in an article concerning her infant rescue. She sends them facebook messages. All three are blessed. A reunion is being planned.

Pathetically, tears filled my eyes throughout my lunchtime reading of this story. I loved seeing the pictures of this beautiful, rescued young woman next to those of her rescuers. Reading about how tenderly a fifteen year old pair of adolescents picked up, carried, and safely provided for a deserted infant hit my soft spot. Apparently I’m a complete sucker for sappy stories. Or so I thought. It didn’t take long for my mind to question my emotions. Picking up and skimming through a local newspaper can provide enough material to provide me with an emotional high while picking up and skimming through a book of the Old Testament often provides little more than a yawn and a “yeah, yeah, I heard this story 2.64 billion times in Sunday School” thought to take a few laps through my mind. The story written by Luke about the brutal crucifixion of my Savior has little sway on my tear ducts yet a story written by some stranger at the Washington Post about another stranded infant instantly brings forth the flood. Not that stranded infants aren’t important and in need of our attention, but what about the 15 people presently surrounding me at Caribou who have no idea how intensely the God of the universe loves them? Little baby Mia was lost and then found. Eternal souls have been lost and then found. But there are a whole lot more squalling, screaming, shivering lives awaiting rescue from the cold, hard cement they’ve been stranded on. Who is going to pick them up? What loving, warm embrace awaits them?

Jesus, besides being the ultimate Rescuer of the lost and lonely, also told a story like that found in the Star Trib. In Luke 15:11-32 we find the commonly retold parable of the Prodigal Son. Not only does this tale frequent the pulpit of many preachers and vibrantly display the love of God to the lost and wandering of this world, it also epitomizes the mission of Jesus: to see the lost be found, the dead raised to life, and the son restored to his Father. This particular son left the loving care of his father and sprinted off towards the sparkly lures of the world. Power, alcohol, sex, money, popularity, hot looks, Abercrombie clothes, new cars, vampire boyfriends, diamond necklaces, hot tubs, classy vacations, 5 bedroom homes, flat screen TVs, and frequent fast food meals sounded (and felt) so great to this guy. Hearing a familiar echo resonating through your heart? Oh yeah.

Unfortunately, this race towards the prestigious finish line ended poorly. It always does. Sprained ankles, dehydrated blood, and weakened muscles become sprained hearts, dehydrated souls, and weakened resolve. Starvation soon follows. Our wandering bodies begin to wither. We yearn for something substantial to sustain us; we eagerly await a vessel of fulfillment for our empty spirits. But so often we have no idea where to find it. This young man searched amongst the swine and solely found a longing for more filth. He fell deeper into the muck. Now, covered with heavily soiled clothes, he remembered the love of a father from long ago. He remembered the feeling of cozy blankets and soft sandals. He remembered the smell and taste of a good ole home cooked meal. He remembered the comfort of an embrace from the one who conceived him. Suddenly, our representative of broken humanity was faced with a choice: stand up, shake of the stench of sin, and begin to walk towards the love emanating from his father’s house or sit, stagnant, and allow the mud to slowly cover every inch of him, ending in suffocation. Guess what option he chose.

Soon after the telling of this story, Jesus Christ submitted His Godly self to man and was hammered to a wooden pole. He was raised up, elevated for all to see. His body hung as a beacon of salvation. The curtain tore. The door into the Holy of Holies was opened, available to all. Children could freely run to their Father. That warm, nurturing home is there. The embrace that we yearn to fall into is awaiting us. It’s there, I promise. Make the choice to run home, just like the prodigal.

“And he arose and came to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him” (Luke 15:20)

 

“For this my son was dead, and he is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to celebrate.” (vs 24)

The world will undeniably desert us. Before you know it the cold of the front step will creep through the thin towels you’re enclosed in. The comfort temporarily found in possessions, wealth, relationships, and power turns into stark, harsh emptiness. Lying on cement, we’ll be lost, yet a Rescuer is on the way. Instead of two teenagers walking home from the 7-Eleven, our savior walked down the dusty roads of Jerusalem carrying a great burden on His shoulders. He saw our lonely souls and came for our salvation. Let Him pick you up and embrace you. Chose him.

Grandpa Bear December 24, 2009

In the late 1970’s my parents built a log cabin on the northern border of Minnesota amidst the stunning forests and lakes of the Gunflint Trail. There, on the shores of Leo Lake, the best memories of my childhood came to pass. Winter involved skiing across the lake pulling sleds piled with gear, cruising through the woods on our ancient snowmobile, and curling up next to the hand-picked stone fireplace. Our extended family would join us frequently, sleeping under the vaulted ceilings of the loft. My grandfather singlehandedly could make each visit an adventure for us kids. He’d sneak up to the loft and begin to growl. Sitting below, flying away on the Swinging Chairs, we would be lost in giggles. The bear was coming out of his cave. We’d squeal as he clomped down the stairs sniffing for his next meal. His façade of grumpiness over being awakened in the midst of hibernation would feed our hysterics. It never got old. Grandpa the Bear was the greatest thing to come out of the north woods.

Grandpa Bear and Christmas. Relation? They are opposites.

God isn’t like my Grandpa. God isn’t sullenly chilling way above us, grumbling over the cries of the noisy people below. As He ascended from His throne to the hysteria below He didn’t moan, frustrated that He was forced out of the comforts of heaven. Baby God didn’t cry out of annoyance. Would the Creator of the universe really enter filth out of obligation?

“Oh man, those people I created really screwed up. I guess I better fix it. Hey Jesus, become a baby. Ready go.”

“Awwww….do I have to??”

Why would He do that? He wouldn’t. No man would make the greatest sacrifice of humbling himself to the point of complete dependence on a young woman, be raised by a simple carpenter, and then be torturously slaughtered as a criminal because he felt like he had to. Only love could perpetuate an act like that. Love, rooted in the heart of a merciful Father, compelled His son to submit to the sinful acts of man. Love brought about the divine conception of a teenage girl. Love birthed itself in a stable surrounded by the evil forces of the Enemy. Love. God doesn’t owe us anything. We owe Him everything. Yet He asked for nothing. He gave. He gave it all. Broken, abused, rejected, alone, despised, murdered all for love.

Christmas is a day of remembrance of that. Remember when Jesus willingly walked away from the Holy throne of Heaven and ran down the steps into the arms of a virgin. He didn’t clomp down like a regretful, vengeful bear. Remember when angels sang the praises to the amazing plan of a sovereign God. They didn’t grumble about how ridiculous it seemed for God to give away everything for us ridiculous folk. Remember when the three scholars bowed before a baby. They didn’t laugh at the stupidity of His sacrifice. Love. Love emanates from the King in a manger.

What king would do that? Earthly kings are like Grandpa Bear. The heavenly King is the opposite. Please read the beautiful lyrics of the song “How Many Kings” by Downhere  (and maybe youtube it to here the music) and be blessed this Christmas by remembering the perfect love of a Holy baby.

Follow the star to a place unexpected
Would you believe after all we’ve projected
A child in a manger

Lowly and small, the weakest of all
Unlikeliness hero, wrapped in his mothers shawl
Just a child
Is this who we’ve waited for?

Cause how many kings, stepped down from their thrones?
How many lords have abandoned their homes?
How many greats have become the least for me?
How many Gods have poured out their hearts
To romance a world that has torn all apart?
How many fathers gave up their sons for me?

Bringing our gifts for the newborn savior
All that we have whether costly or meek
Because we believe
Gold for his honor and frankincense for his pleasure
And myrrh for the cross he’ll suffer
Do you believe, is this who we’ve waited for?
It’s who we’ve waited for

How many kings, stepped down from their thrones?
How many lords have abandoned their homes?
How many greats have become the least for me?
How many Gods have poured out their hearts
To romance a world that has torn all apart?
How many fathers gave up their sons for me?
Only one did that for me

All for me
All for you
All for me
All for you

To A Distant Land… December 22, 2009

Christmas 2007 was spent in Oaxaca, Mexico in an empty YWAM base with my small outreach team of nine. Christmas 2008 was spent in Mazatlan, Mexico with the few fellow staff members who couldn’t go home. Christmas 2009 should feel absolutely magical. Real trees, lights, snow, snot-freezing wind, actual presents, family gatherings, carol singing, church productions, crazy mall sales, stockings, fireplaces, mistletoe, and peanut brittle; my personal list of kinesthetic definitions of Christmas. Instead, I feel the same as I did at Christmas 2006. No extra excitement, no added emotion. The seasonal high that comes with spending too much money, consuming too many sugary treats, viewing gifts with my name on them, attending party after party, listening to the best (and worst) of Christmas songs on the radio and drinking the “Holiday Tea” blend at Caribou has been slightly intoxicating, but nothing above the norm. Forget the two years spent away from my family for all the traditional holidays, it’s all coming back to me now. The tearful nights and long phone conversations of the two December 25^th’s of past are forgotten. Christmas in Minnesota is the same ole Christmas in Minnesota.

My fears of allowing the real meaning of Christmas to fade into forgotten and unrecognizable oblivion have come to pass. In Mexico, Christmas didn’t feel like traditional Christmas. In Minnesota, Christmas doesn’t feel like a celebration of the incarnation of a Savior. For the past two weeks my heart and mind haven’t been in equilibrium. My mind is distracted by sparkling objects. My heart is thirstily yearning for an emotional response to the birth of Jesus. My bank account is kept busy by multiple withdrawals while my bible collects dust on my nightstand. Glancing out the window of my “regular” Caribou, the reality of consumerism smacks me across the face. Minivans, SUVs, and Audis cruise past on missions to Cub, Target, Burger King and tanning salons. Go away. So I close my eyes. I want to disappear.  

Yesterday I spent over an hour cramped beneath tables and chairs draped in blankets of patchwork color a.k.a a fort. This particular fort proved to be a great many things (good ole forts!): a submarine, a dog kennel, and a time machine. In the midst of our frantic escape from the time of dinosaurs, a brilliant idea overtook me. Let’s travel through time to when Jesus was born! It was a purely selfish suggestion. For a moment, I wanted nothing more than for someone to join me in closing my eyes and placing myself on the hills outside of Bethlehem. I wanted an excuse to excitedly describe the image of myriads of angels pouring out of the heavens. I yearned to glance down into a manger and smile into the face of a world changing babe. I wanted to allow my imagination to export my 20 year old self out of the pressures, expectations, and maturity demands of society and enter innocence. Falling back into the moment when Holiness entered brokenness was my sole desire.

Let everything else fade away, and quickly. Go away you worldly distractions. Flee from me you consumerist lies. Drive fast out of sight you flashy cars. Hide in the stockings you unnecessary gifts. Never play again you Christmas Shoes song.

Suddenly I’m tearfully mourning how far removed we are from the stable. Yes, perhaps my desire to time travel to Bethlehem 2,000 years ago is purely a selfish craving for the “right” emotional high during the Christmas season, but as I turn my gaze towards the window once again, I want the world to join me. Six billion people can fit on the hilltops, right? The sheep will share their feeding grounds. The shepherds will prove to be hospitable hosts. The stable can be expanded. The silent night can be interrupted by the soft gasps of wonderment and joy of billions of leaping spirits. More blankets and tables can be added to the basement time machine. More chains can be broken, more lives can be healed, more eyes can be opened as Christ is revealed.*

Come with me. Build yourself a time machine this Christmas. Close your eyes, even in the midst of the holiday craze, push a few imaginary buttons, and travel back to the starry night. Glance up at the blazing beacon of heavenly wonder, listen to the angels cry out “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among those with whom He is pleased”, bend your head to rest your eyes on the simple, innocent, chubby-checked face of baby God, and tow someone along with you.

*From the song “You’ll Come” by Brooke Fraser