Like the sun at the centre of our solar system, so Christ at the centre of our lives allows us to make sense of the many things that impinge upon our existence. Of course, we cannot fully work out all that God allows. To be able to do that would mean that mere man could understand and explain God. What kind of God would that make Him?
Jesus Christ is not a guru. He is not some nameless ethereal entity, but the Lord of all who can be known and be known intimately. Furthermore, He wants me to know that He knows me, intimately. As such He wants to speak with me, converse like old friends. In fact, He wants to sit upon the porch of our lives and for us to watch the sun go down together. At such times, words are not necessary, only presence.
My wife and I spent the last six weeks in England. While old friends made us welcome, the snow did all it could to freeze out our plans. In some instances it succeeded, forcing a change, or at least a postponement, of intentions. Inevitably, such proved frustrating as control was wrested from our grasp by an imprisoning period of weather. So much of those periods of postponement were wasted. With the benefit of perfect retrospective vision I can now see opportunities for porch time. Instead? Being human (lousy excuse, I know), I did human things like trying to catch up on some of the work I took with me. Conclusion: practically beneficial, but very little porch time. Do you think I might have missed the obvious?
When the white blanket was drawn back, we carried on with our plans without so much as a “by your leave”. It is a good thing that Jesus is omnipresent. The amount of times I would have left Him behind if He was not is a frightening fact of my life.
I find Him amazing. He never gets offended or gives me the silent treatment as is the wont of so many. No, quite the opposite. In fact, as a Sunday sailed serenely into view with the realization of ministry on that day, He was ready to assist me in my patchy, at best, preparations. I have always felt so inadequate as regards preparation. Please do not get me wrong, I can do the technical stuff. You know: dictionaries, concordances, commentaries, books, anecdotes. It is that prayer preparation that gets me every time.
Those who raised me in the Kingdom and others I have observed would, seemingly, pray for hours before preaching and teaching in any context. Me? Oh, once I have hunted down and captured my thoughts I will pray until the next mass break out of my mental inmates. My mind, for whatever reason, is not the greatest high security facility. Things seem to get lost inside and much of what remains finds holes in the fence to make good their escape. End of prayer time. Hunt, capture, recommence.
You know, the amazing thing is that He comes through on the Sunday morning every time; each Bible School lecture, Fellowship Bible study, Sunday service, conferences small or otherwise, He shows up and makes me look really good, quite together, not a little eloquent and, on occasion, reasonably funny. He loves me and those He has called to hear what He has to say through me. A miracle.
Jesus is real to me when I am real with myself. I really want to do my best. Honestly, I want to be able to teach and preach so well that no one, no matter how hard they try, could possibly miss the point. You see, that desire sums up my humanity. Wanting what I cannot have and not surrendering to the fact that without Jesus at the centre, I cannot even begin to make a dent in such a desire.
So, how do I make sense of it all? It is a good thing that Jesus was a carpenter, so I can think of life in terms of His workshop: hammers, chisels, saws, planes. Without His hands upon them, they are merely inanimate tools. Good quality tools, no doubt, manufactured in the finest factories with the best components, but, for all that, still inanimate. However, when His hands take hold, His creativity flows in and through them.
What begins as an idea in His mind, flows through His skilful hands and makes the tool do what it could never do. The tool does not prepare, but it is available.
My lesson? Stay available, keep close to the porch as there will be time to talk and wait for His hands.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Christ at the storm's centre
It is all well and good speaking about keeping Christ at the centre of our lives. What we have shared together in the last few blogs makes good teaching, even if I say so myself. However, how does it all work out in practice? After all, teaching is only worthwhile if it is practical and applicable to our daily lives with its challenges, victories and disappointments.
Towards the end of December 2006, I was hit by two completely unexpected events: the death of my mother-in-law and the discovery, at the age of forty-seven, that I was adopted as a baby and had lived in ignorance of the fact until that fateful moment of discovery.
As my late mother-in-law was a Christ-centred believer, the fact of her passing, or, preferably, her promotion, coupled with the great hope of the resurrection and the knowledge that once one has left the body one is present with the Lord, softened the impact of our loss.
The news of my adoption, on the other hand, was not a blow lightened by anything at all. To find out that one has lived the best part of half a century in a lie is not an experience I would wish upon anyone. It is not overstating the issue to say that everything that I had relied upon as fact disappeared like a morning mist being vapourised by the rising sun. Everything, that is, except the Saviour at the centre of my life – the Lord Jesus Christ.
Had He not been there (by invitation) there would have been very little to hold on to that could have been relied upon. Do not get me wrong, my marriage is very secure and successful. My wife has been my helpmeet, and, at times, someone I could lean upon and at others one who could lead the temporary blind and often deaf.
Every story I had been told by the person I believed to be my father, every tale delivered by my newly revealed adoptive mother were thrown into immediate and extreme doubt. Heritage, inheritance, genes and all that one associates with biological family were now an area of confusion and doubt.
What was I to do? What was I meant to think? Was there a particular way one was expected to respond to such unsettling news? Questions. Possible answers were dashing across my cloud-covered consciousness so fast that I could not apprehend them. They teased me from behind clouds of doubt and confusion, playing a ghoulish game of hide and seek.
In the midst of it all, from the moment of finding out and the hours and days that followed, there was one constant, one isle of stability, one rock of salvation. In amongst the shouting voices, the onrush of guilt and the collapse of supposed truth, there stood a Hiding Place and His Name was Jesus.
In the confused tangle of this emotional tumult, He stood. His face was that of compassion, His heart vulnerable to my hurt. I did not need to assume a particular posture or recite a preset mantra or regurgitate some positive confession nor, unbelievably, did I have to rebuke any demons or other nasties. All I had to do to secure Divine help, fellowship and comfort was to be honest, vulnerable and willing for Him to take the load, take my hand and take the lead.
Finding out such a vital truth about one’s origins so late in life (relatively speaking) is a big thing. Emotions can be strong; feelings of betrayal can be demanding taskmasters. Every element within wants to rise in rebellion, wants to stir the waters of life into a raging tempest; the tyranny of bitterness seeks to secure the throne. All seems lost until He stands and says, “Peace, be still”.
For Him to speak to the storm, He needs to be in our boat. He can and will only come aboard by personal invitation. When my life erupted into a storm of doubt, uncertainty and betrayal, He that was invited aboard took control when I stepped aside.
Towards the end of December 2006, I was hit by two completely unexpected events: the death of my mother-in-law and the discovery, at the age of forty-seven, that I was adopted as a baby and had lived in ignorance of the fact until that fateful moment of discovery.
As my late mother-in-law was a Christ-centred believer, the fact of her passing, or, preferably, her promotion, coupled with the great hope of the resurrection and the knowledge that once one has left the body one is present with the Lord, softened the impact of our loss.
The news of my adoption, on the other hand, was not a blow lightened by anything at all. To find out that one has lived the best part of half a century in a lie is not an experience I would wish upon anyone. It is not overstating the issue to say that everything that I had relied upon as fact disappeared like a morning mist being vapourised by the rising sun. Everything, that is, except the Saviour at the centre of my life – the Lord Jesus Christ.
Had He not been there (by invitation) there would have been very little to hold on to that could have been relied upon. Do not get me wrong, my marriage is very secure and successful. My wife has been my helpmeet, and, at times, someone I could lean upon and at others one who could lead the temporary blind and often deaf.
Every story I had been told by the person I believed to be my father, every tale delivered by my newly revealed adoptive mother were thrown into immediate and extreme doubt. Heritage, inheritance, genes and all that one associates with biological family were now an area of confusion and doubt.
What was I to do? What was I meant to think? Was there a particular way one was expected to respond to such unsettling news? Questions. Possible answers were dashing across my cloud-covered consciousness so fast that I could not apprehend them. They teased me from behind clouds of doubt and confusion, playing a ghoulish game of hide and seek.
In the midst of it all, from the moment of finding out and the hours and days that followed, there was one constant, one isle of stability, one rock of salvation. In amongst the shouting voices, the onrush of guilt and the collapse of supposed truth, there stood a Hiding Place and His Name was Jesus.
In the confused tangle of this emotional tumult, He stood. His face was that of compassion, His heart vulnerable to my hurt. I did not need to assume a particular posture or recite a preset mantra or regurgitate some positive confession nor, unbelievably, did I have to rebuke any demons or other nasties. All I had to do to secure Divine help, fellowship and comfort was to be honest, vulnerable and willing for Him to take the load, take my hand and take the lead.
Finding out such a vital truth about one’s origins so late in life (relatively speaking) is a big thing. Emotions can be strong; feelings of betrayal can be demanding taskmasters. Every element within wants to rise in rebellion, wants to stir the waters of life into a raging tempest; the tyranny of bitterness seeks to secure the throne. All seems lost until He stands and says, “Peace, be still”.
For Him to speak to the storm, He needs to be in our boat. He can and will only come aboard by personal invitation. When my life erupted into a storm of doubt, uncertainty and betrayal, He that was invited aboard took control when I stepped aside.
Monday, December 21, 2009
A challenge
For those believers who have committed themselves to the visions of their local congregations, there are often demands that are inconvenient, requests that are expensive, calls to duty that are seemingly unpleasant. When next you hear the call to arms for a prayer meeting, outreach or mission and you are tempted to give it a miss, you may want to bear in mind the lessons contained in this following allegory.
AN ALLEGORY
The army of darkness gathered on the field of battle flushed with confidence as they surveyed their swelling ranks. The putrid smell of arrogance wafted over the plain towards the battalion of light gathered on the other side.
Along the lines of light, the brave shuffled uneasily as they noted the gaps in their ranks. Each one looked nervously over their shoulder to see the empty space they hoped would not be there.
The mocking chants of the self-assured carried to the army of light on an ill-wind threatening the death and destruction of dreams.
Time moved on, whittling away at the vain hope of more soldiers joining the lines of light. The fell ranks of darkness howled derision that added to the despair of the waiting.
Tension mounted, the clock ticked louder but the battle was not to be joined by others. The horror of war gathered as a cloud over the gap-toothed ranks of light. Tonight one would fight for three.
The question “Why?” arose in the resigned throats of light. “Why could they not come and make this field of death a harvest of life?”
The resounding tramp of ten thousand feet marching in unison across the land seized the attention of the thin line of light. Each soldier grasped his shield of faith and sword of the spirit and waited, each one trying to fill the place of three.
The self-assured marching feet bore down on certain victory over so few. This few would have been many had their comrades-in-arms not been held willingly captive by the new, the “It was only this once”, the transient.
As the clash of arms resounded through heaven and earth, the absent heard the amplified question “Why? Why are you not with us, beloved? Why do you not want to stand with us who die for you tonight?” Each of the missing replied with a clarity that denied the clash of steel its voice, “I am weary”; “I want to see what will happen in another field – just this once, I promise.”
The missing justified their words with reasonings of “It’s only once, how can it hurt? Tomorrow I will return.” Heaven shook with the resonance of truth, “What do you know of tomorrow?”
On the field the valiant few fought with fury, driving back the nightmares of hell with thrusts, parries and strikes. Soldiers fought for themselves and for the missing – one sword doing the work of three. Each became triple tired, thrice fatigued in the battle to save the missing.
Suddenly, silence.
The crawling mist of battle began to part across the bloody field. The small line of light still stands, though bloodied, worn and tired. The small battalion still stands…for now. Will they last another fight when wielding the sword for the willingly missing?
AN ALLEGORY
The army of darkness gathered on the field of battle flushed with confidence as they surveyed their swelling ranks. The putrid smell of arrogance wafted over the plain towards the battalion of light gathered on the other side.
Along the lines of light, the brave shuffled uneasily as they noted the gaps in their ranks. Each one looked nervously over their shoulder to see the empty space they hoped would not be there.
The mocking chants of the self-assured carried to the army of light on an ill-wind threatening the death and destruction of dreams.
Time moved on, whittling away at the vain hope of more soldiers joining the lines of light. The fell ranks of darkness howled derision that added to the despair of the waiting.
Tension mounted, the clock ticked louder but the battle was not to be joined by others. The horror of war gathered as a cloud over the gap-toothed ranks of light. Tonight one would fight for three.
The question “Why?” arose in the resigned throats of light. “Why could they not come and make this field of death a harvest of life?”
The resounding tramp of ten thousand feet marching in unison across the land seized the attention of the thin line of light. Each soldier grasped his shield of faith and sword of the spirit and waited, each one trying to fill the place of three.
The self-assured marching feet bore down on certain victory over so few. This few would have been many had their comrades-in-arms not been held willingly captive by the new, the “It was only this once”, the transient.
As the clash of arms resounded through heaven and earth, the absent heard the amplified question “Why? Why are you not with us, beloved? Why do you not want to stand with us who die for you tonight?” Each of the missing replied with a clarity that denied the clash of steel its voice, “I am weary”; “I want to see what will happen in another field – just this once, I promise.”
The missing justified their words with reasonings of “It’s only once, how can it hurt? Tomorrow I will return.” Heaven shook with the resonance of truth, “What do you know of tomorrow?”
On the field the valiant few fought with fury, driving back the nightmares of hell with thrusts, parries and strikes. Soldiers fought for themselves and for the missing – one sword doing the work of three. Each became triple tired, thrice fatigued in the battle to save the missing.
Suddenly, silence.
The crawling mist of battle began to part across the bloody field. The small line of light still stands, though bloodied, worn and tired. The small battalion still stands…for now. Will they last another fight when wielding the sword for the willingly missing?
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