They thought they were coming to pay taxes. Mary and Joseph. As they journeyed to Bethlehem. Taxes. And what an inconvenient time, too. Mary's baby was almost due. They had not read the prophecy and schemed to make it come true. They just lived their lives and let God lead them. Prophecy is important and beautiful, it is a light for us in dark places. It is a verification that God's word is true. But some Christians drive themselves, and others, crazy straining to see fulfillment, dissecting every news article for hints, picking the passages apart letter by letter. They have turned the blessing of prophecy into a burden.
Our job is to read and study it, not make it happen. In the gospels we see prophecies about Christ spoken by unbelievers determined to kill him. We should share prophecy, but not as if it is some secret, Gnostic knowledge only a few are clever enough to understand. Or as a way to scare unbelievers into heaven. The problem is, we are naturally biased to see life through the lens of our own time, nation and self importance. With prophecy, as in so many other areas, we tend to see what we want to see. False proclamations of dates and identifications of Antichrists, make Christians, and Christ Himself, look foolish. Maybe we should just be like Mary and Joseph, live our lives, pay
our taxes, and let God's sovereignty work out the events that will
fulfill His Story.
Friday, December 28, 2018
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
The Manufacturer's Specifications
My husband is an aircraft mechanic. He has thick books of instructions for the use and maintenance of each aircraft. The pilots also have manuals and go to school for certification before they can fly the plane. The manufacturer determines when components must be examined, repaired or replaced and how their aircraft is to be used. There are no manuals stating "Do whatever feels best to you." We, too, have a manufacturer. He is called God. And He has specifications for how his creation and creatures are to function. The animals and galaxy do not seem to have trouble with those rules. We humans do. In spite of that, He has the right, as our manufacturer, to make those decisions. And He has the right motive because He loves us and desires what is best for us.
My husband's manuals are continually updating. God's does not. It is called the Bible. It records many times His expertly crafted people decided to fly by the seat of their pants, as we do now. No one wants to ride in an airplane maintained to standards the mechanic merely feels good about, we want to know it is safe to fly. If airplanes were crashing due to lax standards, the solution would not be a media campaign to lower our expectations about safety. Trying to normalize plane crashes by showing them as part of everyday life in television episodes or advertising would not make them acceptable.
Abuse of God's standards is seldom as public or dramatic as a plane crash, but also results in wrecked relationships, lives and even death. Of course, many today deny the existence of a Manufacturer, much less His right to determine our standards. So who does have that right? Certainly not the majority, because our whole culture is being hijacked by the demands of the few in the name of social justice or political correctness. So if the majority is not, and the minority should not, set standards for the rest of us, who has that authority? Even the supposed Big Bang does not have the power to bang out moral standards for its by-product beings. Governments are corrupt, individuals are selfish and lazy. We have thrown out the maintenance manual, traded our compassionate captain for an aimlessness autopilot, and we wonder why our journey no longer feels safe. The problem is, when we reject the Manufacturer's specifications, there are no suitable replacements. We are flying blind.
My husband's manuals are continually updating. God's does not. It is called the Bible. It records many times His expertly crafted people decided to fly by the seat of their pants, as we do now. No one wants to ride in an airplane maintained to standards the mechanic merely feels good about, we want to know it is safe to fly. If airplanes were crashing due to lax standards, the solution would not be a media campaign to lower our expectations about safety. Trying to normalize plane crashes by showing them as part of everyday life in television episodes or advertising would not make them acceptable.
Abuse of God's standards is seldom as public or dramatic as a plane crash, but also results in wrecked relationships, lives and even death. Of course, many today deny the existence of a Manufacturer, much less His right to determine our standards. So who does have that right? Certainly not the majority, because our whole culture is being hijacked by the demands of the few in the name of social justice or political correctness. So if the majority is not, and the minority should not, set standards for the rest of us, who has that authority? Even the supposed Big Bang does not have the power to bang out moral standards for its by-product beings. Governments are corrupt, individuals are selfish and lazy. We have thrown out the maintenance manual, traded our compassionate captain for an aimlessness autopilot, and we wonder why our journey no longer feels safe. The problem is, when we reject the Manufacturer's specifications, there are no suitable replacements. We are flying blind.
Sunday, December 16, 2018
After My Own
Our family gave up on cutting our own Christmas tree years ago after a few disastrous attempts spending hours trying to locate that great tree the guys spotted while hunting, only to discover that while it looked good when being used as a restroom, it was not suitable for the living room. After spending hours on our futile family search, we would wind up buying a tree from a local lot a few minutes from our house. Those experiences helped us build memories as a family--but not good ones. So I suggested we skip the memorable misery and buy a tree like the city dwellers we actually are instead of wilderness family wannabes. Because my husband and son have been working weekends, I went after the tree on my own this year. All the trees were beautifully shaped and full branched, but most of them were no taller than my meager 5'4" height. It just seems wrong to be eye to eye with the angel on the treetop. Then I discovered a taller one tucked away in the back without any obvious defects.
What I did not notice before bringing it home, was its severe scoliosis of the trunk. My husband managed to make it rest mostly straight in the tree stand and secured it to the ceiling with fishing line, so we did not have to counterbalance the sway by hanging heavy ornaments on one side. From the living room it looks symmetrical, from the kitchen it looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Not that I'm complaining, I have scoliosis too. David was a man after God's own heart, this is a tree after my own spine.
What touched my heart was that, as I was hanging the ornaments, Tracy remembered that we always played Christmas carols on decorating night. So he chose some of his music, groups he liked, but arrangements he thought I would like, those with more guitar work and less screaming. I was surprised to discover, when I was raising teenagers, that they want you to appreciate their music. Not enjoy it--that would ruin the whole independent/rebel thing--just appreciate it. I tried to then. I do now. But most of all, I appreciated that he remembered our tradition. And, perhaps, this son after my own heart will carry it on, after my own years of trimming the tree are gone.
What I did not notice before bringing it home, was its severe scoliosis of the trunk. My husband managed to make it rest mostly straight in the tree stand and secured it to the ceiling with fishing line, so we did not have to counterbalance the sway by hanging heavy ornaments on one side. From the living room it looks symmetrical, from the kitchen it looks like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Not that I'm complaining, I have scoliosis too. David was a man after God's own heart, this is a tree after my own spine.
What touched my heart was that, as I was hanging the ornaments, Tracy remembered that we always played Christmas carols on decorating night. So he chose some of his music, groups he liked, but arrangements he thought I would like, those with more guitar work and less screaming. I was surprised to discover, when I was raising teenagers, that they want you to appreciate their music. Not enjoy it--that would ruin the whole independent/rebel thing--just appreciate it. I tried to then. I do now. But most of all, I appreciated that he remembered our tradition. And, perhaps, this son after my own heart will carry it on, after my own years of trimming the tree are gone.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Come As You Are
When I went to Bible study today, it was a come as you are party for me. Our power went out just before I got into the shower. My shower today was a makeup remover wipe. Fortunately I had washed my hair the day before, so it did not require a curling iron. I am certainly not known for my high maintenance hair style. Some might assume I don't even own a curling iron. And there was just enough daylight to apply minimal makeup, so I didn't look like I just got out of the hospital.
Although, how I looked at Bible study would have been a moot point if our new garage door opener did not have a backup battery. During previous power failures I learned that, though I can open the door manually, it will not stay open so I can back the car out. If I had been more alert, I would have backed out my car while Tracy was still home to hold up the door. But a makeup remover wipe simply doesn't clear the cobwebs from my mind as well as my morning shower does. However, God in his providence took care of this deficiency months ahead of time, when we replaced our garage door opener with one that has a backup battery. Isn't sovereignty sweet?
Wouldn't it be wonderful if more Christian gatherings were come as you are parties? Places where we felt free to be our messy, imperfect selves. In our BSF group discussions, we do share our needs and struggles, but you would never guess our lives were anything less than perfect by how we look on the outside. Yet Jesus' invitations are always come as you are. We have no choice. Before His Spirit fills us, we have no power to be anything other than the messed up mortals we are. And there is no point fixing up our outsides because He isn't looking at them. He sees our heart. If our churches could be places where the poor in spirit, those who don't have it all together, could feel at home, what power we would have to change our world. The unfailing power Jesus gives those who come as they are to become like He is.
Although, how I looked at Bible study would have been a moot point if our new garage door opener did not have a backup battery. During previous power failures I learned that, though I can open the door manually, it will not stay open so I can back the car out. If I had been more alert, I would have backed out my car while Tracy was still home to hold up the door. But a makeup remover wipe simply doesn't clear the cobwebs from my mind as well as my morning shower does. However, God in his providence took care of this deficiency months ahead of time, when we replaced our garage door opener with one that has a backup battery. Isn't sovereignty sweet?
Wouldn't it be wonderful if more Christian gatherings were come as you are parties? Places where we felt free to be our messy, imperfect selves. In our BSF group discussions, we do share our needs and struggles, but you would never guess our lives were anything less than perfect by how we look on the outside. Yet Jesus' invitations are always come as you are. We have no choice. Before His Spirit fills us, we have no power to be anything other than the messed up mortals we are. And there is no point fixing up our outsides because He isn't looking at them. He sees our heart. If our churches could be places where the poor in spirit, those who don't have it all together, could feel at home, what power we would have to change our world. The unfailing power Jesus gives those who come as they are to become like He is.
Butterball for Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. All it asks of us is food and gratitude. No need to buy gifts, just groceries. Those come already wrapped. Decorating is usually confined to the dining room. And since cooking for people is my love language, Thanksgiving is an endorphin feast for me. Naturally, I served turkey, but that is not the butterball the title refers to. The butterball formed when the butter in my Toll House pie ran over, burned on the bottom of my oven, and turned into a smoke bomb. How could something that tastes so good smell so bad? I removed the pie as early as possible, but by then the damage was done and the turkey was not. Not only could I not turn off the oven, I had to turn it up 25 degrees to cook the carrot souffle and glazed yams. When I opened the oven door, it belched out tear gas worthy of Macgyver. As in, "We need a weapon! Forget the household chemicals, do you have any butter?"
So, in the spirit of making our home welcoming (ala Martha Stewart), we opened the doors--and several windows. Martha, no doubt, would have used more decorative fans to dispel the smoke than we did, and probably would have come up with a better party theme than crematorium. Thank goodness I decided to cook the turkey in an oven bag. Butter is good. Smoked turkey is good. But butter smoked turkey is not. The house still smelled a little funky when company arrived, but the food and conversation were good. One of the discussion topics was ways I might use my oven's self cleaning feature without creating a flambe feature. You Tube had videos of people using baking soda to clean their oven, but being both creative and lazy, I used Coke. It loosened enough of the bitter butter to use the self clean cycle without having to stand by holding a fire extinguisher.
Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday, but note to self for next year--Use deeper pie plate for the Toll House pie. Then maybe next year the butterball can actually be the turkey.
So, in the spirit of making our home welcoming (ala Martha Stewart), we opened the doors--and several windows. Martha, no doubt, would have used more decorative fans to dispel the smoke than we did, and probably would have come up with a better party theme than crematorium. Thank goodness I decided to cook the turkey in an oven bag. Butter is good. Smoked turkey is good. But butter smoked turkey is not. The house still smelled a little funky when company arrived, but the food and conversation were good. One of the discussion topics was ways I might use my oven's self cleaning feature without creating a flambe feature. You Tube had videos of people using baking soda to clean their oven, but being both creative and lazy, I used Coke. It loosened enough of the bitter butter to use the self clean cycle without having to stand by holding a fire extinguisher.
Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday, but note to self for next year--Use deeper pie plate for the Toll House pie. Then maybe next year the butterball can actually be the turkey.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
My Delight
Every year our church holds a Thanksgiving service where, instead of a sermon, members share what the Lord has taught or done for them in the past year. Obviously there is not time for all 400 people to share. And there is a difference between having something to share and feeling led to share. More often than not, I do not feel led. This year I made it clear til 12:05 without being prompted to share, although the default praise in the back of my mind was my gratitude for the medical technology which made Reed's kidney surgery a same day, one puncture procedure instead of the big incision, weeks of recovery ordeal it was in the past. At 12:05 the leader laughingly said since Pastor Peter is never finished preaching by then anyway, we would go a little longer. My heart started pounding, which is the Holy Spirit's cue that I am supposed to share. There is no way to unpound a heart and there is no point in delaying since I won't enjoy what other people have to say until I obey the prompting. But the same Spirit who annoyed me into sharing, also led me not to share about Reed's surgery, but something more personal.
A few weeks ago Peter's sermon was about the Holy Spirit indwelling us. On the way home in the car, I told the Lord that indwelling me must be the most boring, depressing reality show ever. The Spirit immediately impressed into my mind "It is my delight". Delight? That seemed inexplicable to me until I thought about my granddaughter. She could come to me with a runny nose, dirty diaper and food in her hair and I would still be delighted to see her. At a year and a half she is not a brilliant conversationalist, yet I love nearly every sound that comes out of her mouth. And if I can love enough to feel that way about her, surely our loving Father is capable of feeling delight in me.
As a rule, I seldom tell others about the messages the Holy Spirit gives me. It feels too personal somehow, like sharing a love letter out loud. But when the Messenger tells me to share, it would be wrong to keep it to myself. So now I send this message from the Holy Spirit to you--to His Delight, with mine.
A few weeks ago Peter's sermon was about the Holy Spirit indwelling us. On the way home in the car, I told the Lord that indwelling me must be the most boring, depressing reality show ever. The Spirit immediately impressed into my mind "It is my delight". Delight? That seemed inexplicable to me until I thought about my granddaughter. She could come to me with a runny nose, dirty diaper and food in her hair and I would still be delighted to see her. At a year and a half she is not a brilliant conversationalist, yet I love nearly every sound that comes out of her mouth. And if I can love enough to feel that way about her, surely our loving Father is capable of feeling delight in me.
As a rule, I seldom tell others about the messages the Holy Spirit gives me. It feels too personal somehow, like sharing a love letter out loud. But when the Messenger tells me to share, it would be wrong to keep it to myself. So now I send this message from the Holy Spirit to you--to His Delight, with mine.
Thursday, November 22, 2018
"My Way" Robbery
When my children were approaching their teens, a time when many second generation Christians become rebellious, I prayed that the Lord would not let that happen to mine. I knew many of my friends were in that situation, but I didn't think I would be able to bear it. One of the things I did not yet understand is that there is no such thing as hypothetical grace. God gives us his grace for the reality of need, not just the possibility. The other thing I did not know was what a huge blessing that troubled time in my son's life would be in mine. The greatest blessings of my spiritual life have come to me through my son's addiction.
All my Christian life I had longed for an experience like Hagar had in the wilderness when she realized God saw her, knew her struggle and provided help. She named the well He provided Beer-lahai-roi, well of the living God who sees me. My wilderness was at the side of the road on the way to addiction treatment. As soon as my son said, "I will never believe in God because I can't see Him and He can't see me.", a car pulled up behind us, a believer sent by God to encourage us. After decades as a Christian, God settled the matter once and for all, I knew for certain--the living God sees me. And that has been a blessing not only for us, but for the many with whom I have shared that story since.
When we started this journey through my son's addiction, I told God I needed him to be real, as real as the view from my window and the furniture in my room. And I needed to hear from Him, not generically through His word, but specific guidance for our situation. God answered that prayer by His Spirit's words impressed in my mind. These messages were seldom what I wanted to hear, but they were what I needed to. Even now, after the crisis has passed and our family reaps the benefits of our son's sobriety, the intimate communication between myself and the Spirit continues.
If God had answered my prayer for stray proof children as I asked, I would have missed the greatest spiritual blessings of my life--our encounter with God, deep intimacy with the Spirit. And all these blessings came to me through my straying son. Blessings I would have robbed myself of if God had done things my way.
All my Christian life I had longed for an experience like Hagar had in the wilderness when she realized God saw her, knew her struggle and provided help. She named the well He provided Beer-lahai-roi, well of the living God who sees me. My wilderness was at the side of the road on the way to addiction treatment. As soon as my son said, "I will never believe in God because I can't see Him and He can't see me.", a car pulled up behind us, a believer sent by God to encourage us. After decades as a Christian, God settled the matter once and for all, I knew for certain--the living God sees me. And that has been a blessing not only for us, but for the many with whom I have shared that story since.
When we started this journey through my son's addiction, I told God I needed him to be real, as real as the view from my window and the furniture in my room. And I needed to hear from Him, not generically through His word, but specific guidance for our situation. God answered that prayer by His Spirit's words impressed in my mind. These messages were seldom what I wanted to hear, but they were what I needed to. Even now, after the crisis has passed and our family reaps the benefits of our son's sobriety, the intimate communication between myself and the Spirit continues.
If God had answered my prayer for stray proof children as I asked, I would have missed the greatest spiritual blessings of my life--our encounter with God, deep intimacy with the Spirit. And all these blessings came to me through my straying son. Blessings I would have robbed myself of if God had done things my way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)