Gospel proclamation will be foundational to any spiritually thriving group of worshippers. I am a firm believer of this. And while I would never force one particular method upon someone, I am a strong proponent of going from Creation to Christ. What a beautiful picture we have from the Father of creation, fall, redemption, and restoration, the perfect end to His perfect plan. This is a major goal of mine: to be able to present this story in Arabic. I want so badly for people to see the big picture of God's goodness, faithfulness, and eternal plan culminating in both, not either/or, mercy and justice.
So when I write that my greatest experience, to date, in North Africa was not built on the Creation to Cross story it might come as a surprise. At the very least, it shocked me like that electric fence I was in too much of a hurry to notice (true story). In lieu of using my usual story, I inadvertently stumbled into what I never considered an option: the Nietzsche to Christ model.
On a normal day, in a normal restaurant, under normal circumstances I sat waiting for my lunch. After sharing the usual small talk and joking around with friends, I had settled in at my small table on the second floor. And as was my custom, I began to read. And what book was I reading when my friend reappeared? None other than Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morality.
Now why is it that I still expect God to do the expected? For some reason I simply refuse to believe that God does big things without consulting me first. Here I am always wanting him to stay true to my plans and provisions when His have been made long before. I smugly wait for him to use all my confounding theological and philosophical arguments, thinking for some reason that they've never been thrown down in an argument before. I suppose, at the very least, I expect him to give me a heads up before he does something that rocks my whole world.
But, of course, God waited for His moment. And His moment wasn't as I read Tolstoy with his winsome development and portrayal of the human character marked by its sundry deficiencies. It wasn't while I read Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov with its vast and deep panorama of redemption. Nor in the midst of Newbigin's treatise on applying the gospel to postmodernism did God open the door. He waited for Nietzsche, the guy who claimed He was dead! The anti-God, anti-Christianity, anti-metaphysical, even, philosopher who inadvertently contributed to the rise of Nazism.
"Hey! You're food's ready. What is that you're reading?" He approached me, surprisingly curious.
"Oh, its just a book on philosophy," I said indicating the book he now held in his hands investigating, "I was just doing some studying."
"What does this man say?" he asked.
Attempting to dismiss the conversation, I briefly explained some of Nietzsche's major points on how to evaluate and assign meaning to morality. "He is just talking a lot about how we can decide what is good and bad," I concluded, hoping to move away from the technical language that philosophy would inevitably entail.
And then he asked the question that marked the conversational turning point: "Don't you know what is good and bad?"
Still not fully realizing the opportunity presented to me, I quickly scanned the room. Finding that my friend and I were alone, I answered hesitantly, "Well, I know what God says is right and wrong through the Kitab M'qudus (Holy Book), but its good to read those who don't believe like me so I can understand how the world thinks. But I believe and trust the Kitab M'qudus. And you have the Qu'ran to tell this as well, right?" I watched him hoping for further interest, but expecting yet another verbal lashing about how there is no one but Muhammad and the Bible is ridiculous and changed and wrong and full of lies, etc, etc, etc.
"The Kitab M'qudus?," he answered slowly, then more directly, "Well there is the Qu'ran, but I have the New Testament."
My eyes did the talking for me, "WHAT!?" Any remnant of passivity and nonchalance dripped from my face as I turned pale. As though I had drifted off, I attempted to refix my gaze and restore my mouth from its gaping state. Any attempt to suppress this immense upheaval of emotion was met with miserable failure. Awkwardly, I turned my wide, beaming eyes to the floor, diminished an aggressive grin to a sort of half-smirk, and brought my voice down a pitch or two, "Did you say New Testament???"
He could barely contain his own smile at my total lack of inhibition, but resting his index finger on his pursed lips gave me a long ssssshhhhhhh. In a whisper, I reiterated, "Wait, did you just say New Testament?," fully expecting him at any moment to burst out laughing and start off on another joke.
But this would not be the case, his solemn confirmation was cold, clean water bringing refreshment to my long, arduous journey through the desert, "Yes, my wife and I both read and study the New Testament."
"BROTHER!," I whisper-yelled as my face erupted with all the emotion I was working so hard to maintain. My face showed everything from the mile-long smile of joy all the way across the spectrum to tear-filled eyes that couldn't explain to me from which emotional well they had sprung. I was totally perplexed with a wave of various and conflicting emotions.
With a deep, humble smile, he responded with a genuine, but emphatic "Yes."
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Losing Hope (Or, The Emergence of Grace Anew)
"Joy inexpressible and full of glory." What could renew joy, and with such vigor? What could spur the writer to glide over his page afresh as a newly inspired artist returns to the easel from a long hiatus? And yet, with words brimming over at the edge of release, what could render any attempt at clarity meaningless? What could indwell in me a true and beautiful, yea violent, desire to pursue prayer all the more fervently? To incline me to cry out for each individual with whom I cross paths? And reveal my complete unworthiness? My inadequacy? My own lack of faith? My own redemption, even?
Oh, amazing grace it is! Sweet to the taste. Never ending. All satisfying. Grace that is fresher and truer than simple words uttered at a dinner table. Wider and deeper and beyond any legitimate attempts at expression, the Father's wealth of goodness falls on a desperate people. Cold and clean and crisp, his river satisfies the entire man. Washes clean the entire man. Purifies and renews God's man. Grace for His people; grace which He has lavished upon us. And I, like the unworthy apostle John, can only express to you what I have seen and heard, what I myself have witnessed, experienced, even imbibed.
For 10 months I have lived in Africa, forced to a crawl under the weight of Islamic reign. With an iron fist, it rules the culture, the people, the speech, and, five times each day, the air. This darkness pervades and ruthlessly invades. A deep, cold darkness. Darkness that, at its peak, can impress upon its observer a quality of endlessness. Amidst night's stagnant climax, an impenetrable shadow smothers the land as a cloak, the faintest hint of light a seeming impossibility. A giant which bears over me, he gawks and mocks and laughs at my minuscule attempts to shine and uncover his face.
But the Light has come into the world. And the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness comprehends it not. Today I met a man who has stepped into this Light. No, I met him 10 months ago. For 10 months I have known this man. For 10 months I have talked with this man. Stopped by his work to see this man. Laughed and done business with this man. Fostered a friendship with this man. And yet this man, he was nothing more than another face to me.
One more small fish piddling in a sea of faces I had resigned myself to never seeing again after this life. People for whom I learned to have no hope. A people who taught me that God does not work. A people who have convinced me that darkness casts out the light as effortlessly as the police write up deportation papers. I was nearly convinced that darkness could effectively stomp out the light with the intimidation and torture tactics of the religious FBI.
The change has been slow and gradual, almost unnoticed by me. The enemy, he twists the truth. He hides from me the facts. He binds me, renders me useless. If only I could be set free! What can I do, I ask, to be set free? What can I change to be set free? What habits can I develop, patterns may I employ, what can I do, I ask? I seek to do, to change, to renew myself. But in one fell swoop, he has done it all. Apart from me, my plans, my strategies. He comes to me in grace. And with one utterly unexpected conversation, my world is once again turned on its head.
Finally I am not just talking about grace. For once, I am not limited to the cheap regurgitation of the phrases and teachings received from Sunday school, Theology 5100, or the latest John Piper sermon. This is not the grace that I have talked about. This grace has confronted me head-on. Grace that God reserves for the fiery trial. That bright and glorious fire that melts away everything displeasing. Grace He won't simply let me know about, no, grace I know, personally, in my own life, to a greater degree every day. It exudes from this smile I cannot wipe from my face, this joy I cannot contain, and these tears that I cannot explain. Tears that will not be held back. Tears that for 10 months were building to despair and hopelessness. But grace has come to me and my friend at just the right time. Grace is the air that I breathe. It is the sun that shines on me when I find myself lost again in the cold. It is the praise that comes to my lips when I am at my lowest low.
What has grace done for me? It has produced joy. Cultivated hope. Invigorated faith. Spurred love. Dealt with sin. Overcome the darkness. And come as the Overwhelming Conqueror.
No land is too dark, no people too hopeless for grace.
Oh, amazing grace it is! Sweet to the taste. Never ending. All satisfying. Grace that is fresher and truer than simple words uttered at a dinner table. Wider and deeper and beyond any legitimate attempts at expression, the Father's wealth of goodness falls on a desperate people. Cold and clean and crisp, his river satisfies the entire man. Washes clean the entire man. Purifies and renews God's man. Grace for His people; grace which He has lavished upon us. And I, like the unworthy apostle John, can only express to you what I have seen and heard, what I myself have witnessed, experienced, even imbibed.
For 10 months I have lived in Africa, forced to a crawl under the weight of Islamic reign. With an iron fist, it rules the culture, the people, the speech, and, five times each day, the air. This darkness pervades and ruthlessly invades. A deep, cold darkness. Darkness that, at its peak, can impress upon its observer a quality of endlessness. Amidst night's stagnant climax, an impenetrable shadow smothers the land as a cloak, the faintest hint of light a seeming impossibility. A giant which bears over me, he gawks and mocks and laughs at my minuscule attempts to shine and uncover his face.
But the Light has come into the world. And the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness comprehends it not. Today I met a man who has stepped into this Light. No, I met him 10 months ago. For 10 months I have known this man. For 10 months I have talked with this man. Stopped by his work to see this man. Laughed and done business with this man. Fostered a friendship with this man. And yet this man, he was nothing more than another face to me.
One more small fish piddling in a sea of faces I had resigned myself to never seeing again after this life. People for whom I learned to have no hope. A people who taught me that God does not work. A people who have convinced me that darkness casts out the light as effortlessly as the police write up deportation papers. I was nearly convinced that darkness could effectively stomp out the light with the intimidation and torture tactics of the religious FBI.
The change has been slow and gradual, almost unnoticed by me. The enemy, he twists the truth. He hides from me the facts. He binds me, renders me useless. If only I could be set free! What can I do, I ask, to be set free? What can I change to be set free? What habits can I develop, patterns may I employ, what can I do, I ask? I seek to do, to change, to renew myself. But in one fell swoop, he has done it all. Apart from me, my plans, my strategies. He comes to me in grace. And with one utterly unexpected conversation, my world is once again turned on its head.
Finally I am not just talking about grace. For once, I am not limited to the cheap regurgitation of the phrases and teachings received from Sunday school, Theology 5100, or the latest John Piper sermon. This is not the grace that I have talked about. This grace has confronted me head-on. Grace that God reserves for the fiery trial. That bright and glorious fire that melts away everything displeasing. Grace He won't simply let me know about, no, grace I know, personally, in my own life, to a greater degree every day. It exudes from this smile I cannot wipe from my face, this joy I cannot contain, and these tears that I cannot explain. Tears that will not be held back. Tears that for 10 months were building to despair and hopelessness. But grace has come to me and my friend at just the right time. Grace is the air that I breathe. It is the sun that shines on me when I find myself lost again in the cold. It is the praise that comes to my lips when I am at my lowest low.
What has grace done for me? It has produced joy. Cultivated hope. Invigorated faith. Spurred love. Dealt with sin. Overcome the darkness. And come as the Overwhelming Conqueror.
No land is too dark, no people too hopeless for grace.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
What Was Once Stolen
Here, there is no credit. No debt. A man can’t beg, borrow, or steal to get more. In this currency, there is no buying on margin. What he spends is gone, forever. And years later he might look back and regret the purchase, but it's always too late.
Not one single second can be returned. There are times I think of the past and can’t help but cringe. A memory I wish could be taken back. The word spoken in a room of people that, once released, is poison. It spreads throughout the room, a deadly wisp of smoke dispersing before the gaze of its dismayed observers. No amount of rewinding, editing, or revising can ever reverse what has been done. Precious moments, unchanged to the end of time. Thieves, they seem. But many businessmen appear thieves. These seconds, ticked off one by one, deal justly, by the book one might say. Cold to the touch and impersonal, Father Time gives no second chances.
I sit here quietly as my mind runs, reminiscing, remembering. A ship sailing briskly with the wind at its rudder, visiting ports and cities of ages past until, without warning, the ship runs aground on previously unseen bitterness. The trap set by my heart to bring yesterday’s foolishness back into today’s theater. I ponder my part. I ponder my words, my actions, my motives. And I regret, to no avail. I reopen a bill paid long ago. I nickel and dime myself for no reason, running up the bill more than I had ever anticipated.
Time is not the thief, but regret. What man can change any one thing he has already released to time? And would he even want to? Would any of us, removed as far from the past as today, change anything that has already run its course? Who would want to bear time past’s pain a second time?
Regret takes a man’s gaze away from the pain that has defined him and inappropriately places it on pain that now has freedom to haunt him. What is past, what time has sealed, defines each and every one of us. I refuse to be a man of sorrow. In time, I hope to become a man of grace. And when the father looks at my bill, he sees that very thing. Grace. He does not overlook my faults, my mistakes, or my pride. There is no need. For He no longer sees them. He sees a blank receipt. The bill that, in my mind, I continue to add to has been permanently transferred to a separate, off-shore account that the court will never see.
And if the court will never see it, why be bound by it? When my focus remains on the past, on my regret, and on my sin I will remain in bondage. But the truth, now that sets a man free.
Not one single second can be returned. There are times I think of the past and can’t help but cringe. A memory I wish could be taken back. The word spoken in a room of people that, once released, is poison. It spreads throughout the room, a deadly wisp of smoke dispersing before the gaze of its dismayed observers. No amount of rewinding, editing, or revising can ever reverse what has been done. Precious moments, unchanged to the end of time. Thieves, they seem. But many businessmen appear thieves. These seconds, ticked off one by one, deal justly, by the book one might say. Cold to the touch and impersonal, Father Time gives no second chances.
I sit here quietly as my mind runs, reminiscing, remembering. A ship sailing briskly with the wind at its rudder, visiting ports and cities of ages past until, without warning, the ship runs aground on previously unseen bitterness. The trap set by my heart to bring yesterday’s foolishness back into today’s theater. I ponder my part. I ponder my words, my actions, my motives. And I regret, to no avail. I reopen a bill paid long ago. I nickel and dime myself for no reason, running up the bill more than I had ever anticipated.
Time is not the thief, but regret. What man can change any one thing he has already released to time? And would he even want to? Would any of us, removed as far from the past as today, change anything that has already run its course? Who would want to bear time past’s pain a second time?
Regret takes a man’s gaze away from the pain that has defined him and inappropriately places it on pain that now has freedom to haunt him. What is past, what time has sealed, defines each and every one of us. I refuse to be a man of sorrow. In time, I hope to become a man of grace. And when the father looks at my bill, he sees that very thing. Grace. He does not overlook my faults, my mistakes, or my pride. There is no need. For He no longer sees them. He sees a blank receipt. The bill that, in my mind, I continue to add to has been permanently transferred to a separate, off-shore account that the court will never see.
And if the court will never see it, why be bound by it? When my focus remains on the past, on my regret, and on my sin I will remain in bondage. But the truth, now that sets a man free.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Enough Is Enough
I hit full stride at the 50-yard line. With the goal square in front of me, nothing could get in my way. As though through a tunnel, I was focused only on the light at the end. I zeroed in and let loose. Amidst the ecstasy of flowing adrenaline, I awoke from my pleasure on top of the ball carrier. My first tackle. My first season. My first game. I looked up to the stands, hoping I did good by him. Hoping I did real good. But was it enough? I surveyed the stands, looking, looking. But he was nowhere to be found.
Even here in Africa, far from the high school football field, I make the tackle only to look up and wonder, is it enough? Sitting with my good friend, Joe, at a local coffee shop I talk about some weekly struggles. Everything from culture shock to frustrations with my team and roommate to let-downs in myself. I am tempted to think, is this enough? I respect Joe as a mentor and love him as a brother, one who cares enough about my walk with the Lord to meet every other week. Yet, my temptation is always to ask, OK, is this enough? I learned some great lessons this week, is this enough? Have I earned respect, praise, love?
There are so many influences in this world that teach me to ask this question of God. Is it enough? Have I studied enough this week? Did you count my prayers as I walked the city? Did I do enough to feed the kids on the street? J.D. Greer has this to say about my search of enough: “The simple truth is this: the Gospel eschews the word “enough” in any context, except in describing Christ’s work on our behalf. “Enough” will almost always become a form of compulsion…”
I know Joe wants me to see him not so much as a mentor, but as a brother, as a colleague. Life isn't about what is enough. What I have to offer is not enough. What Joe has to offer is not enough. Christ has already accomplished enough for both of us. The less I work to try to please Joe, my team, and my Savior, the freer I will be to live my life in loving obedience to the Savior who has already said, “It is finished”, or, perhaps, “It is enough.”
Even here in Africa, far from the high school football field, I make the tackle only to look up and wonder, is it enough? Sitting with my good friend, Joe, at a local coffee shop I talk about some weekly struggles. Everything from culture shock to frustrations with my team and roommate to let-downs in myself. I am tempted to think, is this enough? I respect Joe as a mentor and love him as a brother, one who cares enough about my walk with the Lord to meet every other week. Yet, my temptation is always to ask, OK, is this enough? I learned some great lessons this week, is this enough? Have I earned respect, praise, love?
There are so many influences in this world that teach me to ask this question of God. Is it enough? Have I studied enough this week? Did you count my prayers as I walked the city? Did I do enough to feed the kids on the street? J.D. Greer has this to say about my search of enough: “The simple truth is this: the Gospel eschews the word “enough” in any context, except in describing Christ’s work on our behalf. “Enough” will almost always become a form of compulsion…”
I know Joe wants me to see him not so much as a mentor, but as a brother, as a colleague. Life isn't about what is enough. What I have to offer is not enough. What Joe has to offer is not enough. Christ has already accomplished enough for both of us. The less I work to try to please Joe, my team, and my Savior, the freer I will be to live my life in loving obedience to the Savior who has already said, “It is finished”, or, perhaps, “It is enough.”
The Scenic Route
In college the late Dr. Jerry Fawell stressed to me the importance of getting married. Well I didn't and was disappointed. When I graduated and my friends began to marry, I thought maybe I was doing it wrong. I was given the same message in a different way upon my arrival to seminary. For the first time, I was the minority. A single 22-year-old guy in a sea of married, established seminary students. The pressure seemed somewhat overwhelming. Now the message was not just get married, but get married so you can do ministry.
Despite this pressure to find that one special someone who possessed the key to the rest of my life, I decided to leave. Maybe I was running. Maybe not. But I began the process of going to Africa. And along the way I disobediently thought that maybe my obedience would provoke God to change His mind about my singleness. As this process progressed, I became entrenched in my decision to go live in Africa. And find her there.
Three months ago I sat on a beach in Spain and gazed at the moonlight shimmering across rolling waves. On a clear, calm night the tranquil ebb and flow of seawater lulled me into peacefulness. I enjoyed nature's beauty until one single thought ruined it all. Would I always have to enjoy these moments alone? I feared I might.
As I have waited for the last month and a half, my life has changed. Adventures have marked my path with even more promised. Twice the Lord seemed to speak to me. The first time He spoke, my course was reset for Mexico. The second time He spoke was just for me.
But as I think about living in Mexico, I start to wonder why I must return to seminary. At least, why right away for the Spring 2o12 semester? There is so much the world has to offer someone like me. I still want to live in California, Washington, or Florida. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail, even if it is by myself. I want to meet people from other cultures. I want to learn their language, their culture, and their dreams. No, before I return home to North Carolina, I have every intention of finally exploiting my singleness. Exploit it and enjoy it for as long as I can. But above all else, I am going to exploit it to the glory of my Savior. I have worked hard in my hermeneutics to overlook this, but I think Paul once said something similar.
Despite this pressure to find that one special someone who possessed the key to the rest of my life, I decided to leave. Maybe I was running. Maybe not. But I began the process of going to Africa. And along the way I disobediently thought that maybe my obedience would provoke God to change His mind about my singleness. As this process progressed, I became entrenched in my decision to go live in Africa. And find her there.
Three months ago I sat on a beach in Spain and gazed at the moonlight shimmering across rolling waves. On a clear, calm night the tranquil ebb and flow of seawater lulled me into peacefulness. I enjoyed nature's beauty until one single thought ruined it all. Would I always have to enjoy these moments alone? I feared I might.
As I have waited for the last month and a half, my life has changed. Adventures have marked my path with even more promised. Twice the Lord seemed to speak to me. The first time He spoke, my course was reset for Mexico. The second time He spoke was just for me.
But as I think about living in Mexico, I start to wonder why I must return to seminary. At least, why right away for the Spring 2o12 semester? There is so much the world has to offer someone like me. I still want to live in California, Washington, or Florida. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail, even if it is by myself. I want to meet people from other cultures. I want to learn their language, their culture, and their dreams. No, before I return home to North Carolina, I have every intention of finally exploiting my singleness. Exploit it and enjoy it for as long as I can. But above all else, I am going to exploit it to the glory of my Savior. I have worked hard in my hermeneutics to overlook this, but I think Paul once said something similar.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Nowhere To Run
Running from the border. Running out of time. And finally, running home. So just what was running through my mind as I fled the British-controlled border of Gibraltar? I can do this. On my own. And then I’ll tell everyone the story. So I ran and ran. And when I thought I was done, I ran some more. Running to pride. Running to my own glory.
We were two travelers, weary from the journey, who were ready to just sit for a few hours and watch a movie in our own language. Leaving the movie theater, we were both shocked to discover the time was 10:40. The last bus to Algeciras, Spain was scheduled to leave at 11:15, yet here we were on the other side of Gibraltar. So what did we do? We ran, of course. We ran through the downtown tourist area. We ran the length of Main Street. We ran across the airport. And we ran to the border.
Jogging across the border we flashed our passports and continued on to the bus station. We arrived at 11:07, but there was no bus. And everything was closed and locked. The sole occupant sat entrenched in the doorway with her belongings including some cigarettes, a pillow, and a coat. “Esta cerrado” she said. With this confirmation, my mind moved to our other options. Option #1: Sleep on the street. No thank you. Option #2: Find a hotel. At this hour of night? Option #3 struck me in a flash. “Cuantos kilos a Algeciras?” “25.” Algeciras was only 25 kilomters away. As I did the math I realized that was only 14 miles! Now the most I’ve ever run is 11 miles and that took a little more than 90-95 minutes. And here, I had all night! What a great challenge! Here was a real chance to show our mettle!
Luke was not so optimistic, but with some convincing he joined me and we soon found ourselves running down the interstate. Several kilometers later, as we jogged along the highway, Luke began to hold up the international hitchhiker sign. In the states this sign could be confused with a "good job," but we went with it.
Some kilometers later, Luke began to pray out loud. He asked God to provide a ride. But above all, he asked God to be glorified in us whether we got a ride or not. Around 12 kilometers from where we had begun in Gibraltar it finally struck me that my heart was wrong in all of this! While Luke had been far less optimistic than I about running home, my attitude had inwardly become haughty and prideful. While Luke was praying for God’s glory to come through provision, I was working hard to create my own adventure.
I jogged through the silence pondering my revelation. And it wasn’t even my revelation! It was God who had provided the conviction of sin. By the light of the moon and stars, God had illuminated my dark heart. My pride. My foolishness. “Lord, I did it again,” I repented, “be glorified in my attitude.” Immediately, the starlight that illuminated the ground we ran turned red. Brake lights came to a halt just ahead of me. Forgetting where I was, I greeted the driver in Arabic. Taken aback, he returned my greeting and continued to speak in Arabic.
For the final ten minutes of our journey I sat in the back seat and relaxed to the sweet sounds of Luke sharing the good news of Jesus in a mixture of Spanish, English, and Arabic. It is not for me to worry myself with what this man decides. But whatever he takes from the conversation, God was glorified through our attitudes. Attitudes of thanksgiving crediting every good and perfect gift to the Savior before our new friend, Hamid.
There is nowhere to run when I run for my glory. I can try to promote my own glory, but He always catches up with me. And as long as my strength, my will, and my endurance are sourced by my own pride I am doomed for a fall. With every step, humbling is just around the next bend. And repentance is the path to win the race, the marathon of His glory.
We were two travelers, weary from the journey, who were ready to just sit for a few hours and watch a movie in our own language. Leaving the movie theater, we were both shocked to discover the time was 10:40. The last bus to Algeciras, Spain was scheduled to leave at 11:15, yet here we were on the other side of Gibraltar. So what did we do? We ran, of course. We ran through the downtown tourist area. We ran the length of Main Street. We ran across the airport. And we ran to the border.
Jogging across the border we flashed our passports and continued on to the bus station. We arrived at 11:07, but there was no bus. And everything was closed and locked. The sole occupant sat entrenched in the doorway with her belongings including some cigarettes, a pillow, and a coat. “Esta cerrado” she said. With this confirmation, my mind moved to our other options. Option #1: Sleep on the street. No thank you. Option #2: Find a hotel. At this hour of night? Option #3 struck me in a flash. “Cuantos kilos a Algeciras?” “25.” Algeciras was only 25 kilomters away. As I did the math I realized that was only 14 miles! Now the most I’ve ever run is 11 miles and that took a little more than 90-95 minutes. And here, I had all night! What a great challenge! Here was a real chance to show our mettle!
Luke was not so optimistic, but with some convincing he joined me and we soon found ourselves running down the interstate. Several kilometers later, as we jogged along the highway, Luke began to hold up the international hitchhiker sign. In the states this sign could be confused with a "good job," but we went with it.
Some kilometers later, Luke began to pray out loud. He asked God to provide a ride. But above all, he asked God to be glorified in us whether we got a ride or not. Around 12 kilometers from where we had begun in Gibraltar it finally struck me that my heart was wrong in all of this! While Luke had been far less optimistic than I about running home, my attitude had inwardly become haughty and prideful. While Luke was praying for God’s glory to come through provision, I was working hard to create my own adventure.
I jogged through the silence pondering my revelation. And it wasn’t even my revelation! It was God who had provided the conviction of sin. By the light of the moon and stars, God had illuminated my dark heart. My pride. My foolishness. “Lord, I did it again,” I repented, “be glorified in my attitude.” Immediately, the starlight that illuminated the ground we ran turned red. Brake lights came to a halt just ahead of me. Forgetting where I was, I greeted the driver in Arabic. Taken aback, he returned my greeting and continued to speak in Arabic.
For the final ten minutes of our journey I sat in the back seat and relaxed to the sweet sounds of Luke sharing the good news of Jesus in a mixture of Spanish, English, and Arabic. It is not for me to worry myself with what this man decides. But whatever he takes from the conversation, God was glorified through our attitudes. Attitudes of thanksgiving crediting every good and perfect gift to the Savior before our new friend, Hamid.
There is nowhere to run when I run for my glory. I can try to promote my own glory, but He always catches up with me. And as long as my strength, my will, and my endurance are sourced by my own pride I am doomed for a fall. With every step, humbling is just around the next bend. And repentance is the path to win the race, the marathon of His glory.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Fragile
Through my hand the rope slides little by little. In complete control, confidence pumps through my veins like adrenaline. The cliff edge now far out of reach, his words echo in my head, "don't mess up, no one can stop your fall." Throughout our training, I have made it my custom to always lead the way. I am the first to repel. The first to climb. The first to take a chance. I go first to take the pressure off my companions, some of whom have never climbed. Whatever the circumstance, at the very least I can fake the confidence necessary to get the job done. Like today. I alone am aware of this smokescreen of trumped up confidence blurring my view to the ground far below.
Other days my confidence is more real, but today, like a sprain, it is functional yet raw after the week's first incident. Returning to bat after striking out, this is my opportunity to re-establish myself. As I lower steadily, the thought remains. The harder I work to forget, the clearer the picture becomes. Upside down. Back against the wall. Feet to the sky. Arm painfully caught between the rock and a rope bearing all my weight. As I had been positioning myself to repel, my feet slipped unexpectedly. Alertly, I had held the rope tight preventing a longer fall. Crashing hard against the rock wall, I was completely disoriented. And still, even now my confidence remains disoriented.
A full 15 feet from the cliff edge, the image burns into my mind. Fear begins to prevail. Is this my worst fear? Confidence, or sweat, perhaps both, empties out through my pores in a continuous flow. The rope slowly feeding, feeding, feeding. I look down. The hot African sun has beaten down all day, but almost in an instant my body begins to boil. As I pant for breath, the wall bears down, mocking my fear. At 80 feet to go, I stop. Blocking the rope off the Grigri with my right hand, I attempt to collect myself. This is nothing new. I am in full control. All my gear is in proper order and...
But it's not. This is my worst fear.
Hanging 80 feet in the air I discovered the fragility of life on this earth. "The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord," said Job upon losing everything from here to the edge of his own life. Job recognized that his Redeemer lives, but the redemption He gives is not from pain and trials in this life. Jesus conquered sin and death which transcends even equipment malfunctions.
Carefully pulling myself to the wall, I climbed onto a small ledge and breathed deeply. Breathed like I never would again. I held tight to the rock face and unhooked my gear from the rope. Properly tying into the rope again, I tenderly finished my decent.
On the rock I realized I am not promised one more breath on this earth. Though I perish, I am His. But until then, there is work to do. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Other days my confidence is more real, but today, like a sprain, it is functional yet raw after the week's first incident. Returning to bat after striking out, this is my opportunity to re-establish myself. As I lower steadily, the thought remains. The harder I work to forget, the clearer the picture becomes. Upside down. Back against the wall. Feet to the sky. Arm painfully caught between the rock and a rope bearing all my weight. As I had been positioning myself to repel, my feet slipped unexpectedly. Alertly, I had held the rope tight preventing a longer fall. Crashing hard against the rock wall, I was completely disoriented. And still, even now my confidence remains disoriented.
A full 15 feet from the cliff edge, the image burns into my mind. Fear begins to prevail. Is this my worst fear? Confidence, or sweat, perhaps both, empties out through my pores in a continuous flow. The rope slowly feeding, feeding, feeding. I look down. The hot African sun has beaten down all day, but almost in an instant my body begins to boil. As I pant for breath, the wall bears down, mocking my fear. At 80 feet to go, I stop. Blocking the rope off the Grigri with my right hand, I attempt to collect myself. This is nothing new. I am in full control. All my gear is in proper order and...
But it's not. This is my worst fear.
Hanging 80 feet in the air I discovered the fragility of life on this earth. "The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord," said Job upon losing everything from here to the edge of his own life. Job recognized that his Redeemer lives, but the redemption He gives is not from pain and trials in this life. Jesus conquered sin and death which transcends even equipment malfunctions.
Carefully pulling myself to the wall, I climbed onto a small ledge and breathed deeply. Breathed like I never would again. I held tight to the rock face and unhooked my gear from the rope. Properly tying into the rope again, I tenderly finished my decent.
On the rock I realized I am not promised one more breath on this earth. Though I perish, I am His. But until then, there is work to do. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
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