Kathleen Norris is a writer that takes you on a journey. She doesn’t have to use the old template of a beginning, middle and end like we’re taught in Comp 101. Sometimes the “end” of her books are really just the beginning–at least for me. As she leads the reader on a road, occasionally she pulls off to the side for one of those scenic lookouts. You know the ones, like in the Smokey Mountains where you can see other states, or here in our neck of the woods, we have scenic/historic pull outs so you know where Lewis and Clark launched a raft, found a deer or fell into the water. Norris uses these scenic pull offs to tell the reader something of significance; something important that isn’t really relevant to her main thesis. Interestingly, I’ve learned as much about life and gotten as much wisdom from these scenic pull outs as I have from her book’s central theme. She’s a brilliant writer and oftentimes her insights are a little too heavy for me and I have to sit and ponder an idea; look at it again, re-read it in hopes of digesting the message: the moral or lesson in her story.

Recently, in one of the scenic turnouts Norris takes, there’s a mind-blowing statement (she is referencing Henri de Lubac), “It is not sincerity, it is Truth which frees us, because it transforms us. It tears us away from our inmost slavery. To seek sincerity above all things is perhaps, at bottom, not to want to be transformed.” Norris explains that followers of Christ must become adept at “spotting the difference between truth and sincerity.”

And she never speaks of it again. She goes on and writes another 150 pages and never mentions this topic.

But this scenic turnout truly caught my attention. I grappled with it for days. In our postmodern, deconstructive culture—the world in which we live—I think people do value sincerity more than Truth. In fact, for most people in our culture today sincerity is the highest value you can hold. That’s why Oprah is so popular among Christians. Oprah is nothing if she is not sincere.

Sincerity is one of the ways that we as a culture embrace pluralism. “He can believe what he wants and I can believe what I want and it’s all good as long as we both truly believe.” Or, “Your truth is your truth and my truth is my truth.” But the truth IS there’s only one Truth. People can be sincerely wrong and very adamant about the non-truth they believe. Even Christians.

Look at the Crusades. Not our best moment in Christian history. Or look how German Christians turned a blind eye during Hitler’s reign of terror on Jews or even most recently the earnest and sincere guy that shot and killed the abortion doctor right here in Kansas. Without a doubt, we as followers of Christ can also be very sincerely wrong.

So how do we determine what is Truth and what is not? How do we become good at “spotting the difference between truth and sincerity” as Norris has said? Not just in others’ lives, but in our own as well?

It’s tough, no doubt about it. Look at the Gospels for example. Four writers, three of them actual eye-witnesses, and though the basic premises are the same, some of the details are very different. Two men at the tomb; one man at the tomb or were they angels? Jesus not at the tomb; Jesus was at the tomb. Mary Magdalene, Joanna and Mary the mother of James were there; the other Mary; only Mary. Judas hung himself (Matthew); Judas died because his bowels fell out (Acts). (Seriously, that’s what the NIV says). So how can we know Truth? How do we differentiate between perspectives and Truth? Because in order to differentiate between sincerity and Truth we must know what Truth really is!

Well for one thing Jesus said, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life…” Okay. But what does that mean to me in regard to relationships? Disagreements? Political differences? Differing opinions about doctrine and the do’s and don’ts of the Christian faith? How does that help me find Truth in complex situations?

And let me do my own scenic turnout here: Truth isn’t as easy as asking, “Well, WWJD?” As I’ve heard preached recently, that’s not a reasonable question. The better question is “What Would Jesus Have Me Do? Or WWJHMD? As Father Edward Beck recently stated on his ABC series “Focus on Faith”, “We can’t always know what Jesus would do. For example, Jesus never shoveled snow. He was perfect in every way and without sin so his decisions were perfect; we are not. He also commanded the wind and the waves and he never confronted an Islamic terrorist trying to fly a jet plane into a building. So we need to ask, ‘Jesus, what would you have me do in this situation and how can I serve you in this circumstance?’” Anyone remember good old Rees Howells? He used to say, “The answer for me might be different than the answer for you because obedience is better than sacrifice.” Truth in these matters manifests when we walk in obedience. At times when we’re faced with tough choices and decisions, we ask God what we should do. Conflicts, problems, dilemmas—these things have the ability to bring us closer to God if we focus on Him and choose to seek His face in each and every situation rather than a formula or some pat answer. The Truth is, in my opinion, most of the time in most situations God is affording us the opportunity to know Him better, not to pass some kind of WWJD exam. Anyway…

Truth. How do we know it and how do we honor it above sincerity? What I want to wrestle with here is how do we, as followers of Christ, deliberate or make a conscious effort to discern what is truly Truth and what is just feel-good sincerity?

So what is truth? How do we know what we know? This is the basic epistemological question, isn’t it? How do we know what we know and how do we know what we know is true? That question is too big for me and this little blog. But…

Facts are true, but sometimes facts change. Remember when the great thinkers and scientists of our world believed the earth was flat? And Galileo was almost burned at the stake for challenging the fact that the sun revolved around the earth. And what about the atom: not creation’s smallest known substance after all, is it? So facts can change, more information can reform what we know to be true.

Eye-witness accounts are sometimes called truth. But, it’s kinda like those blind guys and the elephant thing all over again. And eye-witness accounts are influenced by perspectives as I have already mentioned about the Gospels. Let’s face it. People see things differently. I can’t tell you the number of times Daryl and I were on two completely different vacations together. He found it invigorating and stimulating and I wanted to go into a coma.

Once, years ago, Daryl and I had a conflict with a brother in Christ. A good friend stepped into mediate and he–also a brother in Christ– told us, “Well, his truth is his truth and what your truth is may be different—actually is different. There are two truths here.” But there aren’t. There never are. There can’t be. So I asked our mediator fellow, “What if someone accused your wife of having an affair? And you knew she wasn’t and she knew she wasn’t but the accuser was absolutely, sincerely convinced she was. There’s a truth there and a non-truth. Right?” So we can know some things with absolute certainty and these would be Truths, would they not?

And don’t jump to the Ten Commandments on me here. I’m not talking situational ethics. For example, you shouldn’t kill. What if that person is attacking your child? Don’t lie. What about protection of human life like the ten Booms hiding Jews in WW II Holland? What about stealing? If you are hungry and have no food and your children are starving and you have no way to feed them? Do you steal then? Honor your father and your mother. What if your father molested you and other children…how does one honor a father like that? I’m just saying that it’s a lot harder than it looks, but it’s worth pursuing because like Norris says, Truth transforms us; Truth changes us.

Here’s what I think. I think Truth reveals itself daily in the small things of living. When a store clerk gives me back too much change and I return it to her. When reporting an account of how many people were in attendance, not inflating the number. Truth is practicing the discipline of being as accurate as we can as often as we can. Truth is also found in Scripture. For instance, God is love and God loves us, each one of us of the human race—foibles, warts, flaws, and all. I believe, because He said it about Himself, that Jesus is the only way to God “no one comes to the Father but by me.” He said it and if I believe He is Truth, then He is also Truthful.

This is why as followers of Christ we should pursue Truth. God, what is the truth here? What is right and what is wrong? In days when the water of our culture is murky and navigating gets tougher and tougher we need to be seekers of Truth and that comes through our asking God to reveal Himself and His Truth in each and every situation, relationship, in how we do business, and the whole of how we approach our world. We ask God, straight up, “God, what is True here and what is false?” If we do this, I believe human conflict among believers will lessen, not go away, but certainly diminish. If we do this we can stand as followers of Christ for what is True and stand against what is not. Social hot topics of our day: abortion, homosexuality, health care, ministry, how to respond to Islam, benevolence, work, sexual sin, play, the right thing to do with what we’ve been given—all these things must go through the grid of Truth and by seeking the Holder of All Truth we begin to build an intimacy with the Trinity that moves us from sincere followers of Christ to Truth Bearers of Love. Because let’s face it, sincerity will never transform us or the world; sincerity will not save the world, but Truth and Truth alone will. Moving from just sincerity to sincerity based in Truth means seeking God with all of our hearts to know what is true and right and good; soaking ourselves in God’s Word so that His Truth may wash over us, cleansing us and helping us bring every thought into captivity—the captivity of His Truth. It involves sitting under good preaching that challenges us and exhorts us, and spending time in prayer that transforms our hearts and minds, being opened to honest rebukes from people with whom we live in community, being open to change and mid-course correction if need be; it’s desiring God’s Truth above our own comforts, traditions and even our own established pet peeves. Truth begins when I invite the Holy Spirit into my life and I say, “Search me O God and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends You, and lead me along the path of everlasting life” (Psalm 139). Once we allow God’s Truth to transform us then we are better able to be conduits of that Truth to transform and change a hurting and dying world and to do that with the upmost sincerity. Peace.

Anyone else need this today besides me?

Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side; Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain; Leave to thy God to order and provide; In every change He faithful will remain. Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heav’nly Friend Thro’ thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake to guide the future as He has the past. Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake; All now mysterious shall be bright at last. Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: the hour is hast’ning on when we shall be forever with the Lord. When disappointment, grief and fear are gone, Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored. Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past, All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

Katharina Von Schlegel (tr. by Jane Borthwick)

Peace.

A girl never forgets her first love. For me it was a golden Cocker Spaniel by the name of Peanuts. He was lovely with golden curls, glamorous floppy ears and a stump for a tail. I loved him. He was absolutely beautiful and he was my best friend. He was my first love.

My parents moved a lot. By the time I was ten years old I’d been to six different schools in six different states. The move from Georgia to Oklahoma was an especially tough one because I loved my school. I had a great teacher and so many friends from school and church. I begged my folks not to move again, but work for my Dad demanded we go. To make the transition a little easier I bargained a dog out of the deal.

“Okay, but once we’re in Oklahoma I get to have a dog!” They agreed. And this was all I could think about riding in the high-off-the-ground moving truck those 800 plus miles across the southern United States. What would it be? Would it be a girl or a boy? What kind should I choose? How will I know if he or she is the right one? Yes. I was obsessed with getting a dog. It gave me something to focus on rather than the move.

We arrived in Choctaw, Oklahoma, late in the night. We unloaded as much as we could under the security floodlight on the property. We were out in the country. Way out. We had hauled three horses with us from Georgia and secured them in the corral before going to bed. My Dad said he and I needed to get up early the next day and try to find feed and hay for the horses. I said I’d be up and ready to go. And I was.

Early the next morning we followed homemade signs along the country roads reading “hay for sale” to a small farm about six miles from our new home. My Dad drove a red Ford pickup truck and we drove slowly up the long farm lane avoiding potholes and dips in the muddy gravel drive.

We pulled up to the farmhouse and the nice farmer came out to greet us. He and Dad shook hands. Even though it was 1969, we hadn’t called ahead. Business in rural Oklahoma was still being done the old-fashioned way. Ya just showed up.

While my Dad and the farmer were negotiating hay and feed prices, I saw a small Cocker Spaniel limping around the yard near the house. He was heading toward the barn and I was leaning on the pickup still a little drowsy from our short night’s sleep. I saw him limping and realized he probably had one of those stubborn goathead thorns in his paw. Oklahoma is filled with these stubborn, painful goathead stickers. I was pulling them out of my tennies, off my jacket and I’d only been in the state a few hours.

I walked over to the dog and started talking to him.

The farmer caught me out of the corner of his eye and told my Dad, “You’d bedder tell her not t’ pet that daug. Hez bitten three a my grandkids already ‘n my wife has ordered me to ged rid of ‘im! He’z unpredictable, ‘at one.”

Before anyone could warn me the dog growled at me and showed his teeth. Oh the ignorance of childhood. I didn’t know I was supposed to be afraid. You see, I had never met a dog I didn’t like. I knelt down next to him as he was growling and I told him to hush. “What is wrong with you? You don’t growl at people.” I was stern, but obviously smitten by his beautiful coat, large brown eyes and those gorgeous ears.

“Now lay down here and let me see what’s wrong with your paw.” (Why did an ancient joke cross through my mind just now?). Anyway, I looked at his paw and sure enough there was one of those horrible goathead thorns buried deep inside his foot between his two toe pads. I dug in gently and pulled it out. Then I rubbed the injured paw and told him he’d be alright.

Well, then something weird happened. He jumped up and started running these spastic circles around me. He ran around and around and I would shout to him, “What are you doing? Are you a spazz dog? Come here.” He was playing. He felt better and he was playing with me.

Finally he settled down, crawled his short and stocky body into my lap and we stayed like that until my Dad and the farmer finished their business, got the truck loaded and my Dad was ready to head out.

“That dog’z taken quite a likin’ to ya,” the farmer said.

“He’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a Cocker quite like him before,” I smiled up at the old man the dog still in my lap.

“Ya kun hav ‘em if ya want. Hiz name iz Peanuts,” said the farmer.

I looked up at my Dad. “You said….”

And that day Peanuts went home with me.

In all my life I’d never had a dog that was all mine. Completely mine. But Peanuts was that dog. He growled if people came up to me too quickly. He growled if my Dad yelled at me. He growled at strangers. He went with me everywhere I’d go. When I rode my horse, he never left my side. He kept up with us running or jumping or whatever we’d do. Short-legged Peanuts always kept up.

Sadly, we found out the first night he lived with us that he was not an inside dog. He threw up everywhere and cried nonstop to go outside. So, I made him a little bed near the pump house and my Dad and I constructed a leanto shelter for him in case of rain or snow. He liked it there. He hated the indoors.

One day I couldn’t find him. We lived on a small piece of property way out in the country and there were hundreds of places he could be. I looked and looked until night and I couldn’t find him anywhere. I cried and prayed and begged God to bring him home. He came home, but he was badly wounded. It seemed he had caught his privates (ouch) on barbed wire and well, let’s just say “it” was hanging on by a “thread.” He wouldn’t come in the house so I made him a bed right next to the wall where the fireplace was. The heat from the bricks would help him stay warm through the cold January night. My parents couldn’t come near him because he’d growl and show his teeth. But he let me doctor his wound as best I could and I bundled up against the weather and waited with him outside until morning.

First thing when daylight came I loaded him into my Dad’s pickup truck and my Mom drove me to the country vet’s office. We had called ahead and they were waiting for us. When the vet saw the injury he grimaced—partly a male reaction, but he was also a very sympathetic vet. He disinfected the area, attached “it” back on as best he could and said he needed to keep Peanuts overnight.

In the months that we had lived in Oklahoma, I’d never been away from Peanuts. He had made the transition so much easier. I loved him unconditionally. He loved me unconditionally. He protected me. He went everywhere I went. I cuddled him and brushed him and fed him special meals of canned dog food on Sundays. I kissed the top of his head and scratched his favorite place behind his ears. He was mine. All mine and I hated leaving him there at the vet’s, even for one night.

I was late to school that day and my fifth grade teacher, mean Mrs. Wilkerson, wouldn’t excuse the tardiness even though my Mom brought me in to explain. I was filthy from riding in the back of the truck with Peanuts. I couldn’t concentrate on school work. Finally, the school bell rang and I rode the bus home anxiously wanting to call the vet’s office. I was barely in the door when I telephoned the vet. He assured me that Peanuts was resting fine and that I could get him the next day. Thank goodness it was a Saturday. My folks took me to get him. He looked a whole lot better. He had stitches. My Dad and the vet made a few jokes I didn’t quite get. The doctor said the most important thing to watch for was infection. He gave me a cream to put on the incision. He also said, with a grin, it’d be a miracle if Peanuts ever, well, urinated again. The vet stated very clearly that Peanuts would never father pups. He was sure of that.

The next year my folks moved into town. The aerospace industry had a bump in the road and my Dad lost his job. We went from living well to poorly in a moment’s time. We went from a lovely four bedroom home out in the country to a two bedroom, one bath, very crowded duplex in town. My Dad started working three jobs just to make ends meet. Peanuts of course came with us. But we didn’t have a fenced in yard in town and he was so accustomed to having the run of the place. On the acreage he’d run all over the country chasing rabbits, sniffing stuff, following me on my long afternoon rides. He was not a city dog. Also, our duplex neighbors had a female dog named Mutsy. She fell in love with Peanuts the first time they met. Who wouldn’t? He wasn’t terribly tall, but he was really handsome. She didn’t know he was a eunuch. He didn’t act like one either. Such a ladies’ man.

One afternoon I came home from school and he wasn’t waiting on the front porch for me. I called and called and I couldn’t find him. I went looking for him all over the small town and asked everyone if they’d seen him. I described him with great precision. Nope. Nowhere to be found. Peanuts was gone for six days.

Finally, on the seventh day, after Sunday evening service, we came home and he was waiting for me on the front porch. I shot out of the car and ran up to him hugging him and kissing him. He smelled terrible. And I pulled back my arm from around his neck. My dress sleeve was covered in blood and dirt. Peanuts laid over onto his side and there I could see his neck had been bitten into and a large chunk of flesh was missing. The skin around the wound had started to decay. He looked at me and I could tell from his eyes that he was in great pain. I got him some water and I could literally see his throat as the fluid passed through. It looked to me like he’d been in a dog fight. He never understood that he was not a big dog! He had never listened to me when I told him to leave other dogs alone. And he was so protective of the girl dog next door. The neighbor had told me she thought she’d heard a dog fight and that’s what it looked like happened.

I sat down next to him, my little protector, my little tough guy. He was so thin and he looked so weak. I stroked his head. I cried and cried. And I prayed, “Jesus, please don’t let him die. Please save him. Please.” But in my heart I knew it was not going to happen.

After about an hour or so my Dad came out to the porch. He looked at the dog. Peanuts was struggling to breathe.

“Teri…” my Dad started.

“Don’t say it. I don’t want you to say it! We can take him to the vet and he’ll fix him. He did last time. We can take him right now. I’ll carry him…” I was sobbing. I wasn’t going to give up on him. He was all I had. He was my one constant in an ever chaotic life.

“We can’t afford the vet Teri. But even if we could, you see how the skin is gone? There’s so much infection and he’s suffered for quite a while. The doctor couldn’t patch him up, there’s nothing to work with. You know what the best thing to do for him is.” My Dad waited for me to answer.

“I can’t. I can’t Dad. I can’t put him down. I love him.”

“If you really love him you’ll want to do what’s best for him,” he said.

It was the hardest decision I’d ever made in my twelve years of life. I shook my head yes, but in silence. Tears streaming down my face. My hands trembled as I stroked his blood-matted, dull coat.

“How will we do it?” I asked.

“Just leave it to me,” my Dad said.

My Dad went inside the duplex and came back out with a handgun. He’d put on a jacket and headed to the truck where he pulled out a green, small army-issue shovel and an old blanket. He threw them into the bed of the truck and was coming back for Peanuts.

“Wait. I’m going with you. Let me change my clothes.”

I ran into the house. My Mom was standing in the kitchen with my sister just watching me. I changed. Ran back outside and Dad had loaded Peanuts into the back. He had laid him carefully on the blanket. It was starting to get dark outside. I climbed into the back of the truck and sat next to Peanuts. He laid his head on my leg. I whispered his name.

“It’s gonna get chilly back there. Are you sure that’s where you want to ride?” he asked.

Yes. I was sure. Peanuts wasn’t going to take this ride alone. I rode with him in this very truck the day we brought him home from the hay farm. I’d take this last ride with him as well.

We drove way out into the country where we’d used to live. It was where Peanuts ran and played and chased things; it was where he’d been free and the place he was happiest. We drove down the country road near our old house and after we’d gone quite a ways, Dad pulled off the side of the road. He left the truck’s lights on. I had a sick aching pit in my stomach. I felt nauseous. But I knew I had to be strong for Peanuts. He could sense fear and I wanted his passing to be as peaceful as possible. He’d come home for me to fix the situation. He’d come home for help. I got out of the truck bed and my Dad lifted Peanuts listless body out of the truck. The poor dog looked awful. His body was so thin and his once-beautiful coat was dull and tangled and matted and bloody and filled with dirt. I hated to see him looking like this.

My Dad took him into the woods and told me, over his shoulder, to stay by the truck. I put my hands over my ears knowing what was coming. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I wanted to run as fast as I could to get as far away from the situation as I possibly could. But I didn’t run and I heard the shot and my heart broke.

My Dad came out of the woods and instead of a deep grief or sorrow he said, “Teri, you’ve got to come see this. Here, let me pull the truck around so the light will shine on him. You’ve got to see this!”

I thought to myself, “He’s so sick. What kind of father wants his daughter to see her dog dead?!? What kind of human being would be so deranged?”

“Really Teri, trust me. You’ve got to see him!”

My Dad took me by the hand and walked me over to where the truck’s headlights were shining. There laying on the ground was Peanuts. Clean and fat and shiny golden and beautiful just like the day I got him.

“It’s like some kind of miracle,” my Dad was still in disbelief. “ I shot him. Then I looked at him and he looks beautiful. Teri. Look at him. Remember him this way; not like we found him on the porch. He just looks like he’s sleeping.”

And he did. Golden and soft and healthy. He’d fallen in a way that his wounds were hidden. His hair was shiny, his face was as if he was just asleep.

My Dad took the blanket from the truck and wrapped Peanuts carefully in it. Then he dug the small grave and respectfully, gently placed my little dog in it. We stood there after Dad had covered him with the fresh dirt and I said a prayer. “Lord thank you for my dog Peanuts. Thank you for letting me have such a wonderful friend. Please take care of him in heaven. Amen.”

My Dad and I walked silently back to the truck. We got in and headed home. On the way my Dad said, “I know just how you feel. I had a dog once. His name was…uh…his name was…Peanuts. Yeah. Peanuts. And when I was about your age he got into uh…a fight with another dog and the other dog bit his neck and well we had to put him down and it was really hard and so I know how you feel.”

“You had a dog named Peanuts?” I looked at my Dad kinda sideways.

“Yup. Sure did.”

“Why haven’t you ever told me about him before?” I asked.

“Uh…didn’t see the need to before. But I did. I had a dog named Peanuts.”

CS Lewis believed that dogs with names go to heaven. That when a dog is loved by a human being, then that dog is in heaven waiting for its owner to come home. I like to believe that. I believe all the dogs I’ve loved are in heaven waiting for me with tails wagging and tongues licking and happy faces. But Peanuts was the one I loved first and because of that he’s the one I loved the most. And I believe with my whole heart that Peanuts is there waiting for me on the front porch.

Summer came and in the backyard I waited eagerly for the girl dog next door to have her puppies. Mutsy was a white terrier mix of some kind. Finally her pups came and I sat with her the whole day as one after the other, all six were born. Each one golden, short-legged and about as Cocker looking as could be. Each one the spitting image of their father, Peanuts. If that old vet could only see what his handiwork had done.

We moved that summer to a small apartment across town in Bethany. Peanuts could never have lived in an apartment complex. The next year it was Houston. More city. More apartment living. It’s hard to explain the cycles of life that God has designed into our fallen and broken world. God gave me Peanuts at a time when I, as a little girl, needed him desperately. But, through a very difficult and painful experience, God also taught me that life goes on, that He is able to comfort us in our mourning and He allowed me the opportunity to see my Dad in a whole new light. It’s oddly one of the best memories I have of my Dad and I still get a chuckle when I think of his story, “I had a dog named Peanuts too…” Not original. But it was an effort. Peace.

Have you ever taken one of those spiritual gifts inventories? You know the ones. You fill out the info and then it tells you what your spiritual gifts are? I think their purpose is to help followers of Christ plug into the local church. Ya think?

I was wondering what would have happened if they’d had those things in Moses’ day.

“Hey Moses, come over here and chisel out your answers on this piece of stone.”

Inventory taken. Results analyzed.

“Well, one thing we know for sure Moses, you’re definitely not a leader. Too much of a flee instinct and what’s with that temper?”

“Also, the results show you are not a public speaker. Thank you for taking the spiritual gifts inventory. Next?”

Well, scripture does tell us that Moses wasn’t a good public speaker, “O my Lord, I have never been eloquent of speech, neither in the past nor even now that you have spoken to your servant; I am slow of speech and slow of tongue” (Exodus 4:10, NRSV). Some folks, the really smart guys that study this stuff, say old Moses might have even had a speech impediment. Hmmmm.

So God chose Moses: a murderer, a runaway, a hot tempered guy who couldn’t speak, and a guy who argued with God! Yeah. Great leader there. But God chose Moses to lead the Hebrew Children out of Egypt and into the Promised Land. (I know, he didn’t make it, but still…God chose him).

Can you imagine if St. Paul took that spiritual gifts inventory?????

“Okay, what’s your name?” He’d have trouble right out of the chute.

“Well…my name was Saul, but now it’s Paul.”

“O-k-a-y. Profession?”

“Uh…well…I used to persecute and kill Christians, but now I am an Apostle.”

“Excuse me, we’ll tell you what you are Saul, err, uh, Paul. So, what do you like to do?”

“Church planting, preaching, discipling new believers, writing, and keeping others in line, administration, you know. Stuff like that.”

“Has anyone confirmed those gifts and callings in your life? Other church or community leaders?”

“Well, no, not really…you see…most of them don’t speak to me ’cause of that murdering Christians thing. You know.”

Can you imagine Paul’s spiritual inventory results?

Paul, like Moses, had a problem with the old temper. Not good for a church leader.

And what about that time that Paul reamed out ol’ Peter in public? Didn’t Paul know he shoulda taken Peter to the side and explained the errors of his ways “in private”? We have a public record of that little chew fest all these years later.

And Paul, what’s up with that “It’s my way or the highway” thing? Great mentor there Paul. Remember when he kicked out John called Mark and told him he couldn’t be his travel companion anymore? Discipling takes patience man. Didn’t anyone tell you that? John Mark was sent home and Barnabas decided he’d had enough and he and Paul split over that one (remember, John Mark was Barnie’s nephew). Hmmmm Paul. Is that really a good way to do church planting?

And don’t get me started on his being a writer. Have you seen this guy’s sentences?

Okay. Okay. I guess you see where I am going with this. Seriously, am I wrong?

Most of my life, in most circumstances, God has called me to do things I was absolutely not gifted for. In fact, He has chosen most of the time to use me in areas of my greatest weakness. Why? I think it’s that old “In my weakness He will show Himself strong” principle. And there’s that “no human will touch His glory” thing too.

If I had listened to spiritual gift inventories back in the day I would never have been a missionary, a teacher, or even a writer. God calls us outside our sense of gifting. Plain and simple. And for me one of the most deadly side effects of this type of inventory is that I hear people say all of the time, “Well, that’s just not my gifting.”

Really? ‘Cause Jesus didn’t ask us, “What’s your gift?” He actually told us, all of us who profess Him as Lord and are His followers to…feed the hungry, visit those in prison, share the good news, make disciples, love one another, give to the poor, take care of widows and orphans. Nowhere does Jesus tell us, “If that’s in your gifting inventory.”

Is it hard to share your faith? Yes. And for some it’s easier than for others, but that is never an excuse not to! Some are called to be evangelists. Some just have to share their testimonies, but all are called to share their faith with a lost and dying world. Period. Spiritual gifts inventory or no spiritual gifts inventory. It’s what Christ has told us to do.

A great example of ministering in our weaknesses is the story of Duncan Campbell. He preached every night for two years during the great Scottish Revival of Hebrides in the 1950s. Every night he’d get up and preach and God showed up and the Holy Spirit would fall on the congregation. People got saved and were being healed and marriages restored and wayward kids were coming home. It was miraculous! Even the livestock flourished and during those two years not one single ewe lost a lamb during that revival! And every night Duncan Campbell crawled into bed so heavy with depression and discouragement. The weight of glory was so heavy that he’d spend most of the day in bed until the next service when he’d drag himself out of bed, over to the church and prop himself up at the pulpit. Every night. Night after night. Because in our weaknesses God shows Himself strong. He uses the foolish things of the world to confound the wise.

I don’t like those spiritual gift inventories (really Teri, it doesn’t show). I guess it’s because I think it limits us. “Well I can’t do that because it’s not one of my spiritual gifts.” I think there are many times and many circumstances which God calls us to do things we aren’t exceptionally good at.

You know, in my opinion, the best way to find out what God wants you to do and where He is calling you to serve is a good old-fashioned, face-down-on-the-ground fasting and prayer time. “Jesus, I will not get up off this floor until I know what Your will is for my life. I won’t eat or rest or sleep until I know what it is You want for me to do. Here I am Lord…use me.” And God who is faithful moves into the hearts and minds of those yielded to Him and He does extraordinary things through ordinary (and sometime ungifted and untalented) people. Spiritual gift inventories are all about us. Seeking God’s face and moving out in faith in areas we don’t feel competent or comfortable are all about Him and His faithfulness to do in us what is necessary to accomplish His purposes in us and through us. Amen and peace.

I was asked recently to speak on pride at Sterling College’s chapel service. The first thought in my head was, “I’d be really good at that.” The second thought, “I hope the students think I’m the best chapel speaker ever!”

Wow. Pride, at least in my life, is that insidious. Pride’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.

Christianity is an upside down religion—especially for this old world. Our Founder, you know Jesus, He was very much a man of opposites—opposite of everything we know and instinctively understand about human nature. That Jesus—He’s a hard act to follow.

Jesus said, “Wanna be the leader? Then you gotta be a servant: wash folks’ feet, do for others, take the worst seat in the house; serve.

“Want to be first? Then you gotta be last.

“Want to be greatest in the Kingdom? Become like a little child.”

Think about James’ and John’s exposure of the human nature in their request to Jesus, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask…Arrange it so that we will be awarded the highest places of honor in your glory—one of us at your right, the other at your left.”

Jesus replied back to them, “You have no idea what you’re asking…you’ve observed how godless rulers throw their weight around and when people get a little power how quickly it goes to their heads. It’s not going to be that way with you. Whoever wants to be great must become a servant. Whoever wants to be first among you must be your slave. That is what the Son of Man has done: He came to serve, not to be served—and then to give away his life in exchange for many…(Mark 10).”

Man everyone got so ticked off when they heard the brothers’ request! “Let us sit on the right and the left.”

Jesus’ way isn’t like that. Jesus’ way is against everything we know about self-preservation and survival of the fittest.

Wanna live? Gotta die.
Wanna get? Stop it. Give. It is better to give than receive.

(Huuuhhh? A little Scooby Doo action there!)

Good thing He provides us with the Holy Spirit Helper otherwise we just couldn’t do it on our own. Human nature is incapable of living this upside down Gospel.

I mean everything Jesus preached went against our natural instincts: domination by the smartest; elevation of the best among us; winners versus losers. What happened? Could God’s world and our world truly be any more opposite, or further polarized?

God says, “I will send my Son to conquer sin and death…and I think it would be great if He came to mankind as a baby, born into poverty and conceived in a way that others will judge His mother as immoral.” Really?

Yeah. Not the plan I would have come up with. I think I would have brought Him into mankind as an Arnold Schwarzenegger with a smarty pants Albert Einstein brain.

Look at beauty, strength, leadership, love, war, crimes, relationships, forgiveness…Jesus’ responses to these social topics are nothing short of bizarre.

Right? Turn the other cheek, love your enemies, great love dies for a brother, forgive debts, it’s what is in the heart that counts.

Back in the 1980s the Powers That Be decided that self-esteem was the most important attribute a person could have. A whole generation has been told “You’re the greatest; you’re the smartest; you’re the best! You’re special and by golly everyone knows it! Let’s everyone win a trophy. Let’s everyone receive a ribbon. Just showing up is enough.”

Anyone remember that scene in the Pixar animated movie The Incredibles? “If everyone is special, then no one really is.”

Self-esteem is deadly. It’s costly. Ten years ago a psychologist and a theologian (married couple Joanna and Alister McGrath) cited a study on self-esteem in their book Self-Esteem: The Cross and Christian Confidence. The study was done by Dr. Roy Baumeister who wanted to answer the question, “Who has the highest self-esteem in the US?” The results of his study of 4,000 men were…well…stupefying.

Baumeister’s study showed that men in our nation with the lowest self-esteem were the CEOs and presidents of major Fortune 500 corporations. These men were in constant fear that someone better would come along, so they worked especially hard and were driven, always looking over their shoulders to see who was better than they to do the job.

The men with the highest self-esteem were death-row prisoners who through violent crimes had taken lives (interestingly, most of the inmates were raised by single moms and told all of their lives that they were special). The high self-esteem found in the inmates had actually given them the confidence to take a human life. The McGrath’s conclusion from the study is that any time people focus their eyes on themselves problems in society arise. The McGrath’s created a new term, “Christ-esteem” defining that a healthy person focuses on Christ and what He has done in us and through us. Good word.

Self-esteem can be a real conduit for pride. (And let me note here that self-consciousness is just the other side of the coin. I mean whether you think others think you’re great or if you think others think you’re terrible—you’re doing basically the same thing. Why would I even imagine people are thinking of me at all? At least that’s what my Mom told me).

And pride, like self-esteem, is deadly too. Pride is what is wrong with humanity. Most sins are pride-based:

Greed – I want what you have because I am even more deserving than you.

Lust – I want what I want because I deserve it and I deserve to feel good.

Murder – I have the right to take another’s life for whatever reason I want.

When Adam and Eve sinned in the garden, you know, The Big Fall, they were operating out of pride. “I want and deserve to be as smart as God.”

When Cain killed his brother Abel, he was operating out of pride, “God likes Abel’s sacrifice better than mine! I wanted to be best; I wanted to be favored; I wanted to be #1! Gotta kill Abel.”

All basic sin is derived from pride which in its purest form is an absolute void of love and an absolute focus on oneself.

I want to be the expert.
I want to be the smartest student.
I want to answer this question, or better yet, I want to ask a question that makes the entire class think I’m the smartest—I’m the best!
I want to be the most popular girl.
I want to be the most desired guy.
I want others to admire me.
I want others to acknowledge me.
I want…I want…I want…

All of these things feed my pride and pride is a hungry monster that is never satisfied.

Pride. Ugh. It’s horrible. It’s a little sneaky snake in the sneaky snake grass.

Anyone play Scrabble online? I do. I play Scrabble. Yeah, crazy wild Scrabble.

Once I had a gal online and I could tell that English wasn’t her mother tongue—you know it was her second language. We were playing and she played words like “end” and “not” and “good.” I knew by the second or third play she wasn’t an experienced Scrabble player nor a native English speaker. I felt the Holy Spirit quicken me, “Give her a break. Don’t go crazy on her.” Honestly, I felt the Holy Spirit’s prompting to calm down and take it easy. No need to go at her with both barrels loaded. But this pride and competition thing and wanting to be #1 took control over me and I started working very hard to put on the board only words that would rake in the points. Finally when I was more than 100 points ahead, she quit. She forfeited the game. Gone. What had I given to that girl in that moment in time? I wonder what her frame of mind was when she quit and how it might have been different if I had listened to the Holy Spirit.

And I hated myself for being such a jerk. Did I bring life to that girl or discouragement? Pride takes others’ lives—their joys, their hopes, their husbands or wives, their happiness, their rankings, their senses of well being.

And through that failure on my part I learned a valuable lesson about pride. Perhaps a theological lesson: The opposite of pride isn’t humility…it’s love.

Look at the definition of love according to Paul’s letter to the Corinthians:
I Corinthians 13:1-7, “The Way of Love”

“If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don’t love, I’m nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate. If I speak God’s Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, ‘Jump,’ and it jumps, but I don’t love, I’m nothing. If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don’t love, I’ve gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love.

Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.
Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always ‘me first,’
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel.

But love takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.”

You know, love never fails.

In John 5, Jesus, the embodiment of love said this, “I’m not interested in crowd approval. And do you know why? Because I know you and your crowds. I know that love, especially God’s love, is not on your working agenda. I came with the authority of my Father, and you either dismiss me or avoid me. If another came, acting self-important, you would welcome him with open arms. How do you expect to get anywhere with God when you spend all your time jockeying for position with each other, ranking your rivals and ignoring God?”

Pride is belief in one’s own abilities; it is vanity and it is a result of me forgetting God’s grace and mercy in my own life.

It manifests itself in speaking down to others and using language purposefully to sound knowledgeable; it is a type of elitism.

Do I do this with my parents? Am I trying to show siblings and grandparents how smart I am? Do I need to be first in line? Do I need to be recognized? Do I check my blog stats regularly, obsessively? Do I take conversations hostage so that I may talk about myself and my accomplishments? Do I prefer others or do I dominate? Sadly, those questions come from my own battle with pride.

As a follower of Christ it is wrong for me to be arrogant, conceited, self-important, snooty, unfriendly, stuck-up, puffed-up, and overconfident.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. And doesn’t the Bible tell us that love covers a multitude of sin? Yup. It does.

So how do I kill pride in my life? How do I counteract this problem? Well first of all I can’t do it on my own. I have to have the Holy Spirit’s work in my life. And I have to start living what Jesus taught. I need to value others more than myself. I have to die to myself. I have to lay my pride on the altar daily and ask for Jesus to heal my spirit man. And He does that by filling me with His love—His love for me that pours out and becomes love for others. Pride is the crown I wear on my head when I’m ruling my own life. Love is the crown on Jesus’ head when He is ruling my life. Gone is self-preservation, self-exultation, selfish motives and hopefully in self’s place is Christ and pride loses another day. But it’s daily, sometimes moment by moment because as Daniel Defoe once said, “Pride is the president of hell” and for me it’s a tough government to overthrow. Peace.

I love the story Jesus tells about the woman and the lost coin. You see, I am forever losing things—my car keys, my six pairs of reading glasses, my 50 percent off coupon for the carwash, my pen, my favorite sandals. I wish I had one of those beeper things for every item in my house, but of course I’d eventually lose the beeper. Can you have a beeper thing for another beeper?

Being OCD, as my BFF Margo has diagnosed me (no she is not a doctor and she doesn’t play one on TV), losing things becomes a real nightmare. OCD people don’t like to lose things. I think our gal in Jesus’ story was a lot like me: OCD and a loser (of things).

Notice how she compulsively searches for the one silver coin, though she has nine others left.

“…what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents” (Luke 15).

I hate losing things.

Last week I went to my sister’s house in Oklahoma. Sadly, I waited until the last minute to pack and of course there was a whole lot of chaos going on. Daryl, not surprisingly, had been pre-packed and ready to go for nearly three weeks. So I’m scrambling around the house shouting, “Have you seen ______?” (Fill in the blank please). “Where’s my ______?” Poor Daryl.

And there were major decisions to be made. I couldn’t decide if I should wear my silver jewelry or my gold. Not that I have a lot of jewelry. I don’t. But I have a set of silver hoops and a set of gold hoops. I have a silver bracelet and a gold bracelet. I have a silver-toned watch and a gold-toned watch…well…you get the point. Not being able to decide I just grabbed both sets and stuffed them into a small little purse thingy, made for makeup but I use it for other thingies. Anyway, I stuffed my stuff and we headed out the door.

One item I was worried about was a diamond necklace. So that it wouldn’t get tangled, I wrapped it in tissue and stuffed it in with all the other, you know, stuff.

We got safely to my sister’s house. Hugged. Kissed. Jumped up and down and our week got off to a great start.

Now, let me get back up here to the diamond necklace.

It’s a drop. Not quite a carat. I know you’re asking, “What is a missionary doing with a piece of jewelry like that?” Good question. And of course there’s a story behind it.

Years ago when I came home from China I moved in with my sister and her family. (Thanks again guys for letting me stay with y’all!). Anyway, one Saturday afternoon Cindy, that’s my sis, needed to go to the mall. Mike, yes, my b-i-l, and I decided to take the two munchkins and go with her. Why not? So we loaded the posse into the minivan and we all headed to the local mall.

During the road trip I looked over at my sister and realized all the beautiful jewelry she was wearing was a gift from her husband (and the kids of course). Not insanely expensive stuff, but meaningful, sweet stuff filled with memories of events, births, birthdays, anniversaries. Each one significant. Each one a token of love and appreciation. That’s when it hit me: ya gotta be married to rake in that kind of stuff. As a single, with no prospects in sight, I got a little gloomy. “I’ll never have a husband who adorns me with love jewelry.” Sad. Bummed. Gloomy. That was my attitude as we entered the local mall.

Cindy headed to her favorite store with her oldest; Mike and I stayed back with the tiniest of the munchkins in the stroller. There in the mall one of the jewelry stores was having a promotion called “Dive for the Ice.” They had a large fish aquarium filled with huge chunks of ice and ice water (btw, water makes the ice feel even colder)! The gimmick was to fill out an application for a credit card and then win a chance to dig with one bare hand into the ice cold aquarium where they had strategically placed a real diamond. The thing was loaded with chopped up ice. Big chunks, little chunks, small chunks, and some pieces resembling icebergs. Everyone was standing around watching helpless shoppers, one at a time, place their hands into the small Arctic Ocean.

“I can do that,” I said to Mike.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, “What makes you think you can do that?”

“Clothes washing,” I said.

“Clothes washing? What in the world does washing clothes have to do with this?” he shook his head more certain than ever that I was a moron.

“Well, in China we didn’t have hot water. I had to hand wash all my clothes in freezing cold water and I learned how to get my mind off the cold hands and onto something else. I learned to adapt to freezing cold water,” I answered.

He smiled.

“Try it,” he nudged me.

What did it matter if I filled out the credit application? I wasn’t gonna get a credit card. Companies were a little smarter back then.

So I filled out the application, took a number and finally my turn to “Dive for the Ice” came.

I rolled up my sleeve and with a crowd gathered around I stuck my hand into the large arctic aquarium. Now, to my mind the best way to find something in an aquarium full of ice and water is to create a whirlpool. (Not the hot kind, but the swirly kind). So I started swooshing the water around and around until I had created my own little whirlpool. As the water circled I could hear people gasping. My hand was in that incredibly cold water for a very long time. Finally I found something at the bottom that felt different than the ice. I cupped my hand and brought the little object up the side of the aquarium wall. Out came my hand, fisted now for safekeeping, and when I opened my red, stiff lobster claw, a small diamond sat in the palm of my hand.

The guy running the thing started freaking out. Apparently no one had ever actually won the diamond! He was borderline hysterical.

The crowd cheered. Mike started laughing and the manager of the jewelry store came white-faced running out and neither he nor the organizer knew what to do.

“May I keep it?” I asked innocently.

The crowd shouted, “Yes!”

The jewelry folks ushered me into the store, made me fill out paperwork and never really rejoiced in my good fortune.

Cindy and the oldest munchkin returned from their errand and unfortunately they had missed the whole shebang. My almost-a-carat-diamond was placed in a small plastic Ziploc and we all headed home.

That night I realized that Jesus was giving me a little lesson. Mommies and wives and girls who are loved by boys aren’t the only ones who get nice pieces of jewelry. Sometimes old maid missionaries who need a little affirmation and love can also be given beautiful commemorative jewelry from their heavenly Father. Yea!

The next day Cindy took me out to have my diamond set in a small gold bale with a fine linked chain. And for 25 years that little token has gone with me around the world. And every single time I put it on I think about that day at the mall. Jesus’ love. His care for me.

Well, back to my sister’s house last week. I wanted to put my necklace on and I couldn’t find it. I guess that the rush to get out of the house was so crazy (my fault, not big D’s) that I thought maybe I had just forgotten to put it in the little bag I was using. I remembered distinctly wrapping it in tissue to keep it from tangling, but maybe, just perhaps, I had left it on the bathroom counter, or the always-up ironing board or even the dresser in our room. You see, I can be a bit of a scatter brain and it wouldn’t have surprised me at all if I left it at home.

I decide to quit looking for it and go on finishing up getting ready. But there was an uneasiness in my tummy. A funny feeling. I prayed, “Lord, am I so vain that I don’t want to go out of this house without my diamond pendant? How rude is that?!?”

The uneasiness tarried. And then I started thinking about the diamond necklace. I prayed, “Lord, since You know everything and You know where that necklace is, would You mind giving me some clear directions as to what I need to be doing right now? Is that necklace here?”

I got this thought, “Check the trash.”

Daryl and I had dumped all the trash from our bedroom and bathroom into a large trash bag to take out that morning and clean up my sister’s guestroom a bit. We’d come into a clean room and wanted to leave it in fairly good order.

I ran out into the hall and got the giant trash bag and started sorting through all the nasty Kleenexes. Both Daryl and I have been suffering from allergies. Bad allergies. I think that’s enough information to imagine what I was pilfering through. Tissue after tissue after tissue. OMW it was so gross. And there was a lot of trash in the…well…you know…trash bag.

Finally, at the very bottom of the bag I found a Kleenex and opened it up to find my special, God-loves-me, commemorative diamond necklace. I started to cry.

I sat down on the side of the bed holding the small pendant in my hands thanking Jesus for being such a compassionate and caring Lord. I mean what woman when she has lost one silver coin doesn’t sweep out the entire house until she finds it? But in my case I didn’t even know it was lost. Trash was going out that day. My pendant would have been forever lost.

Lessons learned? Well, for one thing God is in the details. For another, He really does know what’s going on in our lives. And finally, each person on this planet is more important to God that a piece of jewelry. Each person’s name is known to Him and He has written those names on the palms of His hands. And the angels of God rejoice when one lost sinner comes home.

Don’t give up on your loved one today; that one person that is lost and it seems hopeless. Don’t give up because God knows where that person is and He will not let him or her go out with the trash. Hold on knowing that God will lead your loved one home. He’s that personal of a God and He cares that much. And if He can lead me to my lost necklace, He can lead your lost one home. Peace.

Am I crazy? Or isn’t Jesus’ returning a good thing? Isn’t it something we should be happy about? Aren’t we supposed to be talking about it? Encouraging one another with this great news and joy-filled expectation? “Jesus is coming again! Hallelujah!” I wish followers of Christ had some great greeting like the Russians do around Easter. Russians greet each other, “He is risen!” And the answer back is, “He’s risen indeed!” How cool if followers of Christ greeted each other, “Jesus is coming again!” And the answer back would be, “He’s coming again indeed!” How cool would that be? How important a reminder it would be!“Jesus is coming again so don’t get too attached to this old planet!”

I don’t know. I guess I’m just trying to deal with the earthquakes. Think about that scripture in Romans 8…

“For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the…hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves…groan inwardly while we wait for…the redemption of our bodies.” Yea! Redemption of bodies. Redemption of the planet. Redemption of all of creation! Yea! That’s really good news, right?

Often, not always, but a lot of times people get a little freaked out when I start talking about the Second Coming. I don’t know about you, but when I was a kid preachers preached on it all the time. Not so much these days. I always wonder why? Is it because we are so comfortable and happy in this place? Is it because an unexpected return of Christ would interrupt our plans? That trip to Europe? The promotion at work? Or because we don’t want to see the little ones in our lives suffer? I don’t know. But I think we as the Body of Christ need a “heads up” right now.

Take for example these horrible earthquakes. Okay. Okay. Yes I know that earthquakes haven’t increased in number over the last 100 years. But they have increased in intensity and they are tending to hit more population centers. In 2009 for example, nearly 2000 people died in earthquakes around the world. That number has already been eclipsed in 2010—there have been eleven earthquakes in our new decade all registering 6.0 or over on the Richter scale. Haiti, Chile, Papua New Guinea, Japan, North Korea, California, Solomon Islands and China all have been hit in this New Year with earthquakes that have registered more than 6.0! Over 250,000 people have died in earthquakes just since January 1st —the majority of casualties were in Haiti.

So we gotta ask ourselves, “Is the earth groaning?” I think it is.

And perhaps we should be groaning as well. And it doesn’t matter if you are pre-tribulation, mid-tribulation or post-tribulation. I always say, “Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.” I mean if I prepare for going through the Tribulation (capital T) and I’m wrong, who cares? If I don’t prepare and I do go through the Tribulation (capital T)…well…that’s not so good. I remember the testimonies of Christians in China when the Communists took over. They thought it was the Tribulation with a capital T and for them it was. Anytime you lose family members, body parts and are tormented for your faith, well, that is tribulation with a capital T, right?

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves (uh…insert tsunami here). People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ (this is good news for those who are in Christ Jesus) with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads,(heads up) because your redemption is drawing near (Luke 21).”

I want to start a new movement called the “Raise Your Heads” movement. We can all join it and when we greet each other we can say, “Raise Your Head! Jesus is coming again!” Of course after a few years it’d get trite and become a lot like asking people, “How ya doin’?” Just a greeting. Not so meaningful. But still…

I look forward to Jesus coming again. I want to see this old world healed and restored. I want to see Jesus in all of His glory and magnificent beauty. I want all this brokenness to be fixed, or more correctly, renewed. As if it were never broken in the first place. Come quickly Lord Jesus! And in the meantime, let’s tell others about this great Redeemer we know Who loves us and gave Himself for us. In the meantime let’s focus on things eternal and share the hope we’ve been given. Because no matter what your theology, the fact is We Shall Behold Him! And that’s good news. Peace.

“We Shall Behold Him” by Dottie Rambo

The sky shall unfold, preparing His entrance;
The stars shall applaud Him with thunders of praise.
The sweet light in His eyes shall enhance those awaiting;
And we shall behold Him then face to face.

And we shall behold Him, we shall behold;
Face to face in all of His glory.
O we shall behold Him,
We shall behold Him;
Face to face our Savior and Lord.

The angel shall sound,
The shout of His coming;
The sleeping shall rise from their slumbering place.
And those who remain,
Shall be changed in a moment;
And we shall behold Him then face to face.

And we shall behold Him;
Face to face in all of His glory.
And we shall behold Him;
Face to face our Savior and Lord.

© 1980, this arr. 2009 John T. Benson Publishing Company (admin. by Music
Services, Inc.). All rights reserved.

I am a big, loud, white woman! I’ve been big and loud and…well…white all of my life. When I was a little girl I used to get in big trouble all the time in school as a result of sheer volume. My Mom went to check with one of my elementary school teachers to find out why I was always in trouble. She asked her, “Is Teri really that bad?”

“No,” the teacher replied. “But she is always the first one I hear and so she gets punished.”

It was awful during high school because I so struggled to be quiet and demure. But if I got too excited or had one unguarded moment, the loudness took over. It was terrible.

My poor husband Daryl. He’s so reserved and gentle. On our first date we went to a really nice restaurant. I got too excited over the menu (which is disgusting in and of itself) and when the waiter came to our table I was so over-excited and of course, got too loud. When the waiter left Daryl looked at me and whispered, “Teri, do you think you could use your inside voice?”

Sadly, I thought I was.

Loudness was one of those things in my life that embarrassed me. Frustrated me. Made me feel inferior to everyone else. I just kept thinking that if I could conquer this thing, this weakness, this flaw, I could be better somehow, a more improved version of myself.

In 1983, at 24 years of age and still struggling with loudness, I went to live in China. Now, this might surprise most people who know me, but no one has ever mistaken me for a Chinese person. I have never, ever been asked, “Hey, are you Chinese?” Nope. Never. And one characteristic, or I’d say quality, of the Chinese people is their respect for quiet and gentle manners. Ugh. I knew I wouldn’t fit in.

I went to China with a team of two other women. Irma, who was 65 and actually born in China to missionary parents and Deborah. She was about my age, but had a master’s degree in education and was super smart. Then there was me: big, loud donkey girl me.

After a few weeks on the university campus where we’d been contracted to teach, the Party Secretary came to visit me in my dorm room. Now, I spent my first few college years at a university in Texas—Southwest Texas State University in San Marcos. That school was known for partying. In fact, I think you could major in that at SWTSU. So, you have to understand that when the Party Secretary asked if he could meet with me, I thought this was the guy in charge of getting the keg for the weekend. He was the Man with the Party-down plan. But no….this was Red China in the 1980s. He was the Communist Party Secretary. His name was Lao Seung.

Lao Seung was in charge of monitoring the three American English teachers. Each week he met with us to discuss appropriate wardrobes (red was not a color allowed to be worn in the classroom); he explained that no nail polish was allowed to be worn by teachers. It set a bad example for the students and looked too bourgeoisie. No blue jeans were allowed of course. Too radical. So imagine my anxiety when Lao Seung made a surprise, non-planned, visit to me one day. I was sure I was in trouble.

“Huo Chi! (That’s my Chinese name). Everyone on campus have English feveh! Everyone want to learn English from native-English speaka! We no have enough teachers for everyone. So, will you give all-campus lecture each week in English language? We will invite everyone on campus to come and they can hear native-English lecture. Will you do it?”

Wow. All-campus lectures. He told me everyone would be invited from the university’s president to the cleaning ladies. Professors and students. And their families.

Well…what could I say?

“I’d be happy to Lao Seung. But what do you want me to lecture on each week?”I asked.

“It doesn’t matter! We no pay you for this, so you pick topic,” he smiled.

You see at this time in China, Communist officials were cracking down on “spiritual pollution.” Spiritual pollutants were anything that contradicted basic communist philosophy. On the top of the pollutant list was Christianity. We three American English teachers were not allowed to speak of our faith. We were not allowed to speak of Jesus or the Bible or pass out the Four Spiritual Laws tracts. We couldn’t preach on the street corners or share our love for Jesus in conversations with our students or in our classroom lessons. Big time restrictions. If we had broken these laws we would have been tossed out of the country—not just the offender, but the entire team. So, we prayed in private for our students. We loved them the best we knew how and we asked God to move upon our campus in ways only He could.

“You don’t care what I lecture on?” I asked just to make sure.

He nodded, “No care. You decide.”

“Well Lao Seung I’d like to lecture on Heroes of Hebrew literature. You know, tell stories of heroic men and women of old.” I tested the waters.

Old Lao Seung thought about it for a moment, scratching his chin. Then he smiled and held both thumbs up, “Yes! Very good. Heroes of Hebrew literature. I no know what it is, but it sounds very interesting!”

Those of you reading this old blog probably know these folks. They are Abraham, David, Daniel, Esther, Ruth and Moses. I was thankful that for years I had taught Sunday School for three year olds. I knew the stories in simple English and I knew them by heart. I may not have had a flannel-graph board, but I can be quite animated.

Well, the first week of the Thursday night lecture series, Lao Seung came to escort me over to the lecture hall. It was one of those lecture halls that was built like a theater with the seating stacked to the ceiling and the platform at the bottom of the classroom. Lao Seung and I walked in and the room, which was built for about 300 or 350 people, was packed with over 600 Chinese. There were old and young and educated and not educated. There was the best professor on campus and the guy who swept the sidewalks. Children of instructors and lots and lots of students. I was amazed. I was struck. There really was English fever on campus.

Before the lecture began and everyone was getting settled in I started getting a little prideful. Lao Seung and I were sitting on the low-lying platform and I leaned over to ask him, “Lao Seung, why did you choose me to give the all-campus lectures? Why not Irma or Deborah?” I was thinking to myself it was probably my great intelligence or perhaps my winning personality.

Lao Seung cocked his head back a little surprised and shocked, “Are you kidding? We have no PA system and you only one loud enough!”

And that is when it hit me: God had designed me loud for a reason. He had actually created my DNA with a loud gene for this very time and this very day. The thing that I hated about myself, the thing that I thought was my biggest weakness, my biggest shame, was actually part of the reason God had designed me. Because He knew one day He would send a big, loud donkey girl to China and each week He would make a way for her to tell 600 spiritually starving Chinese about a God who is personal, loving, faithful, and Who keeps His promises. Those Chinese heard of God’s faithfulness to Abraham in giving him a son long after it was physically possible. They learned of a young shepherd boy who slew a giant and became a king. They heard of Daniel in the lion’s den and how God parted the Red Sea and Moses led his people across on dry land.

My weakness, my flaw, my shameful trait, was in truth the very way God had designed me because in my weakness, He showed Himself mighty. He used my weakness to confound the strong.

Eric Liddel, the Scottish gold-medal Olympian, was a runner. He won a gold and a bronze medal in the 1924 Olympics in Paris. Once, his sister Jenny criticized him, complaining that running was a waste of time. If you’ve seen Chariots of Fire you know this scene. Jenny’s scolding her brother, “OH Eric! I don’t know why you waste your time with this runnin’ and racin’.” Eric shyly smiles at his well-meaning sister.

“Oh Jenny. Don’t you know. God made me fast and when I run I feel His good pleasure.”

Well, God made me loud. And when I’m loud I feel His good pleasure.

What has God made you for? What is the thing in your life you believe is your biggest weakness or flaw? We serve a God Who takes those things in our lives we may hate the most and He turns them for good and oftentimes, we His children discover, they weren’t really flaws at all. They are actually our greatest strengths. This way He receives all the glory and all the praise.

For two years every Thursday night at the all-campus lecture, a big, loud donkey girl from Kansas was privileged to tell a packed lecture room of God’s mercy and love and faithfulness. They heard of a compassionate God who longs to be in fellowship with His people. And I know they heard me…even way up near the rafters because God made me loud. Peace.

Prayer works. Plain and simple. I like it when the answer to prayer is “yes.” Don’t like it so much when the answer is “no.” And it’s hard sometimes for me to really accept that “no” is an answer—just not the answer I want. There’s also a third answer to prayer God gives us: wait. Ugh. Waiting is tough. Waiting takes discipline. Waiting takes faith.

Years ago, when I was fresh home from China, I went to live in Texas. At a Bible study I met a gal that was my age and she had two little, beautiful, precious girls ages 2 and 4. We clicked—the four of us. Can’t explain it, but God melded our hearts the first time we met. My friend’s husband, I’m gonna call her SC, was in the state penitentiary for selling drugs. She had been able to divorce him and life and circumstances forced her to move back home with her mother and step-dad with her two daughters. She needed government assistance. Life just wasn’t what she had planned. They lived in a small house and the girls shared a room with their Mom. My friend’s brother also lived there. So my new BFF shared a three-bedroom home with her parents, her brother and her two cutie pie girls. And this is where we met almost weekly for prayer. The girls, though tiny, liked to join us for prayer, at least for the first few minutes or so. We knelt, we lay prostrate, we paced, we prayed. We prayed for the nations, for the lost, for our families, and yes, we prayed for our own specific needs. Seldom have I prayed with someone who so earnestly desired all of God and to see His glory in our broken world.

Years passed and we stayed connected. Phone calls occasionally. Letters once-in-a-while. Sporadic visits. Then, the Lord brought a wonderful godly man into SC’s life. He too had gone through a devastating divorce. His wife abandoned him and his two little boys—the exact age of SC’s two little girls. So, they married and the family blended together and true to her character, SC loved those boys as her very own. She homeschooled her kids; she groomed them; she raised them; but most importantly she brought them up to love God, His Word and to believe in prayer. It was a beautiful thing to behold. Once SC and her entire family came through to see me and Big D in KC. I left the restaurant crying. I was so overwhelmed by God’s goodness. They were the perfect family. Her husband was just what she needed; she was just what he needed. I saw clear and direct answers to prayer that day—our prayers all those years ago in that tiny three-bedroom home.

God was good to my friend and to her husband. Their business was blessed. They prospered. The kids grew up, went to college, got married (and had fabulous weddings) and their family grew. They live in a beautiful home and my dear SC lacks for no good thing. God is faithful and showered His love on my sweet sister of prayer.

Last month Big D and I were in Texas. SC drove a ways to come see us. We laughed, like always. We thanked God, like always. We reminisced, as we should. When we were saying good night, my long-time prayer partner handed me a beautifully wrapped package. “Here. I remembered you liked this,” she said. And then she stuck a note in my hand and said, “I never want to talk about this. I never want to discuss it.” I feared something horrible was written on that note. Daryl and I had some odds and ends to take care of that night and by the time we got back to the hotel room it was after 11 o’clock.

Excitedly, I showed him my package from SC and began to carefully unwrap the gorgeous gift. Inside was this incredible set of Chanel No. 5! In all my life I have never owned Chanel No. 5 perfume. I’ve owned the cologne, but never the perfume. It was so beautiful—perfume, bath gel, lotion. It’s a girl thing. I was jumping up and down and not allowing Daryl to touch any of the products, “Hands off man. This is a treasure!” And then I remembered the note and a pit came into my stomach.

“Daryl, SC gave me a note. I need to read it. She told me she never wanted to discuss it with me and she never wanted to hear about it.” With dread and fear we both peered into the abyss of my giant purse. I pulled out the note and began unfolding it. It was a check………..

…for $10,000!

Daryl and I couldn’t breathe. We couldn’t speak. We just stood there in that hotel room staring at that check. Finally, I heard Daryl say, “I need to sit down.” By then tears were filling my eyes and I followed his blurry figure over to the hotel sofa. We sat down. Gasping and crying and saying unintelligible things, Daryl pointed to the check, “That says ten thousand dollars.”

I nodded my head. I still couldn’t speak.

This has never happened to me before. I have never been given a check of this size. Lots and lots of stuff was whirling around in my head but one thought that kept surfacing was, “SC can write a check for $10,000!”

My little sister-girlfriend prayer partner who struggled to make ends meet, who raised her little girls to love Jesus, who shared a small home with her parents and brother, who loved God and believed Him for all the promises in the Bible—that little SC could write a check for $10,000!

What SC didn’t know and only God knew was that something important had happened just that week. Daryl and I spoke at LeTourneau University’s missions emphasis week. While there a business professor by the name of John asked if he might pray for me. I was in the student union and Daryl was somewhere on campus meeting with folks. Professor John was an unassuming kind of guy. Not so much professor as mountain man. He was big with a gray beard and a very kind smile. “Do you mind if I pray for you Teri?”

I didn’t. So he prayed. He prayed a powerful prayer, “Lord God I ask that You will reveal Your love to my sister in a way she least expects it. I pray that You will do something so special for her that she will know absolutely that You are her loving Father. I pray that she will be able to accept Your love for her and see Your hand in this new year. I pray that she will understand that she is Your daughter and that You will meet all of her needs.” Good prayer.

And in all that whirlwind of thoughts, Professor John’s prayer came to mind. By now, I was bawling my eyes out.

When the dust settled and all the zeros had been double-checked (at this age we do make mistakes) I told Daryl I had to call SC. He said, “I thought she told you not to mention it?”

“I don’t care. I have to call her.” And I did. It was nearing midnight. SC needed to know that she had given a life-changing gift. She had to know that I rejoiced in the gift as well as the giver. I had to tell her that I never forgot our times of prayer together. We both needed to build an altar of remembrance right there on the phone. God had done mighty things in our midst.

“Did you ever think SC that you’d be able to write a personal check for $10,000?!?”

“And it’s for you Teri. Not for IICS. Not for anyone else. It’s just for you. God told me to give this to you and I’m just thankful we have it to give.”

Just for me. “I pray that she will understand that she is Your daughter and that You will meet all of her needs.”

In all my 50 years no one has ever given me a check for $10,000. In all my 50 years I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. In all my 50 years I have never known God to break a promise, nor to fail. He is trustworthy and all of His promises are yea and amen.

Today, whatever you may be going through, my prayer is that our Heavenly Father will break through the veil of Heaven and reach down to touch your heart and mind with this one truth: God never fails! We have a heavenly Father Who loves us, knows each of us by name and hears us when we cry out to Him, “Help me Father. I’m lost and afraid and I don’t know what to do. Help me Father I think I’m drowning.” And He will. And He does. He is faithful.

Luke 12, “Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” Peace.

Mourning isn’t just about loss of life. We can also mourn the loss of a dream, the realization that a situation isn’t going to get any better. I realized lately that I’ve been in a state of mourning—grieving actually over something that simply isn’t going to happen.

We as human beings are pretty much who we will always be by the age of five. I’m basically who I was then—bigger, literate, with more experience, but I’m not that much different from when I was five years old. I still get very impatient waiting in line; I still like to get my own way and I still struggle to keep my finger out of my nose, my nose out of other people’s business and my hands to myself. Yup. Pretty much the same.

Also, I keep hoping and believing with the bright-eyed, unrealistic optimism of a five year old that things will get better in my relationship with my Dad. I have just recently come to see, now nearing 51 years of age, that things with my Dad aren’t gonna get better. I’ve had to die to the dream that my Dad is going to be joyful and loving and affectionate and full of affirmation. My Dad is aging, rapidly. Mini strokes have left him struggling to make connections and unable to care for himself. Sometimes when I visit him he’s clear as a bell. Others, not so much. This is the final chapter of my Dad’s life. He falls frequently so he’s in a wheelchair. He’s angry and frustrated and wants to go home and who can blame him? I see him fading, slipping away and along with him goes the too idealized, warm and fuzzy daddy/daughter relationship I’ve always longed for and yes, craved. This is simply out of the question. There’s no funeral for unfulfilled dreams. Just the harsh emptiness they leave behind when they’ve evaporated. Gone. Done. And then mourning begins.

So, what remains? Well, I have a Dad I can be very proud of. For the most part my Dad was a genius. Glimpses of that still break through on occasion. (He recently named every airplane, gave its year of manufacture and its purpose. Didn’t miss a one simply by looking at their photos). Every Boeing 700 series you get on my Dad designed the air conditioning systems and the emergency inflatable slide (something he designed for the Apollo spacecraft after the Apollo 1 tragedy in 1967). My Dad was a part of the design team for all the Air Force Ones up through Bill Clinton. He was once ranked the most sought after aeronautical engineer in the country in 1969. He could build anything and he did all things with great perfection. He did things with excellence. My Dad was hard working. In all his professional life I knew him to take only one vacation. It was not unusual for him to work 80 to100 hours each week.

I got an email a few years ago from a retired US Navy admiral in Florida wanting to know if I was related to Troy I. Hodges who served in the Korean War. “He was the best damn cartographer I’ve ever worked with!” He wanted to know if Dad was available for a project he was working on off the coast of Florida.

Dad was brilliant. He was tireless. He didn’t hug. He did punch me in the arm occasionally. He never said congratulations, good job or I’m proud of you. He did ask me to always try harder and to not bask in successes but move on to the next thing. He taught me how to tie a knot, ride a horse, wallpaper flawlessly, drive a stick shift, really wash a car, make the perfect sandwich, write left handed without smearing the page. Everything I learned from him I learned to do well. He didn’t tolerate slackers!

But I mourn a warm, fuzzy, cuddly, affectionate teddy bear of a Dad. I wish he and I could have been closer—bonded. I wish he could have been kinder, more affirming, but he did provide for me. He kept lovely roofs over my head and beautiful clothing on my back. He helped me buy my first car and took me on my first flight in a small airplane. (He was a licensed pilot). He also did something incredible—he always financially supported me year-after-year while I was on the foreign mission field. “Teri, you do what you believe God has spoken for you to do and I’ll take care of the rest.” And he did.

Did I get the Dad I always wanted? No. My Dad was distant and harsh and sometimes even violent. He had his own demons to battle. Even now as he sits in the wheelchair at the VA Center, weak and thin, he can still be very intimidating. His mind works more accurately than not. His piercing blue eyes still shine brightly. He still has his Paul Newman good looks and his stubborn personality. Same prejudices, same opinions, same strong will—after all, those are the very things that make him…well…him.

But here’s what I have, this is his legacy to me: God has used my Dad in my life. God has actually spoken through him. Which is a curious thing. My Dad drank, too much at times. He smoked and still sneaks a cig every chance he gets. He cursed like, well like the sailor he truly was. (He was a member of the elite Navy SEALS during the Korean War). But once when I was preparing to move to Moscow something amazing happened. War broke out in the capital city in August 1991. I was holding a ticket in my hand to fly out on August 26th. I was packed. I had a teaching contract. I was ready to go. But the news coverage of this upheaval in the USSR looked ghastly. There were tanks on the streets. The Russian White House was burning. Gorbachev was out. Yeltsin was in. The city was in total chaos and I was scheduled to be there in four days. I was in my room rethinking my suitcase when my Dad came in. He burst through the door and was shouting, “I forbid you to go to Moscow! It’s too dangerous. It’s a battle field there. It’s not necessary for you to take such a risk. You’re not going!”

I didn’t know what to say. I believed with my whole heart I was to go to Moscow. I also believed that as a single woman (I was 31) my Dad was the authority over me. (Too much Bill Gothard? Maybe.) I always tried to obey him or at least comply. I stood there in my room that day conflicted, dumbfounded. So I said, “Okay Dad. I won’t go. But one day you and I will stand at the Judgment Seat of Christ. He’s going to ask me, ‘Teri, why didn’t you go to Moscow?’ and I’ll answer, ‘Because Lord, You said I should honor my father. And I did. He told me not to go.’

“What will you say Dad? ‘Cause if you’re gonna make a big decision like this, you’d better be prayed up and know for certain God’s will for my life.”

He started to say something. Then he stopped. And he left the room.

Four hours later my Dad came back in my room. His face was covered with tears. (Quite unusual. I didn’t remember seeing my Dad cry before). He struggled a little to speak. Then he said words I will never forget, “Teri I’ve been praying and I’d rather you die in the center of God’s will than to live safely outside it. You can go to Moscow. I give you my blessing.” And I went.

When I was a little girl my Dad had a supernatural experience with God. He was on the way home from work and God spoke to him. Very clearly God told my Dad to commit our entire family to missions. (My parents never told us this story when we were kids. I heard it from my Mom the day before I left for Moscow). He got home and told my Mom what had happened. That very day God had also spoken the same word to her. The very next Sunday, my parents and we three daughters walked the aisle of our small country Bible Baptist church and my Dad dedicated us as a family to the foreign mission field. Cindy was nine. Denise was eight and I was five. That was Sunday. By Wednesday night Denise had died as a result of inoculations.

My Dad never mentioned it again. It was never talked about and something inside him was forever changed.

So I mourn. I mourn the loss of ever having a warm, cuddly, papa bear of a Dad. I mourn the affirmation and praise only a Dad can give his daughter. I long for the closeness and the comfort only daddies can give to their little girls. But we who follow Christ are not like those without hope. My hope and joy-filled expectation is centered on this one truth: my Dad and I will have a perfect, blessed and wonderful relationship in Heaven! He’ll be whole and new and healed from all of his hurts and frustrations. He’ll be free to love and to receive love. He’ll be shiny, bright and he’ll be everything God intended him to be in the first place. And so will I. So, there it is. And in the meantime I have a Heavenly Father who has promised to meet my every need and lovingly allows me to call Him Abba. Daddy. Peace.