"For the time is come that judgement must begin at the house of God."
— I Peter 4:17
Tell me, old friend, how many years did you say you’ve been sitting in that church pew? / How many years did you tell me you’ve been serving the Lord that first called you? / Is it new every morning, or has it got all dry and stale and phony? / Tell me, my friend, how many years has it been since you had a fresh testimony?
Now there, my young friend, I see you love the Lord; you want to serve Him and Him alone / But you’ve got so angry at that speck in your brother’s eye, you’ve got a log in your own / You’re moving in half a dozen spiritual gifts, and your knowledge is increasing fast / But if you haven’t got love in your heart, you’ve become like a sounding brass.
Is Jesus the Lord of all your business ethics; is He Lord of all your socializing? / Is He Lord of every minute of your life, or tell me, are you compromising? / I’m impressed by the way you’ve got just the right inflection when you call out “Hallelujah!” / But that won’t tell me if you’re serving the Lord or if He means the whole world to ya.
Oh, I hope Brother So-and-So is listening; I pray, Lord God, You’d just open his ear / ’Cause that song, that word, that prophecy, it’s exactly what he needed to hear.
But God is finally getting through to me: I must take everything I hear and see / Hold it up as a standard in my own life and let the Lord apply it to me.
For if we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged. But when we are judged, we are chastened of the Lord, that we should not be condemned with the world. — I Corinthians 11:31-32, KJV
But if we were more discerning with regard to ourselves, we would not come under such judgment. Nevertheless, when we are judged in this way by the Lord, we are being disciplined so that we will not be finally condemned with the world. —NIV
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
Monday, 4 June 2012
The Runaway
It is good for a man that he bear the yoke [of divine disciplinary dealings] in his youth (Lamentations 3:27, The Amplified Bible).
Some years ago, my daughters and I were returning from a trail ride with our friend Bill. He was driving the truck, pulling a trailer full of horses down a well-travelled gravel road in rural Alberta. As we chatted, he suddenly interrupted: “What’s that coming?” Squinting straight ahead into the distance, we saw a runaway horse. “I hope there hasn’t been a wreck,” said Bill.
As the horse drew nearer, we could see that there was no saddle; he wore only a halter, dragging a lead shank. Now everything happened quickly. The horse was almost upon us as Bill threw on the brakes and we all grabbed for our respective door handles. The runaway was already abreast of us as Bill got his head and shoulders out his door.
“Easy, boy,” he called in a loud but soothing voice. Sensing kindness and the presence of our horses in the trailer, the horse checked his speed drastically. By the time he reached the back of the trailer, Melissa, thirteen years old, had bailed out the opposite side of the truck and run around to the back, calling to him. He came straight to her and buried his nose pathetically in her neck.
Now that he was stationary, we could see the damage. His hooves had been grotesquely overgrown; now, after his mad flight (we later learned he’d run five miles) they were horribly broken up—on one forefoot, up above the frog itself. Once stopped, he could no longer put weight on it. He was badly gashed up on the poll, and blood was streaming down behind his ears, soaking his mane and the halter. Likewise, blood was flowing from some angry cuts on his face. Frothy foam lathered his chest and flanks. He stood now, as meek and tame as a lamb, trembling all over. He was a beautiful animal, dark bay with black mane and tail, a couple of dazzling white stockings, and a large diamond on his forehead. Not too tall, but with a deep chest and a thick powerful neck, his shiny coat glistening with sweat, he was a handsome but now terribly battered prize.
It wasn’t long before a truck drove up. We learned that this man had just bought him and had had a difficult time loading him into his trailer. He had resorted to some tough and clumsy measures. Once back at his own place, he’d unloaded, and the horse had bolted.
The original owners had raised the horse in the backyard as a family pet. He’d been loved and doted upon for five years but never trained or disciplined. And here is where the problem came: this animal was in no way prepared to enter the “real” world. In the words on his new owner, he didn’t “know nothin’.”
There are people like that, that life brings across our path. Maybe they’ve had the soft side of love, but no structure and discipline to form their character. As they come of age, they enter the real world unprepared for the harshness it can bring, and their response is to fight and strike out against the pressures, demands, and restrictions that naturally come. We’ll see them coming toward us, a wreck just waiting to happen, or a runaway carrying the pain of some hard knocks.
If we’re not alert and willing, or if our own schedules and agendas are too important, we won’t even put our foot on the brake to stop and speak a kindly word. If we do, we may find that even the wildest-looking one will pause in his headlong flight and figuratively bury his face in our neck, as the love of God speaks a familiar note to his soul. And God will help us to see past the damage of hard knocks and the ravages of bad choices, to see the beauty that was there and which will be restored when healing comes. But it may be, too, that the present master will claim him back for the time being, and he will walk (or limp) back out of our lives. The master who leads him away may not be kind, and with a wistful heart we must entrust him to God.
We prayed for that horse as we climbed back into the truck. Melissa was in tears as we drove away.
It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn thy statutes (Psalm 119:71, KJV).
Some years ago, my daughters and I were returning from a trail ride with our friend Bill. He was driving the truck, pulling a trailer full of horses down a well-travelled gravel road in rural Alberta. As we chatted, he suddenly interrupted: “What’s that coming?” Squinting straight ahead into the distance, we saw a runaway horse. “I hope there hasn’t been a wreck,” said Bill.
As the horse drew nearer, we could see that there was no saddle; he wore only a halter, dragging a lead shank. Now everything happened quickly. The horse was almost upon us as Bill threw on the brakes and we all grabbed for our respective door handles. The runaway was already abreast of us as Bill got his head and shoulders out his door.
“Easy, boy,” he called in a loud but soothing voice. Sensing kindness and the presence of our horses in the trailer, the horse checked his speed drastically. By the time he reached the back of the trailer, Melissa, thirteen years old, had bailed out the opposite side of the truck and run around to the back, calling to him. He came straight to her and buried his nose pathetically in her neck.
Now that he was stationary, we could see the damage. His hooves had been grotesquely overgrown; now, after his mad flight (we later learned he’d run five miles) they were horribly broken up—on one forefoot, up above the frog itself. Once stopped, he could no longer put weight on it. He was badly gashed up on the poll, and blood was streaming down behind his ears, soaking his mane and the halter. Likewise, blood was flowing from some angry cuts on his face. Frothy foam lathered his chest and flanks. He stood now, as meek and tame as a lamb, trembling all over. He was a beautiful animal, dark bay with black mane and tail, a couple of dazzling white stockings, and a large diamond on his forehead. Not too tall, but with a deep chest and a thick powerful neck, his shiny coat glistening with sweat, he was a handsome but now terribly battered prize.
It wasn’t long before a truck drove up. We learned that this man had just bought him and had had a difficult time loading him into his trailer. He had resorted to some tough and clumsy measures. Once back at his own place, he’d unloaded, and the horse had bolted.
The original owners had raised the horse in the backyard as a family pet. He’d been loved and doted upon for five years but never trained or disciplined. And here is where the problem came: this animal was in no way prepared to enter the “real” world. In the words on his new owner, he didn’t “know nothin’.”
There are people like that, that life brings across our path. Maybe they’ve had the soft side of love, but no structure and discipline to form their character. As they come of age, they enter the real world unprepared for the harshness it can bring, and their response is to fight and strike out against the pressures, demands, and restrictions that naturally come. We’ll see them coming toward us, a wreck just waiting to happen, or a runaway carrying the pain of some hard knocks.
If we’re not alert and willing, or if our own schedules and agendas are too important, we won’t even put our foot on the brake to stop and speak a kindly word. If we do, we may find that even the wildest-looking one will pause in his headlong flight and figuratively bury his face in our neck, as the love of God speaks a familiar note to his soul. And God will help us to see past the damage of hard knocks and the ravages of bad choices, to see the beauty that was there and which will be restored when healing comes. But it may be, too, that the present master will claim him back for the time being, and he will walk (or limp) back out of our lives. The master who leads him away may not be kind, and with a wistful heart we must entrust him to God.
We prayed for that horse as we climbed back into the truck. Melissa was in tears as we drove away.
It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn thy statutes (Psalm 119:71, KJV).
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
A Sabbath Day’s Journey
Let us therefore fear, lest, a promise being left us of entering into his rest, any of you should seem to come short of it (Hebrews 4:1).
We find that we’ve been running at a rather frantic pace—all our own commitments and rushing kids from place to place. We woke up Sunday morning; slept soundly in till eight. Considering our schedule, that’s sleeping in quite late. We both still felt exhausted so decided not to budge. (We’d been to church the night before, so don’t you start to judge.)
We were wide awake now; no way we’d get more sleep, so we talked about the Sabbath rest: the commandment no one keeps.
If even God Himself required rest one day in seven, why can’t we do His will on earth, the way it is in heaven? He cautions us lest busyness our Sabbath should intrude: what makes us think we can run non-stop and still not come unglued?
God desires to speak to us, but His voice is still and small; and if we won’t get really quiet, we won’t hear Him at all. He knows if we don’t practice shutting down each week, our head get full and noisy and we can’t hear Him when He speaks.
Our ancient fathers geared their lives to a very different clock: no one worked on Sundays—they just sat around and talked. The children were admonished not to run and shout and play, and were taught to keep things mellow on the sacred seventh day. No one travelled anywhere except the shortest trip. They spoke of “a Sabbath day’s journey” and strictly honoured it.
It seems they understood back then—and it seems we never will—that the mind and heart cannot slow down if the body won’t sit still.
Greg got up for a minute, then crawled back in and said, “‘A Sabbath day’s journey’: to the bathroom and directly back to bed!”
We stayed in bed and talked till noon, feeling mighty fine. Tension slowly seeped away, letting everything unwind. We got up and had some “brekkie”; then on the couch I dozed some more while Greg played card games with the kids beside me on the floor.
But he finally pulled himself aside from this low-key family fun, saying one thing he should really do is go for a good hard run. See, he had some tests a while ago to check his blood and all, and it turned out he has a problem with his cholesterol. The doctor says to exercise, get his health back up to par. Yet whatever a Sabbath day’s journey is, it isn’t very far.
We respect the doctor’s orders; they shouldn’t be ignored. But how to obey the doctor—and the Sabbath of the Lord?
Well, he looked after his cholesterol, yet did his soul no harm: we’ve got a treadmill—he took a trip and never left the farm.
There remaineth . . . a rest to the people of God. . . . Let us labour therefore to enter into that rest (Hebrews 4:9,11).
We find that we’ve been running at a rather frantic pace—all our own commitments and rushing kids from place to place. We woke up Sunday morning; slept soundly in till eight. Considering our schedule, that’s sleeping in quite late. We both still felt exhausted so decided not to budge. (We’d been to church the night before, so don’t you start to judge.)
We were wide awake now; no way we’d get more sleep, so we talked about the Sabbath rest: the commandment no one keeps.
If even God Himself required rest one day in seven, why can’t we do His will on earth, the way it is in heaven? He cautions us lest busyness our Sabbath should intrude: what makes us think we can run non-stop and still not come unglued?
God desires to speak to us, but His voice is still and small; and if we won’t get really quiet, we won’t hear Him at all. He knows if we don’t practice shutting down each week, our head get full and noisy and we can’t hear Him when He speaks.
Our ancient fathers geared their lives to a very different clock: no one worked on Sundays—they just sat around and talked. The children were admonished not to run and shout and play, and were taught to keep things mellow on the sacred seventh day. No one travelled anywhere except the shortest trip. They spoke of “a Sabbath day’s journey” and strictly honoured it.
It seems they understood back then—and it seems we never will—that the mind and heart cannot slow down if the body won’t sit still.
Greg got up for a minute, then crawled back in and said, “‘A Sabbath day’s journey’: to the bathroom and directly back to bed!”
We stayed in bed and talked till noon, feeling mighty fine. Tension slowly seeped away, letting everything unwind. We got up and had some “brekkie”; then on the couch I dozed some more while Greg played card games with the kids beside me on the floor.
But he finally pulled himself aside from this low-key family fun, saying one thing he should really do is go for a good hard run. See, he had some tests a while ago to check his blood and all, and it turned out he has a problem with his cholesterol. The doctor says to exercise, get his health back up to par. Yet whatever a Sabbath day’s journey is, it isn’t very far.
We respect the doctor’s orders; they shouldn’t be ignored. But how to obey the doctor—and the Sabbath of the Lord?
Well, he looked after his cholesterol, yet did his soul no harm: we’ve got a treadmill—he took a trip and never left the farm.
There remaineth . . . a rest to the people of God. . . . Let us labour therefore to enter into that rest (Hebrews 4:9,11).
Monday, 7 May 2012
A Perfect Storm
You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to you (Psalm 30:11-12, NIV).
There had been a problem in the reprinting of a devotional booklet of mine, and I had been all bent out of shape for days now over what to do about it. I couldn’t decide if I was being too fussy or only being reasonable. Greg and I were sitting on the couch, and he was trying to talk me through it. (What a saint he is!) The main stress, beyond the thought of having to confront the printer who had done the job, was to decide if I should ask her to absorb the loss of the reprint.
“If it’s that important to you,” said Greg, “just pay to have it redone.” (This is one of his standard solutions to a problem: throw money at it, whether it’s in the budget or not. Easy for him to say—he’s not the tightwad in the family.)
“It’s not fair,” I protested. “If I paid twice for this job, do you know how much I would make on the sale of each booklet? As it is, I practically write for nothing anyway. I want my work to be validated, and that’s one of the ways this world validates work—with money!”
I was on the verge of tears, and he knew it. I excused myself to get a Kleenex before the storm broke. Found the box of tissues on my desk in the kitchen. I picked up the whole box, just in case. As I did, I noticed a card that I had received earlier from someone who was reading the devotional series. That note had been a tremendous blessing to me, seeing how God was moving in someone’s life through something I had written. I quickly re-read it, and the tears came then, in a torrent. I had been paid in full by the Lord, just in that single note, for my many hours of writing and editing.
I returned to Greg, holding Kleenex to my streaming nose and eyes, suddenly too overcome to speak. Joy and gratitude had collided now with my frustration and anxiety, subjecting me to a whirlwind of emotions. I leaned back into the couch, put my head back, and started to sob. But I was arrested by the awful, helpless look of concern on my dear husband’s face. I forced my constricted throat to speak, briefly and hoarsely: “It’s okay—I’m happy now.” Then the sobbing took over again. My goodness, this was quite a storm.
He leaned toward me from the other couch, elbows on his knees, chin in his big hands, watching me intensely. “You’re happy . . .” he said carefully. He said it like a statement, but it was definitely a question. “I see . . .” He paused. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “Would you like to tell me what you’re so happy about?”
I had a fleeting thought—that God should present every man embarking on marriage with a manual on women, entitled something like “When Your Wife Doesn’t Make Sense.” The humour in the situation enabled me to get a handle on my emotions enough to speak again: “What’s the matter? Don’t you understand me?” And then we both started to laugh.
I told him what God had shown me in the brief seconds I had been out of the room. The storm was over now: my words had quit blowing and the tears had stopped falling. The recognition of God’s goodness and His sovereignty shone in my soul like sunshine, and we both sat basking in the warmth of it.
Then [Jesus] arose, and rebuked the wind and the raging of the water: and they ceased, and there was a calm (Luke 8:24).
There had been a problem in the reprinting of a devotional booklet of mine, and I had been all bent out of shape for days now over what to do about it. I couldn’t decide if I was being too fussy or only being reasonable. Greg and I were sitting on the couch, and he was trying to talk me through it. (What a saint he is!) The main stress, beyond the thought of having to confront the printer who had done the job, was to decide if I should ask her to absorb the loss of the reprint.
“If it’s that important to you,” said Greg, “just pay to have it redone.” (This is one of his standard solutions to a problem: throw money at it, whether it’s in the budget or not. Easy for him to say—he’s not the tightwad in the family.)
“It’s not fair,” I protested. “If I paid twice for this job, do you know how much I would make on the sale of each booklet? As it is, I practically write for nothing anyway. I want my work to be validated, and that’s one of the ways this world validates work—with money!”
I was on the verge of tears, and he knew it. I excused myself to get a Kleenex before the storm broke. Found the box of tissues on my desk in the kitchen. I picked up the whole box, just in case. As I did, I noticed a card that I had received earlier from someone who was reading the devotional series. That note had been a tremendous blessing to me, seeing how God was moving in someone’s life through something I had written. I quickly re-read it, and the tears came then, in a torrent. I had been paid in full by the Lord, just in that single note, for my many hours of writing and editing.
I returned to Greg, holding Kleenex to my streaming nose and eyes, suddenly too overcome to speak. Joy and gratitude had collided now with my frustration and anxiety, subjecting me to a whirlwind of emotions. I leaned back into the couch, put my head back, and started to sob. But I was arrested by the awful, helpless look of concern on my dear husband’s face. I forced my constricted throat to speak, briefly and hoarsely: “It’s okay—I’m happy now.” Then the sobbing took over again. My goodness, this was quite a storm.
He leaned toward me from the other couch, elbows on his knees, chin in his big hands, watching me intensely. “You’re happy . . .” he said carefully. He said it like a statement, but it was definitely a question. “I see . . .” He paused. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “Would you like to tell me what you’re so happy about?”
I had a fleeting thought—that God should present every man embarking on marriage with a manual on women, entitled something like “When Your Wife Doesn’t Make Sense.” The humour in the situation enabled me to get a handle on my emotions enough to speak again: “What’s the matter? Don’t you understand me?” And then we both started to laugh.
I told him what God had shown me in the brief seconds I had been out of the room. The storm was over now: my words had quit blowing and the tears had stopped falling. The recognition of God’s goodness and His sovereignty shone in my soul like sunshine, and we both sat basking in the warmth of it.
Then [Jesus] arose, and rebuked the wind and the raging of the water: and they ceased, and there was a calm (Luke 8:24).
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