52. Learning to Give

A few weeks ago, Greg asked me if I we should give a certain woman a financial gift. We had known this couple for many years, he longer than I, both of them dedicated Jesus-lovers living lives of selfless service in ministry. The husband passed away several years ago. We never see this woman, as she lives some distance away. And now out of the blue, Greg was asking me if I thought we should give her some money.

I was non-committal. “I don’t know,” I said. Greg is very quick to give; I, not so much. I want to be as generous as he is (and, as he would to say, “because God is,”) but I always want to be sure it’s God’s idea and not just some careless and magnanimous impulse of sanctified flesh. Greg always assures me in these cases that even if it wasn’t God’s idea, it’s always good to be “imitators of God” (Ephesians 5:1) and that such an act still brings blessing into our lives. 

The amount we were talking about was $1000. Although I believe that details about our giving should usually be kept quiet, it seems more important here to give the context: it was not just spare change on the table here. 

I suppose I feel (when I am leaning on my own understanding) that if I don’t provide some “balance” here (by resisting Greg a little), then we might eventually run out of money. We are supposed to be trying to save for retirement (at least I usually feel this way), and we’ve been a little late getting started. My quiet angst regarding this matter really comes down to a concern of lack, fear of not having enough. But this is a carnal fear, and it reveals a lack of understanding and trust in who God is and the kind of life He is inviting us into. 

I resolved to honestly ask God if this was what He wanted us to do, still while not encouraging my husband in any way so that I would not feel pressured while I went through the process of sorting it out with God.

In Dallas Willard’s book Life Without Lack, the author begins the preface with a scripture that impacted me so deeply, I didn’t move any further forward in the book for several weeks. Whenever I opened the book, I just read that scripture again and then sat there and thought about it. 

Here it is: “God is able to make all grace abound towards you, that you, always having all sufficiency in all things, may have an abundance for every good work” (2 Corinthians 9:8). What kept me fascinated by this portrayal of God’s generosity was the excessive superlatives throughout: “God is able to make all grace abound towards you, that you, always having all sufficiency in all things, may have an abundance for every good work.” It certainly seems to say that when we trust God, there will always be enough to help others and still have plenty left over. 

*  *  *  *  *

In time, I came to believe that giving this money away was something God wanted us to do. Then as I got up early one morning, I felt God suggesting that if I had pretty much arrived at this decision, it was time to follow through, tell Greg of my conviction, and give the gift. So I asked God to really settle my heart in my time with Him this morning and confirm once again that He was with me in my thoughts about this.

As I prepared to get settled on the couch with God, a thought occurred to me out of the blue: That scripture quoted at the beginning of Dallas Willard’s Life Without Lack—I should look that up so I can reread it and think on it awhile. But by the time I was set in my place, I had forgotten all about it. I opened up the book I was currently reading, another one by Willard, called The Spirit of the Disciplines. 

He was talking about the discipline of sacrifice.

The discipline of sacrifice is one in which we forsake the security of meeting our needs with what is in our hands. It is total abandonment to God, a stepping into the darkened abyss in the faith and hope that God will bear us up....

The cautious faith that never saws off the limb on which it is sitting never learns that unattached limbs may find strange, unaccountable ways of not falling. (Page 175)

(Please do not just blow by that last sentence. Stop, re-read it, and think about what it is saying: Those who are timid in their faith, underdeveloped in their trust of God, will not and cannot risk the things in which they are really placing their confidence. They cling to the security of what they have and miss out on the true riches, the glory of seeing God make provision in ways that make no earthly sense. That’s the picture of sitting on a branch, sawing it off, and marvelling at the inexplicable phenomenon of the branch still supporting your full weight. The wealth that you feared you might bankrupt through your generosity will still be there—and even be increased supernaturally. That’s the result of applied faith.)

As I read on, Dallas recounted how as a young man in graduate school, he and his wife, after paying all the bills at the beginning of the month, decided to give their remaining money away secretly, telling no one. A week later they found a $20 bill attached to the steering wheel of their car. 

I set the book aside for a moment. I was struggling to give away a thousand dollars, asking God to speak to me about it. Here was an example of an anonymous gift, but did the degree of sacrifice really compare? What year might that have been, I wondered, given Dallas’s age when he passed away in 2013? What might the price of hamburger have been? Fifty cents a pound? I was trying to get an idea of what the relative value of that gift would be today. 

As I opened the book again and read the next sentence, I felt the nearness of God, because He and Dallas immediately answered my question:

 

“With hamburger at thirty-seven cents a pound, we lived like royalty until the next month, convinced we were enjoying the provisions of the King.” Given the unadulterated quality of hamburger back then, a pound of the same-quality product now would be over seven dollars. That $20 bill in today’s currency would be a $400 gift. This excerpt was right up my alley today. I closed my eyes, teary with gratitude, and marveled at God’s synchronicity. 

Then I opened my Amplified Bible to where I had been reading in 2 Corinthians and picked up at the ninth chapter. I came to a verse that included the words “all grace,” and that suddenly made me remember about the quote I had meant to look up a little earlier. I opened Life Without Lack and found the verse at the beginning of the preface. Again I was amazed: it was the same one as I had just read in the Amplified. I just hadn’t recognized it because of the difference in translations. 

I picked my Bible back up to reread it in the Amplified, but first I went back to the beginning of the chapter to get the full context. I found various phrases popping out at me: 

Now about the offering that is [to be made] for the saints (God’s people…) ... that is why I thought it necessary to … make arrangements in advance for this bountiful, promised gift of yours, so that it may be ready, not as an extortion [wrung out of you] but as a generous and willing gift. (v. 1, 5)

[Remember] this: he who sows sparingly and grudgingly will also reap sparingly and grudgingly, and he who sows generously [that blessings may come to someone] will also reap generously and with blessings. (v. 6)

Let each one [give] as he has made up his own mind and purposed in his heart, not reluctantly or sorrowfully or under compulsion, for God loves (He takes pleasure in, prizes above other things, and is unwilling to abandon or to do without) a cheerful (joyous, “prompt to do it”) giver [whose heart is in his giving]. (v. 7)

Now here is that key verse:

And God is able to make all grace (every favor and earthly blessing) come to you in abundance, so that you may always and under all circumstances and whatever the need be self-sufficient [possessing enough to require no aid or support and furnished in abundance for every good work and charitable donation]. (v. 8)

I was now thoroughly convinced that God wanted us to give this gift. Even as I settled my heart in this acknowledgment, the Lord reminded me (with v. 7): it was important to be “prompt to do it.” The best thing, I felt Him say in my heart, would be to go upstairs and tell your husband of the decision you’ve made. That way, you won’t put it off or even possibly change your mind. 

So that was what I did. Then I described to Greg the process I had just been through, and we talked about the powerful principles involved. Greg summed up (and this is a simple statement but profound): “When we give freely, it’s because we trust our Source.” 

Here is how the discussion wrapped up: It’s a way of life. It’s not just a matter of giving gifts here and there when we decide we should, but giving freely, knowing that we have freely received. If we trust our Source and live in Him, we have an abundance and our cup overflows. We are blessed, and others are blessed, and the love of God is “shed abroad“ (Romans 5:5, KJV): by definition of various online dictionaries, His love is given off, discharged widely beyond its usual limits, expanding as it goes, from God to us and from us to others.

51. The Veil

 It was September of 2019, at our annual Awakening conference. I slipped into the prayer room to catch the last few minutes of intercession before the evening service. Various ones were praying for God to move mightily in our midst, asking for His manifest presence and intimate involvement. Shortly before it wrapped up, Vinjelu Muyaba, then pastor of Lighthouse Community Church, prayed that God would “tear away the veil.” 

The mention of “the veil” caused a lot of thoughts to go through my head, lickety-split: various things read in the Bible and heard from the pulpit and gleaned from various books over the years. The first thought was of how the veil in the temple, which separated the Outer Court and the Holy Place from the Holy of Holies and behind which no one could enter (except for the high priest, and that only once a year), was torn in two as Jesus breathed His last breath on the Cross.

The veil was a curtain of heavy brocade 30 feet high, a barrier that separated sinful man from a holy God. The fact that it was torn from “top to bottom” (Matthew 27:50-51; Mark 15:38) indicates that it was God Himself who tore it. Of course, no human would or could tear it anyway, as it was so holy—and so heavy. Not something a man or even a number of men could tear with their hands. The report that this veil was suddenly rent from top to bottom at the moment of Jesus’ death signifies that the way into the Holy of Holies, the very presence of God, had been opened up for all time to all people, by the death of Jesus. For this reason, the writer of Hebrews can invite us to “come boldly to the throne of grace” in our time of need (4:16), because God has torn open the veil.

Vinjelu’s prayer reminded me that the way into God’s presence is wide open.

My second thought of the veil was of Moses (Exodus 34:29–35), how when he came down from Mount Sinai after spending time with God and receiving the Ten Commandments, his face was so bright with the glory of the Lord that he had to wear a veil to tone it down. His fellow Israelites were afraid of the dazzling glory on his countenance and could not bear to look at him. Whenever he went into the tabernacle to speak with the Lord, he would remove the veil, but he always put it back on again when he was out and about among the rest of the people.

 Later on, as recorded in 2 Corinthians 3:13, NIV, we are told that Moses “would put a veil over his face to prevent the Israelites from seeing the end of what was passing away.” Some translations bring out the idea that as time passed, Moses tried to disguise the fact that the glory was fading away. Others bring it across more as two separate facts: Moses continued to wear the veil, and the glory slowly faded. The important point is that it was always destined to come to an end--to make a way for something new. The brightness on Moses’ face after receiving the law was symbolic (as well as a direct reflection) of the glory of that covenant, God coming down to His people and making an arrangement with them. But glorious though the dispensation of the covenant was—God delivering it amid terrible thundering and lightning and a fearsome voice that shook the very earth, that covenant was never meant to last forever. It ultimately passed away when Christ came and established the new one.

The old covenant brought condemnation and death, because it set a standard none of us could keep and told us that if we failed on even one point, we were guilty of transgressing the whole law (Deuteronomy 27:26; Galatians 3:10; James 2:10). The new covenant in Christ brought peace and right-standing with God; it brought a relationship where Christ refers to Himself as the Bridegroom and to us as His Bride. Listen to this comparison (2 Corinthians 3:7-11, NIV) between the two covenants and let it bring an appreciation for what we have been given in Christ.

 Now if the ministry that brought death, which was engraved in letters on stone, came with glory, so that the Israelites could not look steadily at the face of Moses because of its glory, transitory though it was, will not the ministry of the Spirit be even more glorious? If the ministry that brought condemnation was glorious, how much more glorious is the ministry that brings righteousness! For what was glorious has no glory now in comparison with the surpassing glory. And if what was transitory came with glory, how much greater is the glory of that which lasts!

In other words, how much greater than the Ten Commandments is the glory of the new covenant in Christ, which lasts forever! Let’s look at the same passage in The Message paraphrase:

The Government of Death, its constitution chiseled on stone tablets, had a dazzling inaugural. Moses’ face as he delivered the tablets was so bright that day (even though it would fade soon enough) that the people of Israel could no more look right at him than stare into the sun. How much more dazzling, then, the Government of Living Spirit? If the Government of Condemnation was impressive, how about this Government of Affirmation? Bright as that old government was, it would look downright dull alongside this new one. If that makeshift arrangement impressed us, how much more this brightly shining government installed for eternity?

 Matthew Henry, in his commentary of almost 300 years ago, says this:

 The gospel therefore so much exceeds in glory that in a manner it eclipses the glory of the legal dispensation. As the shining of a burning lamp is lost, or not regarded, when the sun arises and goes forth in his strength; so there was no glory in the Old Testament, in comparison with that of the New.

This talk of a burning lamp in comparison to the sun brings to mind a vivid memory. When I cooked in a cow-camp many years ago and rolled out of bed every morning several hours before the dawn, I would pump up the two Coleman lanterns and light them. They threw a dazzling glare in the pitch-dark cookhouse. But a couple of hours later, after the cowboys were fed and gone for the day, dawn slowly came and the light in my cookhouse seemed to grow dimmer, in comparison to the sky. I wrote in my journal one morning as sunshine burst over the horizon: “The sun has stolen the light from the Coleman lanterns, although they still hiss and burn. Time to turn them off....”

That’s what the Gospel does to the Law: it vastly outshines what once seemed dazzlingly bright, and it makes it obsolete. But though it shines more brightly, we do not need a veil to shield ourselves from it.

There are, however, a couple of ways in which the gospel can be veiled. Here is one way:

 If the Good News we preach is hidden behind a veil, it is hidden only from people who are perishing. Satan, who is the god of this world, has blinded the minds of those who don’t believe. They are unable to see the glorious light of the Good News. They don’t understand this message about the glory of Christ… (2 Corinthians 4:3-4, NLT).

 The Apostle Paul compared these people of his day to the Israelites of old, whose hearts and minds were hardened: 

…[T]o this day whenever the old covenant is being read, the same veil covers their minds so they cannot understand the truth. And this veil can be removed only by believing in the Christ. Yes, even today when they read Moses’ writings, their hearts are covered with that veil, and they do not understand. But whenever someone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. (2 Corinthians 3:14-16)

 God will not remove this veil until somehow, some way, our hearts are softened, because He knows it would only increase our condemnation if we clearly saw the truth but were still not yet ready to embrace it. 

Scripture also speaks of the veil representing Christ’s body, which was torn for us that we might gain entrance into the presence of God. It is the writer of Hebrews who assures us that we can enter confidently into the Holy of Holies, the very presence of God, “by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way…, through the veil, that is, His flesh…” (Hebrews 10:20, NKJV). This is how Matthew Henry explains it:

It is a way that Christ has consecrated for us through the veil, that is, his flesh. The veil in the tabernacle and temple signified the body of Christ; when he died, the veil of the temple was rent in sunder, and this was at the time of the evening sacrifice, and gave the people a surprising view into the holy of holies, which they never had before.

By extension, I believe the veil represents our flesh as well. Our old nature must be torn, “crucified with Christ” (Romans 6:3-11; Galatians 2:20), for us to realize full access to God. We will only experience the reality of the Kingdom of God here on earth to the degree that we are willing to die to ourselves. This will also allow us to be an open doorway to Christ for the world. They will look right through us and see Jesus. Lord, tear away the veil! 

All these thoughts, or at least the seeds of these thoughts, flashed through my mind in a matter of seconds in that pre-service prayer meeting when Pastor Vinj asked God to tear away the veil from our hearts. But then another thought dropped into my head, directly from God Himself, and it riveted me to my chair even as others filed out for the service. I caught Vinj’s eye and beckoned to him. After we exchanged a greeting, I told him I wanted to share with him what God had just shown me about what he had prayed. As I spoke the words to Vinj, I felt a rush of power flush my arms, and the hair on them prickled and stood up. It seemed to have the same effect on Vinj, because he said “Whoa!” and rubbed his arms briskly. What I spoke was this: “When God tears away the veil, it means the Bridegroom is getting ready to kiss the Bride.”

*   *   *   *   *

Our son Ben and his wife Margaret, on their wedding day. 

By: the furnace room STUDIO

 

The Womb of the Morning

A week ago, early in the morning as I was preparing to settle in with God for some quiet time, I had a thought. It was to do with me, internally, and the time of day, externally. It was the beginning of the day, both ways. 

 

Inside, I was anticipating my time with the Lord as well as the unfolding of my day. Outside, there was just a glow on the horizon, the promise of a new day coming, full of life and unknown possibilities. I had this thought, and I spoke it aloud: “The womb of the morning.” I don’t think I had ever heard such a thought expressed. I repeated it several times, thinking of the beauty and mystery it suggested. 

 

I picked up my bowl of porridge and goblet of kombucha and moved into the east-facing front room. The glow on the horizon was a small arch of gold, transitioning into a larger turquoise arch, which deepened in turn gradually into dark blue-black. Through that arch, the new day would be ushered in. 

 

It was with reverence that I quietly took my place on the couch. There was a holy hush I didn’t want to disturb. And my mind was pregnant with images and inspirations springing from that thought I’d had. I opened my Bible and spent some time with God.

 

Two days later, as I settled into that spot again, thinking once more of that powerful phrase, the Lord spoke to my heart: “Aren’t you going to kneel down for a few minutes first?” 

 

This is a suggestion that Dallas Willard makes in his writings, to spend a little time on one’s knees at the beginning of a visit with God. I often do this but hadn’t this morning. Now I was already very comfortable on the couch, but “prompt obedience” is something the Lord has been highlighting to me lately. 

 

I responded, “Yes sir!” and then knelt at the end of the couch, laying my Amplified Classic on the arm. Opening where I’d left off in 1 Corinthians, I began to read. But it didn’t seem the right thing to read at that moment. I should read, aloud, in Psalms, I thought. Lots of good words of prayer and devotion and praise in there. I cut the volume open approximately where I knew that particular book would be and found myself at Psalm 110. I began to read aloud at the first verse. The third verse stopped me short.

 

“Your people will offer themselves willingly in the day of Your power, in the beauty of holiness and in holy array out of the womb of the morning ....”

 

I was astonished. I hadn’t known that phrase was in the Bible. Taking in the wonder of this “coincidence” as another glorious day dawned around me, I was completely distracted from the usual context of my quiet time. Still on my knees, I waited, quietly thanking God, sometimes wordlessly, from an overflowing heart. 

 After a while, I continued on reading, still aloud, bits and pieces of the next few Psalms. All at once I found myself repeating words that were very familiar. It was Psalm 116. I had written a song 40 years earlier, taken directly from the first nine verses in the King James Version. Speaking the words aloud was a lovely way to bask in the gratitude of God’s goodness, especially thinking back to what these verses meant to me when I put them to music so many years ago.

 

I love the Lord because he hath heard my voice 

and my supplications. 

Because he hath inclined his ear unto me, 

therefore will I call upon him as long as I live. 

 

The sorrows of death compassed me, 

and the pains of hell got hold on me: 

I found trouble and sorrow. 

 

Then called I upon the name of the Lord; 

Lord , I beseech thee, deliver my soul. 

Gracious is the Lord, and righteous; 

yea, our God is merciful. 

The Lord preserveth the simple: 

I was brought low, and he helped me. 

Return unto thy rest, O my soul; 

for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee. 

 

For He hast delivered my soul from death, 

mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling. 

I will walk before the Lord 

in the land of the living.

 

 On a whim, I got out my guitar—something I rarely do anymore, and I sang that beautiful old song, several times. From there I sang another I had written, which begins with the first verse of Psalm 40 and then draws phrases from all over the Bible. 

 

And then suddenly I began to sing a new song called “In the Womb of the Morning,” the first song I’ve written in eleven years. 

 

In the womb of the morning

Lord, You are here

And I’m sitting, desiring

For Your voice to hear

The words of Your mouth

Oh, they sustain and nourish me

So I’m waiting in anticipation 

For You speak to me

 

In the womb of the morning

The sun’s getting ready to rise

And its rays will go out like the word of God

Resonating through the skies

It’s a picture of You, Lord

Presiding over all

Bringing warmth and comfort

Restoring us when we fall

 

The day may stretch ahead

With challenges I dread

But everything I fear

You defeat when You are near, yes!

In the womb of the morning

Lord, You are here

 

In the womb of the morning 

You are bringing forth the day

And I get on my knees and bow my heart

And submit to you my way

All my troubles and worries

At Your feet I lay

Lord, You are the ruler of my life

And I like it that way

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Part 2

 

Just a couple of weeks after having this experience, something else happened that enlarged my understanding of it. Again I had come downstairs to have my quiet time. I had barely got settled on the couch in the front room when I heard my husband getting up. I had slept a little later than usual, so this was not surprising. But I felt myself bracing internally for the inevitable noises and interruptions. I feared that soon there wouldn’t be much room to think and listen. 

 

Rachel was staying with us for a few days, and now I heard her getting up as well. Before long, both she and her dad were in the kitchen, making coffee, talking and laughing. It’s not that they were being unusually loud; it was just that in this special, holy time of the day when I had thought to be strengthening my soul in God’s presence, it was complete abrasive.  

 

The “womb of the morning” was shredded. It could not support and nurture life. It could not gestate the life of the Son of God in me. And that was when I realized something: the walls of that Womb are comprised of silence and solitude.

 

I am sorry for the violent image, but when a womb is slashed open, it cannot sustain life. All that was taking shape there spills out and is lost. It is not irretrievable; if one acts quickly and decisively, that space can be be restored. Fragments of thoughts can be recovered and rooted back in.

 

But in addition to nurturing the Life of God in me, I have the God-given responsibility and privilege of nurturing my husband and daughter and my relationship with them. I would go out into the kitchen and join them, and I would pick up, a little later, where I left off with God. 

 

It is no coincidence that silence and solitude are two of the foundational spiritual disciplines. They establish a physical and mental place where we can transact with God. And yet silence and solitude have become increasingly alien in this world. Unless we contend for it, we will never have a moment of either. Even when we are silent, our thoughts are not quiet. Even when we are alone, we are not alone. 

 

Our phones are always with us, and we turn to them and fritter our time away with pithy, temporal distractions that will not ultimately enrich our lives in any way. Many of us, if we found ourselves in a womb of silence and solitude, would be so disoriented and uncomfortable that we would leap back out at the first opportunity. We ourselves would be the ones to slash open that nurturing, life-giving sanctuary. 

 

But if we will, little by little, learn to say no to our flesh and its constant demand for stimulation; if we will taste a little of the Lord and see that He is indeed good (Psalm 34:8)—and so cultivate a taste for more; if we will practice a little bit and then a little bit more of being alone and being truly quiet; if we will come to Him early in the day and accustom ourselves to sitting peacefully with Him, we will find that, like the song says, “In the womb of the morning, Lord, You are here.”

 

 

Letting God Fight for Me

Way back before I was married, living in Victoria, I came to know about a man who went by the name of Lion Serpent Son. It was in a Sunday evening church service that I noticed, several rows in front of me, something happening to a young girl who had recently been delivered from evil spirits. In the middle of the sermon, she began to twitch uncontrollably. I whispered a comment to the friend sitting beside me, and he said, “Yeah, that’s because that guy”—he jerked his head back over his shoulder—“is sitting at the back of the room—Lion Serpent Son. The devil knows his own.”

What he meant was that because this teenage girl had until recently been under demonic influence, this man who had slipped into the back of our service (and was staring at the back of her head) was able to oppress and control her. My friend went on to say that this man ran an occult bookstore in town where, in the back room, he led Satanic rituals.

I had a dream a few nights ago in which this man showed up. Later, curious, I went to Google to see if I could find mention of him. Reading here and there, I figured out that his name, Lion Serpent Sun, would have been taken from images in the tarot card deck, a tool of occultic divination. But back in the day, I misunderstood the name my friend spoke to me: what I thought I heard was “Lying Serpent’s Son.”

In my dream, this man, Lying Serpent’s Son, was seated on my left, talking to me. He was trying to have input into my life. I spoke to a person on my right and explained who this guy was. “Back in the 80s,“ I said, “he sued 100 Huntley St. for libel.” (This actually happened in real life.) 

My mentioning this threw the man on my left into a rage. He began to attack me, both verbally and physically. I tried to protect myself; I tried to fight back, but my strength was pitiful next to his. 

The Lord spoke to my heart: “I will protect you. I will be your defense. But you must completely give up your own efforts and trust in Me alone. Otherwise I cannot fight on your behalf.” At His direction, I laid my forearms down on my thighs, hands flat, palms down: a picture of trust and rest. I didn’t feel that way on the inside. It was terrifying, doing nothing to help myself. I found, though, that if I kept my eyes shut, it was easier to focus on God and rest in Him.

But in spite of myself, I opened my eyes once more. Seeing the fury on this man’s face, his arms flailing and his hands clawing at me, was too much for my faith. I threw my arms up again, trying to defend myself.

Once again I realized the futility. Determined to trust, I laid my forearms down again, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and focused on God. In that place, I found that the blows of this enemy could not actually touch me. He could not hurt me as long as I kept the eyes of my heart fixed on God. I could have peace in the middle of the storm.

As the dream faded away, Jesus spoke to me in a ringing voice: “Whatever I say to you, do it!” As I awoke, I clearly understood that unquestioning obedience—even in the smallest matter—would be both the means into that place of trust—as well as the evidence of that trust. Trusting obedience was the way into sanctuary. And as I obeyed, He would continually demonstrate His trustworthiness; and so my faith would grow.

I recognized that the words the Lord had spoken to me were an echo of something His mother said to the household servants at the marriage of Cana, narrated in John 3. The wine had run out and Mary had just prodded Jesus to do something about it. Although His initial response indicates that He has no intention of stepping in (“It’s not yet my time.”), Mary almost seems not to hear Jesus, calmly and confidently telling the servants, “Whatever He tells you to do, do it!” Is this what moved Jesus to action, her confidence in who she knew Him to be? Was it her trust and her derring-do? “The kingdom of God makes way for aggression, and the motivated lay hold of it by their determination” (Matthew 11:12, my paraphrase). 

Sure enough, He gives the servants some instructions. They obey to the letter, and we have Jesus’ first miracle: He turns water into wine. 

If we strip that story down to its bare principles, one of the things we draw from it is that as servants (and friends and family!) of Jesus, if we want to experience supernatural provision, protection, peace—you name it, we must without delay respond to His promptings. Conscious obedience is one of the conditions that bring the kingdom of heaven down to earth.

I would soon have opportunity to practice this principle.

We were staying in Canmore as our daughter Melissa had to have knee surgery in Banff, 20 minutes away. We’d driven to Calgary on Sunday, picked up Melissa, and the three of us drove to Canmore where we got settled, finally, in a hotel suite. It had been a long day for me as I was running on just four and a half hours of sleep. 

The next couple of days was a marathon of exhaustion, with Melissa suffering a lot of pain and vomitting from the effects of the whole ordeal. I would set my alarm and get up at midnight to make sure she got her pain meds and to take care of other needs, then lie awake for the next several hours. By the time I got sleepy, it would be almost time for the alarm to go off for Greg’s shift at 4:00 a.m., so I would cancel the alarm so as not to disturb him, then get up and tend to Melissa again. 

By the time I got to bed on Tuesday night, later than I would have liked, self-preservation was kicking in. With my own health challenges, I was becoming fearful and self-centered and even resentful about the demands of the situation, although I’d been keeping my mouth firmly shut.

I had less than an hour until my alarm would ring again. I was in a knot. Peace and joy, my birthright in Christ, were gone. The dream, which I had just had early that morning, was very much on my mind. A vile spirit, the devil’s spawn, son of the lying serpent, was talking to me. He was trying to have input into my life. As God says in His Word, “We are not fighting against flesh-and-blood enemies, but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 6:12, NLT). Discouragement had a violent grip on me. I didn’t have the power to fight it, at least certainly not in my own strength.

Greg was still awake too. I spoke aloud to him: “I think I need to repent.”

He paused for a moment. “Yes, I think you need to change your mind about some things,” he said. 

(For many years now, he and I have understood repentance to mean changing one’s mind. As even Wikipedia says, “The repentance [metanoia] called for throughout the Bible is a summons to a personal, absolute and ultimate unconditional surrender to God as Sovereign. Though it includes sorrow and regret, it is more than that. ... In repenting, one makes a complete change of direction [180° turn] toward God.”)

I felt God wanted me to kneel to pray. Whatever I say to you, do it! I rolled out of bed and knelt on the hardwood floor. I had serious business to do, and it would not be helped by lying cozy and comfy in a soft bed. Because our body and soul are so closely tied together, taking a serious physical position helps our soul—our mind, our will, and our emotions—to get serious as well.

Mostly what I did that night was to re-establish some things in my mind and heart before God: He is my provision. He is my rest. He gives sleep to His beloved (Psalm 127:2). If He doesn’t give me sleep, He will sustain me supernaturally—if I trust Him to do so.

I stood against fear, fear for my health, in the name of Jesus. I renounced self-protection. I submitted myself to God once again,  committing myself to His care and keeping. In every way that I knew how, I gave up fighting for myself—so that God could fight for me. When I climbed back into bed, I lay on my back with my palms resting on my thighs, the way I had done in my dream—a physical picture of the relinquishment, rest, and trust that I had chosen in my soul.

The peace was tangible. I lay quietly until my alarm went off, then I tended to my daughter’s every need, taking all the time in the world. 

In the morning, I told her about the battle I’d had the night before and the victory I had won through Jesus. 

“It felt different when you came into my room last night,” she said. “There was a softness.”

When the Israelites stood at the formidable obstacle of the Red Sea with the entire Egyptian army breathing down their necks, Moses said to the people, “Do not be afraid. Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord.… The Lord will fight for you, and you shall hold your peace” (Exodus 14:14, NKJV). 

To hold one’s peace means to remain silent. That was certainly what I’d needed to do as I struggled with all my negative feelings and attitudes. But there is another meaning I see there: If I let God fight for me, I will be able to hold onto my peace, my most valuable asset. And so I summarize my experience with a note to self: When you’re in a struggle, first re-establish your submission to God. Don’t lift so much as a finger to fight on your own behalf. Don’t even open your mouth, for as 2 Chronicles 20:16 says, “The battle is not yours, but God’s.”

*   *   *   *   *

Today as I posted this article, I saw that Facebook had brought up a post I wrote three years ago. We had been asked to pray for a certain family who were going through difficulty. What I wrote that day seems such a fitting addendum to this article that I felt I should tack it on. 

 

When Greg and I began to pray for [this particular family] this morning, this was the first thing that came to mind: “When the enemy shall come in like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord shall lift up a standard against him” (Isaiah 59:19, KJV). A standard is a banner that an army carries, displaying a symbol or insignia of the kingdom it represents. Jesus is the Captain of the host of the Lord's armies, and He says that His banner over us is love (Solomon 2:4). He is our Champion, and He will fight for us.

 

“The Lord will march out like a champion, like a warrior he will stir up his zeal; with a shout he will raise the battle cry and will triumph over his enemies” (Isaiah 42:13, NIV).

 

A little later, I was praying through Psalm 118. Here are excerpts, all from The Message except for the paragraph annotated NIV:

 

Thank God because he’s good,

    because his love never quits….

 

Pushed to the wall, I called to God;

    from the wide open spaces, he answered.

God’s now at my side and I’m not afraid;

    who would dare lay a hand on me?

God’s my strong champion;

    I flick off my enemies like flies….

 

All the [hosts of hell] surrounded me,

    but in the name of the LORD I cut them down.

They surrounded me on every side,

    but in the name of the LORD I cut them down.

 They swarmed around me like bees,

    but they were consumed as quickly as burning thorns;

    in the name of the LORD I cut them down (NIV)

 

I was right on the cliff-edge, ready to fall,

    when God grabbed and held me.

God’s my strength, he’s also my song,

    and now he’s my salvation.

Hear the shouts, hear the triumph songs

    in the camp of the saved?

        “The hand of God has turned the tide!

        The hand of God is raised in victory!

        The hand of God has turned the tide!”

 

I didn’t die. I lived!

    And now I’m telling the world what God did.

God tested me, he pushed me hard,

    but he didn’t hand me over to Death….

 

Thank God—he’s so good.

    His love never quits! 

Unworthy or Worthy? Nope!

 I love the Amplified Classic Bible, but there is something that, frankly, has come to irritate me. Virtually every time the word grace appears in the context of God’s relationship with us, the editors insert an explanatory phrase along the lines of “undeserved and unmerited favor.” I know that they cannot presume upon their readers to retain these explanations from page to page or even from verse to verse and so they repeat it every time. But the image it conjures up now, each time I read that phrase, is of these scholars, the translators, sitting around smacking their foreheads with a great big Bible while monotonously repeating, “I am unworthy. I am unworthy.” It makes me want to respond in a manner akin to “God” in the stage play of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, where He shouts from off stage, “Oh, quit your grovelling!” Not that God actually thinks or responds this way, but I sometimes do.

Speaking of The Holy Grail, I suddenly realize that that is where I got the mental picture of Bible scholars whacking their foreheads: there is a scene where a procession of monks in single file are chanting in Latin while intermittently thumping their heads with a short plank. It’s a picture of the same kind of self-flagellation and -abasement: “Unworthy.” Whack! “Unworthy.”

In the same way that I am bothered by the Amplified Classic’s continual reference to unmerited favour, I am grieved (and I think maybe God is grieved as well) every time someone says, regarding His goodness to them, “I know I don’t deserve it.” Oswald Chambers once said, “If we have ever had a glimpse of what we are like in the sight of God, we shall never say—“Oh, I am so unworthy,” because we shall know we are, beyond the possibility of stating it” (My Utmost for His Highest, January 12 reading). 

But when it comes to our relationship with God, worthiness is not the currency we are dealing in. The currency is love. Then again, “currency” is too mercenary a term to be used in connection with love. “Currency is a medium of exchange for goods and services” (investopedia.com). It suggests a system of earning and payment: duty accomplished and reward disbursed. Love, on the other hand, is a relationship where unconditional value is place on the beloved. And we, amazingly, are the beloved. 

As a parent, can you imagine if your child (of any age) were always saying, “I don’t deserve the things you give me. I don’t deserve your love.” It would break your heart! Furthermore, you would be concerned about the mental health of your child.

But before we go further, let us recognize that it is nevertheless both helpful and healthful to grasp the true, negative potential of our depravity, our fallen nature. This most often can only come by revelation. It typically comes by way of a very deep failure, moral or otherwise, which shows us, to the depths of our being, our need of a saviour. It is in that place that we can really receive Jesus, because then we truly know, “beyond the possibility of stating it,” how much we need Him. But then we must determinedly receive what He has promised: “to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). When we have failed, we must choose—against all the weight of our shame—to accept His forgiveness and move forward in confidence that He means what He says: He forgives us, and He is continually cleansing us. 

It seems to me that the constant expression of being undeserving of God’s goodness exhibits a lack of understanding concerning the difference between the old and new covenants, more specifically, the difference between law and grace. And even then (although the Israelites of old could not understand this at the time), the law was only ever given to show us our need of Christ (Galatians 3:24) and to bring us to repentance: “For no person will be justified [freed of guilt and declared righteous] in His sight by [trying to do] the works of the Law. For through the Law we become conscious of sin [and the recognition of sin directs us toward repentance, but provides no remedy for sin]” (Romans 3:20, AMP). 

The law speaks of duty; grace speaks of a love relationship. 

The mention of duty versus love makes me think of something Greg shared with me from a book by C.S. Lewis, George MacDonald, a collection of thoughts from the writings of the Scottish poet and preacher. In #59, a short meditation called “Law and Spirit,” MacDonald explains that we cannot keep God’s Commandments by striving to do so in our own strength. We inevitably fail, and then, he says, “the man is overwhelmed in the weight of their broken pieces.” It requires a truly regenerate heart to produce pure actions: “a power of life, not of struggle; the strength of love, not the effort of duty.”

Perhaps the striving of duty stems from the old myth of earning God’s favour by good deeds and hoping that at the end of our lives when we are weighed in the scales of judgement, the good will outweigh the bad. But this a myth, a gross misunderstanding. God never had such a system in mind. 

It’s not that behaviour isn’t important, but first the heart must be settled on the matter of being completely accepted by God. Truly righteous behaviour grows out of the confidence of being rightly related to God.

Are we trying to earn our right-standing with God by proper behavior, or are we simply, by faith, receiving the gift of His love and imputed righteousness? In Romans Chapter 4, Paul clearly lays out two very different systems of receiving benefit: 1) being an employee who works to earn his wages and therefore deserves to receive them and 2) being the beneficiary of a gift. The first scenario is laid out here: “Now to a laborer, his wages are not counted as a favour or a gift, but as an obligation—something owed to him” (Romans 4:4, AMPC). The second is illustrated here: “But to the one who does not work [that is, the one who does not try to earn his salvation by doing good], but believes and completely trusts in Him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is credited to him as righteousness (right standing with God)” (Romans 4:5, AMP).

 If you consider yourself to be an “employee” of God, then you will work to try to earn what He gives you. You either work very hard to please God and then subconsciously feel you deserve to be rewarded, or you don’t work hard enough (in your estimation) and therefore don’t deserve anything. (You feel you have failed because you have done things you shouldn’t or not done things you should.) 

If, on the other hand, you are plainly (and generously) being given a gift, it has nothing to do with your performance. This is the Good News, or at least one way of expressing it.

Let us not think of God as an employer who will pay us what we have earned, withhold what we have not earned, or perhaps pay us anyway and leave us feeling vaguely and perpetually guilty for receiving a reward that shouldn’t be ours. Let us think of God clearly as the loving Father He is and of ourselves as His beloved children whom He delights to restore and bless.

Do you know what the monks were chanting in Monty Python’s story? “Pie Iesu Domine, dona eis requim”: “Holy Jesus, Lord, grant them rest.” So that is my prayer today for those still struggling with the idea of worthiness. You are not unworthy, and you are not worthy. You are simply loved.