Sea Monsters and Dragons

The fishermen were tired. It had been a long night: casting, dragging, casting, dragging. The nets were empty. Simon was washing his net, perhaps trying to work the kinks out of a sore back when he heard a familiar voice. “Simon, put out a little from the shore so I can teach.” Simon obeyed. “This is a small thing to do for the Master,” he mumbled to himself. Perhaps Simon leaned back and dozed a little while the Master taught. Perhaps he closed his eyes and allowed the Master’s words to wash over him, working the kinks out of a frustrated fisherman’s soul.

The teaching was finished; time to move ashore—or so Simon thought. “Simon, put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch.” (Luke 5:4) Wait a minute. Allowing the boat to rock him to sleep in the shallows is one thing, to start the work day all over again—that’s harder. “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything.” Or in contemporspeak: “Are you serious?”

Nonetheless, Simon obeyed. The fishermen put out into deep water and as they put down their nets, the unbelievable happened. Their nets were so bloated with writhing, wriggling fish, they had to call in a second boat to help them—so that they wouldn’t sink.

Our early years in missions were a bit like drifting out a little ways into the shallow water so that the Master could teach. Not easy, but not unreasonable.

However, as I’ve submitted to the harder call and gone deeper, I’ve wanted to ask the Master more than once, “Are you serious?” If you sink in deep water, you go all the way to the bottom. You can’t just wade out. If you work your nets in empty waters, there are no resources to live on, nothing to show for the blood, sweat, and tears.

Our common enemy revels in the uncertain and goads us with his wicked tongue: “There are no fish there.” “Fool! How stupid to cast your nets again. Go get some sleep.” “Get a real job that comes with a paycheck.”

“Move out into the deeper water,” the Master says.

Out here on the face of the deep, my friends, is where life and faith come alive, here where Leviathan moves and where the map simply reads, “There be dragons.” Nice thing about having the Creator in the boat with you, giving the orders: sea monsters and dragons do not frighten Him. What fish will fill these nets? What blessing awaits the obedience that is against all odds?

Dying to Live

1982. I was twelve. The preacher had been talking to me for probably a year. I was sort of interested, but not enough to do anything about it. Another church in town was giving free showings of one of those scary Apocalyptic movies meant to literally scare the Hell right out of you. Definitely not an ushy-gushy approach to evangelism. I became very interested in the space of about 90 minutes.

I gave in and submitted to the Lord, being baptized on Easter Sunday morning. I jumped into my new found faith both feet, never looking back: Bible college, graduate school, over a decade living in the jungle, translating the Bible. Loving a wife, raising five kids, living the call. Then came preaching. Then a return to missions–a return that drove the initiation of this blog.

I feel a little like I’m back in ’82. The Holy Spirit is talking to me about some very specific things–things that require much more of me than I’ve given in a while. He’s calling “further up and further in”. He’s calling me to lay down my life afresh, to trust Him to open the spigot more fully, to completely surrender anew. It’s time to decide and jump in with both feet.

Paul exhorts the Philippian church, “. . . continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose.” (Philippians 2:12-13) Because there is a continual war, our enemy being the world, the flesh, and the devil, that I must continually fight, I must walk with the fear of God before my eyes, trembling at the possibility that I might choose the world, the flesh, or the devil over Him.

Young, middle-aged, or mature, we each must walk this walk with healthy fear of God, dying to ourselves that we might live true life.

Xenopraxis-A Word for our Time

Xenopraxis. It means “to practice the strange”. I coined the word a few minutes ago to concisely express a concept Peter wrote about in I Peter 1:17: “Since you call on a Father who judges each man’s work impartially, live your lives as strangers here in reverent fear.”

Xenopraxis is counter-cultural. It turns selfish ambition into sacrificial service. It converts the pandemic narcissism of mankind into something unrecognizable by the world: selfless love. The xenopractitioner puts his/her hope fully on the grace to be given when Jesus Christ is revealed rather than in the government, the world system, or the person’s own ability to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. The xenopractitioner is conformed to God’s desire rather than the evil desires he/she had when living in ignorance. The xenopractitioner strives to live life single-mindedly: heart, soul, strength, and mind. The xenopractitioner is characterized by an ongoing preparation of the mind which readies it for action, a measure of self-control meant to to stir up obedience and holiness.

Xenopraxis looks strange to the world and so it mockingly practices xenophobia, the fear of the strange.

What does this have to do with missions and mid-life? I find that the further I walk down this path the more I have to choose that which looks strange to the world, that which many Christians do not understand, that which keeps moving me toward the character and likeness of Christ. If the Kingdom of God is “where ever God’s rule is”, then I must be an ambassador, reflecting God’s character and mission if I expect to build His kingdom in the hearts of men. Sometimes it looks strange even to me.

Xenopraxis is a word for our time, church. Let’s live our lives here in reverent fear.

Pushing the Envelope

“Cut to the heart.” Simple. Pointed–like a knife. It implies that a sharp object cuts through all of our protective layers and goes right to the heart. The double-edged knife of Mark 6:6 did just that to me this evening.  ”And he [Jesus] was amazed at their lack of faith.”  The writer was talking about the folks in Jesus’ home town,  but he could’ve been talking about me.

I’m 42 years old, on my second missions career with a brief stint in the pastorate between the two, a veteran when it comes to both faith and living on the generosity of the Father. My heroes are the Hudson Taylor’s and George Mueller’s of history, yet I find myself straining at the oars in the middle of the lake, fighting the chop and the stout wind on the bow. I find myself peering through the darkness of the fourth watch and mistaking Messiah for an apparition, a phantasm floating on the water, a ghost silently passing. And I’m terrified. Like the disciples there in the boat I cry out. “Take courage!” he says, “It is I. Don’t be afraid.”

The wind died as he climbed into the boat with them. The text says, “They were completely amazed . . . [because] their hearts were hardened.” Hmmm. . .

It’s me. I must have been sitting in that boat. I know their utter amazement. And not when nature is defied, but with the simplest things–answered prayer, an unexpected donation, a kiss on the cheek from one of my daughters. I am saddened and ashamed that I have caused Jesus such consternation. Yet it is Jesus that grants me both mercy and courage to keep moving ahead. He inspires me to put a smile of satisfaction on His face–and that takes faith.

Anyone feel like pushing the edge of the envelop of faith with me?

42 and Groaning?

The gate was deserted. As Bill sat me down and started talking  the low rumble of jets taking off and landing could be felt more than heard in the terminal. But it was the rumbling in my soul that held my attention.

“Don’t let the enemy trick you into mediocrity. . .” the talk began. I felt it more than heard it. Rumbles of spiritual thunder. Tremors in the foundations. Shifting in the inner man.  The words, distinct at the time, have begun to fade. They have left an urgency, though,  an awareness of what is at stake burning in my mind and heart. What had incited such a conversation? A comment that came from my own mouth: “I’m 42 in a week and a lot of days I just feel tired and old.” Hmmm . . .

Someone else who had walked that journey told me that her early forties felt like that. “Not me. I’m on a mission for God, I can’t feel this weary all the time. . .”  Even so, something from the deep began to surface. “I’m asking you to care for others; to teach them how to care for themselves. I’m asking you to help your co-laborers be resilient.  I’m asking you to lead them into wisdom, discipline, and truth. I’m asking you to show them the Way of Wisdom.”

The pain penetrated the weariness. I cannot lead people where I have not gone. This candle is to have but one wick, and that wick needs to burn bright with the oil of the Spirit, not the oil of effort alone.

Too little discipline. Too much urgent busyness. Too few hours renewing. Too many hours pouring out. It had all caught up with me.

“We . . .who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.” Romans 8:23 – 25, NIV.

I’m a good listener. Sometimes I’m a spiritual seismograph. I’m finding discipline. I’m cutting back. I finding margins. And, yes, I’m groaning, waiting for that Day.

How Does It Feel to be 41?

Pairs of ladies huddled over soup or salad bowls, talking in Spanish, German, and Southern. Waiters flitted to and fro, balancing trays the size of garbage can lids on their shoulders. Candles flickered. There was a light perfume of garlic and rosemary floating around the room. Hannah doodled on a children’s menu.

“How does it feel to be 41?” she asked.

“Tired, I think.”

I pushed the silverware aside as the soup arrived. It was quiet for a moment.

I started to say something else, but then just helped Hannah figure out the puzzle on her menu. 41 doesn’t really feel that tired, at least I don’t think that it will feel so tired as it does today.

Today is the end of a journey. 3,000 miles in three weeks. 5 days for 1500 miles, camping, visiting, moving, preparing. Change. Adjustment. Yada, yada, yada. Like so much in life, the change is a juggernaut, a freight train, bearing down on you as you cross the track. Hurry. Move. Don’t stop. Don’t rest. No time to waste. Just keep moving.

Change is harder than it was 20 years ago. Change is like the headache you get when you eat ice cream too fast. The ice cream is oh-so-good, the headache is oh-so-bad, but ultimately short-lived.

I find myself today with a sort of metaphysical ice cream headache. The results of change at 41 are oh-so-good, the adjustments are. . . well, you get the idea.

How does it feel to be 41? Today, it feels tired.

 

Home

“Where are we from, Daddy?”

Unconsciously I gaze out the window. We are on the road again. Children always ask such questions when we are 100 miles from the nearest town, needing to eat or stretch or relieve . . . some other personal discomfort. The wind fluffles and flaps around the car, the engine drones, the road stretches to the horizon. For the moment, we are from Kansas or Iowa or South Dakota. “Home” is elusive.

“Well,” I reply casually, “today we are from Kansas. What about tomorrow? Where will we be from tomorrow?” I ask. My six-year-old daughter gazes out the window. It is quiet for the moment. It will dawn on the kids someday how artfully I avoided the reality that we really aren’t from anywhere, at least not anymore . . . or are we?

A familiar hymn begins to resonate through the chambers of my heart: “Spirit of God, descend upon my heart/Wean it from Earth/Through all its pulses move/Stoop to my weakness/Mighty as Thou art/And make me love Thee as I ought to love/

I ask no dream/No prophet ecstasies/No sudden rending of the veil of clay/No angel visitant/No opening skies bright/Please take the dimness of my soul away”

Dimness. Earth. The Veil of Clay. It’s all so shadowy. Dawn comes gradually and then all at once. Will illumination come gradually or all at once or at all? Where am I from? Where am I headed?

Jesus lights a candle in my spirit. Snippets of scripture march as images across my mind. I see Jesus walking the dusty roads of Palestine with no place to lay his head. He rests next to a well, in a garden on Mt. Olivet, in the home of a tax collector. He describes me as “alien” and “stranger.” I envision him going ahead of me to his Father’s mansion to prepare for my arrival. Paul informs me that I am a citizen of heaven, a holy nation, a peculiar people. The writer of Hebrews tells me that I have a city whose builder and maker is God—a city with foundations—no more living in tents (temporary dwellings made for moving around). Jesus reminds me that it is a good thing to leave all the familiar trappings of this earth to pursue Him. He will not forget nor will he despise the “sacrifice”.

“Where are we from, Daddy?” asks my six-year-old daughter. “Sweetheart,” I say to her, “we are from just beyond where eyes can see, where the lion lies down with the lamb, where spears are pounded into plowshares, where sin is no more.” She doesn’t understand it all, but she seems content with the answer. She lays her head against the seat and drifts away to Narnia, to lions and children and talking beasts . . . I whisper a prayer of thanks and put on my shades . . . it’s getting awfully bright in here.

Pensive in the Penske

Slate grey clouds cast a deep shadow on the earth, spewing mist and rain across the windshield. I glance toward my daughter, who is chattering away over the roar of the 26’ moving truck. The rest of the family follows in our two other vehicles. We are leaving a preaching ministry in Iowa, heading south toward a return to our roots in missions.

Orange and white poles separate oncoming lanes. Another construction zone. The harsh Iowa winters fracture and splay the road surface, as ice forms in the cracks and pushes them a little more open with each freeze. What a miserable job—standing in the rain, running a machine that chews up and spits out steel reinforced concrete. Chewing up the old, replacing it with the new.

My mood is an admixture of joy and gloom. What’s the problem?

It’s not unusual for forty-somethings to be into the really productive years of a career. It’s also not unusual for forty-somethings to feel a stir, a discontent, a longing to go deeper and farther and higher and beyond. The years seem shorter now, the days longer. The clock is ticking. I’m driving away from a good paycheck and familiar surroundings into the unknown. What was I thinking?

I’m so tempted to return to Egypt, to pots full of stew, to leeks and onions and meat. My musings turn white in a flash of sunlight bursting through an opening in the clouds. The Wild Goose flaps in my face and honks a great honk. “Hey! I’m leading this flock south! Stop looking back and follow me!” (The Celtic Christians of old alternately pictured the Holy Spirit as a dove (as in the gospels) and a as a wild goose—untamable, unpredictable, noisy, or graceful.)

Though I feel a bit like the cracked and broken concrete being chewed up in the 10-ton machine on the other side of the interstate, the Wild Goose leads me on, pointed south, toward faith and love and new beginnings.

Father in Heaven, may the Wild Goose lead this flock of goslings home. Pour into our hearts the knowledge of your will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding. Pour into our lives the vigor and passion and vision that will inspire the church, empower the saints, and establish a legacy of faith and deep commitment and passion for You. Remind us each day that you provide, lead, and carry us through this life.

The Misty Veil

In the inner Hebrides of Scotland lies the Isle of Iona, an emerald jewel on a stormy sea. Like Brigadoon, this isle appears and disappears from Christian history; at least as the Celts tell the story. It is described by some as being a very “thin” place, where the distinction between material and spiritual is but a misty veil.

Does this barrier only thin in mystical places far from home or might it thin when I am weak, needy, tired, bloodied, and crying out for more holiness, more voice, more providence, more righteousness? Might it thin when I recognize that I am a child, peering through the chill mist, waiting for my Father to return with my sustenance? Does it thin when I stop trying to prove myself to the One who will carry my burdens and simply rest in Him?

These questions decorate the halls of my heart. Like great tapestries, they hang there in the half-light, reminding me that while the Veil has been removed, the mist between Now and Then remains. When will the Son blaze through the misty veil, revealing himself in all His glory? Come Lord Jesus. Come.

Father, when we are distraught by questions, by insecurities, by fears of failure and want, let our hearts linger a little longer in your presence; turn our eyes toward the Son. Remind us of the gentle promises of a loving Father. Place in us an unutterable longing for that day when Jesus will come on the clouds, with his angels, in all his glory. Open our eyes, that we might peer through the misty veil and see through into the eternal. Let us be thin places in this world.

Joy?

Joy is not a word that I would normally associate with packing a house and moving–especially not at 40 years old. When my wife and I were newly married and out of school, we lived in a 1985 Toyota Camry for a summer, a small apartment for a couple of years and then we crossed the big pond and lived in thatched-roofed huts, transient housing, even in a converted motel in Australia for a time. It was a great adventure. Though occasionally homeless, we were happy.

We’ve noticed a difference since we’ve started living like most folks do–in one place over time. The simple joy of childlike trust, the flexibility of an elastic faith, and a basic happiness have all begun to fade. Life has become predictable, pedantic, prolonged.

Fortunately, we serve a God who knows how all the whirligigs twirl in our secret place. He has compassion when He sees us out of sync with His intended purpose for us; when He sees the light begin to fade in our eyes. Only He knows how to relight the fire.

He uses strange matches sometimes. In a flash of revelation in the midst of a board meeting my Father whispered relief: “It is time to move on.” For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt giddy. Hope for a better future returned. Joy began to flood my soul.

I look around as I write these words. Familiar what-nots are disappearing into boxes. My wife flits to and fro, grim and determined to remove the curse of materialism from our family: “It’s all going to fit in one moving truck!” There is a fresh fervency to our praying, an urgency in our correspondence, and a compelling vision to chase.

Joy? Yes, there is that too. Faith has put on a pair of traveling shoes. James tells us when our faith works itself out in deeds, God considers us both righteous and his friend–and that, my friend, is the stuff joy is made of.