Jonathan launched his first remote control airplane when he was ten years old. When his plane lifted off (and crashed a few minutes later), we could not have imagined how God would use a toy plane to provide direction for three of our children. But here we are, over six years later, watching as Ella, Jonathan, and Benjamin discover a passion for flying real planes and serving real people with real needs around the world.
I thought you’d enjoy seeing their story in their own words @ https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/mission-flight While this is a fund-raising campaign that they’ve launched, there’s no pressure whatever to donate. Their story gives to us—it gives a vista on the significance of small things and the value little “unimportant” decisions in life. An elderly missionary friend of ours was in China in the 1930’s during the Boxer Rebellion. His passion for people combined with the sagacity of years led him to adopt the motto, “Exposure, exposure, exposure!” Expose people to the Scriptures, to missions, to needs, and God will use that exposure to call people to His work. Even little things we experience are used by God to direct and lead us His paths. Small, seemingly happenstance events are testimonies to His providence. As parents, we get the chance to join God in His purposes with everything we bring into our children’s view. Who knows what will come of something so small as a toy airplane? © Robert G. Robbins, January 2014
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I wish you could look into the faces I see every Tuesday.
Five young men grimace, laugh, and groan in a grass-roots communication class. We meet in the old milk house attached to our barn, once a place to store nourishment, now a place to drink it in—and we work on everything from spelling and grammar to speaking and reading aloud. It's an animated group, spirited, full of ideas, and punctuated with lots of mirth. We even have a time for exercise built into our 2-1/2 hour class in order to burn off some of the excess energy generated by fourteen to sixteen year old men. (So far, I can keep up most of the time . . .) A frequent assignment is to bring to class a piece of "fabulous writing," ready to read it aloud. Who better to learn communication from than the master communicators? We've heard from Churchill to Hitler and Tolkien to Dekker and MacArthur to Mohler—writers, leaders, and first-class communicators who employed their skills to influence people for good or evil. It was a natural progression to learn to communicate from the Master of the masters, to read the Word of God aloud in a way that expresses what He really thinks in a way that people can understand it. Together we wove Scriptures together to offer thanks and praise to God, then offered to present the medley to churches. The video below is the unedited version of the reading they shared last week in a church right here in Ferndale. I've often told these men that they are the future of the church. Not one of them may be a pastor or a "professional communicator," but every one of them needs to know how to lead a family, to speak to needs in the Body of Christ, to instruct people on the job. They are the face of the future, and as I watch them, I have hope. PS—Please pardon the videography; I shot this on my phone while sitting in congregation and trying not to shake :) Melissa Robbins When I brushed up against eternity with a hemorrhage after miscarrying, I came home from the ER and every day was a breath-taking realization that life was a gift. For about two weeks. Then I was exhausted and depressed and weighed down by all the things that weren’t getting done and the piles of laundry and my messy house. So I should know the drill. I should understand thankfulness and that it takes work to remember but I’m forgetful. Maybe you understand that. Last year, my friend Connie invited us to hot turkey sandwiches after Thanksgiving. She and her husband adopted 12 children from different parts of the world over the last twenty years and all of our children have a friend at their house. We had a great time as always. But a few months later, she began to feel very tired. We were leaving town and she asked me to pray for an appointment with her naturopath. I should have known that if my very tough friend asked me to pray, it was serious. I didn’t realize how weak she was. Eventually she could hardly climb the stairs in her house and the diagnosis was shocking. This year, she had chemo on her birthday this week, just before Thanksgiving, and doctors recommend a further brutal treatment plan begin soon, fighting for her health. God brings her to mind in the morning and when we gather as a family at night and sometimes in the middle of the night if I can’t get back to sleep. Her youngest is not yet 10. I pray for her often. Last week I wanted to take her something. Since I had some congestion I didn’t want to share with Connie, I scoured the yard in a chill sunny autumn morning and found maple leaves, hydrangeas and rose hips that recent windstorms hadn’t whipped away. Next to the house I was amazed to find feverfew blooming—little daisy like flowers—it’s November! I threw it in with all the fall beauty and thought of my brave friend Connie who is like the feverfew to me. She is beautiful right through this cold hard season of suffering. She sends me (and others have told me the same) thoughtful notes and prays for my concerns. Surrounded by fears and concerns and statistics, she trusts her God. Praying for her I am reminded to take one day at a time. When I weep with her, I feel the heart of our Father who is afflicted with the same afflictions we suffer. As I face into the turbulent possibilities of her holiday season, I think how silly my worries and troubles look in the light of real suffering. Thank you, my friend. In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.
I Thessalonians 5:18 The Greater RealityFor several years I’ve written and taught on the power of seeing the Invisible. It’s one of those themes we can trace from beginning to ending of the Scriptures, a theme woven into the very fabric of the lives of men and women of God. It transforms our perspective, it replaces uncertainty with confidence, it expunges doubt, and it changes the way we live. Why? Because seeing the Invisible defines our connection with the God who made us and who is working all things together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. But many times, it’s hard to look past the lurid details of our present circumstances and painful memories and future fears to God—in spite of the fact that seeing Him is exactly what we need at precisely this juncture. I’ll confess, this has been my experience many times over the course of the past years: I’ve believed and taught and studied and learned about seeing the Invisible God—then, incomprehensibly, turned back to looking at my own problems. Stumbling through my own experience, I’ve discovered foundational reasons why we fail to keep the Invisible in view . . . and that’s a topic for another time. For now, I want to focus our attention on one man who saw God—and how that sight transformed him. “But he (Stephen), full of the Holy Spirit, gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God” (Acts 7:55). Stephen’s situation: surrounded by an enraged mob. Stephen’s crime: telling the truth. Stephen’s perspective: up, not out. It can be argued that not everyone who looks up to God in the midst of trial sees the heavens opened. That’s true. But how many of us even look up to see? I’d argue that the heavens are always open to God’s son, God’s daughter who looks for Him. Not in visions and voices, but in reality nonetheless. It’s to that end that Paul (who kept the coats of the angry mob that day) later admonishes, “. . . seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God” (Colossians 3:1). The easiest, most natural perspective for Stephen was to look at the furious crowd gnashing their teeth at him in rage. Stephen wasn’t asleep. The crowd was real and their anger had reached a fever pitch. He knew that. But he chose to look to the Invisible, a Reality greater than the reality of flesh and blood and flushed faces and shining eyes. Stephen was more overwhelmed by God’s reality, by God’s presence in that place, than by the place itself. He was awestruck by his view of the Invisible God. “And he said, ‘Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” That’s the last thing the natural man would say in Stephen’s situation. We’d give a defense; we’d retort with anger begotten by anger; we’d hurl accusations. None of this escaped Stephen’s lips. So was Stephen a spiritual superman? Was his experience something only for those who climb stone staircases on their knees? No. What Stephen saw was not due to bionic eyesight. The power he experienced that day was the power of the Invisible God flowing through Him. All he did was to open his eyes and God overwhelmed him:
Our responsibility is to turn our eyes to God, to look to Jesus, the “Founder and Perfecter of our faith.” God’s nature is to transform those who truly see Him. (“When He appears, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is”—I John 3:2.) The crowd dragged Stephen out of the city, picked up stones, and hurled them at him. Rending, breaking, crushing pain. Stephen stood as the rocks began to fly, then, pummeled and beaten, he fell to his knees, committed his spirit to Jesus and prepared to meet His God. And because He saw the Lord, he was just like Him. In the beginning, they saw Stephen’s face, Moses-like, shining like the face of an angel. In the end, they heard Stephen’s words, Jesus-like, pleading for their pardon. “. . . he cried out with a loud voice, ‘Lord, do not hold this sin against them.’” Unaccountable words. Forgive the unforgivable? Beg God for mercy to the merciless? But Stephen, seeing his Lord, overflowed with the same abundance of grace and followed in the footsteps of Jesus—Jesus who filled his view. “Father,” the crucified Jesus cried, “forgive them for they know not what they do.” Here seeing the Invisible God gets right to the down and dirty side of who we really are. Forgiveness is as far from my natural way of doing things as flying. But it’s natural for God. Not long ago, I found myself hurting and fearful and needing to face a painful situation all over again. It was then that Stephen’s story came back to mind. I’m no martyr and I’m not getting stoned, but I need to forgive just as much as Stephen. “And whenever you stand praying,” Jesus says, “forgive, if you have anything against anyone . . .” (Mark 11:25). Jesus finishes the thought, “. . . so that your Father also who is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.” Face-to-face with the Invisible God, I know that I need His forgiveness. In fact, I must have His forgiveness. Apart from His forgiveness all is lost for my soul. And the only path to true forgiveness is seeing the Invisible. Note what Stephen saw as he looked up to heaven. There was the glory of God—and Jesus standing. When we get glimpses of Jesus in the throne room of heaven, he is typically seated—one with the Father and at ease in His presence, authority and power belonging to Him. But in this instance we see Jesus standing—active in receiving His beloved son, Stephen. Stephen did not just see God as an abstract personality, distant and removed from his circumstance. He did see God in His transcendent glory, but He also saw God in His immanence. Stephen saw God involved. Stephen’s experience parallels the experience of every person whose faith is real: “. . . whoever would draw near to God must believe that He exists and that He rewards those who seek Him” (Hebrews 11:6). God is God and God rewards. He is actively engaged in the lives of His men and His women. What we endure, He understands. What we suffer, He suffers with us. What we must forgive, we forgive for His sake. Tossed by the emotions of my own trial and torn by the ugly reality of having to face it again, this truth sang to my soul and changed my perspective. Of course I believe that God is God. Of course I know that He is great and holy and just and good. But I need to see God at work in my trial; I need to see that His goodness applied to me, that He is big enough to be in control right now, that His justice will not be mocked. I need to see that He has not forgotten me any more than He forgot Stephen as the rocks flew and the pain increased and the injustice of the whole debacle mounted to heaven. I need to see Jesus “standing” on my behalf. God is God—and He is at work in every circumstance of everyone who loves Him. When I look I experience His transforming power, a power that explodes the normal way we think and opens our minds to divine realities. A power that can even forgive in the middle of injustice and pain. There is a good deal of talk these days about grievous wrongs committed by a leader who purported to be God's man. Bill Gothard’s hypocrisy and inconsistency and ruinous moral behavior have left an ugly mark on the lives of many who followed him and believed in his mission. His failures have left nightmares for the affected women to face again and again and again. Where is the God of justice? He will not tarry forever, and in that day, Bill (and every one of us) will answer to Him. In the meantime, we must work for justice, protect the innocent, and uphold the right—while trusting the Judge to utter the final sentence. Exchanging places It’s easy to miscarry true justice. Our pain can drive us to hypocrisy—and like Bill we “exchange places” with God. At that point, we find ourselves caring less about what God thinks and more about how much we hurt, less about what’s best and more about what we want. Remember Job? In the midst of pain and surrounded by mocking friends, God showed Job who He really was. “Dress for action like a man; I will question you, and you make it known to Me. Will you even put Me in the wrong that you may be in the right?” No trading places with the Almighty. God is God. Finally, Job replied, “I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of Yours can be thwarted,” Job said. “I had heard of You by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees You; therefore I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes.” Job’s awareness of God put him back in his place. God did not owe Job an explanation—in fact, we’re not told that he ever received one. And when Job was back in his place under God, he got his first new assignment: to pray for his “friends.” Aside from a view of the Invisible, it’s likely that Job would have responded Jonah-like. When God relented from bringing disaster on Ninevah, Jonah was angry. “That is why I made haste to flee to Tarshish,” he told God. “. . . for I knew that You are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relenting from disaster.” Jonah’s anger was a miscarriage of justice, but he believed he was in the right and God was wrong. It’s at this same point, when we misunderstand the Greater Reality, that our trust in God is tested. Can we still trust Him—or do we insist on exchanging places with the Almighty? But Job had seen the Invisible, and so he had the power to pray, the power to obey, the power to forgive. And sure enough, when Job prayed for his friends, the Lord heard his prayer and turned from the punishment he was going to bring on them. That prayer was also the turning point for Job: “And the Lord restored the fortunes of Job, when he had prayed for his friends.” So what will we do if God’s measurement of justice or His timing in carrying it out is different than ours? This is our test. Imperfect judges The need for justice is primary. We need justice because we need God and God is a God of justice. Read the need for justice through the imprecatory Psalms. Hear it in the cry of the voices from under the altar in Revelation: “O Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long before You will judge and avenge our blood . . .” “Doing justice” is one of the essential duties of man (Micah 6:8). But we are imperfect judges, so Paul instructs us in the practical application of justice. “Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of meekness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted” (Galatians 6:1). In other words, don’t forget that you’re made from the same stuff. The same sin you abhor, or the same essential quality of that sin, lurks in the dark recesses of your own soul. And all it’s waiting for is a breath of spiritual pride to bring it to life in the ugliest, deadliest attack you’ve known. Guard yourself while you stand for truth. An older friend has pointed out more than once, “flesh begets flesh.” Couldn’t be truer in my own life. I think of myself as fairly level-headed and long-suffering. But if you want to see me get angry, put me in a room with angry people. I may get angry for different reasons and in different ways—and I’ll undoubtedly believe that my anger is “righteous.” But, apart from grace, anger typically begets anger for me. It’s not just anger. Hypocrisy begets more hypocrisy. Moral failure begets more moral failure. Pride begets more pride. What’s more normal than that? The child of every sin is like its parent, though it expresses it’s wicked character in different ways. So we must guard ourselves when we walk into a situation characterized by failure. How to guard ourselves? Seeing the Invisible God is a good starting point. It’s at that place that we remember God is the judge and that we are inclined to the very same kinds of sin that anger us. It’s at that place we remember that justice never walks alone: We are to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God. We trace this reality in King David’s life as he fled and Shimei cursed: “If he is cursing because the Lord has said to him, ‘Curse David,’ who then shall say, ‘Why have you done so?"’ David saw through Shimei, through the injustice and humiliation of a nasty situation, through dust and rocks to the Invisible God—and to his own failings. Real grace Humility is the only gateway to grace. God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble. Anything that calls itself grace but has the acrid aroma of pride is actually self-righteousness or revenge or charisma or . . . but not grace. Grace is completely counterintuitive. We count success as achieving our goals; grace counts our successes as loss in comparison to gaining Christ. We evaluate justice on the basis of the bad guys getting their just desserts; grace evaluates justice on the bad guys becoming just. We forgive when there is “due repentance;” grace forgives because God is God and God forgives His enemies “for Christ’s sake.” That’s Joseph’s testimony. By all rights he should have been a bitter, angry man: powerful, but evil. But when his brother’s showed up on the scene we see a man of brokenness and humility. In fact, we find him comforting his persecutors: “And now do not be distressed or angry with yourselves because you sold me here, for God sent me before you to preserve life” (Genesis 45:5). Counterintuitive? Yes. But that’s grace—grace that sees past the visible (people who have hurt us) to the Invisible God whose ways are always right, whose purposes are always good. After Jacob died, the brothers got worried that Joseph would take this opportunity to get revenge, so they sent a message to him begging his forgiveness again. Joseph wept (Genesis 50:17). They still didn’t understand. They still didn’t realize the power of grace. They still didn’t grasp that Joseph had his eyes on God, not on how they had wronged him in the past. “Do not fear,” Joseph told them. “Am I in the place of God? As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive . . .” Notice that Joseph didn’t say: “It’s OK boys. No troubles.” He didn’t whitewash evil and pretend that bad was good. That’s not grace. Grace calls good, good and bad, bad. But grace returns good for evil and heaps good upon good. It’s by that same grace that Stephen cried out for mercy for his murderers, forgiving as they snuffed out his life. He was connected to the God of grace; his life, as it ebbed away, was a conduit for the overflow of that grace to others. So what do we do with our wounds? We acknowledge that they’re real. That the pain and hurt and scars are real. We stand up for the protection of the innocent—in the power of humility. And we look behind the curtain of visible things to a Greater Reality. The Invisible God stands up on behalf of His own, and somehow through our grief, He works good for us and deliverance for others. That’s enough. That’s grace. That’s the power to return good for evil, even when that “good” means painful confrontation. That’s the power to stand up for the right while staying under God. That’s the power to do first things first, to deal with our brokenness, our guilt, before attempting to fix the brokenness of others. That’s even the power to forgive. “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28). © March 2014 by Robert G. RobbinsThe Waiting RoomBetween promise and fulfillment, between the call of God and the open door is a waiting room. David writes from his waiting room in Psalm 138: The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me . . . (the confidence of promise meets present circumstance) Your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever . . . (the character of God meets personal need) Do not forsake the work of Your hands. (the crying heart meets the Lord in the waiting room) From beginning to ending of this short song, David iterates and reiterates the certainty of God’s work. He puts God’s character on display and thanks Him with his whole heart (v. 1-2). He remembers that God has heard him in the past and strengthened his soul (v. 3). He anticipates the day when kings will join a mighty chorus glorifying the King of kings (v. 4-5). He even calls to mind God’s protection and care in the present, in “the waiting room” of life (v. 6-7). So when we come to verse 8, we’re ready for the crescendo of confidence and praise that overflows from David’s heart: “The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me; Your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever.” David knows by experience that God does what is right, that trust placed in Him is never disappointed. The fulfillment of God’s purpose is as certain as the unchanging, immovable love of God which never ends. As David replayed the story of his life to this moment, he could say only that God never failed. In every impossible situation, God brought deliverance. No plot of the enemy was so skillfully laid that God could not give a door of escape. No army was so strong that the power of God could not break through. The wilderness could not swallow him, caves could not confine him, kings could not kill him. Thanksgiving burst from David’s lips as he remembered His God—God who heard him at his lowest ebb and loved him and carried him through. Of particular interest to me is the last line of David’s song: “Do not forsake the work of Your hands.” I’d like to say, “David, what are you talking about? You’ve recounted God’s loyalty; you’ve remembered His unfailing love; you’ve declared your certainty that the God who has brought you this far will not abandon you here. Do you still doubt?” And then I step back to my own little waiting room. I’m not pursued by enemies as David was, hunted like a bird, fleeing, hiding, and flying again. I’m not facing off against the gods of this world. I’m not vying for a promised kingdom over which I will reign one day. I definitely face enemies of the soul, and wrestle with the false gods of my culture, and fight in the war for God's Kingdom, but David’s larger-than-life trials and triumphs are on another scale. Yet I find David’s closing cry expresses my heart in the waiting room, too. Like David, I’ve known the goodness of God my whole life through. Of course, it’s by His mercy that I draw my next breath, and there are special times in which I’ve seen His hand and felt His embrace. I’ve experienced the unfailing love of God who knows me when I hardly know myself and who loves me anyway. I’ve known the strength of soul God gives when I’ve cried out to Him. I’m anticipating the day when even enemies sing praise to my Heavenly King. But in the waiting room, between promise and fulfillment, I echo David’s words, “Do not forsake the work of Your hands.” Can the God of eternal forsake? If God has purposed, will He not bring it to pass? Yet in the dark, before the call finds its open door, I find myself pleading with God to fulfill His purpose, needing to know again that He will finish the good work He has begun. Is that doubt? Sometimes—and then I cry, “I believe; help my unbelief!” God who heard a distraught father in Jesus’ day and healed his son, hears me and impart belief to my unbelieving heart. Sometimes I’m worn, wearied by waiting. Hope droops, wilts like a plant in need of water, thirsting for a fresh word from the Almighty, for His personal reminder: “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” Think of it: God knows our frame; He remembers that we are dust. He is not surprised by our weakness. He is not tired of our continual crying out to Him for help, for hope, for another drink to lift our sagging spirits. God is pleased when we call to Him. Sometimes I need to reckon, to bridge the gap between what I can see and what I cannot see by setting my will with the character of God and His promises for my uncertain future. Will God fulfill His purpose—yes! But I must teach my soul to know it. Psalm 138 is David’s reckoning in the waiting room, believing that God will do what He has promised; it’s David’s clinging to God and begging Him to not forsake; it’s David’s soul catching up to the reality of God’s character, warming to the blaze of God’s love. And all the time, the waiting room is my opportunity to enter into the purposes of God. It’s easy to miss this reason for earnest prayer, and give up inside. After all, “God has promised so why does it matter if I think about this any more?” It’s true that God’s promises are as certain as if they were already fulfilled. But God invites us to the fellowship of co-laborers together with Him. Jesus taught His disciples to pray, “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name. Your kingdom come, Your will be done, in earth as it is in heaven.” Is it possible that the will of God would not be done, that the promised kingdom would not come, that the Father’s name would not be hallowed? Never. But God wants us to join in His purposes through earnest prayer. In the process of working together with God we know Him as never before. For David and for us, a part of God’s purpose is to fulfill our purpose, the reason for which He made us. In prayer, in the midst of agony and conflict, we get a chance to recognize that the reason for which God made us is for the fulfillment of His purpose—and there we get to join our prayer with His promise: “I will never leave you nor forsake you" united with "Do not forsake the work of Your hands.” It is a great circle: As we enter into God’s purpose for the world, God fulfills our purpose in the world—which fulfills His purpose for the world. “Your kingdom come, Your will be done . . .” Prayer turns into supreme confidence when we know that we’re praying in line with what God has purposed. Winter weather has come to our Northwestern corner; cold air spilling out of Canada pours across our county and engulfs our little home. Last vestiges of summer growth wilt and blacken, dropping lifeless to the ground. Nights are long. This is the waiting room. Were I a tree who had seen forty-six winters, I’d remind myself that spring would come again, that sap would run, that fruit once more would grace my branches. But I’m not a tree waiting for spring. I have something more sure than the changing of the seasons to give me hope. Like David, I’m teaching my soul to know it—to know Him—and I'm joining my purpose to the everlasting purposes of God. The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me; Your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of Your hands. © Robert G. Robbins, November 2013
Breaking the Great Addiction Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Matthew 6:28–29 I’m on the last leg of a race that’s spanned several months, a race to keep up with two jobs, four teens, and all the other responsibilities that make up life. Today I’m pausing and evaluating . . . There’s an anesthetic quality to busyness. Activity demands more activity. Weariness requires more labor. We live in a culture that, generally speaking, values quantity over quality, that supersizes everything in life and “supersizing life” requires incessant activity. In my experience, the level of activity itself turns into an addiction that is self-necessitating: Doing this requires that I do this . . . and so on. There is no end to the cycle, no getting off the merry-go-round until we’re flung off by a life-defining crisis or a determined choice. There’s a problem with doing when doing is its own end. Slothfulness is contrary to the nature of God and results in a life marked by destruction, but the productivity addiction is destructive, too. These two extremes seem like they’re on opposite ends of the spectrum: The sluggard’s vineyard is covered in weeds and its wall is broken down while the diligent person tends his property and reaps a harvest. But when productivity is isolated from the purposes of God, it becomes nothing more than the pursuit of more. It grows from the same root of selfishness as slothfulness and shares the same mind-numbing effects: a stoppage of thinking, seeking, and concentrating on the most important things. There’s a fear in stopping. When we derive our sense of worth from the things we do, we cannot break the addiction to doing. Ask five people, “Who are you?” and you’ll probably get five answers that tell you something about a job or a hobby that gives shape to their identity. Stopping puts us in a position where we must derive our identity from something outside our activities. That’s scary, because we’ve spent so long identifying with what we do that we are often little more than a husk of a person wrapped in a thousand pursuits. Take the pursuits away, and there’s not much left. So this is my prayer: Father, untroubled by the things that trouble me Yet concerned with every detail concerning me-- Father, beyond the tyranny of time Yet providing every moment every breath for every creature-- Father, my Father, Who by The Son called me His son-- Help Your son to break the addiction to busywork when Kingdom work is what is needed, to break the back of selfishness that drives me to more and more, to break the broken identity I gain from doing, realizing the identity I already have-- (a son through the Son) with a purpose as big as eternity and eternal resources to match (resources like peace in place of sleepless nights and clear thinking instead of harried confusion and grace when pressures link with anxiety to form a godless concoction of stress). Help me to work, but not for my kingdom, To do, but not for my ego, To live, but not for myself. “When the cares of my heart are many, Your consolations cheer my soul” (Psalm 94:19). Photos afternote: Our garden in early summer bloom-- All the care is taken by the gardener: the garden only responds to his care. © June 2013 by Robert G. Robbins
Melissa takes up the pen in this post, |
This year for the first time since I was a girl, I took part in a Good Friday Service. It focused on the Cross, that cruel symbol of a hideous death that my Lord Jesus endured for me. I found myself filled with joy all day, just thinking about it. Excitement. It seems strange to even put that into words. I steel myself when I deal with mousetraps or have to kill a wasp in the kids' bedroom window. I cry through the biographies I read to my kids, full of suffering of every kind which ordinary men and women endure in all ages. So what joy is there in thinking on the torture and death of One Who, of all men who ever lived, didn't deserve to die? None. |
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