Your Talent

What are we to do? Are we to believe that God actually has a plan for us, that He gave us talents that can be used for His glory, and that He will give us a path to use those talents? Those are questions that every human asks at some point and some way in life. Be they Christian or not, they wonder in their own manner what it is that they are truly supposed to do on earth, and what it is they can contribute that is special or unique. More so, they ask themselves if there is actually anything special that they can give. For the Christian, this question becomes all the more personal. For there is no doubt that God has created us, and with that creation, has given us special talents and abilities that we can use to glorify Him. They may not be as bold and unique as talents to hold world records or stand apart in the eyes of man. But they are talents nonetheless, and they are talents that He expects us to use. Make no mistake, God does not need us in any way to complete the work which He desires to do. And that is all the more of a blessing, because it shows us that he has allowed us, through Grace, to work with Him, to glorify Him, to completely share in that which He desires. So what of our talents? Does He really want us to use them? What if we don't seem to be in a position to use them? Each of us was created, no matter size, strength or level of intellect, with something that can be used to glorify God. Call it a trait, a talent, or an ability, it is unique to us. I have met men and women who have the highest levels of education or strength that one would point to as obvious possessors of talent. But I have also been with those that the world looks on as inept, incapable, and useless. There is no doubt that in them there is something that can glorify God. I have seen it. More importantly, He put it there. Which brings me to this point. There is something in you that is worthy, whatever you call it, of using to express both uniqueness and a sign of the Creator's desire to express Himself through you. There is no doubt that He will use that talent, if only you will open yourself to that call. The choice is yours.

Mirror Question

I sliced my hand wide open. A sharp disagreement my flesh had with a molded piece of steel was the cause. My flesh lost I'm sad to say. But the whatnots and wherefores of how the pale skin on my palm flayed to reveal inner muscle and various other oft unseen tissue is unimportant. What really matters is that the hand that was scarred was my right hand, and that is misery indeed, for it is my right hand that is dominant. This was brilliantly shown to me after I could do nothing with this hand, and looked like an inebriated monkey when trying to perform the simplest task. Which led me to think about the blessing from God that is my right hand. It is in this appendage that I display my talents, and when it is crippled I strain with great difficulty to do that which just a day ago was easy. And this made me wonder how often do we forget the great talents that we have been given all in the sense of trying to use our least dominant hand. This is not meant to be literal. In fact, it makes much less sense that way. Figuratively speaking, imagine the talents that you have. I already know some people insist that they have no talents, but that is a falsehood. Everybody has been blessed by God with some gift, be it large or small, and in that gift we exude the likeness of our creator. His talents are on display in us all, and though I will not take the time to enumerate each potential gift, for they are countless, suffice it to say we all have them. Now imagine we are ignoring those gifts. For some this may not be such a stretch. Imagine that we insist for ourselves to be using our figurative left hands, the arenas in which we have been given less abilities and less strengths, when our right hands are perfectly fine and functioning. We may stand there and curse our inabilities in our left hands when we fail to see all that we could do with our right. In simple terms we must ask ourselves, are we using the gifts that God has given us, or are we ignoring them for something we think will bring us greater glory, or something we think we must do instead. This is a good mirror question. For those wondering what a mirror question is, it's that kind of question you ask yourself when you are alone. Looking in a mirror. Yep, it's that easy.

Help Wanted: Professional Christians

I have recently been introduced to the concept of a "professional Christian". On first blush it sounded like some new frontier in job growth. I thought about how wonderful it sounded and how well I was suited for such a position. I have a degree from seminary, I go to church all the time, so where could I sign up? But upon further explanation I realized I was already quite familiar with the concept if not the vernacular. The term "professional Christian" is not on its face either endearing or derogatory. It is what it claims to be. The term refers to a person that has been in church for so long that they know the pace and language by heart, without having to think about the proper response, or search themselves in anticipation of what comes next. It is that man or woman that recites in their sleep the steps of service, the length of the message, the timing of the prayers and the gait of the ushers. This is not necessarily a decay inside of the church, but it does lend itself to complacency if not kept in check. So it was with that definition in mind that I consider myself a professional Christian. But as I pondered the term I wondered about the flip side. Was there group that exemplified amateur Christians? What was it about them that deserved the descriptor of amateur? Did they strive to be professional like myself, or were they happy in their place? And worst of all, could only they qualify for the US Olympic Team? Who exactly is the amateur Christian? This is the man or woman, boy or girl who perhaps slips into church unsure of how he or she will be received by the gathered masses. This person might have only just come to know Jesus, and to their dismay knows none of the well-worn songs blasted in giant letters on the screen above and sung rhythmically if not always passionately by the professionals. When time for offering comes, this amateur tepidly takes the plate and passes it, thinking that the others may judge her for putting too little in, and therefore resigns from offering anything. During the message this amateur listens intently, hearing for the first time the wonders and joys of his Lord that the others around him have heard on multiple previous occasions. The amateur cares not for the time, and in fact forgot to bring a watch, caring only that this new life changing relationship is nurtured. Then the time comes for prayer. The amateur does not want to be seen out of step, and bows her head with the rest of the congregation. But as the pastor prays, she peeks up with a single open eye to make sure she is doing the right thing. That is when the amateur is calmed by the silent voice inside her heart. She puts her head back down and realizes that there are only two people in the building now. It is her and her Lord, and she is talking to him as a curious child to her loving parent. Offering praise and petition as best she knows how, ignorant of the correct Christianeese in which to frame it, but equally joyous that she is bringing it to the feet of the Most High. Prayer ends and the amateur has lingered too long, her head bobbing up several seconds after the professionals. But the amateur does not care. His heart has been renewed, and as the congregation is dismissed, several minutes later than usual to the dismay of some of the professionals. The amateur marvels at how all the others have come to learn the things they have. Will he ever be professional like them? Will he ever know all the words, all the timing, all the language to mingle with the professionals? If her heart remains open, her spirit joyous, her relationship with the Most High her most important asset, then yes, may she one day be as professional as the others. But if the weight and complacency of being among the elite strangles her true desire, kills her want and worship of the Lord, then may it never be. Remaining a rank amateur would be a much more praiseworthy.

A Tribute To Pastor Charlie Chilton

The sad news came late Wednesday evening in the modern form. Online social sights, phone calls and even text messages revealed that our longtime pastor, and the man who married my wife and I, Charlie Chilton, had passed away after a significant battle with cancer. The news wasn't unexpected, but still difficult to accept, as is often reality. The outpouring of memories and condolences spread just as fast across the little corner of the internet that knew this man. So what else could be said that hasn't already been expressed in one form or another? The lives that this man of God touched were not segregated only to the communities in northern Virginia that he most recently called home, but throughout the world, to far corners that many of us will never see with our own eyes. Pastor Charlie, as he had affectionately become known, was a church planter, and he had a longtime connection with the people of the Philippines. With this in mind I revel in one of my fondest memories of this man. On a brisk April Day in Washington, DC my wife and I were invited to hear Pastor Charlie guest preach at a local church on Wisconsin Avenue. This was well after our wedding, and we had not been blessed to hear him speak in some time, so we pounced at the chance to visit with him again. But we knew from the onset that this would be no ordinary sermon. Pastor Charlie was going to preach to a Pilipino congregation, and he was going perform the service in Tagalog, a native language of these people of which he was fluent. This was my first foreign language service (though not my last) and I was curious if my ignorance of the words spoken would cause my attention to slip. My wife and I settled into a pew halfway into the church and watched our mentor take the pulpit. We surveyed the sanctuary to find that we were most likely the only ones in the modest congregation that did not speak Tagalog. But soon we knew that the language barrier did not matter. Pastor Charlie preached words of truth with passion and authority that were foreign to our ears. We understood almost nothing. But listening to his voice and watching the reaction of the people there was no doubt about the message he was spreading. The truth of Christ was being spoken that day if only in a slightly different form than we were used to and my wife and I understood the beating heart of truth if not each syllable in which it was packaged. There was no grand revelation of a foreign language as brought to us by some mystical power. There was simply the knowledge and peace that the truth of the Lord Jesus Christ was ringing forth and the people in this small sanctuary were receiving and praising. There is no translation needed for that. That would be the last sermon we ever heard from Pastor Charlie and it was an honor to be included. I will most likely never become fluent in Tagalog, nor ever hear a message in that language again, but I do not consider what I heard that day to be a waste. I was forced to hear that sermon with my heart, ignoring my more common senses, and I was blessed by the Lord. It was a great gift. On April 19, 1951, in his farewell address to congress, General Douglas MacArthur said the following: I still remember the refrain of one of the most popular barrack ballads of that day which proclaimed most proudly that "old soldiers never die; they just fade away." And like the old soldier of that ballad, I now close my military career and just fade away, an old soldier who tried to do his duty as God gave him the light to see that duty. Pastor Charlie was blessed both with the light to see his duty and the chance to spread that light over all of God's creation. But unlike General MacArthur's declaration, the Christian does die, however briefly, but will live eternally with Christ in Glory. That is where Pastor Charlie rests today, his accomplishments for the Kingdom never to fade away, his face cradled by the Lord of Lords, hearing the refrain "Well done, good and faithful servant."

Who Among You Is Holy?

Can man be holy? Some would scoff at the suggestion saying that only God is holy. Others would insist that man can be holy because God is holy. There are even those that would suggest that man cannot be holy and only woman can be holy. The third group misses the point. Looking around the world at the depravity and desecration that takes place on a moment-to-moment basis would leave even the staunchest believer quivering at the thought of naming any individual holy. From churches high in the mountains of distant lands to bars buried in the swamps of the lowlands there is a common denominator. All those creatures that inhabit those places, those flesh wrapped stumbling masses that think themselves behemoths on this planet but are mere specks on a hurtling globe, they are all scarred by the remnants of a plague that hit many thousands of years ago. That plague was brought on by this very creatures actions and has the common name of sin. Certainly man has given it other names to try and take the edge off. But the fact still remains that it marks us all and there is nothing we can do to remove it. But then we come to Christ, and he washes that sin away by His power, right? That is true, but does that really give us reason to consider ourselves holy? Well, it depends on how you view holiness. Is the characteristic of that most blessed adjective one that elevates us to God-like status and gives us carte blanche over the rest of creation? If that is your definition of holiness, then without doubt not a single person can be holy. But what about viewing holiness in another light. What if holiness when applied to man speaks not of the works or actions of that man, but of the impartation of characteristics given by a superior God? What if holiness is belonging to God and living in obedience to him? What if holiness means being set apart by God's power and glory? Can man then be considered holy? The answer can be answered most affirmatively and negatively yet does not relay a paradox.

We can be holy as the Israelites were holy.

The Israelites were set apart by God and were in covenant with God, showing his power over them as well as their uniqueness in His eyes. This is much as the Christian today enters into covenant with God upon accepting Jesus and showing belonging to that God through the work of Jesus. For both the Israelite and modern day Christian, this covenant then begins a relationship of obedience and dedication to that same God. So yes, many today can be considered holy. But make no mistake that no man, no matter how perfect they may seem, no matter how reverent they may become, can never match the holiness when measured against God. The slippery slope of believing one to be near equal to God is traveled when any person believes themselves to gain near God-like status. A myriad of cults and religions throughout time have shown us the outcome of such belief. The more the person believes themselves to be God-like, the harder reality hits them when they fall. There is a uniqueness to God that will never be matched. We should all shout for joy that it can never be matched. So be holy if you are holy. Just remember how you got that way.

From Here You Can See God

I have heard many complain that if only they could climb a little farther they could finally reach God and look him in the eyes. They became angry that when they look up towards the top of the mountain He is nowhere to be found. I never understood their anguish. All I needed was to look down over the expanse of earth below to see Him clearly. - Anonymous Sherpa climber of Mount Everest, 1947 What if we could climb to the top of a mountain to visit God? Or what if we could take a boat out to some remote island where God lived and spend a day with Him? Would we be more comforted that we knew where to find him? Many people feel that if only they knew where God was and could go greet him, they would be more settled in their hearts. They believe that Seeing God face to face, no matter where they had to travel to do it, would ease their uncertainty and calm their fears. They could ask him any question they wanted and he would answer. They would go on their way with their answer blissful in the knowledge that if ever they needed anything else from God, they would know exactly where they left him. But God didn't do that, and for very good reason. If we had to tramp across half the globe to dizzying heights to find Him then His accessibility would be questionable. How easy it is for you to take a quick trip up Mount Everest? Or a little boat ride into the middle of the ocean? I suspect not easy at all. But where God can be found is no more difficult than walking to your front door. For God is accessible to you right now, where you are, no matter if it is in the bright sunshine of day on the beach or the darkness of a dungeon pit. You don't even have to move to meet Him. He is already there waiting to talk to you.

So stop trying to climb the mountain or sail the seas to find God. Just turn your head slightly to the right. See? He's been waiting for you there all along.

Is Your Bible Useless?

Is your bible useless? Is it glorious and leather-bound, the sun gleaming off the gold-tinged edges of the meticulously crafted piece as it sits proudly on the bookshelf? Or does the paperback edition you received as a young child still hold fond memories of being clutched in Sunday school as it lay pristine and weighted down by the forces of gravity in the corner of some far off room? Do the thin pages of your New Testament still cling to each other as a brand new volume even though you purchased it over five years ago? Does the bible app you downloaded last month still serve only to consume memory on your device that could be better utilized for shopping or sports apps? Does the cover of your bible seem to be made of the heaviest of metals, daring you to open it, revealing that you don't have the strength or desire? Or is your bible worth more to you than any possessions of which your deepest desires could conceive? Does your bible look ragged and unkempt, tortured by years of use as your fingers fumbled through the pages in your time of need? Does your bible scream back at you with notations and revelations that blared at you in the quiet of the night as you searched for answers. Does it bear the scars of nights on your knees and days gone by that longed for solace? Have your internet searches for different bible translations brought you to the precipice of languages long forgotten and never before seen by your eyes? Is your bible light as air, waiting for even the quietest of wishes to be flung open and reveal the deepest truth? So, is your bible useless?

Grace

By reason we know ourselves to be greater than the creatures of the earth. By love we know ourselves also more compassionate. But only by grace do we see the Creator's sovereignty with both and our mastery over neither. - Clara Hornsworth, 1941 At the height of the Great Depression on a small farm in the middle of Iowa, Clara Hornsworth dreamed of building a veterinary business. Her youth raised around all types of animals gave her an insight that she believed lent to such a calling. But at the time such a profession for a young woman was considered irregular. But that did not stop Clara. For the rest of her life she strived towards her dream, not swayed by the naysayers of her day. Her deep faith and love for her desired profession drove her in her studies and ultimately to go into practice for herself. But life was not kind to Clara. At the dawn of the second world war she suffered from tuberculosis, a disease that not only attacked her body but consumed what little wealth she had. She would die only a few weeks after her only brother was killed at Pearl Harbor. Yet

this story is not of tragedy but of triumph. Upon her death the only possession she had was a small bible. Inside that bible was the above inscription. Next to it, underlined several times, was this statement, presumably the last she ever wrote: "I am near to meet God and I finally understand Him. I would not give up my trials on this earth for all the glories that same has to offer. In His hands I have been given a grace that I could not repay in five lifetimes. That is most precious to me." Clara was given true sight to see in the midst of her personal struggles. Do we also experience that joy in ours?

The Always People

Editors Note: In the following weeks, you are going to read the story of one man's journey across America in search of the poor and homeless. You may read the stories and consider them pure fantasy. Or you may read them and feel their truth reverberate in your heart. In either case, know that the names of all involved are fictitious, but the stories are all too real. Men and women across the country today struggle with similar circumstances. And much like the traveler herein we are called to care for and help those in need, meeting them where they are, just as Jesus did.

The dead leaves crunched under our feet as we walked, their veil of frost torn apart with our steps. We wound our way past naked trees and brush to find what I needed to see. I had never been this deep into their land, and my heart wondered why.
The late February wind was forcing itself through the trees as I finally made out a clearing in the distance. We started to walk more deliberately until we could see the area clearly. I could make out shapes and figures and approached cautiously as my guide beckoned me with her flashlight to move faster. She only wanted to return home and had agreed to take the time to bring me after much consideration. To me it was a blessing, for the community that I was visiting meant more than she could have ever known.
I stepped out from the trees and into the middle of the village. Several voices greeted my guide as we arrived, and as she threw her light around I could make out my share of questionable gazes. The men and women that saw me looked considerably cautious, wrapping themselves tighter in their coats and blankets and tending to their personal affairs. Even though I knew several by name I was still an outsider. It was clear with their stares that they made sure I knew it.
For many years I had run the homeless ministry through my church, and many of the men and women in this particular encampment had come for food and fellowship on the dark, cold nights of winter. Where they lived wasn't far from my church geographically, but emotionally it was worlds away. For in this clearing amongst a heavily wooded area, surrounded by high and middle income homes, these unfortunate men and women made their lives. They lived together, rarely in harmony but always with the understanding that they stood a better chance together than alone. Their homes were seven and eight person tents surrounding a common area, where firewood, clothes and other necessities were stored. They had canopies to keep the rain and snow away, though effectiveness was lost when the weather turned violent. These men and women warmed themselves with kerosene heaters and camping stoves within their tents, an effective weapon against the cold that could turn deadly if the ventilation was poor.
In fact it was death that brought me out here on this frigid evening. Though I had only intermittent relationships with these men and women, I had been laid emotionally low by news I received weeks earlier. As I thought back to that day, my guide called for me to join her near one of the tents.
"Here," she said, pointing down. I stared down at the crushed leaves and twigs laying next to a torn tent. She didn't need to say anymore, for I knew what I was looking at.
As I stared down, I thought about the night I heard the news. I had come to know one of the men that had just started coming to our dinners this winter. He was an older man, the father of five, none of with which he had much contact. He had struggled for years with alcoholism, drug use and a myriad of other destructive behaviors, and was seeking even the smallest glimmer of hope to bring him out of his spiraling life. I had thought that perhaps our ministry could be the answer. I had thought that we were doing something different.
But as I came to learn, he had made the same gesture of repentance to dozens of others before, only to fall back into the grip of his struggles. That was why on that particular night several weeks ago he drank what was described to me as his weight in vodka and fell asleep without the proper clothing outside of his tent. He never woke up.
His death was ruled a result of the elements, and very little fanfare was made outside of the campsite. As I came to find out, it wasn't the first time something like this had happened, and it wouldn't be the last. I listened as in the distance I heard the cars and trucks on the nearby interstate, and wondered if any of the people in those vehicles knew just how close they were to such a tragic event, and if they did, would they care?
I had brought a bag of essentials for the men and women, and passed them out as I prepared to leave. The night was growing colder and darker, and as I looked into each dimly light face I wondered if they could sense my helplessness. What I offered them that night was fleeting, something that by morning would be forgotten. I could not meet all their physical needs, and I had barely scratched the surface with any of the emotional ones.
I sheepishly wished them farewell and made my way back out of the woods. My mind was consumed with what I had seen and what it all meant. For the next several days I had trouble concentrating at work or at home, thinking about the man that died and the ones still living on the edge of society. My meager offerings were less than I wanted to give, and even if I gave all it would not amount to much. I felt compelled to go back to see if there was something more I could do.
I finally made my way back to the encampment, this time during the day and without a guide. I had several bags of necessities in tow, including food and water. I was determined to give more in the hope that it might do some good. I caught myself rushing through the trees wishing that my haste could make things better.
I finally saw the clearing, and raced as fast as I could, lifting the bags high so as to not scrape the ground. But as I reached my destination I stumbled from surprise, dropping the bags and standing with my mouth agape. For there was nothing in the clearing save for some trash and abandoned rags. The campsite was gone. Bits of debris and a lone canopy draped over a withering oak were the only remnants of what had been a struggling community. I stood bewildered, and quickly turned my head as I heard the snap of a branch across from me. It was one of the men I had met the other night, as shocked to see me as I was to see him.
"Where is everybody?" I blurted out, foregoing a proper greeting.
"They all gone," he said, walking towards the canopy. "The police moved them out two days ago. Said something about it being unsafe because of what happened to Bob." The man was referencing the deceased as he gathered up the canopy to himself. "Can you believe this shit happens in 2010? They rushed us out so fast I couldn't take it all. I just came back to get what is mine."
I was dumbfounded, and wasn't sure what to say next. The man had what he came for, and looked at me and the two bags next to me.
"You need help with those?" he asked.
I was caught off guard at his question, then looked down at my bags. "Oh, these were for everyone. Do you know where they all went?"
"Here and there, I suppose. I really have no idea. Could be anywhere by now."
I was completely lost, and looked over at the man. "Then I suppose these are yours."
The man perked with curiosity, and I offered to carry them to wherever he was going. But he declined, letting me know that in light of what happened, he would rather not be followed. He asked me to just leave them, and he would return. His paranoia was high, but I couldn't blame him. He had lost a place to live. Yet again.
I did as he asked, and walked out of the woods. I pondered what had happened, and realized that I would not see many of them again. As I drove home, I reckoned within myself my own attitudes towards the poor and homeless and those that I publically stood for, being a representative of Christ and the church.
I had never been completely given over to the essential need to battle homelessness tooth and nail until my last breath. I knew those kind of people existed and had even ministered with them. But my personal views always ended up being a strange brew of my own creation. I had a healthy mixture of wanting to help those in dire circumstances while believing that the best way to truly help the poor and homeless was not to become one of them. As I came to grips with this, I knew I needed a fresh and healthy look at what it was Christ said about the poor. I needed to see what it was that I was truly working for, and why it was that Bob's death struck me so profoundly.
I opened my Bible and scoured it for what Jesus said about the poor. I turned to John 12:8. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me. I flipped to Mark 14:7. The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me. I jumped to Matthew 26:11. The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me.
I was overcome. The preposition "always" jumped out at me and grabbed hold, refusing to let me avert my eyes. If the poor will always be here, if they are going to be everywhere, then I had no choice but to help them. I could not assume that somebody else would help and I could just wait and witness the end of poverty and homelessness altogether. They were always going to be in need. And I was always going to need to help.
It was in that moment I made a decision that would drastically alter the course of my life. No force on heaven or earth would have convinced me prior to that moment that I was going to drop everything and journey far beyond my comfort zone. But through the blur of the next few days I had made a decision and I was going to see it through. I knew the homeless and poor in my area. But I needed to go and see more. I needed to look the poor and the homeless in the face and hold their hands and hear their stories. I needed to know who they were, what they needed, and what Jesus would have me do. I had to show them Jesus with skin on, not just utter convenient words to the wind and hope they may fill a man's belly or keep him warm.
So I planned my sojourn. I threw together a all too rushed carload of necessities and made the necessary arrangements at my home and work. Nobody understood why I was doing this, but that didn't matter. I was going to travel across the country, visiting cities and towns, burgs and hamlets, reaching out to those in need and bringing their stories back. If asked at that point what I hoped to accomplish I would have been at a loss to answer. But I was set on a path that would open my eyes to a world that I truly didn't know, but one that far too many people did. So I set out that brisk late winter morning to meet the always people. To meet Jesus Always People.

I Am Being Hunted

I am being hunted.
A lone candle illuminates my space. I dare not use anything brighter because I am terrified that they will find me. I tremble as I write this, knowing that any moment could be my last. But I risk even death to tell this story.
The walls of this cave in which I have found solitude protect me for now, but they have their limits. I am dug in deep, far beneath the surface of the earth. How is it that in a single week I have gone from one of my nation's most respected engineers with prospects of a Nobel prize to one marked for death at the hands of my own people? The answer exceeds even my imagination. But I am no fool as to think this unexpected. On the contrary, I am here as a result of a design I stole. A design that was meant for good. A design I should have locked away in the darkest part of myself and never allowed to see the light of day.
I have always been on the forefront of technological breakthroughs. I lost count of the number of innovations and life changing designs that have been a result of my handiwork. But for all of my achievement I still felt unfulfilled. I had failed to successfully complete the one design that had been my life's goal as far back as I can remember.
For years I attempted to design this particular machine. Yet I always fell short of my goal. I was rebuked many times along the way, either due to lack of imagination or poor design integrity. No matter what I tried, failure was always the result. Countless moments had me reason that since nobody had requested such a machine I should retire the dream. But I thought I was smarter and that it was necessary. I just knew that if I could make it work and when it did the world would laud me, understanding how it would benefit all of mankind.
So diligently I continued to work on my machine. Long hours, lit both by the sun and the bulb, were spent on designs and redesigns. Failures were retooled, corrections made, and materials substituted. The fire I had to be successful on this project was unquenchable.
Finally providence intervened. In a moment, all of the frustration and futility at not realizing my passion dissolved under the radiation of genius. It was just after two in the morning, a slight chill in the early spring air gnawing on me in my shed, when I made the first successful test of my machine. I remember the joy that jolted through me as I saw the fruit of my works staring me in the face, gleaming with possibilities I had long envisioned.
For this machine was like no other created by man. This machine was going to open the eyes of the whole world and bring peace to shores that it had long bypassed. You see, my machine was able to show the inner thoughts of a person in their fullness and truth. My machine could peer into a man's soul and comprehend and translate those deepest of longings and desires, intents and feelings. No longer would words need to be minced. No longer would one man fight against another for lack of trust or the disbelief. My machine would put an end to all of that.
Now some thought my machine was meant for harm. They thought that it could acquire bank account numbers, passwords and even secrets. But that was never a possibility. My machine was not designed to take such things from people, for that was thievery of a sort that I would never condone. My machine, in fact, was incapable of such barbarianism. No, my machine did one thing, and did it to perfection. It allowed the user to see the deepest feelings and beliefs of another. My machine could bring to the surface the thoughts that drove a man's life. It allowed people to see why someone was happy, or why they were fearful. It broke down the walls of platitudes and false security and showed the true nature under a man's skin. It was going to revolutionize the world.
My machine would bring people together. It was going to allow for openness and unencumbered communication. If two men did not trust each other and did not know why, my machine was going to show each how the other was really feeling, and allow them to come together in peace and tranquility. If a husband and wife were on the verge of divorce, my machine would show them how they truly felt, and guide them through the river of shadows and bring them to oneness. My machine was going to show people's true hearts.
I had no doubt that I would be nominated for a Nobel prize, and why not? I was going to do that which had eluded man for centuries. I was going to be known as the man that was able to bring peace to a troubled and corrupt world. Does this person desire peace and unity? Use my machine, and when you find out he does, praise him for it. Does that person really mean harm to those around him? Use my machine, and when it is proven so, provide him with the help he needs to become sound, calm and healthy. My machine could provide all of that, and a utopia would be the result.
But I was a fool. I was so blind that even when I was slapped in the face with the truth I barely felt the sting. You must understand that I repeatedly tested my machine, and it continued to work magnificently. But as I tested, a significant pattern was developing. With each test, whether on myself or another, the results were becoming more and more consistent, and they were unsettling. The machine worked as it should, and brought out in clear tone the specific inner thoughts of each individual on which it was used. The problem encountered was that those thoughts were not as peaceful and benign as I had expected. This was true with each person I tested, not only a few. In fact, everyone I tested showed results that were self-centered and closed minded, bordering on destructive and corrupt.
I was at a loss. My machine was supposed to show the good in man. It was supposed to show that deep down, past the layers of protection and masking that each individual wears, there would be a core of wholesomeness and tranquility. My machine was supposed to report back the desire for unity and peace that existed in all men, if buried under piles of self-preservation. But this was far from the case.
It soon came to pass that those I experimented on began to turn on me. To a man, each was excited at what my machine had to offer. But after it was used on them and they saw the unfortunate results, each decried it's methods, insisting that it was either malfunctioning or that I had somehow corrupted it. But neither was the case. The machine worked perfectly. It was the men who were corrupt, and they were being faced with facts they did not want to acknowledge.
My machine began to gain wide acclaim, though in a way I never wanted. The public soon learned of its abilities, and before long local and national government officials began coming to my door, insisting on speaking with me and observing the machine for themselves. I became fearful of what they wanted, and with good reason. For one day they took my machine, and indecently threatened me if I made any attempt to stop them.
I never saw the machine after that, and am certain it was destroyed. But I was not finished. I knew every inch of that machine, and in my heart knew it had to be rebuilt. I made it known to a close few that I would construct an identical machine, and I was going to use it to expose those that had tried to destroy my dream. That was a mistake.
It took mere hours for me to find not only local officials surrounding my home, but citizens, with the intent of destroying me. Fortunately, I saw this from a distance, as I had been tipped off. I was to be murdered, for in their eyes the knowledge I possessed about the machine was far too dangerous to be allowed to survive.
With great haste I drove far from my home, making my way west in hopes that I would find solace somewhere, perhaps with people who knew the importance of understanding their innermost thoughts. But it was not to be, as providence once again interceded. Night was falling, and as I traveled I came across a baby deer. I swerved to avoid killing it, in the process clipping a tree on the side of the road and slamming my car into the embankment. I suffered only minor bruises, and jumped out of my car, fearful that I was being followed. I ran into the hills, and came across this cave. I have been here a few hours, but I know that has been enough time for them to find me. The will find me. In their hearts they have to destroy me.
I have discovered too late that it is not the desire of man to have his innermost thoughts known. For when faced with the truth, man has no choice but to recoil in horror and admit that he is nothing of and by himself. I was a fool to think that anything but destruction would come of my machine. I am living - if only temporarily - proof of that.

As for me having stolen the idea for my machine, that is very true. Yes, my machine was the first mechanical device to deliver such an accurate and damning portrait of the innermost thoughts of man. But there has been something around as long as man that has done the same. For my idea is simply a steel manifestation of the tongue, that part of us that no matter how hard we try, will always betray our defenses and reveal our innermost thoughts. Tame it though we desire, our tongue speaks only that which we have stored up in our hearts. Those innermost thoughts, that for most of us we wish to seal away from the world, will always slip from our grasp, through the portal of our tongues, no matter how hard we may want to restrain. My machine was not original, and the hatred that was thrust upon me was the only possible outcome.
I am finished with my tale, and though I feel the trail of tears rolling down my cheeks, I am content. For I am comforted in the knowledge of what my machine revealed about myself. I am at peace, and I need to be now. For I hear footsteps, and the clanging of men's voices. They are drawing near. Closer comes their thirst for flesh, closer their rage. Still I sit, waiting as a lamb.

Call Me Chief

With all due respect to the Apostle Paul, I must take a crown from his head and place it on my fully deserving scalp.
No, I am not one of the greatest spreaders of the Gospel.
No, I have not written the Word of God.
But I am the chief of sinners.
It's true, though many would scoff at such a self-diagnosis.
For I am the chief of sinners, at least now, in this place. For that which I have done with my hands and that which I have committed in my heart places me at the head of the list. It is with this knowledge that I unabashedly take spiritual residence with Paul.
This is not some strange need to self-deprecate for pity or the sake of understanding from the public. This is not some attempt to illustrate that I have so succumb to the perfumes of this world that I have no other course of action. Nor is this some weak and ill-fitting attempt to make confession for various immoral, illegitimate or even illegal acts that burden my soul. No, this is a statement of truth, and a statement of faith.
Paul claims in 1 Timothy 1:15 that this is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptance: that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief (KJV). Other translations replace chief with equally weighted monikers: foremost, first, worst.
More to the point, who is to argue with Paul? That question can be asked of anything he wrote, but especially in this arena. No doubt in his mind he felt the pressure of his sins being brought to bear as he reminisced about the persecution, hatred and destruction that he reigned down upon the deeply dedicated followers of Christ of his generation.
In his previous life, Paul had wrought terror and horror aimed at the Gospel of Jesus Christ and those that dare cloak themselves in its message. He cursed the very name of Jesus, hunted and imprisoned His followers, and ensured that they were treated like animals. He started his career of carnage by standing witness and holding the cloaks of those that hurled stones at the martyr Stephen, until the deluge claimed that man's life. Paul had seen and done enough to purchase him a top spot on God's enemies list.
As a memorial to that life, Paul declared that he had been, and was still, the chief of sinners. His understanding, belief and doctrine was that he had not shed that former skin completely, though it rested upon him impotent, no longer to condemn him for eternity. So now do I take up that title.
The question to be asked, then, is what are my qualifications? What references do I have that would vouch for me to wear the crown that Paul insisted he deserved? On the surface that list is seemingly thin. I have never murdered, nor watched gleefully as a murder takes place. I have never hunted another man, nor forced my will upon him in such a way that makes his life physically, emotionally or spiritually unbearable. I have stolen that which most would claim insignificant, and my lies and deceits are characterized by men as insignificant and petty.
The world has found no fault in my values. It took inventory of my moral portfolio, and made no case against me. I am considered righteous, at least by their standards. But take a peek underneath my guise. Take a look at the times I cursed God with my own tongue, and more importantly with my own heart. I felt no need for His intrusive gaze, the desire He had to beckon me from my poisonous slumber. I held Truth at bay, wanting to follow only the path I decreed. There was no welcome place for the Son of God to lay his head in my life. I locked all doors and kept my heart for myself.
Oh to be burdened with the vile truth that within the heart lies such amazing evil. It is stretched so far in the soul that man himself can hardly comprehend. We all will try to clean out the infection of sin from that vital area, only to find that our instruments are dirty and ineffective. The sin we claim to rid ourselves of is at best in remission, lying in wait to join it's newborn brethren at a time of our weakness. When left to ourselves, that time rarely lasts longer than the flap fly's wings.
Left alone I found that within my own heart lay adulterous intentions. I had affairs on everything I deemed important. With each sultry gaze towards the enticing, I widened the gap between me and the shore. The earthly moorings I attached my life too seemed sturdy from above the surface, but were rotted and teetering below. I was not going to be told that my ways were wrong, for I knew better, and could see that all else was folly. The only ways that were not putrid to me were my ways, and all else was ignored. Did I need to commit physically crimes? Hardly, nor would I. My heart had done enough on its own.
I even found fault in the righteous. That which was true, pure, lovely, admirable, and even praiseworthy I found worthless. I can't say I was wholly intentional. I hardly think I even knew what I was doing. But the steel rod of sin embedded in me that bent my will away from those things made it impossible for me to comprehend my condition. Truth was a din in my ears, purity a faint shadow. To that of the world which I found praiseworthy I gave my soul. It had no intention of giving anything back.
But if I say I was all of these things, does that still raise my stock to chief of sinners? Some would suggest that Paul was calling himself this from an unrepentant mindset, and for me to label myself as such now doesn't grasp Paul's reflective nature. I would disagree. For Paul knew what I know, what any man or woman who has studied their own heart and found it to be wanting knows. While within this current state of corruptible physicality, there is no way to completely shake the sewn in label of 'sinner'.
So here I stand, chief of sinners, alongside Paul in the Pantheon of Disgrace. I have no way to shake that label I now detest. But be fairly warned that this does not condemn me to a life of derision with a bitter end from which there is no escape. A glimmer of hope shines through as I squint, a hope that is crystal clear and unforgettable. For though the sinners label cannot be shaken, it can be dealt with severely and with extreme prejudice. For that which Paul found to be his hope I too can take hold. That is Grace, the one element in all of existence that allows the chief of sinners to be accepted.
Paul knew this Grace, and that is what made a heinous individual become one of God's greatest servants. Paul was a man like myself, detestable to the core, spitting on and destroying all that is worthy, who turned around and found Truth standing there to embrace and comfort him. God took hold of that chief of sinners, and did such a miraculous work in him as to make all else fade away. So He did the same with me. Knowing all that existed within my fallen form, there was still room for Grace to settle, take root, and blossom. It happened within my ravaged heart, and so it did with Paul. Paul was renewed, and though for a time afterwards he still felt the stain of sin, that feeling was not forever.. Paul slipped past the bonds of earth in an eternal blink, and on the other side finally found the fullness and glory in all that he once despised.
The chief of sinners is here before you, relating his story as Paul once did. I am certain I am worthy of that title, and hardly doubt I am the only one. For who among us finds that we are not brothers and sisters in this unwanted rank. All of us have tasted the rot of sin in our mouths, fixed on it with our eyes and gripped it with our hearts. Who hasn't known the futility that lies therein, and questioned if there was something worthy to reach down and save us from ourselves. Indeed, are we not all the chief of sinners?
I insist that we all are. Proof of this demands that we look no further than the work of our Savior. For we know that He would have still come to live, die and rise again if for only an individual. That individual would have been you. It would have been me. It would have been Paul. Absolutely, it would have been for the chief of sinners.

Hotel Truth

The hotel rose high into the clouds and was the most glamorous in the city.
Marbled floors with intricate patterns beckoned me. Crystal chandeliers shone brightly as they floated high above. Oak furniture lined the lobby and at the end was an enormous stone fireplace. Opulence didn't begin to describe that which I surveyed.
I normally would never be able to stay at such a place. But I was here because I was the winner of a contest I never remembered entering. My suspicion was high, and I hardly expected to be let in, believing the contest to have been a fraud. But it wasn't too far from home, and I wasn't going to pass up the hope of staying in such an establishment.
I approached the concierge. "Smith," I said putting down my bag. "Room for one."
The attendant smiled and without lifting a finger towards his keyboard welcomed me heartily. "Mr. Smith, of course, we have been expecting you. Your stay is for one night."
"That's what I heard," I responded coyly. "Everything is set?"
"Yes sir, already reserved and paid for. You are a lucky one. People usually have to wait six months for their stay."
The concierge directed me to my accommodations, and I reflected on his observation. I was notified the week before, so indeed I came on short notice. But with my doubts dispelled, I thanked him and turned towards the elevator. I bent down to pick up my bag and pivoted, just in time to run head first into a burly elderly man. I looked up to see a shocked face staring back at me, the man clad in a pinstripe suit, made of a material with which I was unfamiliar. The man had an unmistakable aura of invincibility.
"I am so sorry," I stammered.
The elderly man just smiled at me. "It is perfectly ok, son. It happens more often than you think."
"Mr. Franks, sir!" the concierge shouted, bursting from behind his desk. "Are you ok?"
"I'm fine," the Mr. Franks chuckled. As I stared at the man and heard his name, my eyes widened.
"You're the owner," I said shakily. Mr. Franks nodded his head and offered me his hand. I shook it vigorously. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
The truth was that meeting Mr. Franks was as unexpected as winning the contest, for Mr. Franks was famous for rarely being seen. He was well known as a philanthropist and deeply involved in the well being of the community. But to meet him face to face was a very rare treat.
The concierge attended to Mr. Franks and the two exchanged several sentences. I could feel the concierge's eyes ushering me away, suggesting that I should not be gawking. I grabbed my bag and slowly made my way to the elevator, staring back at the two the entire way.
I replayed the incident in my mind all the way to my room. When I finally arrived, I slipped my key in the door and pushed it open, nearly falling into the room. My eyes were filled with the majesty of what surrounded me. Words could not describe the magnificence of my accommodations for the evening, and the sheer size alone was larger the most apartments. I gloried that I was privileged to such an experience as I walked towards the window that consumed most of the wall space.
The view that greeted me was unparalleled. I could see far and wide the city below as people and vehicles traversed the painted streets. The buildings burst skyward before me, and the clouds above didn't seem nearly as far as they had when I entered. I felt like I could reach out and grab one.
I was in awe as I took my bag to the bedroom and dumped out its contents. I began to shuffle through my things, placing close by that which I needed most. When I was finished I felt discouraged, for I realized I had forgotten some of my basic toiletries. I looked around for the phone and called the front desk.
A man answered and I told him my request. "Yes sir," he replied. "I will send those up right away." Satisfied, I put down the phone and went to sit on the bed. But before I hit the mattress I heard a knock at my door. I headed over, unsure of who could be knocking.
I looked through the peephole and saw a hand holding up a toothbrush. How they had gotten there so fast confused me, but I flung open the door. Before me stood Mr. Franks, with his suit jacket off, offering me what I had request.
"Mr. Franks," I let out. "I...I didn't expect you."
He smiled at me. "This is what you requested?"
"Yes sir, thank you!" I took the toiletries as he walked away, and I closed the door shocked that I was being waited on by the building's owner. I put down the toiletries and headed to the kitchen.
I was hungry, and thought the kitchen might have been stocked. But it was not, so once again I headed to the phone to order room service. I knew exactly what I desired, and called it in. The voice on the other end assured me it was on its way, and I anticipated a wait for my meal.
But again I heard an immediate knock at the door, and rushed over to see if once again my order had come unbelievably fast. I threw open the door, finding once again Mr. Franks behind a cart laden with dishes and plates filled with my order. This time his fine shirt and suit pants had been exchanged for slacks and a colorful top.
I was awed with silence as Mr. Franks began to push the cart into my room. I jumped aside as he placed the cart near the table, and turned to leave. "Do I owe you anything?" I inquired.
"It's taken care of." Mr. Franks replied, his normal smile fading as he closed the door behind him.
I didn't know what to think, so I went on with my day. I finished my meal, took a shower and got comfortable for the evening. It was my desire to stay and enjoy all the hotel had to offer.
I sat on the couch and attempted to turn the television on. I tried and tried, but to my dismay it was not working. I checked the outlet, knew how to operate the remote, but it appeared to be a defective piece of equipment. I wanted to watch a movie, but was hesitant to call for more help, considering what had already happened. But I gave in to my desire, and called maintenance. I explained the problem and hung up the phone, but instead of settling in I headed for the door. I knew what to expect.
Without fail, there was an immediate knock at my door. Once again it was Mr. Franks, dressed in a once piece jump suit, with a toolbox in hand. I opened the door to find his smile gone, replaced with a look of concern. He said nothing to me, entered the room and proceeded towards the television.
I wanted to say something to this elderly gentleman, but either from fear or confusion I was held back. Several minutes passed and I paced the room, a mixture of anxiety and desire for him to be done settling in my stomach. Finally I heard the click of the television and voices from the box. I readied myself to thank Mr. Franks, but he simply left without a glance, shaking his head as he exited.
Unsure of what to make of his apparent disagreeable nature, I settled myself into the couch. I began to flip through the channels to see what I might enjoy. But as I sat there, the thought of Mr. Franks surly demeanor refused to leave my mind. I began to dwell on his countenance, becoming more and more angry at what I saw as a personal slight. Sure, he was the owner of this gorgeous hotel. He had certainly helped me with several problems already this day. But if he was going to offer to fix the issues with my stay, then there was no reason that he should treat me with any manner of disrespect.
I slammed the remote on the couch and rose to my feet. I stormed out of my room, seething at the thought of what Mr. Franks' silence meant. I made my way back to the concierge and demanded to see the manager. A young man approached me and I was ready to unload.
"Is everything alright, sir?" The young man asked.
"It most certainly is not!" I exclaimed. "I want to know how it is that this place gets away with treating it's guests in such a demeaning manner!" The man stood silently before me. "Don't you even want to know what disgrace I am referring to?"
The young man looked me square in the eyes. "Sir, I assure you, I know why you are here. But let me ask you a question first. Were all of your needs met in a timely and satisfactory manner?"
I tried to consider how I could answer in the negative, but there was no way. "Well, yes."
"And who was it that solved your issues?"
"Mr. Franks, the owner," I replied.
"Of course," the young man said knowingly. "Do you believe in God?"
I was aghast at the question. "I'm not sure how that's any of your business, nor how it is relevant to this situation!"
"That's ok," he replied calmly. "I already know the answer. For you see, Mr. Franks as you know is the owner of this establishment. But he is much more than that."
"More?"
"Yes," he continued. "Not only is he the owner, but he actually built this place with his own two hands."
"Impossible!" I replied.
"Quite possible, actually." The young man paused. "Mr. Franks owned this land far before you or I was around. He built this building, brick by brick. He laid the tile, affixed the chandeliers and painted the walls. He hung the art and even plumbed each room. Mr. Franks did all of that, and yet even when you needed something, he was there. He was ready and answered, and when you continued to need things, no matter how trivial, no matter how given only to your desires, he was there. And as it continued, you began to see him for nothing more than an errand boy. You treated the owner and builder of this most magnificent tower as your personal bellhop."
"Well," I stammered, "he kept coming. Wheat else was I to do?"
"You didn't give him the respect he deserved for who he was. I suspect that's how you treat God."
"How dare you!" I shouted. "You don't know me at all!"
"Don't I?" the young man replied. "Consider for yourself how you see God."
The young man just stared at me, and for all the fight I wanted to give I was overwhelmed with the knowledge that he was right. I treated God as I had Mr. Franks, as my personal bellhop to answer my needs at any given moment, and when He didn't I became enraged. If I could treat my God this way, it was no wonder I could treat Mr. Franks, or anybody, with the same disrespect.
"I need to speak to Mr. Franks." I said sheepishly. "I have been a fool. I need to apologize."
The young man shook his head. "No, that isn't necessary. He already knows. Besides," he said, looking down, "it appears that your stay is over."
"Over?" I asked. But I'm supposed to stay the night."
"I think you've seen enough," the young man said as he smiled at me. "Your bag is already packed and waiting outside for you. We didn't forget a thing."
I was in awe. My heart was heavy with my treacherous nature, but filled with hope that I could change my actions. "What kind of place is this?"
The young man walked from behind the counter, took me gently by the arm, and led me to the door. When we got there he stopped, opened the door, and smiled.
"A place where truth happens."

What Do You Hate?

What do you hate?
Or perhaps less pointedly, what do you love?
Because they are different sides of the same coin.
So, seriously, what do you hate?
Because everybody in the world loves something. And everybody in the world hates something. Every single person
As a Christian, you may have a guttural reaction to this assessment. You may be screaming to yourself How dare someone make such a jarring and wholly indefensible accusation? Who is this to suggest that I would ever hate anything? In fact, by now you may have stopped reading, insisting that my assumptions are too foul. If you are not a Christian, you may be equally as appalled, feeling in your heart that even though you do not agree with my faith you are loathe to hate anything, considering yourself able to tolerate and coexist with a multitude of different ideologies, none of which you would stoop so low as to hate. To suggest otherwise simply spits in the face of your self-identified amicability.
To be consistent with Truth, it is extremely important to recognize that there is nothing in creation that is worthy of our hate. There is no man, woman or child, no beast of the field nor creature of the sea, no mountain or valley so vile as to necessitate a poisonous hatred from within our souls. There is nothing we can see with our eyes, touch with our hands, hear with our ears, smell with our noses or taste with our mouths that should push us that far.
But hate does exist. We all have experienced it, both internally and externally. It wasn't always meant to be this way. There was a time in human history when hate was not a consideration. But I will hold off on that for a bit. I submit that today in truth we all love something, while at the same time we equally hate something else, even if we don't admit it. In some cases, we can be loud and proud with our loves and hates, shouting them from the proverbial highest rooftops in the way we live and interact with the world around us. When it comes to that which we despise, we may be bold and bombastic in insisting that there are certain things in this world that we simply cannot stand, and more to the point we carve out special places in our hearts with which we can loathe, despise and detest.
Or in some cases, we carry our hatreds most secretly. To the outside world we may seem at peace and in unity with all that is around us. We feel as though we are in balance and nothing would cause us to crouch and dig into that most basic instinct. We insist that we hate nothing, and who is to argue? But deep inside, in places of our soul that we rarely identify or acknowledge, we keep the tiniest of rooms. We hold those thoughts in the dark places we neither admit nor show, but that we clutch like a fragile egg. We plant them and cultivate them, giving them just enough nourishment to grow into full blown hatred. But we will never let them out, at least not in our public lives. There they will stay, hidden from view, invisible to the world around us.
Make no mistake, there are many things that are socially acceptable to hate. War, poverty, and disease are a few of the earthly perils that most would say it is agreeable, if not desirable, with which to direct our sneers.
But then there are those things that are not worthy of hate, yet hate is manifested towards them every day. Surface differences between us and other people, be it skin color, gender or ability. Habitual differences, such as that which exists between the smoker and non-smoker, the vegetarian and the meat eater. And faith differences, a hatred that has manifested itself throughout the centuries.
And to the Christian, he or she is commanded to love. Love one another, love the Lord your God, and love His creation. But be assured, whether Christian or not, there is something of which we should direct that most heinous of feelings. Something very specific, and something most certainly not intended in the beginning.
Which brings us to the crux of the love/hate argument. For the litany of things that could be loathed in the world, it all really comes down to a choice of two entities. You see, we are all going to love and hate something. That much is absolute, and in this world that will never change. The truth is there are only two facets worthy of such devoted feelings.
What are they? It's quite simple, really, if you take even a cursory look around. The first is the system of the world. It is that which everything on this present plane, hovered over and prowled on by the very Prince that dominates the Air, is pushed and pulled. It is that which we should not want, but that which towards we are all too often drawn. You may know it by its common name. It is sin.
Remember the notion that there was a time in human history when hatred was not a consideration. That time existed, though it was comparatively ever so short. It held reign on this world up until the moment that one foolish individual turned his back on Truth and decided that the incorruptible should become corruptible. It was that man's choice - that Adam's choice - that brought us the stinging and putrid reality of sin.
Sin is that which has corrupted, has destroyed, has blemished all that this world once was and could have been. It is the decaying mark that has brought us all those horrors as previously mentioned in the form of war, disease and poverty. It populates this place with its very nature, and infiltrates each and every human from the moment of conception. It is a pox that will not leave this planet through any power that we as men and women inherently possess.
You see it every day. You see it's grasp stretch from sunrise to sunset, to the edge of the horizon and even to the places on the map that have yet to be filled in. You see it in the smallest of inequities. You see it in the horrors of war and destruction. You see it in deaf jealousy and wordless greed. You see it in the death of the living.
It is sin that is to be hated, and hated furiously. Love is commanded in all things, except when it comes to sin, as written in Romans 12:9: We are called to practice love in all things except when it comes to sin. Sin we are to despise and hate, and in doing so we are to turn to what is good and cling to it.
This is not a command against any single man or creation upon this planet. Instead, with all those that we come across, we are to show love in a way that is unmistakable and right. We need to know, and show, that the order of things in this current age, as watched over by the ever present eye of sin, is one that cannot earn our love. Though we know that one day it shall be abolished, that day has not yet come. Until that time, we are to know this enemy. We are to identify this enemy. We are to hate this enemy.
But we need to be ever vigilant not to lose our hatred of sin. For if we lose that, there will be an inevitable need to fill the void. There is a need in all man to love something, and in turn hate something else. The question then is, if we lose our passion against sin, what will we direct that passion towards?
The answer simply enough is Jesus. For if sin is that which is worthy of our hate, then there must be something of equal or greater measure to thrust that hatred upon should we embrace sin. For the antithesis of sin is Jesus, and it is He who is then to be hated.
Does this hurt certain sensibilities of today? Does one really have to hate Jesus if they do not hate sin? Jesus answered this question in Matthew 6:24: No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.
Perhaps you are different. Perhaps you feel you possess the ability to have no negative feelings about sin while still loving God. Or be apathetic towards God while dabbling in a playfully sinful nature. This is a fool's playground. It is a paradoxical impossibility. For as God has shown, He hates sin. And his Word repeatedly demands a complete rejection of the sinful order of this current world. In choosing not to completely reject that sin, one is inherently rejecting the commands of God. It can't be avoided.
The concept of hating Jesus may seem all too distasteful. You may not agree with all that Jesus said. You may not even agree that with Him when He said He was God. But hate is such a strong word, and you wouldn't go so far as to say your relationship with Jesus has reached the hate point. Unfortunately, if this is even a consideration, then your current stance towards sin is love. Which leaves only one option for your current stance towards Jesus.
So should you choose to direct you hatred away from sin and towards Jesus, perilous though it may be, you certainly wouldn't be the first. If you choose to fully reject sin and the order of this world, then you should prepare to be hated. For Jesus enumerated both in John 15: 18-19, referring to the sin order with the word "world": If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first. If you belonged to the world, it would love you as its own. As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world. That is why the world hates you.
Joshua said it best when addressing Israel at Shechem for a renewal of the covenant in Joshua 24:15: But if serving the LORD seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served beyond the Euphrates, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD.
So the choice is simple. Choose today whom you will serve. Whom you will love. Whom you will hate.

Do You See What I See?

My wife and I had been shopping endlessly for a home church since our move. We attended large churches and small churches, flamboyant churches and reserved churches, seeker sensitive churches and hearty meat churches. But for all of our toil, all of our searching, it seemed that we could never find the one that was home. Every time we thought a church might be a possibility, God always led us away.
It was for that reason we came here this Sunday. There was nothing overtly special about it on the outside. It was a normal looking church with normal looking people. As we took our seats near the back of the church, we wondered what was in store. Would we be eagerly greeted and accepted? Would we feel at home? Or would it once again end with the feeling of dissatisfaction?
My wife and I spent the next hour and a half taking in what this church had to offer. As the blessing was spoken by a deacon, I felt troubled that he seemed unsure of what to say and paused over several words while offering up his praise. As soon as he finished, the worship team took the stage and began to fill the air with what I felt was a poor offering. Their musicians were noticeably off-key, and the look of the singers was drab. But I cringed the most when I heard the noise that came forth. I suffered through a laundry list of classics that I knew was in no way worthy of the King of Kings. I only shuttered to think of what God himself felt after such a display.
But the best was yet to come. As the well dressed pastor took the pulpit, his appearance gave me hope. I was soon let down at the realization that his delivery did not match his look. His message was fine to be sure, in fact one of the best I had heard. It was biblically based, on target, and without reproach as to the truth. It fed a long time believer such as myself while encouraging those new to or just outside the faith. It was a masterpiece. But the pastor himself fell short. As his sermon went on, I found myself noting imperfections in his look. Slight wrinkles in his pants and shirt caught my eyes. The fact that his tie was a shade to light for the shirt he was wearing distracted me. And his speech was the worst of all. He had a distinct stuttering problem, and when that wasn't acting up he would speak to slowly for my taste. In all it was a disaster.
As the service moved forward, I would steal glances at my wife. She would look back at me, concern in her eyes, but with perseverance to see the service through. When it was mercifully over, I quickly gathered my belongings and stood up. But before I could make my way out of the church I was overwhelmed by greeters and well wishers. Members from across the aisles made their way to our seats to see who we were and if we enjoyed our time. I tried to speak to my wife about the need to leave quickly and never return, but before I could she was trapped by a question.
"Do you think you might come back?" an elderly lady asked my wife directly.
"Yes, of course," my wife blurted out without thinking. I glared at her with shock as we finished the round of pleasantries.
My wife and I headed to our car, and I plopped myself in the driver's seat. Before starting the car, I looked over at her. "I really hate that you had to lie to that old lady."
My wife turned to me. "It wasn't a lie. We should come back next week."
"Really," I said annoyed. "Were you not in the same service I was? It was a mess. An unmitigated disaster."
My wife began to nod her head in agreement. "I know, I know, it isn't what we might have liked. But we need to give it another chance. Didn't you hear the message? Didn't it speak to you?"
"I heard the message," I replied. "And I guess, yes, it was good. It was just the messenger I couldn't get past."
My wife just shook her head and we drove off. We didn't speak about it again until the next Sunday, and my wife insisted on going back to that church. I acquiesced, as I had no better ideas, and forced myself into the car.
We arrived and were again greeted warmly as we took our seats. I braced myself as the welcoming prayer began, and was not disappointed. The same problems existed that week that existed before, and I held my eyes tight in prayer that my suffering would not be long. I refused to look at my wife, as I blamed her for making us go through this again. I focused only on the singers and the preacher until it was almost over. Finally, I turned to my wife to give her one of my disapproving stares. I was disturbed by what I saw.
"When did you start wearing glasses?" I asked her. She simply smiled at me and put her finger to her mouth, indicating a need for silence until the service was officially over. When it was, I stood up to flee from this place, but this time the pastor came down to greet us. My wife politely rose to shake his hand, taking off her glasses and putting them in her purse. I shook his hand and let out a barely audible grunt, as I wanted nothing more to do with this church. As soon as I could I ushered my wife out of the sanctuary and towards our car.
"Now can we never come back?" I pleaded.
"Never come back?" she retorted indignantly. "Didn't you hear the message?"
"Yes, yes," I whined. "It was another wonderful sermon. But come on. I mean, does that make up for everything else?"
"Is there anything more important?" she asked me. "Besides, things were better this time.
I wondered how she could say that. Was she even paying attention? If anything, the service had devolved from the previous week. This time one of the soloists forgot an entire verse. She simply hummed along with the melody. We would come back. This was certainly going to be the last time I ever set foot in that building.
But my insistence held little sway. My wife insisted on going back, and more than once. Each time she gave the caveat that we would only try it "one more time". But each "one more time" seemed to strengthen her resolve. In fact, she was becoming rather involved in this church, and making quite a few friends. Meanwhile, I searched and searched to find another church that might tempt her away from this train wreck.
A month and a half passed since our first visit, and I was at the end of my wits. Each time I had to force myself to go, dragging my carcass out of my bed and to the church, painfully experiencing every moment with excruciating detail, but in the end always having to admit to my wife that the sermon was top notch. I was trapped, and as I did this for the seventh time I was through. I barked and complained at my wife the entire way to church, grumbling about how I could not take another week of off-key singing, out of harmony musicians and a stuttering preacher. We didn't speak a word to each other after exiting the car, and left a space in between ourselves when we sat down. There was a frigidness that existed between us, and it was going to take a miracle to unthaw.
The service started and I winced. I closed my eyes for the prayer and shook my head. Moments later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to my right to see my wife poking me with her glasses.
"Put these on," she whispered.
"I don't need your glasses," I shot back and put my head back down. I soon felt the poking again, this time more painfully.
"Put them on!" she demanded.
"Fine," I said defiantly, yanking them from her hand. I scowled at her and mockingly put them on. "You happy?"
My wife nodded at me and smiled. But that made me even more furious. Not only were we in this place, but now I looked like an idiot wearing my wife's reading glasses. Pride welled up inside of me and I grew impatient. I was about to get up and walk out of the sanctuary. That's when the worship team stood up to sing.
I can't say that I hadn't heard such a beautiful sound before, but it was hard to recall a such a time. The voices that poured forth were no less than heavenly, and the music that accompanied hit every note with perfection. I soon became engrossed with what I heard, finding myself nearly brought to tears. As the music ended and the pastor stepped forward, I found myself locking in on his gate. For the first time I failed to find any imperfections in his dress. When he spoke it was like hearing the very voice of Jesus bellowing forth and bestowing heavenly knowledge. I was in shock and wonder that these people had made such a turnaround in such a short amount of time. I looked over at my wife with amazement, and she smiled and redirected my attention to the stage. I anxiously waited for the service to be over so I could ask the pastor what had happened.
As the service ended, I quickly took the glasses off, handed them to my wife and rushed to greet the pastor. He grasped my hand and smiled, and I blurted out the first thing in mind.
"How in the world did you do it?" I said excitedly, with no real reference to what I was talking about. The pastor looked at me with confusion. I felt my wife grab my hand from behind, and the preacher turned his attention to her.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning, pastor," my wife replied, then turned her attention to me. "Honey, we have to go."
I was still in a stupor, and found my mind racing as to the possibilities of the grand turnaround. But my wife led me out, all the while saying hello to her friends throughout the sanctuary. A smile was plastered on my face, one that did not soon fade. We found our way to the car, but before we got in I confronted my wife.
"You know something, don't you."
"I don't know what you mean," she said coyly.
"You know something," I insisted. "How in the world do you explain that," I said, pointing back at the church. "They were never this good before."
"Weren't they?" she retorted, waiting for me to respond. But I just stared back at her. "Fine," she said. "Those glasses I made you wear. They are special. You finally got to see everyone with God's eyes."
"God's eyes?" I asked. "What do you mean God's eyes?"
"When we first came here, I thought everything was as bad as you did. But I prayed about it, and God gave me the vision to see them as He sees them. Don't ask me how, but it came through those glasses."
"What are you talking about?" I asked. "God is sees everything perfectly. And he sees them for all their deficits."
"Yes, God sees their deficits. But when you look through His eyes, you see much more than that. You see the beauty, wisdom and potential in others. You see them as He meant them to be, not as the world sees them. To Him they are masterpieces, where to us they may seem like torn canvas. You have now seen them as God sees them, and you know how they really are. Your eyes have been fixed."
I pondered for a moment. "As God sees them," I muttered. "Of course. I looked for perfection in the imperfect. I should have been looking for perfection in Him." I paused for a moment. "But what about the glasses? We have only one pair. Who gets them?"
My wife smiled. "I don't think either of us needs the glasses any longer. God has done permanent work to our sight."

That Saved A Wretch Like Me

It was the same spiritual classic we had sung a myriad of times. I belted out the last few words as it's familiar chords reverberated in my brain. I loved God, and church was almost always a pleasure. But for some reason, on this particular Sunday in this particular church, I actually listened to the words I was singing. Certainly I had seen them in print before, but I had never actually heard them. That was not the case today.
The song ended not to long after noon and our congregation was dismissed as it had been each preceding Sunday. I gathered my belongings and made my way towards the door, greeting many familiar faces on the way and wishing them a good day. Yet as I journeyed, I felt a resentment welling up inside of me. I did not know from where this came, for normally I left this place feeling revived and full for the week ahead. But not this day.
I hopped in my car and made my way home. Throughout the journey, I tried to squelch the feeling of resentment and insult with which I had been struggling. I thought of upcoming activities, of duties I had to perform, and even of the splendor of the spring season that was soon upon us. But nothing I did made that uneasy feeling submit. I was being poked by it, at first ever so subtly, but soon with a certain pointedness that demanded attention.
I arrived home and went about my business. I changed out of my Sunday attire and into clothes that were much more comfortable and allowed my form to flow freely. I prepared myself a sandwich, all the while having my ire raised over that which I could still not grasp. I sat down for lunch and raised my sandwich to my mouth, at which point I could no longer take the prodding.
"Fine," I muttered to myself as I slammed the sandwich back onto the plate. I was finished trying to push it aside, and knew what I had to confront. It was that song, that infernal song at the end of the service. From the moment the final note died until now, I had been choked with the feeling that those words were directed at me. It felt as though they were being used to repeatedly slap me in the face. They were the source of my indignation.
I stood up and walked intentionally towards my bookshelf. I scanned the books lined there until I found the one that held my tormenter. I yanked it from its perch and threw it down on the table. It had been some time since I touched this particular book, as the word "Hymnal" on the cover was shrouded in a layer of dust. Ignoring the obvious need to wipe it, I flung open the book and searched out that particular song.
Moments later I found my target. In typical hymnal script, bordered by musical chords that nobody but the actual musicians needed to see, were the words to that ancient rhyme "Amazing Grace". Those words that for some reason had so bothered me in service earlier were now staring me in the face, mocking and taunting me to take them in again.
I sat back down and began to read. As I went along, I became more and more enraged. I now knew why it was that I had this feeling deep inside of me. It was those words. They prodded at me, insulted me, and mocked me all the while knowing nothing about me.
"I know how to fix this," I said as I scanned the room. Finding what I was looking for, I snatched up a pencil and brought it to the page. "There need to be some changes here."
I started with the first stanza: Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.
I started scribbling in the book. Grace cannot make a sound, I thought. How silly is that. And as for being lost, I might have been, but I found my way, I was not found. And I hardly ever remember being blind, but maybe that's a bit too literal for me. But I know for sure the guy who wrote this wasn't blind.
I continued to the second stanza: 'Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear, and Grace my fears relieved, How precious did that Grace appear, the hour I first believed.
I debated in my head again. Now this is getting ridiculous. Grace is going to make me fear and then take it away? That doesn't even make sense. And I doubt that I am going to see something so paradoxical as precious when I first believe. If anything I would flee from it.
I stopped after the third stanza: Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come, 'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home.
Well, I do agree that I have been through a lot, I thought. But I had to make it through a ton of that myself. Grace might lead me now, but it hardly has been there every time.
I scribbled and scribbled, crossing out certain words, underlining others, and circling still more. I engraved the paper with my thoughts, and when I was done I looked at my handiwork. There was a milieu of changes to that song that I had made, and I sat back, still unsatisfied.
That's when my eyes fixated on one word. On that word. The word that in my belly I knew was the crux of my pain. Wretch. I stared at it and it stared right back. It refused to relent, and insisted that it was right. But I knew better.
I was appalled. How dare they make us sing this in church? Are we all to acquiesce to the name calling that is in this simple song? Perhaps the author thought he was a wretch, and maybe everyone in my church considers themselves as such. For all I knew everyone who had ever sung this song looked at themselves in this light. But not me. I was many things, but I was not a wretch.
A wretch is an awful person. A miserable being. Contemptible. Hollow. Despicable. Enslaved to that which would corrupt the most wholesome soul. I would not call anyone this epithet, nor would I allow myself to be called the same. That was the point of my contention. That was the word I had finally heard after all those years of singing that song that brought my stomach into knots and unleashed a fury inside of me with which I was unfamiliar. If I was to be called such a thing from a centuries old jingle, then I was going to defend myself. I was going to defend myself with extreme prejudice.
I circled that word over and over again, digging deeper into the paper as I went. I began to think about the type of person that would call himself a wretch in a song, a song that unintentionally became one of the most famous in the Christian faith. What kind of person would insist himself such a monstrosity, then give all the credit for his change to the faceless duality of Grace?
I grabbed for my laptop and punched in the name of the author emblazoned under the song title. "John Newton," I whispered as I typed. As I read the entries on him, I found that this was most certainly not the guy who had an apple fall on his head.
As I perused the biographical data on this man I found that indeed he had times in his life where he could be considered an ultimately contemptible individual. He was engrossed in profanity, gambling, drinking, and most egregiously the slave trade.
But as I read further I found the seed of his conversion. In the middle of the night while on board a merchant ship off the coast of Ireland in the late 18th century, John Newton awoke to a horrific storm that ripped a hole open in the side of the ship. Water began to furiously pour in, and Newton was beside himself with fear. He was so overcome that he cried out to God to save him and the ship. Soon after, in what seemed to Newton to be a miracle, cargo within the ship found its way towards the hole and stuck there, plugging the gouge and allowing the ship to limp back to Britain. Newton attributed this to God - to Grace - and began earnestly studying and seeking the same.
"Luck," I blurted out as I closed the laptop. This Newton had based his entire conversion on a series of coincidental events. I was happy for him that he had come to God, but I realized this whole song, including the overuse of Grace and insistence on his own vileness, was based on a lucky break.
I finally took my pencil and drew a giant X through that contemptible word. I was going to have to find a replacement for it at a later time. It was imperative that I get my revisions to the pastor. If we were ever going to sing this song again, I was going to be heard on why it needed to be changed.
I stood up and walked to my office, searching out the pastor's email address. For the sake of the knot in my stomach, this could not wait any longer. I fumbled through some papers and notebooks, looking for that slip of paper where it was written. Finally I came across the church directory, and realized that I could find it in there. Relieved, I flipped open the book. But what I found was more than I could have expected.
On the inside cover, staring me back in the face, was a picture. It was a picture I had not seen in a long time, and how it got inside my church directory I do not know. The subject of the picture I knew well, and what it specifically captured is not important. Looking at it brought me great joy. But it also brought great pain. It was the epitome of paradoxical, showing me a time in my life of contentment and happiness but also reminding me of sorrow and pain.
But the picture was much more than a single remembrance. For as I gazed at it, my mind went wild. Within me was triggered a rush of memories, all seemingly insignificant or coincidental to the passing eye, but so much more than that. For in those memories, in those little things of life and major changes and adjustments, I saw a work there. In those things that guide us and make our path, I saw the Master's hand cultivating the road in front of me, even though many times I found myself in the midst of hardships, of toils, and of snares. As the film in my mind played, I saw that moment when I knew the power of God and trembled at the thought of how I was but an insignificant microbe to be squashed by His powerful hand, only to then realize that it was the same hand that would carry and comfort me the rest of my days. I saw in those moments of life how blind and lost I was, and how it was through the miracle of miracles that I had been found and made whole to see. And as the memories began to fade, I finally recognized that one day, happily, mercifully, this wretch would be led home.
Grace had made it's point. It was never my will that got me through the difficulties of life. It was His. I dropped the directory, and made my way back to the table. I sat down, pulled in the chair, and lifted my pencil once again. But this time I flipped it around, and brought the power of the eraser to bear on the page. Slowly I erased each blemish I had made, drinking in the unfettered words that now smiled at me across time. The knot in my stomach and the choke of anger were gone.
"This is just fine," I said to nobody in particular.