Fly Like An Eagle

I stepped to the edge of the scaffolding ready to fly down to the floor of the water tank and get some more paint. The paint was a heavy, gooey sealant and my paint tray ran out quickly. It smelled so strong that we were working in shifts to come out for fresh air. But I must have been in long enough that I was beginning to hallucinate. It was an exhilarating feeling to think of how I would glide down and land right by the paint can. But as I held onto the scaffolding I somehow realized that I wasn’t safe flying, that I needed to climb down. Then I came to my senses a bit more and decided to climb out of the tank before I lost all sense of reality. I called for help and the ground crew came up top and climbed in to pull out the other two. They had been in longer than me and were pretty far gone. When they got them out on top of the tank I told the rescuers to hold them down and not let go. Otherwise they would try to fly off the tank.

That was the biggest event of the summer at Prescott Pines Camp that year. After the scare was over we would sit around and talk about the desire to fly, and the emotions of power and freedom that it evoked. I wondered why it was that so many people dream of flying, and why flying is such a common sensation when hallucinating. Is the desire to fly symbolic of man’s desire for freedom, or is it a foreshadowing of something real, yet to come.

In the Bible there are a few accounts of people moving in the sense that we call transporting. Enoch and Elijah were caught up to be with the Lord, similar to how Christians will be caught up at the Rapture. Then there is the unique account of Phillip being transported by the Spirit after talking to an Ethiopian eunuch about Jesus (Acts 8:39). And I am sure that when we leave this life and enter the heavenly eternal we will be free from the limitations of time and space, and transporting about will be common. But flying is different.

The Wright brothers pursued the desire of flying. For over a hundred years now man has been able to fly, but artificially. It began with the exhilarating desire to escape the confines of two feet firmly planted on the ground. But flying has become quite utilitarian for most, a means of getting from one city to another in less time. There are a few, though, like my good friend Tex, for whom flying is still a thrill.

I remember reading a book when I was young, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was forbidden by our church leaders, which made it all the more exciting to read. It really made me think about the freedom we have in the Spirit, a freedom too seldom realized. Joseph Bayley wrote a similar story, a brilliant parable about a Christian who could fly. He went to a school for flying and was told to quit flying around and showing off. Everyone at the school studied aerodynamics, but no one flew. He finally gave up flying, too, and walked.

When I get to heaven I look forward to flying. Not just transporting. I want to enjoy the view, and be thrilled by the power and dynamic of gliding, swooping, diving, taking off, and landing. I wonder if that is not prophetically alluded to by the prophet Isaiah, an eternal reward for waiting upon the Lord.

“They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” (Isaiah 40:31) The first phrase might also be translated, “Those who hope in the Lord will exchange their strength…” Teach me Lord, to wait and to hope.

I fear that those in an eternity apart from knowing and loving God will not enjoy the freedom of flying, but rather an eternity of being bound by the restraints of time and space, and by the chains of selfish desires never relinquished. Heaven and hell – eternal freedom or eternal bondage.



High Flight by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds...and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of...wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Jamal's Story

The city was buzzing. People were running about, all over town. Preparations were being completed for the holy day. In just a short time it would be sundown and everyone would settle in to their homes for the most sacred feast. Jamal was no exception. His sons, their wives, and their children were gathered in his home to celebrate the Passover with him.

As the Passover meal progressed the visiting and the banter were the most enjoyable event of the year. But then it came time to tell the story of the passover in Egypt. Grandpa Jamal told of the salvation of the sons of Jacob when the death angel passed over the land. Jamal took the cup in his hand and everyone around the table became silent. He held the cup for the longest time as he drew them in close and continued the story.

“Listen my sons, Jamal has a story to tell you that you have never heard before. Four days ago the man Jesus rode into our town on a donkey. Many people think he will set free the Jews from Roman bondage. But the priests and rabbis fear him, desperately, and I am afraid they will try to have him killed. But I must tell you about this man. I must tell you the story of this man, Jesus.”

“Over thirty years ago I was helping my father, my uncle and my brothers to shepherd a large flock outside of Bethlehem. We were gathered about the fire telling stories. About the time my uncle quieted us to say the prayers we were overwhelmed with light in the sky above us. An angel came down from the light and came near and spoke to us. He said to us, “Tonight, in the city of David, Bethlehem, a savior is born, he is Christ the Lord. Go look for him, and do not hesitate to bow before him in worship. This will be a sign for you, to help you know the babe. You will find him wrapped in cloths and lying in a feed manger, in a stable.” That angel slowly withdrew from us and a host of angels joined him and they all spoke in anthem, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom God’s favor rests.”

“They all were anxious to go in to Bethlehem, that very night, to look for the babe. I was the youngest, only fourteen, barely old enough for my father to trust me to watch the herd while they were gone. This much of the story I have already told you. And I have told it to others. In fact, our doctor over in Jericho, Luke, wrote the story down when I told him a few years ago. But this part I have never told anyone. I am afraid that the priests and the teachers would scoff at me. But you must hear it, and you must understand.”

“After my father and brothers left me I sat alone, wondering and marveling. I could not make sense of it. A savior? Worship a baby? The Christ, born in a stable? Then the angel came back. He was dressed in the clothes of a shepherd, this time. But I knew it was him. I knew his face, and I knew his voice. He told me what my father and my brothers were finding. Then he said to me, “This baby is God’s Son, the promised Messiah, Immanuel, spoken by the prophet Isaiah. One day he will come to Zion, he will enter Jerusalem, and he will free his people. But he will not lift a sword. As swords come against him, he will not even speak a word. He will give his life, like one of these lambs, slaughtered for sacrifice. By his death he will redeem. Freedom will be for all people. Most will reject Him, though. They will not recognize the Messiah. They will choose to remain under the law of Moses, forever trying to please God by their own righteousness. They will never know the peace and grace that this baby boy, the Messiah, comes to give.” Then the angel walked away. When my father returned he told me what they had found, and it was just as the angel had told me.”

“I have heard this man Jesus talk, and he does claim to be God’s Son. The preacher, John, out at the Jordan was about to baptize Jesus, and I was there. John said of him, “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” Then a voice from heaven said, “This is my son, whom I love.”

“So I am convinced, I am sure, that Jesus is the Messiah. You must believe my story, and you must believe about Jesus, no matter what anyone else says in the next few days. Messiah was born that night, and we have seen him. He is our Savior.”

Jamal ended his story. He took a sip from the cup. He passed it around the table. One by one, they all took a sip. Then they all bowed in worship. Jamal led them in a prayer of praise for God’s salvation, “This Jesus, may he conquer sin and death, for each of us at this table, and for all who will believe. Amen."

One Big, Big Hug

Forty hours of hell. And that’s only what I felt. It was even worse for my son, I’m sure. After all, he was the one in jail, not me. But like the father in the Luke 15 story I was searching, desperately yearning for my son. My emotions were everywhere -- shock, anger , frustration, desperation, resolve, love and forgiveness, hope, and finally grace. The anger and frustration were primarily due to the criminal system. The shock, fear, and hope were directed toward my son.

My son was arrested. He worked at a 24 hour gas station. Not a good situation at all. One night, in the early hours of the morning, a couple under age guys came in and badgered the store clerk to sell them some beer. After an hour, or more, my son caved in and told them he would leave the back door open, so they could go in a get a case of beer. So the two guys did just that. Helped themselves.. They loaded their car full of beer, energy drinks, and pop. It wasn’t hard for the owner to figure out what had happened. There was a camera in the back warehouse, too. My son was fired. He didn’t tell us for a week, but we knew things weren’t right. By the time he finally spilled the beans he already had plans to run off and hide out in the forest. He had his Jeep packed with gear and groceries. One last stop at a friend’s house, on a Sunday afternoon, when suddenly the sheriff cars pulled up, surrounded him, and made their arrest.

He called me that night to tell me. I was frantic -- never been through this before, and didn’t have a clue what to do. But I told him I would stand by him and do all I could. I called a good lawyer the next morning who helped in so many ways. He was at the court house at noon to represent my son at the arraignment. By television he told my son at the jail that his father was seated in the court room with him. What a gesture. I was assured he would be released that evening, and a trial would be pending. I called the jail several times that afternoon to find out when he would be released so that I could pick him up. I kept getting the run around. When finally I went down to the jail to wait for him I found out they had released the prisoners earlier. I made such a scene of disgust and frustration that I was afraid the desk sergeant might come out and arrest me. I just could not understand why the criminal system had to treat every person like a hopeless, worthless criminal and destroy their dignity.

So we started driving all over town looking for him. We found a few other guys released that night, hanging out at the nearby mall. They remembered our son. They said he had boarded a bus. We never found him that night. He had got on a bus that went into Portland, got lost, and had to stay the night at a stranger’s apartment.

All this time I was sorting out my emotions -- disgust, fear for my son’s well being, and hope that such a dramatic event would bring him up short, get his attention, and change direction in several areas of his life. But most of all I realized how fearful of me he had been through the process, because of how I had been treating him for several years. I tried to make him keep the rules. I chased him down when he was in trouble and he would run away. He avoided me. I yelled and made a scene instead of talking reasonably, gracefully, and fatherly. I tried to make him be righteous the same way I tried to make myself righteous. Keep the rules!!

So finally, Tuesday morning he called his Mom, and she went to pick him up. Carol called me at the office and told me to come up to the house, that my son was home. I couldn’t get there fast enough, it seemed. When we saw each other across the room we just gazed, until the tears began. I walked over and took him in my arms and hugged him for the longest time. No words, no yelling, no lecture. Grace had done a marvelous work in him. But more importantly, it had done a marvelous work in me, too.

“He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 1:6)

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love.” (Washington Irving)

The Worst Birthday Ever

Happy birthday, Carol. July 25, 1980. Where better to celebrate than Havasu City, Arizona. Home of the London Bridge, they say. She’ll never forget that one.

We had been on a canoe trip down the Colorado River for four days, starting at Bullhead City. We had about twenty high school students, one bus, 115 degree weather, and brutal sunburn to watch out for. We had fun splashing and swimming our way down the river, 15 miles a day. The first two days we were absorbed with watching for a child that we were told was missing, and presumed drowned in the river. Every little piece of wood, every trash floating in the river we would row up close and frightfully inspect. Now that was a trip!

Each night I would hitch a ride back to our starting point to retrieve the bus, and that way we were able to shuttle our way down the river. The third day, though, was disaster. The bus blew a rod out the side of the engine. It was done. And we were nearly 200 miles from Tucson. We had the bus towed to a storage yard to deal with later, and called the church to recruit a driver to bring out another bus to pick us up on our last day. Somehow we continued our shuttle and finished our trip.

When we got to Havasu City, our destination, we turned our canoes over to the outfitter, and went to find a nice cool McDonalds to sit and wait for the bus. Carol and I took turns waiting out on the highway to flag down the bus. (Remember, this was pre-future -- no cell phones.) We expected it to arrive about 6:00 PM. That’s when I told them we would be ready and waiting. But it didn’t come, and didn’t come. The driver they recruited was one of the school drivers, and there wasn’t a lot of love between the school staff and the church programs, even though they were “one in spirit and entity”. She waited till after work to depart Tucson, and must have been oblivious to our plight. The kids started getting restless and I had to stay with them to keep them happy. So Carol ended up sitting out on the highway, almost till midnight, in the brutal heat – hot, dirty, sweaty, and exhausted.

When we finally got settled in for the trip home, Carol leaned over to me and said, “Do you know what today is?” I had forgotten. Totally forgotten. She told me, “it is the worst birthday ever.” Every year now she asks me, “Remember Havasu City, my worst birthday ever?” I’m never sure if it’s a statement, though, or a question. At least now we can look back and laugh together. Just a bit.

“This is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24)

My Precious

My precious, tormented little girl. What have I done to her? Only twelve years old – this cute, vivacious, young, red-headed daughter of mine. She cut her wrists. So tormented that she would think of trying to end her life.

The police car drove up in front of the house and I walked out to see what he wanted. He told me that he had my daughter in the car. He had picked her up down at the grade school, a few blocks away, where some other kids had found her bleeding and cutting her wrists. She was safe, the wounds were not serious, he said, but he was taking her to the hospital.

When we got to the Emergency Room we were in a daze. Who do we ask? What do we do? Where is our daughter? The policeman just watched me as I wandered around. I felt like he was sizing me up as the perpetrator, rather than a concerned Dad. I already felt like a failure of a father, and he made me feel all the worse.

Starting about six months earlier she had started cutting herself, and would tell classmates of her thoughts about suicide. It became such an issue that the Christian School where she attended asked us to withdraw her before the end of the school year. The next year she started attending Junior High at a public school. She gravitated toward some friends of whom I didn’t really approve. And it was one of my harsh confrontations with her over these friends that precipitated the actual suicide attempt.

The hospital admitted her and kept her in the psych ward for a week. We visited and got some advice and counsel on how to help her. Over time she was actually diagnosed to suffer with Borderline Personality Disorder. But more importantly, we were put in contact with a crisis and adolescent counselor with whom the three of us met for quite a long time. He was a Jewish man, very wise and skillful. Our daughter healed slowly, as we became aware of our own needs to change in helping her through some very difficult years.

We made a definite decision to keep our daughter out of school, and teach her at home. Carol enjoyed finding books and curriculum to have her read and study. And then she got interested in horses. As that interest grew and blossomed it gave her an objective to pursue and an outlet to express herself.

Several years later she surprised us. We could tell at the family Christmas get together that she wasn’t quite herself. We walked her out to her car after everyone else had left. She said she had something to tell us. But she kept us on pins and needles for 24 hours, until finally she told us that she had gotten married a few weeks earlier. I guess we had learned not to be shocked or startled. In fact, we were actually able to be happy for her. The next evening we went out to dinner to meet her new husband. They now have two wonderful children. The oldest is another cute, adorable, lively little red headed girl, my precious grand daughter.

“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom… And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus… Fathers, do not embitter your children, or they will become discouraged.” (Colossians 3: 16, 17, 21)

Ministry Prep School

Seminary is where my head got filled with facts. Hinson Church is where I learned the skills of ministry. From the one school I received a degree. But it was the other that I would call a ministry prep school.

When I went to seminary I had as my goal to prepare to become better equipped to pastor, to shepherd, to help people. I didn’t have a desire to become a theologian, to be trained to be a professor. There is a saying about grad school. If you can’t do it, then teach it. I had no desire to fall into that trap.

So I chose a shorter program than most, one that would allow me to study New Testament Greek. I avoided the M.Div program and the Th.M programs, because I didn’t want to study homiletics and Hebrew and a whole host of doctrinal courses that I was convinced would only sit on the shelf in the back of my brain and be of little use in helping people with real problems in a real world. That’s just me, though.

While at seminary, back in the 70’s, we attended Hinson Church. In the three short years that we were there I plugged my self into as many programs and training situations as I possibly could. Many of them Carol was right there along side me, even though she was finishing up her nursing degree. We were in the choir for awhile. We helped with the discipleship classes for a while. Then I went through the evangelism training program. Then we worked with the Junior high program. Yes, junior high. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt!

Many of those pastors I would consider my mentors – Larry, Brian, Dick, and Dave. I learned from them the heart and how-to of ministering to people.

Perhaps one of the least understood concepts of church leadership is the art of mentoring -- leaders reproducing themselves in others and trusting them, encouraging them, empowering them, and then releasing them. Rather than preparing others to serve, to teach, and to reach out, too many pastors do it themselves. And then wonder why new leaders don’t develop. Why they are so burnt out. Why church growth is so elusive.

“It was he (Christ) who gave some to be apostles, some to be prophets, some to be evangelists, and some to be pastors and teachers, to prepare God’s people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up…” (Ephesians 4:12)

“Kick Me! Hard!”

No one could believe that I would really do it. But I did. Right in front of Sayler’s Steak House. With lots of people standing around watching. I guess I knew I had that kind of relationship with him that we could be that real. So I kicked him. Hard. A swift boot to his behind as he leaned over the hitchin’ rail.

We were in Portland visiting friends and family. We had moved to Tucson a couple years before, after living in Portland for about four years. It was about the time when Mt St Helens was erupting, because I can remember shaking all the ash out of some little fir trees in my brother’s front yard. One evening we decided to go out for dinner, and chose to go to Sayler’s, the famous steak house in the southeast part of town.

After dinner we walked outside and were standing around on the sidewalk enjoying the nice summer evening. And out of the door stumbled my old neighbor. All the while we had lived in Portland I had spent lots of time with Mick, my next door neighbor. He invited me over to have a beer and watch the Cassius Clay fight on TV. I said I would come join him, but bring along my own soda. He reminded me of that often that I would accept his invitation, even though I had one slight reservation. One time we had a Halloween haunted house in our basement for the church Junior High group. We did a test run and let his daughter go through it. It scared her so much I don’t think Halloween was ever the same for her. And again, he never let me forget it. We had tons of great memories.

But that night at Sayler’s, when Mick walked out the door kind of drunk, he broke into tears when he saw me. He missed me. And all the times we had talked about spiritual things must have bore fruit. In his guilt and shame, but mixed with hope and remembrance, he came to me and said, “Kick me. Kick me, Dave. Kick me hard!” And so I did.

He wanted to get together the next morning, and I agreed to come over. He called me at 6:00 AM and asked me if I could come earlier than I had said. So I was on my way. We talked, and reminisced. Mostly, we remembered important things, not just the fun things. And soon he was on his knees and prayed to receive Jesus into his life. I was so proud of him, and so thankful that finally, unexpectedly, all the years of friendship had born fruit, fruit that would last for eternity.

Jesus told some stories of a lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son, the point of which was this, “I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” (Luke 15: 7, 10, 32)

Asmodeus

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the door knob turning. Slowly. Subtly. Stealthily. I was sitting at the dining table, in the room next to the front entry, reading the newspaper. It was 9:30 PM on a Sunday evening. Carol was putting the two girls to bed. We were finally done with a long, busy, fruitful day of ministry. I was ready to relax, to finally slow down and enjoy a few moments catching up on the news.

But the door knob – it was definitely turning. How strange. I slinked over and checked to be sure the deadbolt was locked. It was. But the doorknob was not. That’s why someone outside on the porch could be turning it. But no one had knocked or rang the bell. I was scared to even look out the peephole to see who it was. It took a moment to get my courage up. But I had to. My family was in the house. I had to see what danger lurked.

What I saw was frightening. The girl standing outside my front door was in a definite demonic trance, with a knife in her hand. I could even recognize on her face which demon it was. Asmodeus. The violent one we had confronted earlier in the week. I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea what to expect. Before I could make any plans she slowly backed off the porch and began to shuffle down the sidewalk and around the south side of the house. I yelled for Carol to call the police as quickly as possible. I knew where the demon was taking her. Around to the back of the house where a door enters the garage. I heard the glass shatter and the door open. She was in the garage. Asmodeus was in my garage, and only one more door separated him from my home. The kitchen door entered off the garage. It was deadbolted. I went and leaned against it with all my weight to keep it shut. But with the first kick at the door I knew that nothing was going to stop this situation. Another kick and the door and jamb were both splintered hopelessly. One more kick and she was going to be in the house. But that was when the police cars pulled up in the driveway, sirens blaring.

She backed away from the door and I heard footsteps going back out the garage. I ran outside and directed the police around to the back to help secure the situation. I stood amongst them and yelled to them, explaining the situation, hoping desperately that they would restrain their force and allow her to come out of the trance without hurting her or shooting her. She just stood there and glared, motionless. One officer walked around behind her. She turned (it turned) and glared at him. He backed off. She turned back to face the other four standing with me. The officer in the rear moved in close enough to hit her hand with his club, trying to dislodge the knife. It didn’t even phase her. I could tell they were all very alarmed and very scared.

Fortunately, God was in control. (Although in my naiveté I was really wondering just how much a demon could actually get away with.) At that moment, when the situation could have gotten indescribably out of hand, the demon left her and she fell limp on the ground, weak, almost comatose. The police called her mom to come and get her, to take her to the hospital to check her wrist to see if it was broken. They inspected the house and marveled at the damage a teen-age girl could inflict. They left, amazed and befuddled. I was confused, yet thankful she had remained safe.

The next morning I went down to City Hall to ask for a copy of the police report. The police chief told me that it was the lengthiest, most extensive report he had ever received. I still have the copy, from back in 1983. I saved it in case anyone ever wanted to compare stories. Whatever the demons intended to accomplish that night, I do not know. Fear, I suppose. That is their ace number one deterrent. Bodily harm, I’m not sure. What I did know, though, was this. My faith and courage increased. My fear was conquered. The battle was on.

“You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.” (Genesis 50:20)

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the
Lord your God will be with you.” (Joshua 1:9)

Round and Round and Round

How did that happen? I got off the wrong exit of the freeway. In fact I didn’t even remember taking the exit, but there I was on the south side of town, instead of the north. It was late at night, but I wasn’t tired, so I hadn‘t dozed off. In fact I had been singing praise songs and praying and rejoicing all the way home from Salem. I had heard Charles Stanley speak at a ministerial conference, and I was pumped. I mean, really pumped! (But that’s another story.)

It was shortly after midnight. It was no big deal to get to my home in Gladstone by way of the south exit, rather than the other. It just wasn’t my normal route. So it hadn’t happened absent mindedly, either. My only conclusion was that it must have somehow been a God thing. I told myself to keep my eyes open all the way home to see if God had gotten me off that exit for a reason.

Sure enough. There it was. That must be it. There was a car driving around in a circle around a light pole in the Thriftway parking lot. Round and round and round. I pulled into the parking lot and got out of my car. Carefully I walked to the inside of the circle to try to talk to the driver. But the car kept going -- round and round – while I patiently stood there. Finally it stopped. The driver rolled down the window. A young lady looked up at me, distraught and forlorn looking. Ashen, almost deathly looking.

I asked her to please tell me how long she had been driving in circles, and why. Slowly she began to talk. She had been driving in circles for about an hour, she said. She was trying to get her courage up. Courage to go out on the freeway and drive into an overpass abutment to end her life.

Wow, God. What a rescue. At least I hoped so. We talked for a long time that night. Finally, I felt comfortable she would be okay. She sensed love and concern, and showed signs of new hope. I wasn’t sure, though. Not being a suicide counselor, I did the best I could. I invited her to come to the church office the next morning and talk some more, leaving to go on home and watching as she continued her driving. Round and round and round.

The next morning she showed up at the office. We talked for several hours. We read the Bible. She told me her story, her failures, her despair. But God was opening her heart and understanding. She prayed and asked Jesus to come into her life.

I knew that her salvation was the only the first stride out of the starting blocks. She had a long race before her. But she was in the race.

I wish that was the end of the story. But things don’t always end glorious and pretty. Parts of her story that she told me prompted me to ask her a question. “Do you hear voices in your mind?” She was startled, dumbfounded that I would ask. She said, “Yes! They scream it over and over and over.” In the native tongue of her foreign father, the voice screamed, “God is dead! Long live Tuvo!” Her biological father had been a high priest in the satanic, occultic religion of the Central American country where she was conceived.

That young lady consumed my time and energy trying to help her be set free, but she was never whole-hearted after God. She was deceptive, divisive, and disruptive. As I look back, now, I wonder who really got me off that freeway exit? Was it God? Or was it a demon? Round and round I go in my mind, wondering. I may never be sure.

"Sir, didn't you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from? " "An enemy did this," he replied. (Matthew 13:27-28)

Riding Jeep, Holding A Grudge

How could he make my life any more miserable than this? I had to spend the whole day riding with Chuck, jumping out occasionally to go change the direction of the blade on the front of the Jeep so that he could plow the roads that were rutted and washed out by thunderstorms. I was trying to give him the cold shoulder, trying to avoid talking to him, or letting him talk to me. I was mad. I was holding a grudge half the size of Yavapai County.

I worked at Prescott Pines Camp, in north-central Arizona, each summer of my high school years. Chuck was our boss, our father figure. In hind sight I can say that he was one of my favorite mentors of all time, certainly in the top five of my whole life. But I was blind to his tactic, to his skill, to his loving determination on this occasion. I was just plain mad.

It all started a few nights earlier. Two of us staff guys decided to go into town for the church youth meeting. We invited a couple staff gals to go along with us. We thought we had permission, that none of us had any duties to keep us at the camp. But when we drove back into camp about 9:30 that evening we saw in the beam of our headlights, Chuck, standing in the middle of the road. He was quite upset with us, it became obvious. The girls were supposed to have run the snack shack that night, and he didn’t know we had left.

The next morning at breakfast Chuck read off the work list for everybody. He made a big deal of my assignment, making me an example to everyone, I guess. He announced, “And I have a special job for Dave today, one that I have been saving for over a year, now. Dave, you’ll be cleaning out the root cellar.” I had worked there a couple years already and I didn’t even know we had a root cellar. I knew all about the maggot pit, where we dumped all the garbage. I knew plenty about the sewer lines and drain field. But nothing about a root cellar.

In short order I found out. It was full of rotten potatoes and onions. Someone had loaded it up a couple years earlier, and never used the produce. All the wire mesh shelves were loaded with rotten, drippy, smelly mush. And I got to haul it all out and clean it up. That was the worst job ever. The whole day my anger was smoldering and brewing, thinking I was being punished for a wrong that I didn’t even know I had done.

So then, it was the next day when Chuck decided to have me ride along in the Jeep. He knew how mad I was. And he wanted to lovingly draw me out of my bitterness and “fix” our relationship. I know I didn’t make it easy for him. But he didn’t give up. Why? Because he had grown to love and appreciate me, I think. And me him, too. But I wasn’t going to let love do any magic that day. No, I had a grudge to bear, and I wasn’t going to let go of it.

Holding a grudge used to be my worst enemy. It chewed me up inside. It made me bitter and spiteful. I would dream and imagine of all kinds of ways to get even, to settle the score. And if getting even wasn’t possible, which it usually wasn’t, then I would make real sure that anyone who hurt me would see and know how much I despised them. Wow! But I was only hurting myself. And oh my! I must have been a jerk of a guy to like, sometimes.

“Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry…. Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:26-32)

"He's With Jesus, Now"

We rushed back to Phoenix as quickly as we could. The phone call was to tell us that my grandfather had only a short time to live. We had decided to go ahead with a long-planned vacation to Portland. We stopped in San Jose to pick up my sister to go north and visit my brother. My mother even traveled with us. My father stayed in Phoenix, though, to be with his father, who was failing quickly from cancer. We had no idea how long he would live, but we felt confident that he wouldn’t go down hill so rapidly that a quick vacation couldn’t be squeezed in.

But as cancer so often does, when the end was near, it came quickly. We were actually on our way south from Portland when we got the phone call. We decided to keep driving straight through to Phoenix, making only a brief stop in San Jose to drop off my sister’s husband.

We arrived in Phoenix and together, my sister and I, went directly to the hospital. My father was there at the bedside with his mother, my grandmother. Grandfather was pretty much in a final coma. Quietly, almost reverently, we all talked. Mostly grandmother kept talking to grandfather and to God, like a three way conversation. We just listened, and waited, and wept, and hoped with her.

Within just a few brief hours my grandfather finally passed away. My grandmother knew instantly when he had breathed his last breath. With a big gasp, and through a flood of tears, she said it. Quietly, but with the most profound assurance, she exclaimed, “He’s with Jesus. He’s in heaven, now, with Jesus!”

Her simple, yet profound faith, made an incredible impact on my young mind and heart. I was already a youth pastor. I was graduated from a theological seminary. The fact of eternal life and the blessed hope was already part of my message. But it changed. With deeper faith, more passion and clarity, my message would never be the same. Because I made it back from Portland just in time to see, to hear, and to experience the deep, deep faith of my grandmother as she helped to issue her husband from this life into the presence of Jesus.

I heard another story recently, of another elderly widow, one who had lost her husband only just the day before. A good friend was talking with her, trying to be supportive and understanding, and encouraging. But this godly woman said to him, “yesterday is the day that he had been looking forward to since the day he trusted Jesus.”

The apostle Paul wrote it, and we can all agree, “For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.” (Philippians 1:21)

"The Fuel Pump"

Stalled. In the worst of all places. In 5:00 traffic on the ramp from I-405 to the Sunset Freeway, in downtown Portland. We were on our way to the beach on a Friday afternoon, for a weekend retreat with some friends. And that’s when our van decided to stall. Horns were honking. People were glaring as they squeezed by us in one lane. People stopped and volunteered to call a tow truck. I didn’t say it, but I was thinking, “if I can’t afford to get my van repaired, I certainly can’t afford a tow truck”. Besides, I knew that given ten minutes and a gallon of cold water I could probably get it to running again.

How did I know that? Because this wasn’t the first time the van had stalled. And I had figured out that I could pour water over the front of the engine and cool it down enough to get it to start again. I had no idea what I was really doing. I lucked on to that. I never know what I am doing when it comes to auto repairs, it seems. But I was way too poor to take it to a mechanic and have it diagnosed. The one time I did they simply said, “Sorry, we can’t diagnose a problem when the problem isn’t acting up.”

Eventually the van stalled, and it wouldn’t start again. I was sitting in a store parking lot that time. Frustrated, at wits end. That’s when I finally decided to pray about it. I just sat there and told God how frustrated I was, how helpless and hopeless I felt, and asked him what I should do. Call a friend? Hitch a ride home? Tow it to a mechanic? That seemed pretty logical, since it was definitely acting up, so they should be able to diagnose the problem, now.

That’s when he told me the most simple, practical advice. He said, “the fuel pump.” I even got a picture in my mind how to test it to confirm for sure that the fuel pump was the problem. I got out my tool box and disconnected the fuel line from the fuel pump, on the side going to the carburetor. If I turned the engine over a few seconds the fuel pump should squirt gas out on the ground. If it was not working, no gas would squirt out.

Guess what? No gas. Problem solved. I put a new fuel pump on the van and no more stalling.

I learned a lesson that day. The Holy Spirit is not so spiritual that He can’t be practical and useful, too. Very practical. Very useful. I guess I had fallen into the trap of thinking that the Holy Spirit is only good for spiritual advice and understanding, for spiritual correction and rebuke, for spiritual guidance, and most importantly, for spiritual sealing for redemption.

I found out differently. Cars are my nemesis. I hate mechanical work, unlike most normal men. So I needed some help. All I had to do was be still and know that the God of all knowledge really is the God of all knowledge. And that he cares about my very real needs.

“Be still and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)

“Cast all your cares on him because he cares for you.” (I Peter 5:7)

A Teeney Wittle Miracle

Breakthrough! It happened at 3:00 AM in the morning. The sanctuary was empty except for the four of us – the girl, Danny, my wife Carol, and me. All night we had been helping this girl with demons, intermittently teaching and counseling with her, and sometimes dealing with the demons as they manifested.

Then came the miracle. Now you have to realize that miracles can come in all shapes and sizes. And this was one of the greatest, most unique miracles I can remember. Yet it was so small and simple.

One particular demon, who took the name Sangthesin, had repeatedly been a thorn in our side. He somehow concocted a putrid blood. It was brownish red, and it smelled rancid. We came to understand that blood to be called ectoplasm. I had never heard of it before. It is a demonically manifested substance, somewhat common in the occult. It would come up out of the girl’s mouth sometimes. One time the girl spewed it all over a pastor friend who had come to help me. That was a first for him. The demon would write threats on mirrors, on notes, on her Bible, using this blood. One time the demon flung it all over the walls of a board room where we were meeting, to “anoint” the room and annoy us to no end. We had to stop and clean it up with soap and bleach for an hour.

So when this demon started drooling this ectoplasm out of the girl’s mouth, at 3:00 AM in the morning, I decided that we were not going to put up with this anymore. Rather than clean it up, as usual, I said to the other helpers, “No, don’t clean it up. This is the last. The Holy Spirit will deal with it once for all.”

Then the teeny wittle miracle happened. The drool of blood dried up and went away. The demon, who was silent as he tormented us, spoke up. “Who’s doing that?” That’s all he said. We smiled and looked at each other and rejoiced. HSP once again. Holy Spirit Power.

Demonic stories can be so surreal and spectacular. Satan’s power is real, and it can be very theatrical and very frightening. Demons love the thrill of putting on a show, of instilling fear. But that is the sum total of their power -- a few scares and fleeting displays of power. Far greater, deeper, and more profound is the quiet power and authority of our God through His Holy Spirit. His power is timely. It is superior. For it is borne of love. No show, just real!

“Greater is He who is in you than he who is in the world.” (I John 4:4)

Cozying Up, For Power

“The easiest place to get power is in the church.” Too often we think of sex and greed as the worst of the three great temptations. But power is the third, and usually overlooked. And sadly, the church itself is one of the most active venues for power grabbing. Quite the opposite of Jesus, who came to serve, not to be served.

We had only arrived in Tucson days earlier. I came there directly out of seminary, and Carol fresh out of nursing school. I was anxious to begin a church ministry as youth and worship pastor. The senior pastor seemed to be a gem of a man to work with. The anticipation of beginning a team ministry with him, and being mentored by him, was exciting. And time would prove that hope and assessment to be correct. He was the best ever.

Within days of our arrival one of the board members, a deacon, came to me and asked if he could fill our freezer with beef. Subtle red flags were raised in my mind and heart, though. Maybe it was the body language. Maybe it was the barely distinguishable fanfare, rather than just simply doing the deed, anonymously. Somehow I could read into the offer a bid for power, a demand for loyalty, a snare that said, “Now remember, you owe me one.” I don’t think I even offered to pray about it and get back to him with an answer. As poor and needy as we were, I graciously replied to his offer with a simple, “No, I think we’re fine, thank you.”

Again, my assessment was correct. He was the worst ever. Or depending on how you look at it, he may have been the best ever. The best at cozying up to leaders. The best at being a spiritual con man. A few years later the church was in search of a new senior pastor. I watched the power struggle develop as the committee laid out a plan to search for a new man of God. This same deacon offered to the committee to fly anywhere in the country to observe and interview a candidate, at his own expense, if the committee would like him to do so. The same red flags went off. To my amazement, though, the committee took the bait. I said to myself, “he just bought himself the right to hand pick his own man.” And that is exactly what happened.

Oh how ministry changes when people cozy up to leaders, when leaders are charmed, when alliances are formed, when power is bartered. The cause suffers, rumors fly, accusations abound, trust evaporates, and relationships disintegrate. The wolf in sheep’s clothing often goes unnoticed, sitting in the fold nice and cozy, seemingly impeccable spiritually, and glowing with praise and adulation. Even highly favored. They don’t wear red flags.

It was on a television special report that I heard the quote, “The easiest place to get power is in the church.” The subject of the report was a spiritual con man who had bedazzled his way into a church, developed a following, and eventually had his “cult” murder a group of dissenters. A sad story, and extreme, yes. But his statement is a telling observation.

“Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.” (Philippians 2:3)

“My brothers, don’t show favoritism….” (see James 2:1-13)

A Man From Far Away

It was uncanny. Amazingly uncanny. A handwritten note describing a dream that she had about two years earlier. It was dated, it was crumpled, it was out of sight, fallen down behind a drawer in her desk where we were fortunate to even find it. She had forgotten the dream. But as she read it she remembered it vividly. And as Danny and I read the dream we were stunned to see that God had prophetically foretold two years earlier the very situation we found ourselves in at that very time.

The written account of the dream was this. “Last night’s dream seemed too real. Everything too detailed. I mean the feelings. Oh well. Here I go. I grew up, but I had an illness no one knew about, and it wasn’t noticed till I got older. This man who discovered it had left because people were dying in another place. So these other doctors tried to help, but couldn’t do anything. I was getting sicker and was hurting. Then this one guy came from far away to help. He helped me for a long time. He was kinda attracted to me, but didn’t know why. I was afraid to like him because I knew what was going to happen, and I couldn’t imagine that. He was twice as old. I did get better and was learning how to make others better, with the similar sickness, from the doctors that helped me. Then I started helping him and we hurt a lot but like it. I think we were married. It was like we together make one whole, smart, perfect.”

She was sixteen years old, a sophomore in high school. She was very bright, and a promising athlete. She had started coming to our youth group a year earlier and accepted Jesus as Savior. She began to manifest problems, and came to our youth intern for help. She was cutting herself, having poltergeist happenings in her room, seeing apparitions, and missing classes due to trance-state wandering about. She was demonized, but it took awhile for us to figure that out. We took her to many different counselors and psychologists, seven in all, while slowly beginning to probe and try deliverance. Demons manifested as we prayed and rebuked. But the problems increased. She had to drop out of high school; she was in trance so much that she was seldom in class. Threats were written on her mirror in blood. I became desperate for help. I called everyone I knew in ministry and leadership. One Christian school teacher, Mike, knew someone in California who he had watched doing deliverance a few years earlier. I called him to ask advice. His name was Danny.

Danny agreed to drive to Portland to assist with the girl’s deliverance. Carefully he helped us to see and understand the nature of her problem. We went to her bedroom, with her mother to help, to look for any and all objects that might have demonic power over her. After a very thorough search, after collecting a box of things to burn, that’s when we found the letter, the dream letter.

That dream became powerful in the girl’s deliverance, for it was God’s prophecy of the very deliverance that we were in process to accomplish. She did get well. Danny made several trips up from California to help with the deliverance. He was 35 years old.

Oh, and about that line in the dream account, about marriage. We always blushed about it, and ignored it, because it was inconceivable. But wouldn’t you know, even that part came true. They fell in love, eventually got married, made their home in California, and have four children.

“I am God, and there is no other.... I make known the end from the beginning.... I say: My purpose will stand, and I will do all that I please.... I summon, from a far-off land, a man to fulfill my purpose. What I have said, that will I bring about; what I have planned, that will I do.” (Isaiah 46:9-11)

Just One Sheep

What’s the big deal? It’s just one sheep. He had ninety-nine others, safe and sound. Besides, sheep are expendable. In business you have losses, and you accept that. So what in the world is the big deal?

Jesus told the story, in Luke 15, about a shepherd who had 100 sheep, but lost one. So the shepherd went out to find that lost sheep. I can only imagine how much work and risk it might have been -- walking, searching, calling, and hoping – in the dark, without a flashlight. He refused to give up on that one sheep. It just wasn’t an option.

Although that story is about repentance, I like to apply it to ministry and shepherding. How easy it is for those in ministry to count the number that are in attendance, and feel successful, all the while ignoring the ones who are missing, lost, lonely, disconnected. That lost person is simply rejected, ignored, cast aside, and forgotten. Like a business loss.

That fact could not have hit harder than the time Martha came to our home to tell my wife Carol that she no longer wanted her to be a part of the women’s ministry at the church. You see Martha had built a large, successful ministry, reaching across the whole community, gathering in women from many churches and neighborhoods. She taught a session to nearly eighty women each Thursday morning. Then the women split up into groups of ten to discuss, encourage, and pray together. Carol was a leader of one of those small groups.

But I had been going through a deliverance ministry with a young girl. Unfortunately, misunderstanding amongst the staff and board grew to a point that they held a “heresy” trial. They decided to ask me to leave the ministry of the church.

That’s when Martha came to our house. We expected her to ask Carol how she was doing in light of the painful events, and discuss the ramifications. We expected a shepherd to tend her lost and broken sheep. But instead she asked her to step down and not be involved in the “Bible Study”. The group was more important.

Martha went on to become famous, an author and speaker to hundreds upon hundreds. Since then, my wife, in large part due to that major rejection, has become reluctant to trust shepherds and shepherding. Her wisdom and service, except in the most guarded and safe situations, is on a shelf, broken.

Like my buddy says, tongue in cheek, “Ministry would be fun if it weren’t for all the people.” Sadly, though, that’s true for many shepherds. The program is more important than the person. We don’t see the tree because of the forest. That episode became a forever faith lesson – it’s never okay to sit in the fold with the 99 sheep, and let the wolves devour the lost sheep.

In Jesus’ very first sermon He said: “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of Lord’s favor.” (Luke 4:18-19)

Perhaps that should become every shepherd’s “Hippocratic oath”.

An Angel I Want To Meet

The surface of the water was glass smooth. It must have been ten minutes, six or seven at the very least. Why had I waited so long to respond to the phone call? Why didn’t I just hang up on the other phone call and say I had an emergency to tend to? Why hadn’t I drained the baptistery last night after the baptism? How could this happen? How could God let this happen?

The girl laying under water in the bottom of the baptistery had been there nearly ten minutes, judging by the fact the surface of the water was now glass smooth. I had received a “signal” phone call, alerting me that the girl was in danger. Whenever the demons put her in a trance and did something dangerous with her I always received a phone call, with no voice. It became my signal to go find her and rescue her. I called Gary to drive over and help me. But I was in the church office alone that day, and got a second phone call immediately after the first, regarding funeral plans for the recent passing of our senior pastor. I couldn’t ignore the call.

When I finally got off the phone I began to run to all the phones in the church complex. The “signal” call had come in on the second church line, so I knew the girl must be on site. The first phone I came to had wet footprints on the carpet where she had stood in front of the phone to make the call. But it wasn’t a rainy day. I quickly remembered the baptism from the night before and went running to the front of the sanctuary. When I looked in, that is when I saw the horror. I feared the demons had finally been able to take her life. I didn’t stand there arguing with God why he would let this happen. I jumped in to pull her out. Gary arrived right then, as I was wrestling her out of the water. Fortunately he knew first aid. He felt for a pulse and couldn’t feel it. Her body was cold. He started CPR. Within a few short minutes she began breathing and her pulse got stronger. We wrapped her in blankets and she recovered. What a miracle. But God, that was too close for comfort. Way too close.

Some time later, in another situation altogether, we learned the secret of the “signal” phone calls. Whenever demons put this girl into a trance and began to do something life-threatening, an angel would usurp their position and indwell her. The angel would then make the phone call, but never speak. And it was that angel that indwelt her that afternoon in the baptistery. He slowed down her heart to a crawl, stopped her from breathing and filling her lungs with water, and kept her alive until we could rescue and revive her. I didn’t know that then. Had I known of the angel all through the deliverance I might have been unduly intrigued, and got my focus off of Jesus and the manifest power and guidance of the Holy Spirit. The angel was simply God’s agent.

But someday, in heaven, I have an appointment I plan to make. I want to meet that angel -- sit down and have a few cups of coffee at the Golden Café, and reminisce.

“Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?” (Hebrews 1:14)

Busy, Busy, and Clueless

Half way there Carol told me that she would not go on to Prescott with me where I was going to lead a large college retreat. My wife wanted to stay in Phoenix with my parents for the weekend and I could pick her up on the way back, she said. I didn’t understand why she would want to change plans, why she did not want to go along to be part of the “big event”. But clueless as I was, I didn’t even ask her why, I just dropped her off and went on my way. Or maybe I did ask her and she quietly refused to tell me so as not to worry me or disturb all my “big plans”.

On the way home I stopped to pick her up. For the first time I noticed that she didn’t look like she was feeling well. Quietly we began our two hour drive home to Tucson. Slowly, in broken, tearful words she told me that she had lost the baby. She was pregnant with our second child when I dropped her off in Phoenix, but while I was off to conquer the world she had miscarried.

Her emotions were a world different than mine. She had lost a child she hadn’t seen, didn’t know, but loved deeply. And her man hardly knew the pain she had anticipated, then endured. Me. Oh it hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt like a jerk. A stupid, clueless, unloving, unsupportive jerk. I probably didn’t say much. Didn’t know what to say. Oh I probably said all the appropriate things – “I didn’t even know. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be with you. Are you alright? We can have another baby. It’ll be okay.”

What I was really feeling and thinking was this. I was mad at God for having to always be so busy about His work that I was clueless of my wife’s needs. But I knew it wasn’t His fault, so I was mad at myself. And I was mad at my senior pastor for being so demanding, even though I thrived on the energy and vision he exuded.

I am sure I had not settled down from fuming and arguing with myself when we finally got home and drove into the driveway. And there in the middle of the carport was my turntable, my prized stereo component, a belt-drive Dual turntable. What in the world was it doing in such a strange place? Then it hit me. It came from inside the house. We went into our home and found it totally burglarized. Everything was off the shelves, out of the drawers, strewn everywhere. Everything we had owned that was of value was gone. Jewelry, coins, silver, stereo – everything.

Talk about a double whammy. God got my attention. But you know, it’s still hard to change. It was easier to give up the earthly possessions than it was to give up the mindset that God needed me for His kingdom more than Carol needed me for our love relation. It took me years to learn to give her the attention she deserved, even though I desperately and lovingly wanted to give it. She helps now by gently clueing me in whenever I get clueless. I’m still improving. Slow but sure. Oh yes. And twenty-five years later I finally got smart and replaced the jewelry with one nice ruby necklace. Her birthstone. And she wears it all the time.

“Each of you also must love his wife as he loves himself.” (Ephesians 5:33)

“I liken you, my darling, to a mare harnessed to one of the chariots of Pharaoh. Your cheeks are beautiful with earrings, your neck with strings of jewels.” (Song of Songs 1:9-10)

I Am Lord Of My Church

Sometimes I look back at things and evaluate how important they were by the degree to which I remember them. They are indelibly implanted on the front of my brain, a beacon light in my memory that always guides me and draws me back to the true course.

One of those indelible memories is when God spoke to a group of four men, as we were waiting upon Him to guide us in how, when, and where to start a church which we knew undeniably that He called us to start. There were many different things He told us to guide us, many ways that he made the path open up before us. But one time as we prayed and sought His face He drew us to read and contemplate the first chapter of Revelation. Then Jesus said to me and to the other three, “I am Lord of My Church”.

That statement was packed with meaning. Packed! Jesus wanted every decision to be brought before Him. Every desire, every ambition, even every message to be delivered to His people under my care. Every appointment, every relationship, every prayer, every conversation was on His behalf, and empowered and blessed by His Lordship.

Church and ministry simply are not run like a business. That is a mistake too often made -- board decisions, worldly wisdom, corporate strategy, church growth how-to, all blessed by a token prayer. No, people know and sense when their leader is in tune with the mind of Christ.

A pertinent illustration comes from an interesting story in the life of Nathan, prophet of God to the Israel of God (I Samuel 7). King David talks to Nathan and suggests that he would like to build God a temple. Nathan, being a wise man of God, says “Go ahead and do it, whatever you have in mind, for the Lord your God is with you.” As the saying goes, open mouth, insert foot. There is something that trumps even wisdom, and that is a word of God from the very mind of God. God told Nathan to go back to David and tell him, “This is what the Lord says, Are you the one to build me a house to dwell in?....” Thankfully, David was humble enough to accept a “change in itinerary”, and allow God to be King of His kingdom. Likewise, we must not presume to conclude that wisdom is always and ultimately supreme, nor that the desire of our heart, noble as it may be, is necessarily God’s desire.

Jesus is Lord of His church. And He wants to be Lord of our life, too. Thank you, Coach. I want to be on your team. It’s a winner. Your kingdom rocks!

“He is the head of the body, the church… so that in everything he might have the supremacy.”
Colossians 1:18)

“I saw seven golden lampstands, and among the lampstands was someone ‘like a son of man’…. In his right hand he held seven stars, and out of his mouth came a sharp double-edged sword.” (Revelation 1:12-16)

Now Can You Hear Me?

So that’s what it’s like to hear God’s voice! I was driving down the road in my van one afternoon totally discouraged. I was putting in hours and hours of time ministering to a high school gal, with the help of my wife and a few others. Her needs were proving bigger than our knowledge, and beyond our experience and expertise. And each step we took proved more and more controversial. But I couldn’t just quit and leave her in the condition she was in. I knew deep in my heart God was at work in her life. But all the other pastors and the deacons were making it quite clear that they felt I was looney tunes. I really, really felt all alone, out on a limb, about to snap off and go tumbling.

Counselor after counselor, seven in all, were consulted and none could help her. The police had been involved. The newspaper had written a story. The church wanted to keep its respectability and reputation intact, I was told. But I didn’t feel God telling me to quit. So I was torn. Miserably. Desperately.

At each turning point, each new outburst, I would choose again to keep helping. But the support grew thinner and thinner, the criticism more and more pointed. That’s when it happened. The statement was so clear in my head that I could not have missed it. Nor could I have mistaken it for my own thought. It was clear. God said to me, “ I called you to help, and you alone. Don’t expect anyone else to understand.”

I had to pull off the road. I cried and cried. Tears and emotions poured out me. It wasn’t just what He said to me, it was the fact that he knew and understood fully what I was in the midst of. And He wanted me to know that my gut feeling was correct. He was indeed leading me, wanting me to continue to help this gal. He even said he “called” me to this very task, this unique and extended ministry. Furthermore, the misunderstanding and criticism was also part of the calling.

Netzero had an ad on television for awhile. The guy would walk around and say, “Now can you hear me?” He would take a few steps and say again, “Now can you hear me?” That first recognition of God’s voice was like that, a response to that question and that yearning in my heart.. I had worked with others who heard the voice of the Holy Spirit clearly, and I knew and trusted that God was actually really talking to them. But now I could say, “Yes Lord, I hear you! Thank you so very much for being so very real to me.”

If you talk to God you are considered spiritual. But if God talks back you are considered crazy.

“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’ And I said, ‘Here am I, send me.” (Isaiah 6:8,9)

“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” (John 10:27)

David, You Are Now Responsible

Would you like to know what is the most lasting memory of my wedding day? After 35 years, now, much has faded away. But there’s one thing I will never forget. It made more of an impression on me than the wedding itself. More than seeing my beautiful, wonderful bride come down the aisle. More impressive even than having the governor of Arizona attend the wedding. And it certainly helps me forget the memory of stepping on Carol’s gown as we walked down the aisle as husband and wife.

It was actually the next morning, as we were driving out of town for a few days of honeymoon. I was driving my very special 64 Chevy pickup (short wide bed, tuck and roll upholstery, rebuilt V-8 engine, shiny moon hubcaps, and an 8-track tape player). Carol was sitting right close beside me, and I had a box of Dunkin Donuts on the far end of the seat. Then this incredible feeling of responsibility came over me. It was more of a feeling than a voice from God, but I knew it was from Him. I felt impressed upon me the enormous responsibility for this woman next to me. I was no longer a boy dating and courting a young lady. I was not to treat her as a woman that I now got to merely enjoy have living in my home with me. She wasn’t some cute little Barbie doll, sex object. Not even just a good friend to hang out with. I was now taking a big huge step in growing up. I was now responsible to love her, care for her, protect her, encourage her, provide for her. All of that came over me and sunk into me. Without words. Just an overwhelming sense of responsibility. And I have never forgotten it.

Whenever I talk about the roles of husbands and wives I offer my commentary on Ephesians 5. “Husbands need to love their wives enough to die for them. Wives should love their husbands enough to live for them.” But I recently heard a wise godly man say something that sheds even greater light on that statement, especially for the husband. He said that the purpose of marriage is crucifixion. When we men are young and full of testosterone we think the purpose of marriage is to have sex with a beautiful woman, a bride just for me. As we grow older we progress to a bit more noble concept, that marriage is for loyal companionship. That is what the Creator acknowledged of Adam’s need when he created Eve. But this idea of crucifixion kind of caught my frontal lobe. He said that God designed marriage to help heal us men of self-centeredness and to make us grow up. To be the head of the household means to be first to the cross.

“Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” (Ephesians 5:25)

To Be A Good Wife And Mother

She came to me, my first born daughter, to ask her Dad if she could get married. She was a senior in high School. She wanted to get married in the summer soon after graduation. I was a bit surprised, to say the least. Kari and Tyler had been best friends for a long time, and I must have been oblivious to the fact that they were this deeply in love. He was a fine young man, I must say, the son of one of my best friends. But to think of my daughter getting married so young was a major hurdle to overcome. It was kind of an unspoken Christian standard that sharp, intelligent, respectable Christian young people go to college and wait for marriage until they are well grounded and mature. Whatever that means.

But that is what I expected. I was caught up in the mold. She was a 4.0 student, valedictorian of her graduating class. And I had visions of all the possibilities that lay before her. Choice of what college she wanted to go to. What career she might pursue. What great achievements she might accomplish.

This, though, was the clincher. The thing that captured my mind and heart. That which pulled God into the middle of the question, rather than allowing my Christian community to determine the answer. She asked me this. “Dad, I am convinced that God wants me to be a good wife and mother. Isn’t that what you have always taught me? Isn’t that what God wants of me?”

Perhaps it was God who thrust the dagger of truth into my heart, rather than Kari. Or at least made the truth light up like a neon light. I told her that I would have to think about it, and turned to walk away. In reality I went into another room, closed the door, and cried big huge tears of joy and thanksgiving for her incredible faith and understanding, and tears of submission to God’s plan for my daughter.

Well, the news got out that she was engaged, and still in high school. I had more friends and peers question me and my wisdom than you can possibly imagine. I was shocked, but held it in. This was a God thing, and no one was going to steal my joy, nor hers. At the Christian school where Kari attended there was but one teacher who congratulated me for my daughter’s plans. Just one. And I shall never forget that dear old wisened saint.

Well the wedding came and went. And even in the midst of the ceremony my Kari reduced me once again to a puddle of tears by having her mother sing a song that I had written for our wedding 24 years before. And now the years are starting to pass by and I can look back to evaluate the sincerity and maturity of her request and my decision. She has put her all, her absolute all, into being a loyal and supportive wife. And now she is raising three wonderful children. Because of her spiritual heart and wisdom they will one day go to their mommy and daddy and say, “I think that this is what God wants of me. What do you think?”

“He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what the Lord requires of you. But to act justly, and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6:8)

Drive North on 138th, Look to the Right

God can be so precise in His guidance. It was simply directions at the time, but looking back at the whole situation, it was utterly amazing to realize how precisely He guided us.

Four men, including myself, were moved by God to start a church. We met and prayed and waited upon the Lord for months. He slowly taught us to depend upon His guidance -- to move forward with our hopes and dreams, yet trust Him to lead us, both in small matters and in big strategic ways.

We chose four different regions of the greater Portland area to consider -- three of which were booming areas of growth – Tualatin, Sunset corridor, and East Vancouver. After much research, debate, and prayer, God helped to clarify not only the choice, but to tune our hearts to follow after His heart. He said, “I want you to focus on the needy”. That settled it. Parkrose was the fourth choice, but it became the only choice.

We began looking at the area, looking for homes, and for a site to rent for starting the church. We knocked on a few doors and came up with a list of possibilities. Then we decided to fast and pray for a season and come together to see if God would help direct us. That’s when he spoke to Perry, one of the four men, and told him simply this, “drive north on 138th and look to the right.”

Two of us set out the next day, map in hand, to do as the Lord had directed. We started at Burnside and drove north on 138th, wherever it showed up on the map. We got up to San Rafael and there was one little cul-de-sac left. We decided to skip it so that we could cut over to go around to the north side of the I-84 freeway. There was a good stretch north of the freeway, with some good possibilities we had already scoped out.

We drove a few blocks away and both looked at each other and said, “no, no, we better go back and see what is on that little residential cul-de-sac.” We turned the corner and there was a house on the left and a house on the right. But there were no houses directly in front. The road dead ended into a large field, part of a larger campus of some sort. We looked to the right and there was a building which we felt might be the one God was leading us to. We drove around and into the campus of Western States Chiropractic College. We went into the building and asked a few people who might be in charge. We talked to the business director and he said he had been thinking for some time about renting the gym and classrooms on Sundays to a church group.

I think of Acts 9 where Ananias was told by God to go visit a religious zealot, Paul, who was blinded on his way to Damascus. He told him exactly where to go, and that Paul would be expecting him. God still works in wondrous and precise ways when we choose to trust Him wholly and listen for the voice of the Holy Spirit.

The Lord told Ananias, “Go to the house of Judas on Straight Street and ask for a man from Tarsus named Saul, for he is praying. In a vision he as seen a man named Ananias come and place his hand on him to restore his sight.” (Acts 9:11-12)

You Will Have A Third Son

One by one they came to tell me of a dream that they had. The dreams were all the same. Identical. Three different ladies in the church told me they had a dream that Carol and I would have a sixth child, and it would be a boy, our third son. None of them knew that others had the same dream. But each felt it important enough to come and tell us. And whenever dreams, or spiritual “signs”, come in a group of three, I knew to pay attention, because God was in it.

One small problem, though. I wasn’t excited to hear such news. Quite the opposite. I was disheartened. We already had five children and we were more than a bit overwhelmed. Like any other American family, three kids was plenty, thank you. Perhaps four. Our fifth was a surprise. But we never dreamt we would have a “quiver full”, six kids.

In fact, I was so distraught over the prospect of another child I did the unthinkable. I got down on my knees to talk with God, I wrestled with him to try to understand why He would do such a thing to us. This was after Carol had become pregnant with number six. So I asked Him, the giver of dreams, to take that child away, because we just simply could not handle that much more stress.

I don’t know what God was thinking to give in to such a foolish request, but He did. Carol miscarried. We lost that baby. I felt so ashamed. Disheartened, ten fold more than before.

Then confusion set in. I always reconciled God’s providence with man’s free will by saying that God calls us to be partners, co-creators of sorts. But I never bargained for my half of the partnership carrying more weight than His half. He should not have listened to me. He should have saved me from that ugly deed and the ensuing guilt and shame.

But His grace is far more powerful than His sparing me from my selfish, foolish, request. In a season of prayer for forgiveness and repentance he revealed that the child that was lost was Susanna. Not the son. Some day perhaps we shall see that unborn child, in eternity. What a calling of God that her heart would beat for just a short time to be to me a lesson of accepting God’s will, and also of the power of God’s grace.

Some time later our third son was born, just as God foretold in three dreams. Samuel, if ever there was a son of promise, a son prophesied by dreams, then it is you. Your mother wanted to name you Daniel. But when we held you in our hands that first day I said to her, “No, his name will be Samuel” (I Sam 1:20). By His amazing love God took me through an emotional, spiritual maze and changed my heart. I prayed a new prayer, and He answered it. He fulfilled the dreams and gave us the son. God, your grace is amazing, and the way you sometimes impart it is beyond imagination.

“In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.” (Proverbs 16:9)

“God does speak – now one way, now another… in a dream, in a vision of the night…” (Job 33)

Two Steps Forward, One Back

Walking in sand is difficult. But walking uphill in loose sand to get to the trail made me wonder if I was going to make it. I had my grandson, Isaac, on my shoulders. Two steps forward, one step sliding back; two forward, one back. When I got to the top I turned to gaze back at my path of progress.

That's how my faith progresses. Trusting Jesus is relational, from first to last. I trust Him more and more -- His grace and love, His wisdom, His truth and knowledge, His timing. And He lovingly brings me along. Even patiently -- two steps forward, one back, two forward.

So here are some of my stories.