When I first heard the call to step out on the streets in ministry God and I had a lot of conversations about it.
One of us was calm. The other one was me.
I remember one of the conversations quite distinctly. In it, I panic-strickenly listed all the things I was afraid of. I had come up with an exhaustive list that I found quite impressive.
It wasn't so much what He said in His typically brief reply but the way He said it.
Fear NOT.
It was the same reply given so many times in the scriptures. But this time it was different.
In my mind I've always translated that statement into "Do not be afraid." That may be accurate from the Hebrew and Greek, but getting me to dismiss my fears didn't seem to be His goal.
Wrapped up in those two words was a new translation which sounded more like this:
Fear NOT stepping out.
Fear NOT heeding the call.
Fear NOT going places that scare you.
Fear NOT doing this.
And it wasn't about eternal salvation or worldly punishment or somehow losing out on God's love; that is way outside the nature of God and would have just reflected even more of my personal insecurities.
Instead it was more a call to recognizing that the safe, clean, predictable, stable life I'd built was, in reality, a much scarier place than the full, deep, rich, abundant land that He's promised.
He never discounted my impressive list of fears. In fact, as the conversation wound down I felt like if had I not recognized the very real fears it would have been a bigger problem than my listing them for Him.
The earth-sized fears I could see were real. The heaven-sized Fear NOT provided a counterbalance.
And strangely, in that tension between fear and Fear NOT there is peace. It seems to me counterintuitive, but there it is ---- that peace that passes understanding.
Yes, in our conversations One was calm. By the end, the other was moving that way.
Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, lest we miss Thy kingdom's goal.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Fumes
With the unbridled energy of an 8-year-old, he burst through the door of the church and happily exclaimed, "Dad! Dad! There are firemen in our HOUSE!"
I did not greet the news with the same enthusiasm. I stuck my head outside and saw that there were red flashing lights on my block. We postponed the church service for a few minutes so I could run home to find out what exactly was happening.
The firemen had come into our house after a neighbor two doors down had been taken to the hospital with carbon monoxide poisoning. The source of the problem was a broken water heater in her basement.
Because all of our houses on the block are connected, the firemen wanted to check our CO levels just to be safe. Some of the invisible, odorless, toxic gas had silently seeped through their walls, through another neighbor's house, then through our walls.
The firemen had gone into our basement. With all my junk piled up down there I was relieved that they didn't cite us for a fire hazard. Instead, they found the CO levels elevated to slightly higher than normal. Their prescription was to open the basement windows for an hour or so to let some fresh air in.
Some days I find myself especially lethargic --- physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally, or any combination of the above. It's really easy for me to succumb to it and let myself drift off.
But I've learned that I often get this way because of something broken in the basement of someone else's life. Addiction, emergency assistance, disease in our broken health care system, hunger, mental health, safe housing, school safety, and the litany of other daily activities here in da 'hood lead to dark places in peoples' lives.
Through both geography and ministry, our lives become interconnected. And though we keep healthy boundaries, the toxins in their lives silently seep into mine.
Without noticing, I can get completely overcome, especially if I let those toxins build up in the part of my life where I keep all my own junk. All my issues combined with their proverbial CO can make my own life quite hazardous.
That's why it's so important for me to keep a window open. If I'm all sealed up inside, the fresh Air cannot come in and restore me.
Sometimes He sends his refreshing breezes through Scripture or prayer or song or some of the expected ways. Other times it's through less spiritual things like a good nap or a funny television show. In any case, keeping open to Him in all of His ways is the prescription to restoring health.
Because the Spirit is like the wind that blows wherever it wants to (John 3:8) it's my job to keep the window open and let His freshness restore my soul.
Lord, restore my soul and lead me on paths of righteousness for Your name's sake.
I did not greet the news with the same enthusiasm. I stuck my head outside and saw that there were red flashing lights on my block. We postponed the church service for a few minutes so I could run home to find out what exactly was happening.
The firemen had come into our house after a neighbor two doors down had been taken to the hospital with carbon monoxide poisoning. The source of the problem was a broken water heater in her basement.
Because all of our houses on the block are connected, the firemen wanted to check our CO levels just to be safe. Some of the invisible, odorless, toxic gas had silently seeped through their walls, through another neighbor's house, then through our walls.
The firemen had gone into our basement. With all my junk piled up down there I was relieved that they didn't cite us for a fire hazard. Instead, they found the CO levels elevated to slightly higher than normal. Their prescription was to open the basement windows for an hour or so to let some fresh air in.
Some days I find myself especially lethargic --- physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally, or any combination of the above. It's really easy for me to succumb to it and let myself drift off.
But I've learned that I often get this way because of something broken in the basement of someone else's life. Addiction, emergency assistance, disease in our broken health care system, hunger, mental health, safe housing, school safety, and the litany of other daily activities here in da 'hood lead to dark places in peoples' lives.
Through both geography and ministry, our lives become interconnected. And though we keep healthy boundaries, the toxins in their lives silently seep into mine.
Without noticing, I can get completely overcome, especially if I let those toxins build up in the part of my life where I keep all my own junk. All my issues combined with their proverbial CO can make my own life quite hazardous.
That's why it's so important for me to keep a window open. If I'm all sealed up inside, the fresh Air cannot come in and restore me.
Sometimes He sends his refreshing breezes through Scripture or prayer or song or some of the expected ways. Other times it's through less spiritual things like a good nap or a funny television show. In any case, keeping open to Him in all of His ways is the prescription to restoring health.
Because the Spirit is like the wind that blows wherever it wants to (John 3:8) it's my job to keep the window open and let His freshness restore my soul.
Lord, restore my soul and lead me on paths of righteousness for Your name's sake.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Swarm
The four fly strips were completely full.
Completely.
That is truly disgusting but amplified by the fact that we had hung them just twenty minutes earlier.
Some mysterious thing had caused an infestation of flies that filled the entire church building that Saturday. It was how I pictured Egypt at the time of the plagues and I was hoping that the frogs would be arriving soon to help us with these flies.
We'd tried swatting them. We'd tried spray. We'd tried fly strips. We'd tried everything they'd recommended at the corner store. We'd had prayer and binding and loosing and casting out. The flies still seemed to have the upper hand.
Having run out of ideas, we set off enough insecticide bombs to kill the house plants and went home for the night.
The next morning we quite literally swept the layer of flies off the floor of the church and wiped the insecticide off the chairs as we set up for the first service.
Things seemed to go reasonably well, but by the third service we were in trouble. A cloud of flies had assembled and taken over the back room. They were loud enough that we could hear them over the speaker. They were starting to spill out into the main room and were hovering a few feet over those seated for the sermon.
We cut to the closing song.
And on the last verse the flies had their final say as one flew into my mouth. Naturally, it got stuck on my soft palate so it would neither come out or go in. The song ended with me trapped in front of the congregation trying to scoop a still living fly out of the back of my mouth.
Yes, it was quite a Sunday.
Did I mention that it was Easter?
The invitations. The decorations. The new families. The guest ministers. The special crafts. The really great experiences we had (at least in the first 2 1/2 services). The willingness of people to endure swarms of flies.
I didn't mention those things either, did I?
It seems often the case that I spend most of my days battling swarms ---- physical, psychological, emotional, spiritual ---- that seem to take over. I pray at them, spray at them, or try to get them to stick to something (or someone) else. Sometimes when I take my eyes off them and try instead lift my voice in praise they choke me off.
And though I might want to just call it in early, it's Easter. I have a living Savior. And if I can close my mouth and look hard through the haze the swarm creates there are signs of resurrection happening amid the frantic buzz.
Because the swarms are real and so is the One who calls me through them. Getting too distracted by the flies leads to the despairing life of a losing battle of trying to swat them. Denying them as a means of focusing on the Christ eventually chokes the sharing the Good News with others.
The flies died off a few days later; we never found out why or how they got there. But because of Easter, He is still with us and will be, through swarms or clear skies, even unto the ends of the earth.
Lord, You are the Eternal One. Thank you.
Completely.
That is truly disgusting but amplified by the fact that we had hung them just twenty minutes earlier.
Some mysterious thing had caused an infestation of flies that filled the entire church building that Saturday. It was how I pictured Egypt at the time of the plagues and I was hoping that the frogs would be arriving soon to help us with these flies.
We'd tried swatting them. We'd tried spray. We'd tried fly strips. We'd tried everything they'd recommended at the corner store. We'd had prayer and binding and loosing and casting out. The flies still seemed to have the upper hand.
Having run out of ideas, we set off enough insecticide bombs to kill the house plants and went home for the night.
The next morning we quite literally swept the layer of flies off the floor of the church and wiped the insecticide off the chairs as we set up for the first service.
Things seemed to go reasonably well, but by the third service we were in trouble. A cloud of flies had assembled and taken over the back room. They were loud enough that we could hear them over the speaker. They were starting to spill out into the main room and were hovering a few feet over those seated for the sermon.
We cut to the closing song.
And on the last verse the flies had their final say as one flew into my mouth. Naturally, it got stuck on my soft palate so it would neither come out or go in. The song ended with me trapped in front of the congregation trying to scoop a still living fly out of the back of my mouth.
Yes, it was quite a Sunday.
Did I mention that it was Easter?
The invitations. The decorations. The new families. The guest ministers. The special crafts. The really great experiences we had (at least in the first 2 1/2 services). The willingness of people to endure swarms of flies.
I didn't mention those things either, did I?
It seems often the case that I spend most of my days battling swarms ---- physical, psychological, emotional, spiritual ---- that seem to take over. I pray at them, spray at them, or try to get them to stick to something (or someone) else. Sometimes when I take my eyes off them and try instead lift my voice in praise they choke me off.
And though I might want to just call it in early, it's Easter. I have a living Savior. And if I can close my mouth and look hard through the haze the swarm creates there are signs of resurrection happening amid the frantic buzz.
Because the swarms are real and so is the One who calls me through them. Getting too distracted by the flies leads to the despairing life of a losing battle of trying to swat them. Denying them as a means of focusing on the Christ eventually chokes the sharing the Good News with others.
The flies died off a few days later; we never found out why or how they got there. But because of Easter, He is still with us and will be, through swarms or clear skies, even unto the ends of the earth.
Lord, You are the Eternal One. Thank you.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Whistle
"You need to talk to him NOW and make his stop yelling cat calls and whistling at women out the front door of the church."
Such was the greeting that began my Sunday morning.
I set aside the sermon notes and put the prayers on hold so I could have a talk with him. The talk included the requested directives.
From there we had a talk about why this behavior was bad. The top two reasons were 1.) it had the opposite effect of the women he was interested in; and 2.) it made the church look bad in a scary way.
Since I had a captive audience and knew I wouldn't get to that last review of my sermon notes anyway, he and I spent some time coming up with better plans. We thought of ways he might be able to make himself more attractive to women. These included being kind and respectful to all women, whether he was particularly interested in them or not, and to work on being friends with people rather than simply seeking out physical relationships.
It was a good talk, at least for me. I needed to hear it because of the way I sometimes approach evangelism.
Sometimes the people I'm most interested in as potential members of the church are people who come with lots of skills, lots of energy, and who already have their lives put together pretty well. Leadership potential is especially attractive.
I've come to learn, though, that many of the popular methods used by churches today aren't very effective in reaching them. Even ones that seem kind and loving "on paper" seem manipulative to the person on the receiving end. These methods and strategies often have the opposite of the intended effect and make the church look bad in a scary kind of way.
Jesus showed kindness and respect to all people no matter who they were. He became known as a friend of "sinners" while still being invited to dinner at the home of "respectable" people. He built friendships with and provided ministry to people who would become disciples as well as those who would betray Him.
Some people came to see Jesus just for the show or the healing or the free bread & fish. But some received much more than they expected and then used what they had been given as raw materials for building God's Kingdom.
Evangelism, like human love, has its ups and downs and and twists and turns. It has no guarantees. Perhaps if I became more motivated by Jesus' love than my personal desires for people to join the church, some might respond out of dignity and curiosity rather than being repelled by my bad behavior.
Be they Zealots or tax collectors or fishermen, lifelong disciples or here just for the show or healing or free bread, all are loved by a God who is calling their names. May I help them hear that calling rather than drown it out with my own whistle.
Jesus, help me see as You see, serve as You serve, love as You love.
Such was the greeting that began my Sunday morning.
I set aside the sermon notes and put the prayers on hold so I could have a talk with him. The talk included the requested directives.
From there we had a talk about why this behavior was bad. The top two reasons were 1.) it had the opposite effect of the women he was interested in; and 2.) it made the church look bad in a scary way.
Since I had a captive audience and knew I wouldn't get to that last review of my sermon notes anyway, he and I spent some time coming up with better plans. We thought of ways he might be able to make himself more attractive to women. These included being kind and respectful to all women, whether he was particularly interested in them or not, and to work on being friends with people rather than simply seeking out physical relationships.
It was a good talk, at least for me. I needed to hear it because of the way I sometimes approach evangelism.
Sometimes the people I'm most interested in as potential members of the church are people who come with lots of skills, lots of energy, and who already have their lives put together pretty well. Leadership potential is especially attractive.
I've come to learn, though, that many of the popular methods used by churches today aren't very effective in reaching them. Even ones that seem kind and loving "on paper" seem manipulative to the person on the receiving end. These methods and strategies often have the opposite of the intended effect and make the church look bad in a scary kind of way.
Jesus showed kindness and respect to all people no matter who they were. He became known as a friend of "sinners" while still being invited to dinner at the home of "respectable" people. He built friendships with and provided ministry to people who would become disciples as well as those who would betray Him.
Some people came to see Jesus just for the show or the healing or the free bread & fish. But some received much more than they expected and then used what they had been given as raw materials for building God's Kingdom.
Evangelism, like human love, has its ups and downs and and twists and turns. It has no guarantees. Perhaps if I became more motivated by Jesus' love than my personal desires for people to join the church, some might respond out of dignity and curiosity rather than being repelled by my bad behavior.
Be they Zealots or tax collectors or fishermen, lifelong disciples or here just for the show or healing or free bread, all are loved by a God who is calling their names. May I help them hear that calling rather than drown it out with my own whistle.
Jesus, help me see as You see, serve as You serve, love as You love.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Coats
"Just take these," she said as she hoisted four men's coats into my hands. She had turned her head, seeming both to not want to watch as she let go of the garments and not wanting me to notice the puffiness of her eyes that were holding back the remaining tears.
I knew the coats had come at a great cost. I had seen them before. They were hanging in her house right where her husband had left them. In the years since his passing they had been reminders of his presence, reminders of the blessing she'd lost.
But cold came early that fall. And when she saw the cardboard sign being held by the shivering hands of a homeless man she knew was my friend she had to do something.
The moment when grief for what was lost is overtaken by grief for those who never had something to begin with puts us in a position of challenge. And when we boldly, painfully choose to respond by taking the blessings from our past and using them to heal the present the Spirit can't seem to help but move.
I took those coats to four very different men: tall, short, stout, lean. I said to each, "I don't know if this will fit; it might be a too _____________ (short, long, small, bulky) but try it on and we'll see."
And though these men would need to shop in different sections of stores to find well-fitting clothing, each coat appeared as if custom tailored for that individual. Warm memories of blessings past, baptized by tears, transformed into blessings of warmth against today's cold winds.
Lord, help me know Your presence in all attempts to serve You.
I knew the coats had come at a great cost. I had seen them before. They were hanging in her house right where her husband had left them. In the years since his passing they had been reminders of his presence, reminders of the blessing she'd lost.
But cold came early that fall. And when she saw the cardboard sign being held by the shivering hands of a homeless man she knew was my friend she had to do something.
The moment when grief for what was lost is overtaken by grief for those who never had something to begin with puts us in a position of challenge. And when we boldly, painfully choose to respond by taking the blessings from our past and using them to heal the present the Spirit can't seem to help but move.
I took those coats to four very different men: tall, short, stout, lean. I said to each, "I don't know if this will fit; it might be a too _____________ (short, long, small, bulky) but try it on and we'll see."
And though these men would need to shop in different sections of stores to find well-fitting clothing, each coat appeared as if custom tailored for that individual. Warm memories of blessings past, baptized by tears, transformed into blessings of warmth against today's cold winds.
Lord, help me know Your presence in all attempts to serve You.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Journey
His South Carolina accent told me he wasn't from around here even before he informed me of such. He had missed his south-bound bus home and was looking for a way to get back on the road. He hadn't eaten for a couple of days, either.
After he devoured the warmed-up can of ravioli I'd microwaved, he asked if I could give him the small amount of money needed to change his bus ticket to the one leaving later that night. Cash is something I know enough not to do, so I came up with some other viable options for him.
I offered to go to the bus station to change the ticket and pay small amount with my credit card to get him home.
That was not acceptable to him because he said it was asking too much of me.
I offered to connect him with some emergency services that would help him get home.
That was not acceptable to him because he said those services were for people with much bigger problems than his.
I offered to help him contact relatives in South Carolina so they could get him a ticket.
That was not acceptable to him because he said it would create too much work and bother for them.
I returned to my first offer and directed him to my van so he and I could drive the few blocks back to the bus station where he could catch his bus.
That was not acceptable to him. He had a solution in mind, that being him receiving a few dollars so he could change the ticket himself. Nothing else would be acceptable.
I asked him if he wanted to go back to South Carolina.
"Yes!" he said, exasperated and a bit angry that I couldn't seem to grasp this basic concept. I reviewed his options.
He came back with a plan for me to go to an ATM to get money to give him so he could change his ticket.
I said no. He started crying.
"I just want to get home. I just need to get home!"
He then got up, walked out of the church, and disappeared into the night.
Over the next couple of days I saw him walking the streets, despondent, angry, frustrated, and clutching an expired bus ticket in his left hand.
I wish I knew how to not be like this guy. I don't always know how to take help from people or from God, especially if I've been traveling alone for a while. I can spend so much time and energy designing plans and solutions that I limit the range of what help is acceptable. I can only see one possible way home.
And when my plans were generated in a state of hunger, especially in emotional or spiritual hunger, warmed-up canned responses from those around me don't offer enough strength and clarity for me to see any differently.
I know that being open to plans beyond what I can conceive is where I can experience miraculous grace. I mean, if Moses had spend his whole day demanding that God build a bridge he would not have heard the call to raise his staff and have an unexpected path home open up for him and his people.
But knowing and acting on that knowledge are two different things. Trust is a key element in moving to action. When I'm feeling out of place in a world that's unresponsive to my solutions, my ability to trust falls. My blinders make me blind.
What if I had spent a few more minutes with the South Carolinian man, empathizing with his emotions and state of mind rather that jumping straight to alternative solutions? Maybe we both could have realized that his unstated goal was to find some dignity and worth. He might have been more open to plans different than his own that would have taken him home had we spent some time developing basic trust.
Perhaps if I can recognize when I'm fixated on a single solution that I need to listen and trust God and those He has placed in my path. I have to remember that He wants me to get me back to the journey He's sent me on and that He has a way beyond what I can see.
Lord, remind me that my thoughts are not Your thoughts and my ways are not Your ways. Let me journey in trust.
After he devoured the warmed-up can of ravioli I'd microwaved, he asked if I could give him the small amount of money needed to change his bus ticket to the one leaving later that night. Cash is something I know enough not to do, so I came up with some other viable options for him.
I offered to go to the bus station to change the ticket and pay small amount with my credit card to get him home.
That was not acceptable to him because he said it was asking too much of me.
I offered to connect him with some emergency services that would help him get home.
That was not acceptable to him because he said those services were for people with much bigger problems than his.
I offered to help him contact relatives in South Carolina so they could get him a ticket.
That was not acceptable to him because he said it would create too much work and bother for them.
I returned to my first offer and directed him to my van so he and I could drive the few blocks back to the bus station where he could catch his bus.
That was not acceptable to him. He had a solution in mind, that being him receiving a few dollars so he could change the ticket himself. Nothing else would be acceptable.
I asked him if he wanted to go back to South Carolina.
"Yes!" he said, exasperated and a bit angry that I couldn't seem to grasp this basic concept. I reviewed his options.
He came back with a plan for me to go to an ATM to get money to give him so he could change his ticket.
I said no. He started crying.
"I just want to get home. I just need to get home!"
He then got up, walked out of the church, and disappeared into the night.
Over the next couple of days I saw him walking the streets, despondent, angry, frustrated, and clutching an expired bus ticket in his left hand.
I wish I knew how to not be like this guy. I don't always know how to take help from people or from God, especially if I've been traveling alone for a while. I can spend so much time and energy designing plans and solutions that I limit the range of what help is acceptable. I can only see one possible way home.
And when my plans were generated in a state of hunger, especially in emotional or spiritual hunger, warmed-up canned responses from those around me don't offer enough strength and clarity for me to see any differently.
I know that being open to plans beyond what I can conceive is where I can experience miraculous grace. I mean, if Moses had spend his whole day demanding that God build a bridge he would not have heard the call to raise his staff and have an unexpected path home open up for him and his people.
But knowing and acting on that knowledge are two different things. Trust is a key element in moving to action. When I'm feeling out of place in a world that's unresponsive to my solutions, my ability to trust falls. My blinders make me blind.
What if I had spent a few more minutes with the South Carolinian man, empathizing with his emotions and state of mind rather that jumping straight to alternative solutions? Maybe we both could have realized that his unstated goal was to find some dignity and worth. He might have been more open to plans different than his own that would have taken him home had we spent some time developing basic trust.
Perhaps if I can recognize when I'm fixated on a single solution that I need to listen and trust God and those He has placed in my path. I have to remember that He wants me to get me back to the journey He's sent me on and that He has a way beyond what I can see.
Lord, remind me that my thoughts are not Your thoughts and my ways are not Your ways. Let me journey in trust.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Red
I was relieved when he came into church that night wearing a new red shirt. I'd never seen him wear red before nor have I seen him in red since. I hadn't asked him to do so but it was exactly what he needed to wear.
Turn the clock back about two and a half hours when a kid sitting on the floor of the church yelled, "Ouch!"
I went over to the kid to see what was wrong.
"It's hot!" he said, pointing to the font.
It was the first time I'd used the heater on the font and was unsure of exactly how well it worked. Now the metal sides of the font were painfully hot to the touch.
This was not good.
So, we unplugged the heater and removed the table we'd used as a lid in hopes that the water would cool before the service.
Only then did we learn that the tabletop has once been painted red. The steamy water had leached all the pigments out of it.
Yes, that's right. We had bright red scalding hot water in the font with no way to drain and refill it in time for the service.
So during the time between the services I did all I could think to do. I opened the front door to let the January air into the building in hopes of cooling things down. I set my sermon aside and frantically flipped through the Bible seeing if I could somehow have a message that involved either the Red Sea or being "baptized in the blood" or both.
But with his coming to church in a red shirt and the water cooling off to that of bathwater I was able to switch back to the sermon I had prepared in advance.
During that message each person was given a hard, crumbling piece of clay. They then got to quickly dip their clay into a bowl of water and continue working with it. The newly pliable clay was now able to be shaped and molded into something it couldn't have been before.
I remembered my own baptism and my commitment to letting the Potter mold this clay into something He wants. And I thought of my unnecessarily frantic state that afternoon as I had tried to make up for my own ignorance and error.
I realized (for the millionth time) that He still had a lot of molding to do and that I needed to step back and let Him reshape me to serve peacefully in the circumstances I find myself.
Even my panic had been used by Him to let me be shaped in His hands. For He granted me knowledge in how to better use the font's heater and faith in trusting that as I continue to get things wrong He'll surprise us all in bringing about His work.
Be it the parting of the Red Sea or a baptism candidate in a red tee God continues to use the strangest of circumstances in forming his people into a growing vessel for faith and trust. May the waters of my baptism continue to soak in deeply that I might be easily shaped in His hands.
Melt me. Mold me. Fill me. Use me. Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on me.
Turn the clock back about two and a half hours when a kid sitting on the floor of the church yelled, "Ouch!"
I went over to the kid to see what was wrong.
"It's hot!" he said, pointing to the font.
It was the first time I'd used the heater on the font and was unsure of exactly how well it worked. Now the metal sides of the font were painfully hot to the touch.
This was not good.
So, we unplugged the heater and removed the table we'd used as a lid in hopes that the water would cool before the service.
Only then did we learn that the tabletop has once been painted red. The steamy water had leached all the pigments out of it.
Yes, that's right. We had bright red scalding hot water in the font with no way to drain and refill it in time for the service.
So during the time between the services I did all I could think to do. I opened the front door to let the January air into the building in hopes of cooling things down. I set my sermon aside and frantically flipped through the Bible seeing if I could somehow have a message that involved either the Red Sea or being "baptized in the blood" or both.
But with his coming to church in a red shirt and the water cooling off to that of bathwater I was able to switch back to the sermon I had prepared in advance.
During that message each person was given a hard, crumbling piece of clay. They then got to quickly dip their clay into a bowl of water and continue working with it. The newly pliable clay was now able to be shaped and molded into something it couldn't have been before.
I remembered my own baptism and my commitment to letting the Potter mold this clay into something He wants. And I thought of my unnecessarily frantic state that afternoon as I had tried to make up for my own ignorance and error.
I realized (for the millionth time) that He still had a lot of molding to do and that I needed to step back and let Him reshape me to serve peacefully in the circumstances I find myself.
Even my panic had been used by Him to let me be shaped in His hands. For He granted me knowledge in how to better use the font's heater and faith in trusting that as I continue to get things wrong He'll surprise us all in bringing about His work.
Be it the parting of the Red Sea or a baptism candidate in a red tee God continues to use the strangest of circumstances in forming his people into a growing vessel for faith and trust. May the waters of my baptism continue to soak in deeply that I might be easily shaped in His hands.
Melt me. Mold me. Fill me. Use me. Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on me.
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