Sunday, December 22, 2013

Forgotten Ramp, or Why I Almost Died Today

Advent - Week 4

I am amazed, after living almost my whole life in the Great Lakes, how surprised we still are by winter.  It's as if we were unsure that it was coming, and when it hits, we're not prepared for its awesome intensity.  I've had many years now, white knuckle car-skiing to work.  I step out of my little car, my teeth ground down to the size of corn niblets, trying to unclench my jaw.  And yet, our house is here.

What makes it so treacherous is that the one exit ramp I take to get off the highway is routinely forgotten.  If I were to go east, salt.  Going west?  Well, it's a crap shoot.  It leads to the largest artery west out of town, and yet...good luck to me.  I don't understand it.  I pray my way through it every winter.  My son gleefully yells from the back, "Weee!"  And when I'm in the car by myself...I pray for forgiveness.

How can that circular piece of important winter driving chicanery get passed over so often?  Unbelievable!

Today, as I was trying not to curse on my way to work, I was convicted.

That yawning, punched by Jesus in the gut convicted.  I sat in the church parking lot feeling a bit like a phony.

You see - there's only one ramp to understanding the big deal about Jesus.  It's the lavish love of the Father.  Jesus becomes not only a big deal, but THE deal, when we understand how much God loves us in such an insane way.

It's the forgotten ramp to the Father.

I would rather believe in a God that is impressed by my good works, angry at my horrible thoughts, and possibly slightly indifferent to the times when I'm lost.  How is that even possible?

Paul tells the church of the Colossians and those in Laodicea that he is contending hard for them.  He reminds them that God, when they were in the middle of their ultimate corruption and sin, made us alive in Christ.  "He forgave us all our sins, having canceled the charge of our legal indebtedness, which stood against us and condemned us; he has taken it ALL away, nailing it to the cross" (Colossians 2:13 - 14).  That is insane love, lavish.

So why do I trade that away for a cheap replica of Jesus?  Why would I think that God, as my Father and redeemer of my soul, would now tell me to get it together - shape up or ship out.  Earn it.  Do more.  Get it together.  I am driving at some ridiculous pace of self-management that I completely miss THE on-ramp to understanding the loving grace of my good God.  It's what separates us from every other religion.

We don't get to earn it.  We just don't.  Because that would mean God is not enough. That Jesus didn't cover everything on the cross.  It makes God cruel - to send his only son to kinda cover all my errant ways, but maybe not, through a horrific death.

So there I sat in the parking lot, in the dawn's early light.

Merriam-Webster has this for the definition of lavish: "bestowing profusely", "produced in abundance", "marked by profusion or excess" - see PRODIGAL.

The love of God is bestowed - given, not earned.  It is produced in abundance - made over and above what is necessary.  It is profuse, excessive.  It is prodigal.

That is why Jesus is such a big deal.  That is love.  That's the only ramp - the only way to get out of the behavior management we've dumbed down Christianity to.  Let's get out of it together.  Let's experience love.  Let's experience Jesus.

"But God demonstrated his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." - Romans 5:8

Merry Christmas.

Eliza Cortes Bast


Sunday, December 15, 2013

2, Maybe 3 Awkward Gifts

As I anxiously opened the festive wrapping, my fifteen year old heart could barely keep it together.  We were crowded at Grandma's who had spent extra time this year making sure she got us "cool" gifts.  I was optimistic.

I was also baffled.  Cool is so relative.  And fickle.  And fleeting.

"Thanks G-ma."  I couldn't believe my eyes as I sat holding a crimper.  My late 80's counterparts - I can hear you crying foul on me right now.  But ladies and gents, you have to understand.  You see, I'm Puerto Rican.

I mean, tan skinned, brown eyed, wild haired Latina.  If there is one drop of moisture in the atmosphere, my hair immediately looks like broccoli or Dora the Explorer.  There's no in-between.  It is the epitome of curled frenzy.

A crimper for ANYONE else would have been a cool gift.  As I looked at the hot pink handle and my Grandma's beaming face, it was just...well...awkward.

We've all been there.  In the face of a beloved person who has bestowed on us the very best of what they offered, only to be shocked at the complete randomness of it all.  I've seen t-shirts with the taco bell dog given to grown women, living room throws with kittens, and a sweatshirt (yes) with an attached hand-sewn Christmas tree made out of some sort of rag material.  Well meaning gifts.  Heartfelt gifts.  But believe me when I say the names are left out to protect both the guilty and their victims.

When the writer of the Gospel account of Matthew starts into the second chapter, we see wise men visiting the baby Jesus with gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  We sing about it every year.  And just this morning I was stopped cold.  What kind of gifts are those?  Gold, sure.  No one is going to say no to gold.

Frankincense and myrrh?  Sounds like a crimper to me.

Both are derived from particular trees found in Northern Africa, the Arabian Peninsula, and possibly China.  Used in ancient rituals, both were used for medicinal purposes and were highly sought after.  Frankincense was believed to cure almost everything from a toothache to leprosy.  Myrrh, on the other hand, was also used for embalming.  At the time of Jesus's birth, it is believed that these were more expensive and valuable then the gold.

A cure-all and a balm for the dead.  Was Joseph thinking he could sell this stuff if times were tight?  Was Mary wondering if there was sickness in the air?  Did Melchior turn to the other wise men and say, "Seriously, guys?"

Yet who knows if this is the gold that helped them survive their exile in Egypt while they fled the hateful Herod to protect their infant son.  Who knows if this frankincense was a sign that this little baby would become the great Physician to heal those wounded in body and broken in heart?  And who can say that the myrrh didn't sit on a shelf in the house, where a growing Jesus would look at it and be reminded that he would die one day for his mom, his dad, those wise men, and the rest of the world?

Two, maybe three awkward gifts - precious.  Purposeful.  Prophetic.

So perhaps Joseph saw the gold and realized they would need to run.  Mary saw the frankincense and realized there would be no hometown physician to help her and her infant son - they would need healing on the go.  And maybe both looked at the myrrh and felt their heart ache as they realize every dream, every visitation would be true.  They gave birth to one who would pay the ultimate price.  Life for lives.  Until death.

Eliza Cortes Bast

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

The Thick of Foes

This may not seem much like an advent post.  It may seem completely incongruous with the Spirit of Christmas.  The "thick of foes" feels way more epic, like a Lord of the Rings chapter or something from the Game of Thrones.

And here we are.  It's Christmas.  And I'm reading Bonhoeffer.

He opens with, "Jesus Christ lived in the midst of his enemies."  As the staff prayed together for Sunday's sermon, I'm struck by the Jesus who not only lived in the midst of his enemies, but was born in the midst of the enemy Herod and died in the company of a mocker.  The gospel accounts are no less expressive with stories pock-marked by people who wanted to throw him off of cliffs, friends who deserted him, family who questioned him, people who talked about his "shameful" conception, and those that just plain hated him.  The thick of foes.

We think of places around the world that are still hostile to the life-giving, life-breathing message of Jesus.  Foreign places with foreign names that we may never see but we pray for or send money to.  Enemies of the gospel, enemies of the message of hope.  But Jesus would be there.

And in familiar places, like Michigan, Kalamazoo, Portage, Dowagiac, Grand Rapids...places I drive to on the weekends, shop in, eat at.  They are full of enemies too.  Friends of Jesus that deserted him.  Family members who are now hurling hateful questions.  People that talk about him shamefully.  People that hate Jesus.  Yet he would be there too.

So where am I this Christmas season?  I can say I've been to the far off countries.  But where am I here, with my familiar foes?  Worse yet, what are those things that sit quietly in the corners of my heart that turn it from fertile soil to enemy territory?

James 4:4 warns us about friendship with the world making us enemies of God.  When I buy into the worldly way of doing business, desiring revenge, bypassing grace, putting myself first, I embrace the fast friendship the world has to offer.  When I worry more about buying the right gifts, giving with regret, having things my way, I introduce to the Christmas table a new friend and a new enemy.

I am so grateful for a Jesus who did not shy away from his enemies.  I can't sanitize my corrupted Christmas heart and make excuses.  There are days when I have to ask the prince of peace to be reborn anew in the unfriendly fire of my weary holiday heart.  And he doesn't shrink or shake.  He comes and corrects and cleans.  He cares.

I'm not going to nail it everyday.  I'm grateful for the grace that says that that is ok.  But I DO know that I want to be more friend than foe.  And I want to bring that friend to everyone I know, right here, right now.  Paul sums up this epic struggle to live everyday in that grace to the church in Galatia, and tells them how it's possible - the great mystery and love of our King Jesus: I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. - Galatians 2:20

Eliza Cortés Bast

Monday, November 25, 2013

Adventus Again

As we break from The Story as a church to focus on the upcoming Christmas season, I've been attracted to reflecting on Advent.

Advent - what has now become known as a mad dash from Black Friday to Christmas Day is a long-historied tradition of penance and waiting, much like Lent.

Advent, from the Latin "Adventus".  Adventus.  Adventus means "a coming".

First appearing in the 3rd and 4th century Catholic texts, this "coming" was a time of preparation and fasting.  Early church fathers compelled the church to remember the feast of Christmas Day and Epiphany, signifying when the three wise men brought gifts to the baby Jesus.  It was 40 days of concentrated remembrance of the God who came to earth as a little baby.  The promise fulfilled.  Not just "a" coming, but THE coming.

Catholic church members would fast Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, balancing the preparation of their heart with the wonder of this great mystery of Emmanuel - God with us.  The catechism states, "when the Church celebrates the liturgy of Advent each year, she makes present this ancient expectancy of the Messiah, for by sharing in the long preparation for the Savior's first coming, the faithful renew their ardent desire for His second coming."

Adventus again.  A second coming.

I'm making my lists for things I need to make.  Things I need to give - to my neighbors, to my co-workers, to my friends, my families.  Schedules of Christmas parties, Christmas giving, travel and cooking.  Each revolves around my going.  And running.  And moving.  And doing.

But around the candlelight and Christmas lights this year, am I being still and remembering to celebrate the coming of Jesus.  His first coming - the marvel of Jesus laying down his crown for a plan to redeem the hearts of an entire planet for the chance we would receive him into our open arms.  His second coming - like a champion with hair like snow and feet like bronze, with the word coming from his mouth like fire, the King of heaven and earth.  That one day sadness and sickness will die in the precious, cleansing flood of a completed work.  Am I pondering that when I sit in my glowing front room, diligently wrapping color-coordinated gifts?

Equally important, am I remembering his coming every day?  How he waits at the door of my anxious heart for an invitation for him to still my fears and frustrations.  How he comes to put his arms around my grief when I hear another story of illness and disease.  How he sits next to me when I remember the empty places that will be at our family's table this year and sadness starts to drown my inner thoughts.  How he laughs with me when my 2 year old son is old enough to be excited this year for lights and boxes covered with foil and ribbon.  How he delights in the quiet nights that my husband and I will spend with the tree brightly lit, and our living room dimmed, and reflect on the past year.

Jesus came.  He is coming again.  And he comes every day.  Adventus.  It is the greatest of all mysteries, and envelopes us every day.  The great King Jesus, baby, friend, God, savior, prince, faithful friend, redeemer.

Adventus!  Come, Lord Jesus!

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Twelve Pieces

The Story - Chapter 8

A man is walking through town, eager to return home with his concubine, servant, and donkeys.  He is a Levite from the hill country, who is returning from claiming his concubine who had ran away to her father's house.  He has passed through Jerusalem, he is resting at Gibeah, in the heart of Benjamin country.  It's growing dark, and he's unsure of why no one is extending hospitality to him and his small entourage.

Another man walks through the square - asking why the Levite is there.  After an explanation, he pleads with him to not stay in the square overnight but to come to his house.  All are relieved.  They feed the donkeys.  They sit to eat.  They break bread.

And then they hear men's voices surrounding the house.  There is terror - and fists began pounding on the door..."Give us your guest!  We want to know him personally!"  Much like Sodom and Gomorrah, the host of the house offers his virgin daughter and the man's concubine.  They refuse - they want the man.  And in an act of hostility I still don't understand to this day, they take the woman and abuse her throughout the night.  The abuse is so horrific, she crawls back to her host's doorstep, only to die there.The Levite opens the door to see her there, and tells her to get up.  He realizes what has happened, and carries her dead body onto his donkey and makes the rest of his journey home.

I wonder about that last leg of his journey.  Did he feel regret?  Revenge?  Sadness?  How could he have treated her so carelessly!?  Clearly he cared enough for this woman that he went and sought her out, at least a two day journey, to have her back.  And there she was, her silent, lifeless body, riding into the hill country.

We know one thing.  He faced anger.  Outrage.  He takes her body and carves into 12 pieces.  I wonder if there were tears.  I wonder if he remembers the arms that held him, as he wrapped them so carefully.  Each piece, each memory, is carefully parceled and sent out to each tribe - "This is what Benjamin has done.  This is how they treated her.  This is what they took from me."

Benjamin is later confronted and refuses to give up the "perverted men" of the city.  In the remaining eleven tribes, there is anger at Benjamin for protecting those wicked men. There is war.  And the tribes make an oath to not give any of their daughters to the men of Benjamin because of their horrid wickedness to the concubine and the Levite.  Benjamin is almost wiped out as God grants the rest of Israel victory over their brothers.  And 12 pieces are exchanged for the lives of 25,000 men.

There are many who suffer horrendous things and wonder if God ever sees, or ever cares.  The pieces of our lives can feel scattered - reminders to others that we are damaged, that wicked people have pursued us, that ugliness has found us and had its way.  We wonder where God is.  We wonder if people will ever be brought to justice.  We wonder if God cares.

The answer is He does.  We serve a God that does not rest easy when we're overtaken by the fallen state of humanity.  He doesn't slumber when even one of us suffers at the hand of another.

The story ends with Israel weeping because almost an entire tribe has been annihilated - they had to bring justice, and were willing to count the cost.  Benjamin, once strong and sure, is reduced to 600 survivors.  And in here we see the heart of a God who is not only holy, but wants to redeem.  He provides wives for the survivors, and in turn, raises champions and leaders from a wreckage of a situation - Saul, Mordecai, and more.

I struggle with this story.  And I know so much has changed.  That's why I love Jesus - he elevated my status into "two or more" instead of a safe-guarded investment, property to be handled.  I don't understand the Levite's mixed love for this woman.  I don't know if he anticipated what would happen.  I don't know if he struck down Benjamites on the field of war in anger because of the deep pit of regret he went to bed with every night.

But what I do know is this...in the hands of a sovereign God, as a woman, I am deeply loved and he doesn't take my treatment lightly.  I am His and He is mine.

Eliza Cortés Bast

Monday, October 21, 2013

I am a Rock.

Chapter 7 - The Story

Joshua!  How rich and full for one brief biography in the expanse of the Bible.  And the feelings his story evoke!  He is as memorable as he is quotable.

And yet, nestled in, is another theme engaging the entire nation of Israel.  Before committing him and his house, before outwitting and outlasting kings, before the terrible defeat at Ai, and before the mighty victory at Jericho, was another water-crossing.  A distant memory for the young nation whose previous descendants crossed the mighty Red Sea under Moses, this new generation would get to experience the storied miracle anew.  Yet there was no staff and bearded shepherd - this water crossing would follow the ark of the covenant, the ark of testimony of the wilderness.  They would be following the Spirit of God across the river.

They pick up their belongings.  The waters ebb away as the priests carrying the ark step into the clear water.  Dry land, dry ground.  A reminder that their miraculous God is still moving, still committed to the precious promise of a land dedicated for them.  "Follow me, I've got this, I still remember you and my word to you."  I wonder if Joshua felt gripped in his heart watching God perform the same miracle that He had performed for Joshua's mentor, Moses.  A reminder to Joshua too - "Be strong, be courageous, I'm with you too."  And they cross the river Jordan together, never to go back.

In my house, and on my desk, I keep little stones.  The one in my bathroom says, "I am not my own, I was bought with a price."  The one in my keepsake box from college is a reminder of God's peace.  If you enter my office, the stone there says, "Passion" - a reminder for ministry and direction.  Joshua asks each tribe to carry a large stone across the Jordan and set it up as a reminder.  Joshua 4 says, "In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. When it crossed the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.”

We all cross a Jordan in our life.  We can even cross multiple rivers.  Places where God asks us to trust Him deeply and not ever go back to our old ways of living or believing.  The temptation is so strong to cross back over, be safe, figure out a different route.  What stops us cold in our tracks can be the simple reminder of God's amazing goodness and the call to not go back.  A pile of rocks.

What's even more astounding, is Peter's reference to stones in 1 Peter 2.  We are invited to know the "living Stone" - Jesus - the rejected cornerstone.  And even better, Peter calls us living stones also, being built into a spiritual house.  We look to Jesus, our reminder that God's got this, he's with us.  When my children ask me about the Living Stone, I can tell them too how Jesus found me in my own Egypt, enslaved to sin.  I crossed over and He's my rock.

And to a watching world?  Well, I'm glad I can be a living stone too.  For a world that is wondering where is a God who loves and cares, a God who is real, I stand next to that great river on the side of promise saying, "Cross here too".  Why?  Because the cross lives there too.  I've crossed there through the power of a resurrected Jesus.  Simon and Garfunkle said it best...I am a rock.  I am a reminder of Jesus.

Eliza Cortés Bast

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Deliverance

Chapter 6 - The Story

I often find myself in that place between slavery and freedom.  That bitter valley where the Red Sea stretches endlessly across the horizon before me and behind me stands six hundred chariots, horses, horsemen, and troops ready to overtake me.  While I want to choose God and trust him in that moment by pressing into the Red Sea, the glint of the armor shining in the sun is a more immediate and visible reminder that says, "We are real.  Work for us or we will kill you."

How then can I choose God when I can't see him?  I find myself whining with the voice of the Israelites as I fear my own destruction, "It would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the desert!"
That first step into God's way often feels like dying, or at least coming face to face with death.  We are often surprised to read that the Israelites wanted to go back to Egypt.  Why?  Wasn't it awful there?  But what we often forget that the Israelites not only feared death in that moment, they feared the unknown, the uncertain.  At least in Egypt, while a slave you know when your food is coming and how to get it.  At least you know how hard you have to work before your legs cave out, or what each day will be like.  There is comfort in the certainty, even if it's an unpleasant one. 

But God's way - that is anything but certain.  We would often rather choose the tangible slavery we can see than risk a kind of freedom that is boundless and unexpected.
We each approach our own Red Seas before us and are unsure how to get through.  All we have to go on is some leader telling us, "Do not be afraid.  Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today...the Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still."

Be still?  How can I be still when everything around me seems to tell me if I stop working, I will fail? 
Our culture trains us to be workaholics.  Like many of us, I find myself a slave to work or a slave to control.  God has been showing me lately how He wants to free me of this - of the nagging feeling that if I don't do x, y, and z, somehow the world will come to a screeching halt.  While there is the world's praise for the hard-working individual in our culture, it breeds a kind of self-ego that says that we are in control of our success and that everything in our lives is dependent on it.  In reality, it's the kind of pride that gives us the illusion that we are God.  After all, if everything is dependent on us - we uphold the world around us, right?  Like God?  Even in ministry, there is the temptation to strive as though the ministry's success or failure ultimately depends on me.

Yet choosing God's kind of freedom is costly.  It means laying down my ambitions and acting in faith that God will do what He's said He will do - build His church.  It means taking a Sabbath and leaving some things undone, believing that He isn't hindered by it. 

When reading the passage, God seemed to tap me on the shoulder and say "Bette, you're so afraid of what you'll lose by choosing me - the comfort of security, the routine, the certainty of what to expect.  But you haven't thought about what you'll gain - milk, honey, a Promised Land, my protection, a new identity.  Freedom."

When I allow myself to be still, it is an act of faith that God will fight for me and that I won't be crushed by the Egyptians.  And when He delivers me, I am freed to partner with God, seeing what I do as a privilege and delight as opposed to a necessity for survival.

This passage begs the question: Will we choose God's way of freedom, trusting that He will provide a way through the Red Sea?  Or will we stay a slave in Egypt, comfortable and secure, but never knowing what kind of adventure God wants to lead us on?

Bette Dickinson
Bette serves with an InterVarsity ministry called Imago Dei on the campus of Western Michigan University.  Check out Facebook for more on her work with fine and performing arts students. 

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

The American League, the National League, God and Me

Chapter 5 - What is a Covenant?

What is it?  What's a 'covenant'?  And how does it relate to God? Or to me?  Today?

Some of us default to the 'marriage covenant'.  But what aspect?  The commitment?  he intimacy and closeness?  The sharing of life together?  These are things that picture marriage.  But was God proposing marriage to Abraham in Genesis 17?  Was He outlining wedding vows to Moses and the Israelites at Sinai?

The Hebrew word 'beriyth" is primarily translated into the English word "covenant" in the Old Testament - mainly referring to the connection between God and man.  Scholars also use other words to translate how we interact together, but it still holds the weight of "beriyth"  - League.  Alliance.  Treaty.

These words are not common to us - mainly because we don't live in small nation-tribes and city-states anymore.  We live in a large and complicated democratic republic with voting precincts and government officials.   Seriously - when I hear "league", I think American League and National League.  Or more broadly, an agreement between nations and kings.

And this is exactly what it is.  .  The structure of the entire Book of Deuteronomy is based off the ancient Near East "treaty" between a King/Lord/Protector and his Subjects. 

I am the Head Honcho. You are my People.

I will bless you.  You will send offerings.

If you try to rebel, I will put you back in place.

But if someone tries to take you from me, I will demolish them.

You are mine now.

Sure, it doesn't sound much like a "treaty".  The big technical word was "suzerainty".  (Look it up on wikipedia or something, interesting stuff).   In the 21st century, we normally don't think of "conquered people" and "terms of surrender".   But back then, it was perfect to describe our relationship with God.  An alliance not as equals, but as a loving, caring, protecting, powerful God who is definitely "higher" than us.

Marriage doesn't describe it. Parent-Child doesn't describe it. Master-Slave?  Nope.

Perhaps it kinda does go back to baseball?  To the "American League" and "National League"?  (Then again, perhaps it's just October and I'm just thinking baseball).

An All-Powerful Commissioner sets up the system and the rules.  Players are drafted into this system.  These players either live under the system and get rich while playing a fun boys' game, or these rational players decide to rebel and break rules and experience the punishment of the commissioner.  The Commissioner's ultimate purpose is not to police people.  No!  He wants people to enjoy playing the game!  

How about you? 

I can see two extremes.  (1)  Is God is imposing rules on you from 'on high'? Why do you view Him that way?  Or does He want you to enjoy playing the game called life and his relationship with Him?  (2) Is God an equal to you?  Are you interacting with God like a best friend - forgetting that He is "higher" than you... "better" than you... "suzerain" Lord Protector over you?

Which extreme did the Israelites tend towards?  Which extreme do you tend towards?  Why?

Dennis Leskowski
Dennis is regional director of CRU.  You can find more information about CRU at www.cru.org.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

From a Wanderer

Chapter 4 - The Story
“We have received a large number of inquiries from highly qualified candidates for this role. At this time, we have decided to move forward with an individual who more closely matches the skills and qualifications required for this role.”


“I know you have said you are not interested, but I figure that if I just keep asking, you will say yes to me eventually.”

“Your car’s transmission is completely shot and needs to be replaced.”

“We met 3 weeks ago, he’s asked for my dad’s permission, and we’re getting married in June!”

“I appreciate the time you took to interview in-person with our team. I wanted to let you know that we have decided to fill the position internally.”

“I want to be clear with you that I am not pursuing you romantically.”

These are the words I have heard and am holding from the last few months.  They roll around in my head; they pile up on top of my heart like heavy stones. I know a thing or two about feeling disconnected, lost, and without a place to belong.  I know about wandering.

 In the last few months I have spoken a lot of words like this:

“How much longer, God??”

“I am listening.  I surrender control.  What do you want for me to see?”

“I am afraid.  I don’t know that I can take another rejection.”

“Jesus, I am angry at you.  I don’t know what else to say.”

Wandering is a seemingly senseless waiting place.  It is like driving through downtown Detroit with a dead phone and no map.  Every fiber of my being screams, “Get out of here!!!!”  But I can’t.  I can’t because wandering is powerless dependence.  It is God’s invitation for me to remember that I do not make my world work, I do not set the timeline, I do not pick the destination.  The truth is that I am in His story, which features a cast of Israelite sojourners in a desert, a Messiah who had no roof over his head, and a nation of Jews who spent thousands of years scattered across the globe before they were again given the chance to be a sovereign nation.  It seems “wandering” is a pretty big theme in God’s story, which means that whether you have wandered or not, you will.

It is curious, when I looked up that word “wander” in Numbers (ra`ah), I found that the original Hebrew word talked about grazing in a pasture, being led by a shepherd, being an intimate companion.  It is used over and over again in the Bible to talk of shepherds caring for their flocks and of the Lord being faithful to feed his children.  It appears that in the Bible “to wander” is never “to be alone.”  If anything, to wander is a time of intimate connection with God, a time when He is faithful to sustain and guide us.

If that is true, then God provides seasons of wandering for a very specific purpose.  I can guarantee that they always feel too long, like too much hardship, and like too little adventure or purpose.  I can also guarantee that they are times when your Father and Shepherd is saying to you, “I am here.  I am enough.  Your pain and your questions are not lost on me."  He also faithful to say, "I do not answer to you.  Walk with me.  Walk where you can’t see, feed on the unfamiliar, trust that we shall stay here exactly as long as I have determined we need to.  Know that I will never leave you and that our sojourn in the wilderness is evidence of my intimate and personal love coming for you.  Rest. Be. Wait.” 

I really can’t wrap a bow around my circumstances; they feel discouraging and isolating.  I wonder when my life is going to start moving.  I wonder if I have somehow caused all of this and am irreparably broken.  And yet. Jesus is here, reminding me to rest, be, and wait. 

Are you wandering?  Are you listening for the Shepherd’s voice in your wilderness?

Katy Johnson
You can find more about Katy at www.redtentliving.com

Monday, September 23, 2013

Blast from the Past

Chapter 3 - The Story

My sandwich was nothing to necessarily have a conniption fit over.  Turkey and cheese grilled on fresh baked bread. But when I almost choked on it, it became iconic.  In my little booth stuff with family, napkins, half-empty plates, and noise, my eyes were fixed straight ahead as I began inexplicably coughing in the midst of the chaos.

Two booths ahead was an old friend.  I mean old with all the nuances and baggage that term contains.  We were exceptionally close and things ended exceptionally poorly.  With a continent and ocean between us, we settled into the comfortable silence of occasionally remembering each other with the light sting of regret and stubborn good riddance.  He was supposed to be in China, not in my deli.

And when I read chapter 3 of The Story, and see Joseph's rise to fame, I can't help but think of my time in the deli.  Amid the cheers and the robes and the provision, we see a story that cites multiple characters, MULTIPLE times, weeping.  Weeping with loss.  Weeping with regret.  Weeping when the past comes swooping in, unexpectedly, on wings of painful and wounded memories.  A Joseph who "hurried out and looked for a place to weep".  A guy who wept so loudly, with the doors closed, that his servants heard it and the household gossipped about it.

Joseph never chose for his band of calloused brothers to show up years later.  That was the past.  The WAY past.  He had a new life, a new family, a new name.  To have his past show up like that rocked him to his core.  Standing there, the second in command with all your servants about you, what would you have felt?  When you saw their care-worn faces?  Would you run to them?  Punch them?  Ask about your Dad?  Start screaming?  Kick them out?  All fair responses.  And yet, our hero weeps.  Loss and wonder sweeping over him like a tidal wave.  Tears.

We don't get to choose when our past will rear it's head.  For me, it was in my local sandwich shop.  I didn't want to weep.  I wanted to shove away the rawness of that experience because I did not know what to feel.  Had I the courage, I would have wept right there.  Joseph in the deli - weeping over what had been lost, weeping with anger, weeping with regret.

As we continue in The Story, we have the great privilege of uncovering our own stories.  We stand shoulder to shoulder with each character - their narrative is ours.  In all of it's beauty, pain, faithlessness, joy, heartbreak and revelation, their narrative is simply ours.  The Story is our story.  So I continue to invite you into not only seeing the characters, but to see the gracious God who intervenes.  And to see you.  And to see me.  Joseph in the deli.

Eliza Cortés Bast

Monday, August 26, 2013

3 Signs You are on Life Support (and Loving It)

At the ripe young age of 16, my friend and I stood next to the Milennium Falcon, her beast of a car that had recently killed itself in one of the worst neighborhoods in town.  She had just received her driver's license, and I was hoping to God my mom wouldn't find out we were stuck here with no adult.  My friend's Dad was a mechanic, but he was a good 20 minute drive away.  We looked like we didn't belong, and certainly didn't show any outwardly street cred.

As we popped the hood, the acrid smell of battery juice filled the air.  When my friend called her dad, we simply said, "The battery blew up."  Her Dad must have said that that was impossible, but she calmy replied, "No...the acid is everywhere.  Like, everywhere."  He let us know the tow truck was on its way.  Now, I don't mind talking to strangers, but my friend gets nervous.  The more colorful they are, the more fun it is for me.  I was hoping someone interesting would come up while we were waiting for the tow truck.  She was begging God we would be anonymous.  God ignored her prayer.

A relic from the 70's comes sauntering up to the Falcon.  Long shaggy hair, gravely voice, crazy hat.  I was mesmerized.  Hoping he'd be helpful, he asked, "What happened?"  My friend explained that the battery simply blew up.  It was obvious we were stuck, but we were hopeful he might know something...ANYTHING that would assuage our fear.  He looks at the car, looks at us, and says, "It's dead.  Dead, dead, dead."  Thank you, Captain Obvious.  We know.  If the fact that the car was sitting in the middle of a road didn't tip you off, the site of two young girls crowded around the smoke of burning acid should have been a dead give away.  But in that moment, as he shuffled off into the darkness of that awful neighborhood, we knew we would forever have a catchphrase that stated both the obvious AND emphasized the clarity and finality of a situation.  Dead, dead, dead.

As you know here at Centerpoint, our mission moving forward is "Multiplying disciples and churches, locally and globally".  As a ministry staff, we are unpacking that together - because hey, we can't teach what we don't know.  In unpacking what it means to be a disciple, all roads point to dying to self.  You can't get around it.  You can't bypass it.  It's obvious in the scripture, and is final.  Non-negotiable.  Required.  It is a symbiotic suicide that says less and less of me, and more and more of Jesus.  But how do you even know you're on the right track?  Here are 3 signs to know you are on life support...and loving it.

1. You are producing seed.
Jesus says in John 12 that, "unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds" (v.24).  There's a part of dying to self that produces more and more for the glory of God's kingdom.  Jesus later says in John 15 to produce much fruit (v. 5).  But we can't do it without Jesus.  We don't get to bear fruit without Jesus!  That does two things for us as believers: a) it removes the pressure from us to have to do it on our own, and b) ensures that the glory goes squarely where it belongs - to Jesus.  You also should be producing the fruit of the Spirit in your own life...love, JOY, peace, and more (Galatians 5:22-23).  It produces seed inside of us too.  And it should be AWESOME.

2. You are loving your life less and less and aiming for an eternal life.
Verse 25 of John 12 reiterates that, "Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life."  In our discipleship curriculum as a team, we were encouraged to "pray the prayer of indifference".  What that meant was, honestly and truly praying for God's will for our entire lives without any hidden agenda or stake.  That whatever God asked us to do, we were all in.  A surrendered and completely available life is the mark of a disciple.  How easy is it for us to pray for God's will for our lives but hope that God doesn't ask us to give up our homes, our paychecks, our careers!  But the disciples laid those down, and ultimately their physical lives, to follow Jesus.  Which takes us to the last sign...

3. We are following and serving Jesus.
"Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be" (v.26).  Where is Jesus at work?  Where is he?  And then, where are you?  Are you where he is?  Where is he asking you to be?  Because where Jesus is, we should be right behind, right next to him.  Closely connected, humbly submitted.  If I am going to die to self, I need to ask, "Where is Jesus and where am I?" everyday.  In my heart.  In my thoughts.  In my paycheck.  In my planner.  In my conversations.  In my marriage.  This goes way beyond WWJD.

Thank the Lord it is a process!  I look at the lives of the disciples - the heroes of our faith - and I'm unbelievably grateful.  In my dying to be like Christ, I can still argue about who's first, jump out of a boat, and even forget I know Jesus and still be loved into his gracious calling.  That's love.  And that's love worth dying for.

So the next time you're surrounded by the acrid smell of your perfect plan for life pretty much blown to bits, don't sweat it.  Jesus sometimes does that.  But how great when I can look at my own agenda in the face of Christ's and say to my agenda, "Yep...it's dead.  Dead, dead, dead."

Eliza Cortés Bast