Paul Tripp on grace

There really is no place for Christ in many people’s Christianity. Their faith is not actually in Christ; it is in Christianity and their ability to live it out. This kind of ‘Christianity’ is really about shadow glories of human knowledge and performance. It does not require the death to self that must always happen if love for Christ is going to reign in our hearts.

Paul David Tripp A Quest for More 106 HT Of First Importance

image is by anadelmann at flickr

how we change (1) my story

I have been a legalist all my life. Perfectionist, rule-maker, guilt-wallower; self-confident, self-reliant, proud; ashamed, discouraged, overcome. Legalist.

Why has it taken me so long to realise something so foundational to my faith? – that growth in Christ, just like conversion to Christ, depends entirely on God’s work in me through Christ by his Spirit.

It’s because I’ve been born again into a new life that I change. It’s because my old self has died with Christ that I change. It’s because Christ lives in me that I change. It’s because the Spirit transforms my heart that I change. It’s because God guarantees that one day he will complete the process he began in me that I change. It’s because I’m forgiven that I change.

It’s only as I begin to realise the immensity of what God has done for me in Christ – that he has done all that is necessary, and that I can’t, by any act of mine, add or subtract one iota from his loving work on my behalf – that change begins to come from a changed heart.

God has taken my heart, wrung self-confidence out of it, and filled me with the knowledge of his grace: and I rejoice to give him myself.

Let me share with you the ultimate secret of Christian growth: that it happens only as we give up our lists of hopeful rules and desperate vows, and look to Christ alone, remembering what he has done for us, fixing our thoughts on him, and placing full confidence in his finished work on the cross.

Welcome to a new series on in all honesty, as we begin to look together at the grace of God and how it changes our hearts. You might like to grab a copy of Tim Chester's You Can Change (or perhaps Elyse Fitzpatrick's Idols of the Heart or Tim Lane and Paul Tripp's How People Change) and read along with me.

images are from stock.xchng

from the archives: meditation on a morning walk

Another one I enjoyed writing! I wrote this after a joyful, prayerful morning walk.

I haven't been to this park for some time, and the familiar trees and green curves of the hills welcome me. Like a friend seen after a long absence, my eyes trace the well-known features with delight.

In front of me walk two women in red, with a dog on a lead about as red as a dog gets. Normally I would find them disturbing, a blot on the purity of the landscape, like the red graffiti on the white bark of the gums. Today nothing can dampen my mood.

I look down, and the gravel moves with soothing rhythm under my feet. I look up, and the gnarled branches of oaks tell their long, slow tale of years. I look, at fat white eucalypts shedding strings of brown bark, at lichen-yellowed trees in their winter bareness, at peppermint gums clambering up the hillside.

I look.

The stillness is shattered by a passing gaggle of gabbling middle-aged women. A woman with electric blue eyeshadow and yellow curls shrills at the quiet-faced woman next to her, "I tell you, it was so peaceful, there was not a sound! Not a sound, I tell you! It was so peaceful!" I smile at the contrast between content and delivery.

A foam-freckled brown creek rushes alongside, through the unkempt loveliness of overgrown banks, scattered with haphazard piles of upended branches. Messy wattles and dead trees stand knee-deep in dandelions, thistles and clover. Bridal creeper spreads its glossy leaves impartially over logs, stones and shrubs, turning them into mysterious lumpy mounds.

I look. I think.

My reflections are interrupted by a bald man walking three dogs, crowded to the far side of the path on short leads. Two gangly youths pass by, regarding me with challenging stares, their hair gelled into bleach-tipped spines like twin echidnas. A teenager on his way to the local high school, meek faced and crew-cut neat, hurries past clutching a take-away coffee in a brown paper cup.

The smell of the onion grass is strong. A small rabbit regards me solemnly. The sky sheds tufts of white cloud. My muscles bunch and stretch, bunch and stretch. A train passes in glimpses through a tangle of trees. The air tips my nose with cold. Two shaggy ponies graze on an steep angle of field. Lemon-fringed cockatoos scream their wild, whooping calls overhead.

I look. I think. I pray.

The silence returns, and my thoughts turn to You: the One who shaped every twig as a tiny paean of praise, the one who sent his Son to die on ugly dead wood like this, the One who reaches out to all these people, holy interruptions in my walk, my thoughts, my days.

image is from stock.xchng

27/8/07

from the archives: losing parents - all grown up, but newly alone

More reflections on grief - a bit of a theme last year.

It all came back to me the other day.

We arrived at church to discover our minister wasn't there. His mother had died the night before. Only 3 months ago, almost to the day, we were rung at 9.30 with the news that Steve's father had died. It's impossible to forget the night we went to say goodbye.

It doesn't matter if you're all grown up, losing a parent is a terribly sad experience. It's easy to underestimate the significance of losing parents as an adult.

There's the normal sorrow of loss and grief. The empty chair he always sat in. The renewed pain when you see something she created, or planted, or loved. The mornings you wake up and remember, shockingly, again, what you have lost.

But when a parent dies, you lose more than the person you love.

You're losing your childhood. Someone who can answer the question, "What was I like when I was 5 years old?" Someone who remembers your grandma's house. Someone who loves you in the irrational, doting way of a parent, who embarrasses you by boasting of your accomplishments, and who still thinks you are beautiful, wrinkles and all.

You're losing a generation of memories and insights. What was it like when your parents were young? What did it feel like to live through World War II? The way clothes look after they've been through a mangle. Bottles of milk beside the front door, waiting for the milk van. The horse-drawn dunny cart.

You're losing a wealth of wisdom. How do you make Anzacs the traditional way? Pancakes with soured milk? Lancashire Hotpot? How do you change the washer on a tap? What did your mum do when her babies wouldn't sleep? Did she ever worry you wouldn't turn out ok?

You're losing your children's grandparents. Someone who can tell them stories about what you were like as a child. Someone your children can turn to as teenagers, when you just don't get it. Someone who won't have to pretend to be fascinated when you talk endlessly about your child's first steps.

I'm not sure you really grow up until you lose both your parents.

It's not just parents you're losing, but someone older than you, someone ultimately responsible, someone you can depend on. A father who will be there the day you run out of money. A mother who will come and stay when you've just had a baby, and are trying to juggle 3 older children, a home, and mastitis.

You stand on the precipice of a terrifying independence.

There are all kinds of ways to lose parents. We may move far away, so that phonecalls are rare, and regular visits out of the question. We may lose parents to Alzheimer's or cancer, and have to watch them slowly drift away, body and mind. Our relationship with them may be damaged, seemingly beyond repair. Maybe they're still alive, and we've been living without them for a long time.

When we lose our parents, there is one comfort: God has not left us as orphans. He will always be our Father.

Image is from stock.xchg

21/8/08

from the archives: theological reading for mums and other busy people

A reminder that theological reading is within the reach of all us us. Really!

I believe many who find that ‘nothing happens’ when they sit down, or kneel down, to a book of devotion, would find that the heart sings unbidden while they are working their way through a tough bit of theology with a pipe in their teeth and a pencil in their hand. (C.S.Lewis, introduction to Athanasius' On the incarnation.)

"Ok, Dr. Lewis, I agree with everything you say (apart from the pipe). I was moved to joy and praise more often during the hard theological slog of my PhD, than by any light devotional reading since.

"But I'm a mum. I lost my brain to hormones, I can't sit down without a child climbing over me, and my eyes are grainy with exhaustion. I'm happy if I can read 4 consecutive verses of the Bible, let alone a book of theology."

Or so I would have said just a year ago.

Bookworm that I am, I read virtually no Christian books - besides ones on parenting - during my years with very young children. That's starting to change as they grow older. But here's a secret I wish I knew 9 years ago: regular theological reading is possible for mothers of young children.

There are theological books tailor made for mums and other busy people. Not light devotional books, but real theology by real theologians. I discovered this in a moment of divine serendipity, when I thought I'd ordered one book by John Piper, and a different one arrived in the post.

Here it is: John Piper's A Godward Life: Savouring the Supremacy of God in all of Life, a collection of short daily readings. It only takes 5 minutes a day, so it hasn't been any great stretch to add it to my morning routine! But it lifts my eyes to God and fills my mind with his truth.

And here's another one: Philip Jensen's By God's Word: 60 Reflections for Living in God's World. A friend of mine was given this collection of thoughtful essays by one of the best Bible teachers I've heard. I've dipped into it, and it looks excellent.

I did a quick search on Amazon, and here's some collections of short excerpts from theological giants: John Calvin, Day by Day with John Calvin; William Gurnell, The Christian in Complete Armour; J.C.Ryle, Day by Day with J.C.Ryle; Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening; Martyn Lloyd-Jones, Walking with God Day by Day: 365 Daily Devotional Selections; C.S.Lewis, A Year with Lewis: Daily Readings from his Classic Works and C.S.Lewis: Readings for Meditation and Reflection.

Or you could take a great Christian classic and read a few pages each day: perhaps a book about the character of God like J.I. Packer's Knowing God or John Piper's The Pleasures of God, or a book on Christian living like J.C. Ryle's Holiness: Its Nature, Hindrances, Difficulties and Roots or Jerry Bridges' The Pursuit of Holiness.

John Piper says if you read slowly for 15 minutes a day, you'll get through 10 Christian books in a year. To mothers with babies, 15 minutes of reading probably sounds like a dream of a different life. But even 5 minutes a day will get you through 3 books a year. That's 3 more than I've read most years since being pregnant with my first child.

Light devotional reading is fast food, quickly digested and unsatisfying. Good theology is low GI food, slowly and steadily nourishing mind and heart throughout the day.

Why should mums and other busy people live without it?

14/8/08

from the archives: I am not scared of flying

Pure self-indulgence! I enjoyed writing this one.

I am not scared of flying.

Blithely confident, I know this awkward, over-weighted cylinder can rise on slender tip-tilted wings and the invisible laws of so-and-so and such-and-such and rise, dandelion-puff light, into the unseen air.

I am not scared of flying.

We are pushed back into our seats, and - there! - that breathless moment when all the laws of gravity dissolve and we lift, lift to become that distant, silver form hanging suspended, moving with grave slowness across the sky, like a thought of adventure to the watchers on their tiny squares of suburban lawn below.

I am not scared of flying.

I crane my neck and press my cheek to the glass to inspect the wing and count the engines (One? Only one? What if one should fail?) and watch the orange lights of my city shrink to become the ragged outline of the bay. One of those lights is mine, my home, with my family behind lighted glass, my children, my sick child is there, somewhere in those fading lights is there, and - what if that single engine should fail?

I am not scared of flying.

There is time for boredom, and popping ears, and boredom, and the looping advertisements on the small square of screen, and boredom, and "what to do in the unlikely event of an emergency", and boredom, and fiddling with the light overhead, and boredom, and peeking at my seat-mate's sudoku, and boredom, and -

I am not scared of flying.

We tilt at a precarious angle over an invisible line and begin the slow slide down into the inverted star-field of a new city. Then - once! twice! - the plane leaps and the lights swing - up! down! - like coloured lights seen from a fairground ride, this is fun, this is a fairground ride, look! a ferry, look! a bridge, look! a lighted bouquet of towers, a spinning lighted bouquet of flowers, I can do this.

I am not scared of flying.

But the wind heaves beneath us, and the bucking plane shudders and twitches its metal skin, and we descend and speed past the quietly housed planes in their airport hangars only to rise again, and there is no reassuring message from the pilot, and we loop out over the ocean and circle around and descend again, and I press my face to the cool shaking side of the plane and close my eyes and take brief sickening glimpses of that swinging upside-down star-field and close them more tightly and cling to the seat in front and count slow breathes through the tightening band around my chest and hear loud retching in the seat behind and pray fragments of prayers and feel my bloodless face cold and finally, with a crunching, inevitable finality, we land, thank God we land, somewhere people are clapping and we land, but I can't move, my legs won't move me, my shaking legs won't move me.

I am not scared of flying.

6/8/08

from the archives: refuge

I walk past the tree described here often, and this post comes back to me. After a summer of bushfires, it seems more appropriate than ever.

I had two very different morning walks early this year. One cold, one hot, miniatures of an unsettled summer.

The first walk was on a bleak and chilly morning. Leaden clouds moved restlessly across the dreary sky. A single crow flew high and lonely against the grey. Above me towered a dead gum, smooth bark the grey-white of old bones and limbs grotesquely contorted, clutching at the sky with twigs like blackened corpses' fingers. All that was missing to make it a truly cliched portent of doom was a flock of ravens cawing ominously from its branches.

I had just read these words about Jesus and the day he comes to bring judgement:

Look, he is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and all the peoples of the earth will mourn because of him. So shall it be! Amen. (Revelation 1:7)

A day of terror and anguish for many:

They called to the mountains and the rocks, "Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who sits on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb! For the great day of their wrath has come, and who can stand?" (Revelation 6:16-17)

How frightening must Jesus' anger be, if people would rather have a mountain fall on them than face him!

The second walk was a few days later, under a blazing blue sky. Sweat trickled down my back, promising a sweltering day to come. A gusty north wind carried the acrid odour of a distant bush-fire. Dry leaves skittered rattling across the hot bitumin of the car park, and crested pigeons fled chattering into the shelter of the trees. The air was oppressive, full of the threat of fire.

It reminded me that the safest refuge in the inferno of a bush-fire is the place which has already been burnt black by the flames. When God's anger burns against sin, there is only one safe place: where God's anger has already spent itself. In Jesus, whose pierced hands still recall the day he bore the anguish of the cross in our place, that we might escape.

I know, when God comes in his just judgement against our rebellion, I don't want to be crying for a mountain to hide me. I want to be hiding under the wings of Christ:

Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed. (Psalm 57:1)

I want to look on the one who was pierced for me, and not mourn, but rejoice.

image is from stock.xchng

22/7/08

EQUIP ministry wives 09

I love being married to someone in ministry, but it isn't always easy.

Ministry brings heavy demands. It's not the kind of job you leave at work - it becomes part of your family and home. It can cause financial strain and place a heavy burden on women, as they support their husbands and raise their children while their husband agonises over preparation or travels to conferences. My husband's success and failures become mine.

There's a great conference for women married to men in ministry in Sydney in late August. My friends who went last year raved about it (Nicole wrote about it here). I really enjoyed Carmelina's article 10 ways to discourage your husband, which was based on the talk she gave.

Like me, you might not be from Sydney, but this is worth travelling for! The topic this year is Beyond Success. You can find out more by following the links at EQUIP women.

from the archives: a day of small idols

Here's a gift to any blogger: an overheard conversation. This one, between two mums in the playground, highlights the absurdity of devoting your life to anything other than God.

It's my island bench! I've always wanted one! It's mine. Mine!

The new kitchen goes nearly the whole length of the house. There was this little deck, you see, and it was always hot because the sun shone straight on it. So we filled it in and made this huge kitchen. With room for my island bench.

It's my island bench! I've always wanted one. It cost a lot, that island bench.

My mother-in-law wanted to make gnocchi on it. Gnocchi! Can you believe that? You know, the potato has to be really hot. Then you make those little things, then they dry and you have to scrape them off the bench. Scrape them!!! Off my bench! I don't think so. I'm not letting anyone make gnocchi on my island bench.

It's my island bench. I'm not making biscuits on there! It cost a lot, my island bench.

Listener: So what surface does it have?

It's laminate. But really good laminate, y'know? Like if you saw it, it's really good laminate.

It's my island bench. Mine, I tell you! I've always wanted one! It's mine.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was standing near a group of school mums, waiting for our kids to come out of school, when I overheard this one-sided conversation. It reminded me vividly of the woman clinging forever to a smothering love for her son:

No one has the right to come between me and my son. Not even God. Tell Him that to his face. I want my boy, and I mean to have him. He is mine, do you understand? Mine, mine, mine for ever and ever.

This woman is one of the empty souls in C.S.Lewis' The Great Divorce, going into eternity holding desperately to the one thing they can't give up. Endlessly tormented by an attachment they hate but fear to lose. Dwindling to a soul that is "nearly nothing ... shrunk, shut up in itself." Like the grumbler who becomes a grumble:

"The question is whether she is a grumbler, or only a grumble ."

"But how can there be a grumble without a grumbler?"

"It begins with a grumbling mood, and yourself still distinct from it: perhaps criticising it. And yourself, in a dark hour, may will that mood, embrace it. Ye can repent and come out of it again. But there may come a day when you can do that no longer. Then there will be no you left to criticise the mood, nor even to enjoy it, but just the grumble itself going on forever like a machine."

Have we become so small that our hearts can be won by a plasma television or an island bench? With souls made for the worship of the infinite God, will we give them instead to the worship of a secure nest-egg, an attitude of bitterness, or a nice house in a good suburb? Have we become so small, so nearly nothing?

What will we cling to, screaming that we can't let go, as we are dragged into eternity?

How much better to give up the small joys of this world for an infinite and everlasting joy. To spend eternity endlessly satisfied by the only One who can fulfil every desire of every corner of our hearts. With Jesus, who fills us with "joy in his presence, with eternal pleasures at his right hand" (Ps. 16:11).

13/6/08

from the archives: dying, grieving and helping those who grieve

I wrote this post soon after the death of my father-in-law David in May last year. It's about how to grieve and support those who grieve: always a timely topic.

I know that losing a father-in-law, even one as dearly loved as David, is small on the Richter scale of grief compared to losing a spouse or child. I am vastly inexperienced in grief. “I write for the unlearned on things about which I am unlearned myself."*

That being said, I've learnt lots about grief during the last few weeks. I know how inept I've always felt in the face of other people's grief. So I thought I'd share the little I've learned with you.

For the dying or those supporting someone who is dying

• I am incredibly grateful that David, in his wisdom, talked openly and honestly about his coming death, and his hope of heaven, with each member of his family. He encouraged his grandchildren not to be afraid of death, but to put their trust in Christ, who brings hope beyond death. If God grants you the time before you die, follow his example!
• There are some things I wish I'd said the week before David died, but didn't because I assumed I'd see him again, or because I didn't want to presume too much. Don't put off saying what should be said until it's too late.
• Here are some things you might want to talk about: fear of dying, the dying person's state before God, how they are feeling, preferences for the funeral, long-term arrangements, family disharmonies which need to be smoothed over, your love for each other.
• Be ready with the comforting promises of God's Word: some of the encouragement people gave David was so beautiful! One woman compared death to birth, with Jesus as the midwife. We fear the unknown, but death is like coming out from a small world into a larger, brighter one.
• Realise that the dying may say things which come from a place of fear, grief and doubt. Sit with them, value their honesty, and listen. But don't forget afterwards that these may be words for the wind said in a time of darkness. It's still hard for me to grasp, but what David is experiencing now in heaven is far more glorious and joyous than what he left behind.

Dealing with death

• Don't be afraid to see the body if appropriate. I refused this with my grandmothers, but was so glad I saw David's body. (And what a service is given by those who lay someone out peacefully!) It was much less traumatic than I expected. It gave us all closure. It was a wonderful chance to say goodbye, helped me realise David is no longer with us, and brought home the fact that he's now with God in heaven.
• Allow children to see the body, if it's appropriate and they're willing. They need to understand that while the body is left behind, the person has gone; to accept the reality of death, and to say goodbye. They may be upset, but it will give you a chance to comfort them, and talk about their fears. Our children have been privileged to see both birth and death: I hope this will help them to understand the wonder and gravity of life, and to comfort others in the years ahead.

For those who grieve

• Expect complete and utter exhaustion. The week after David died was as draining as the week after a baby has been born, a week with the flu, or a week with morning sickness. No doubt a spouse's or child's death, or an unexpected loss, would be unimaginably more debilitating.
• Accept every offer of help. If no-one offers, ask! Don't be proud, or assume it will be easy. Even if you feel ok one day, you may not the next. You can't do this alone.
• Remember everyone grieves differently. You may want to talk, or sit quietly; to be alone, or with others. You may feel nothing, or intense sorrow, and that's ok.
• Give those close to you time and space to grieve, and allow them to grieve in their own way. I asked my mother to look after our children for a weekend, to give Steve a chance to recover.
• Be wise and take some time off. A very sensible member of our family took a week's break from work to reflect and recover. (Others may cope better if they keep on with normal life.)
• Don't forget the comfort of God's Word. I felt completely numb towards God for a few days, until 1 Peter 1:3-9 popped into my head, and God's truth found its comforting way into my heart again. You might be too discouraged to speak words of encouragement to yourself: allow God's Word to speak them to you.

For those supporting someone who is grieving

• Do you see someone at church or work who's just lost someone? Approach them, don't be a coward! It's important to have the person who died acknowledged. Even if it's hard to talk about, silence is harder to bear. Say something simple, like "I'm sorry to hear of your loss." If you know them better, move on to "How are you?" and let them be the guide to how much they tell you. Don't be embarrassed by tears: chances are they aren't. (And please acknowledge lost babies to grieving parents as the years go on: it must be so hard when the life of a child seems to have been forgotten!)
• Give practical help. Be gently insistent about helping, even if it's not accepted (within reason)! If they're like me, they might not realise how much they will need it. Babysit their kids the first couple of days after someone dies, to give them quiet space to cry and reflect. Take meals around, help with the washing, clean the house: it's incredibly hard to get daily jobs done when you're tired and sad.
• Cards, letters, SMS, message, email - it's beautiful to hear from people after someone has died. It's probably better than a phone call: they're getting far too many difficult phone calls right now. When you write, say you're sorry, tell them you're praying, describe something you appreciated about the person who died, remind them you're there if they need to talk.
• If you know what it's like to grieve, tell them what you found hard. One of the most comforting emails I received was from a friend who told me, "The hardest thing is not being able to continue a human relationship with the person who's died." Yes! She put words to what I was feeling.
• Go to the funeral. It meant an immense amount having people from our church and my own dear friends there!
• Pray and read the Bible with the person who's grieving, or write them a message with a Bible passage, hymn or poem. Give them God's comfort, which they might be struggling to find for themselves.

Please add your own suggestions to the comments!

Other helpful links: What has the loss of your father taught you about ministering to the dying? and How can I magnify God with my death?.

* C.S.Lewis Reflections on the Psalms.

6/6/08