a son for sacrifice

It’s nearly Christmas. My children read stories about lambs and donkeys visiting a baby, but the story I’m up to my Bible reading plan shows the season in a different light…

How strange Genesis 22 has always seemed to me. Why would God ask Abraham to sacrifice his son? What kind of Father asks another father to kill his child? Did Sarah know what was going to happen as her husband and son left that day? What psychological scars did Isaac carry into adulthood? (A very modern question, I know.)

What did it cost Abraham to take each step on that three-day journey? Did he stare at the knife as he cut branches for the fire, thinking about what else it would soon cut? What thoughts ran through his mind as he reassured Isaac that God would supply the sacrifice, knowing he had supplied it in the boy who walked by his side?

I picture them trudging up the mountain. They’re at the top, and the wind whines in their ears. Isaac watches his father lay stones for an altar, place branches on the top. Perhaps Abraham lays the last branches slowly, one by one, making time for a reprieve, a last-minute escape clause. It doesn’t come. The sky is steely, silent.

I don’t know how a father binds his son. I don’t know how he lays him on an altar. I don’t know how heavy the knife feels in his hand. I don’t know how faith brings itself to such a pass.

Does the boy close his eyes against the sight of the knife? Does he turn his head away? Does he fight the bonds? Does he cry, or moan, or whimper?

We’re told that Abraham reasoned that God could raise the dead (Heb 11:19). He’s no longer the man who lied about his wife, who slept with a maidservant, who laughed at the impossibility of a child (Gen 12:10-20; 16:1-4; 17:17). By this time he knows something of the God who keeps his promises against all odds.

I don’t know if knowing this makes it any easier.

The sky booms. Words echo. He knows this voice. He has heard it before:

“Abraham, Abraham!”

“Here I am.”

“Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him, for now I know that you fear God, seeing you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” (Genesis 22:11-12)

There’s a rustling noise, a “Bleat!” from a bush. Startled, Abraham looks behind him. Was it there before? How did he miss it? A ram in a thicket, caught by the horns, struggling as if it already knows its role in this drama.

The knife cuts, but instead of flesh, it cuts through rope. Isaac rubs sore arms. Abraham seizes the ram, binds its legs, throws it on the altar, slices its throat. They watch blood run down the sides of the altar, smell flesh burning, and tremble to think of the blood that came so close to flowing. A father receives his son back from death (Heb 11:19).

No small family drama, this. No psychological tragedy. No theatre played out for the amusement of the gods.

What was lying there was a boy, yes. A man’s only son, his one hope for family and future. But what lay on the altar that day was also the son of the promise, the seed of a great nation, the hope of world-wide blessing. For from this boy would come a son, and from him a son, and from him a son, and yet more sons, until the One and Only Son came into the world. God made visible. Salvation clothed in flesh. Hope in human form.

What God asks of Abraham, he gives himself. Once again, a father offers up his only son. But this time there is no reprieve, no last-minute escape clause. The sky is unbroken by a voice. Instead, darkness gathers, and the full weight of a father’s anger descends. A cross instead of an altar. Nails instead of a knife. A Lamb instead of a ram. Blood thick on the ground. A voice whispering, “Father?”. A life given so that others may live.

Three days later, the Father receives his Son back from death.

And suddenly the story of Abraham and Isaac doesn’t seem so strange, but inevitable, a line drawing for the future to fill in.



1. Yes, he did have another son, Ishmael, but Isaac was his only legitimate son by marriage, the son of God's promise, his "only son" according to Genesis 22:12.

This post first appeared at The Briefing.

image is by Rembrandt: The sacrifice of Isaac (detail)

big M Ministry and little s service

The word ‘ministry’ just means ‘service’.¹ It's a fact I already knew, and perhaps one you know too; but earlier this year I came to see its implications.

I was walking along, praying about my Ministry. I was praying for the wisdom to know which Ministry to do, how much energy to put into certain Ministries, and when to stop one Ministry so I would have more energy for other Ministries. Suddenly, like a bolt to my brain from the rather grey sky (it was the fading end of a Melbourne winter), came the word ‘service’.

Ah. Service. It cuts out the middle-man, doesn't it? Instead of Me, Ministry, and You, there's just Me and You—and between us, love—a love which is more interested in your needs than in my grand plans for my Ministry.

When I think in terms of Ministry—with a capital M—here's what happens.

• I choose certain Ministries because they further my Gifts, my Visions, my Goals, my Passions, and my (although I don't use this word, of course) Ambitions.
• I choose my church because it fits my Ministry Plans.
• I regard people as interruptions; after all, I'm reserving my energy for my Ministry and for any Ministry Opportunities I may receive.
• I plan my Ministry with the precision of an American missile strike, constantly question whether I'm doing the right Ministry, and massage events so I'll be offered the Ministry I deserve want think is best.
• I worry about my Ministry: how many people are receiving it, whether it's growing, what its future will be, and how I'll cope if things fall apart.
• I'm filled with enthusiasm for exciting new Ministries—enthusiasm that fades as they become more familiar, more tiring and less interesting.
• I'm filled with exhaustion when it comes to old Ministries, and do them with dogged, grumbling perseverance (I'm good at dogged, grumbling perseverance) until I burn out and give up.

When I think in terms of service—with a small s—here's what happens.

• I'm set free from anxiety about my Gifts, my Visions, my Goals, my Passions, and whether I'll ever get a chance to use, pursue, achieve or fulfil them.
• I'm set free to look around my church and community, see what needs to be done, and do it, even when it doesn't play to my strengths, no-one ever sees me doing it, and I don't want to do it much anyway.
• I'm set free to serve you in love, right now, according to your needs, even if I'm not gifted to do what you need.
• I'm set free from worry about numbers, growth, popularity and success, for I remember that even if only two are gathered around God's word, his Spirit is at work in us.
• I'm set free to hold my plans for the future with an open hand, for it's God's plans which matter, not mine.
• I'm set free from having to pursue all my interests and use all my abilities (for God is incredibly profligate with his gifts), and can just get on with furthering God's kingdom.
• I'm set free to rest, for it's God's kingdom that's being built, not mine, and he hasn't advertised recently for another King or Saviour.
• I'm set free to follow the example of Jesus and pour myself out in loving service during times of hardship, discouragement, and fruitlessness, faithfully serving God in whatever situation he's placed me in.

Perhaps it's time I took a scalpel, cut the word ‘Ministry’ out of my vocabulary, and, instead, talked and thought in terms of the word ‘service’. Perhaps then I'd stop worrying about my Ministry (along with my Vision, Gifts, Goals, Passions and Plans) and just get on with serving God's people, and making Jesus known, whenever and however I can.

¹I'm talking about the Greek work diakonia, which is usually translated ‘ministry’ or ‘service’, and which turns up in places like 1 Corinthians 12:5 and Ephesians 4:12.

This post first appeared on Sola Panel yesterday.

images are from Bnet_efekt, Eva the Weaver and Leo Reynolds at flickr

when the Bible gets too hard

What do you do when you get to a bit of the Bible you don't understand? When a Bible passage makes you feel uncomfortable?

I know what I do: I tend to avoid those bits of the Bible. Sometimes I ignore particular verses, sometimes I try not to think about certain passages, sometimes I even keep away from whole books. It's like a painful tooth; you learn to stop biting on it after a while.

The problem with ignoring a painful tooth, of course, is that the pain gets worse and starts eating away at you. When I ignore part of the Bible, it doesn't ignore me. It bothers and bugs me, nudges and nags me, until it gets my attention. When I don't want to examine part of the Bible, it's time for the Bible to start examining me.

Which is why I found these words from John Piper and Phillip Jensen so challenging and helpful:

If you only read things after which you said “duh!” you'd stop reading in a hurry, because you already know and feel the way you should. But if you start bumping into things that are weird or strange, then you'd better live there. You'd better camp there until your brain and your heart get shaped by the strange things.1

I love puzzling over difficult parts of the Bible. I love it, for the difficulty is in my head, not on the page, and puzzling over these difficulties gives me an opportunity to change the way I think.2

When I find part of the Bible hard to accept, it's not the Bible which needs to change, it's me. If I come to part of the Bible I don't like, I've learned to spend time there: to read it over and over, think about it, read about it, talk about it, or, best of all, teach it, until my attitudes shift and God's word shapes me.

When I do this, something unexpected happens: the Bible passage I used to avoid becomes one of my favourites. It's the hard parts of God's word that expand my understanding of God, challenge me to more costly discipleship, and lead me into unanticipated joys. The difficult bits of the Bible open God to me, and open my life to God, in ways I could never have foreseen.

1 From the audio version of John Piper's sermon Thinking and feeling with God: A broken and contrite heart God will not despise.

2 Phillip Jensen's ‘Problems with the text’ from So long and thanks for all the fellowship.

This post appeared on Sola Panel last week (and somehow got missed by yours truly - thanks, Kath, for reminding me about it! :) ).

image is by Jamelah at flickr

sisters for those with no sisters

I grew up with one brother and no sisters. I love my brother, and never longed for a sister - unlike my daughter, who loves her three brothers, but has always wanted a twin sister! But I've always wondered what it would be like to have a sister.

I know now. You see, I have many sisters, and they are as dear to me as any sister of blood could be. God is good, and "sets the lonely in families" (Ps 68:6) - not just blood-families, but church families. I look around my church, and I see sisters, brothers, mothers (Mk 3:35, Rom 12:10, 1 Tim 5:1-2, Heb 2:11). God gives fathers to the fatherless, mothers to the motherless, and brothers and sisters to those with no brothers or sisters.

As I've grown to love my sisters in Christ, I've learned that loving begets love. Just like a blood-family, you don't choose your church family. You might choose your church, but you don't choose the mix of personalities in it. A church is not a friendship group, built on mutual liking. A church is a family, and it's only as you love and serve that you come to love the people in it.

Loving begets love. When I don't invest much in others I feel little for them. But when I care for others I grow in love for them. When I teach Sunday School, I become fond even of the kids who are hardest to love. When I encourage the women in my small group, even on mornings when I'd rather stay home and rest, we grow closer together in God.

I have all kinds of sisters now. There's my little sister who is light where I am dark: extrovert to my introvert, she excels in hospitality and has the warmest welcome I've ever seen. There's my big sister who gives me wise advice when I'm confused about which path to take. There's my strong-minded sister who teaches me courage, my generous sister who motivates me to serve, and my struggling sister who inspires me to faithful perseverance.

The other day two of my sisters and I cried together about a mutual sorrow. As we sat side-by-side, disembowelling a box of tissues and comforting each other with prayer and a cup of tea, I realised how precious my sisters have become to me, and I thanked God. I pray for my daughter that one day she will look around and rejoice that although she has three brothers and no sisters, she has many sisters in Christ.

This post appeared on Monday on Sola Panel.

images are from discoodoni and sisidahl at flickr

women of the Bible (3) Rahab - a remarkable woman

I met a remarkable woman the other day. To be honest, she's not the kind of woman I normally feel comfortable with. She's had an immoral past, a pagan background, and a life of change and crisis. She's brave, shrewd and outspoken. I might as well come out and say it: she was once a prostitute. But I reckon she knows more about God than any number of women from safe Christian backgrounds (like me).

Her name is Rahab. You might have heard her story—how she opened her doors to two Jewish spies (try explaining that choice of accommodation to your mum!), and hid them when the king's men came to call. The spies saved her life because she saved theirs: when Jericho fell to the Israelites, she and her family huddled safe inside her house, protected by the sign of the scarlet cord hanging from her window (Josh 2, 6).

It's a story worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster. But until you've spent a couple of weeks in Rahab's company (the way I did, because I wanted to introduce her to our women's Bible study), you have no idea how impressive she really is.

Her fear of God outshines us all. God's people saw him divide the Red Sea, destroy Pharaoh's armies, bring water from the rock and rain food from the sky. But when they got to the borders of Canaan, they shook in their shoes because of a few overly large soldiers! Rahab had only heard rumours of Israel's victories, but every other fear—fear for her family, fear of a gruesome death if her treachery was discovered—was insignificant compared to her fear of God. Here's what she told the spies:

“I know that the Lord has given you the land, and that the fear of you has fallen upon us, and that all the inhabitants of the land melt away before you. For we have heard how the Lord dried up the water of the Red Sea before you when you came out of Egypt, and what you did to the two kings of the Amorites who were beyond the Jordan, to Sihon and Og, whom you devoted to destruction. And as soon as we heard it, our hearts melted, and there was no spirit left in any man because of you, for the Lord your God, he is God in the heavens above and on the earth beneath.” (Josh 2:9-11)

Amazing, isn't it? And here's me not telling my friends about Jesus because I'm more scared of offending them than of displeasing God (Luke 12:4-7)! I could do with a dose of Rahab's kind of fear.

If that was all, it would do neither her nor me much good: she'd be dead, buried under the rubble of Jericho. But she not only feared God like there was no tomorrow, she had greater faith in God than anyone else I've met. She didn't just cower behind those walls; when she got the chance, she reached with both hands and threw herself on God's mercy! No wonder she's become a byword for faith: our Bible teacher James (who is always one for vivid illustrations) used her as an example of true faith—a faith that doesn't just believe, but also acts (Jas 2:17, 25). I could do with more of that kind of faith—particularly when I say I believe but don't want to give up my comforts!

Another of our Bible teachers once gave us a great list of men and women of faith (actually, I'll be honest, they were mainly men), and yes, you guessed it: it included Rahab the prostitute alongside all of those mighty men, heroes, patriarchs and kings (Heb 11). If faith is being “sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see” (Heb 11:1 NIV), then Rahab has got it in spades. This woman never saw God's salvation in Jesus, but she knew exactly where to seek mercy. She's an inspiration to me—a reason to persevere through the weary days as I keep my eyes fixed on the saviour I've never seen.

You should hear her testimony! You won't find a clearer picture of the gospel. We often think of fear and faith as opposites, but Rahab shows us how the gospel brings them together. She escaped God's judgement by throwing herself on God's mercy, hiding in her house as destruction came to all around her, just as we hide in Christ to escape God's anger. It's fear of God's judgement that drives us to faith in God's salvation. We don't lose this fear of God when we trust in him: fear of God is itself an expression of faith.*

One final thing: did you know that Rahab was one of Jesus' great-great-grandmothers? Brother Matthew shared the genealogy of Jesus with us, and there she was, along with Tamar, Ruth and Bathsheba—an unprepossessing bunch of women (Matt 1:1-16)! I guess it shows that God has little interest in using the self-satisfied do-gooders of this world (that is, I have to admit, somewhat uncomfortably, women like me) and more interest in using the downtrodden, dirty sinners who throw themselves on his mercy (that is, women I tend to scorn. But not any more, I hope! 1 Corinthians 1:27-29).

Fear of God: a fear so great that it defeats any fear of man. Faith in God: faith that trusts in the unseen and obeys. The gospel: fleeing from God's anger into the arms of his love. Rahab represents all these things to me. I can imagine Jesus saying of her, “I tell you, not even in Israel have I found such faith" (Luke 7:9b). I only hope and pray that God will give me a tenth of her faith.

* Christian fear is the fear of a son for a father, not a slave for a harsh master (Rom 8:15). Tim Chester says rightly that “To fear God is to respect, worship, trust, and submit to him” (You Can Change, InterVarsity Press, Leicester, 2008, pp. 92-93). I would add the word ‘love’. Honoria Lau borrows from Hebrews 12:25 to define the fear of God helpfully as “not daring to refuse him”. See also Deuteronomy 10:12-13; Exodus 14:31; Psalm 2:11, 115:11, 130:4; Acts 9:31; 2 Corinthians 7:1; Peter Hastie's interview with Jerry Bridges; and my posts on the fear of God.

This post first appeared on Sola Panel last Friday.

final image is from Christian Dare Art

talking with kids about theology

Here's a helpful comment on yesterday's post by Peter Sholl about talking with our kids about theology.

I think we are often given to answering kid’s ‘deep’ questions with a brush off ‘don’t worry about that - you wouldn’t understand’. Often I wonder if that is code for ‘I’m not so sure, I can’t explain it and I don’t want to take the time to bother - who wants an ice cream?!’

I enjoy these sorts of questions from kids because they force me to think carefully and explain a difficult concept simply, without being simplistic - which is often difficult. (I often find preparing kids talks and Sunday school materials more difficult than an ‘adult sermon’ because ‘simple’ can often lead to ‘wrong’)

I also think it is a good habit to get into to start answering these sorts of questions from early on, rather than ‘waiting until you are older’ - because that sends the message that growing in maturity and understanding is something that happens when you are a ‘grown up’ - buts its a habit we need to start and encourage for all ages.

This comment appeared on Sola Panel last night.

It is not death to die

Just in time for Easter, a post about death and resurrection, and more encouragement from the CD Come Weary Saints.

I was driving the kids home from school when I saw something you don't expect on an arterial road in a major city. It was a horse-drawn carriage, taking up the left-hand lane, slowing the traffic to a crawl.

As we stopped at the traffic lights, I looked more closely, and realized it was a hearse pulled by two grey horses with black plumes nodding on their heads, incongruous against the bare concrete wall of our local shopping centre. On the seat behind the horses perched two cheerfully chatting black-suited men—one bare-headed and balding, the other in a top hat. The hearse was topped with a plain wooden cross worthy of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and its glass sides displayed a glossy mahogany coffin, boasting a huge floral arrangement and brass fittings.

Behind the hearse drove three cars in tasteful green. The first car was packed with flowers. The second and third cars—stretch limousines with darkened windows—were, no doubt, packed with well-dressed mourners.

It all seemed a little excessive, this ostentatious panoply of death. But perhaps that's what is left when you die without Jesus. Like a glamorous wedding, a funeral becomes an opportunity for extravagant theatre, for it's the closing scene in the all-important story of ‘me’. Such a funeral displays the forlorn hope that death, in all its horror and finality, can be placated with pomp and held off with ceremony.

For Christians, death still brings sorrow. But we don't grieve “as others do who have no hope” (1 Thess 4:13). We weep, but we also rejoice. When Jesus died and rose again, he defeated death and overcame its power (Acts 2:24; 1 Cor 15:54-57; Heb 2:14). In a Christian funeral, instead of despairing ceremony and exaggerated eulogy, there is comforting simplicity and praise for the one who has freed us from the fear of death.

As the lights changed and we drove past the hearse, I flicked over to the song ‘It is not death to die’* on Come Weary Saints, the CD that was playing on my car stereo. It's a song that sums up the Christian attitude to death: there is no despair in leaving this weary life and exchanging it for heaven, for Jesus has conquered the grave.

I've always sworn that I'll never say, “I want such-and-such at my funeral”. But I've broken my promise to myself. When I got home, I told my husband (and now you!) that while I certainly don't want an elaborate funeral cortege, I do want this song sung at my funeral. I want people to remember that it is not death to die.

* From a 1832 hymn written by Henri Malan and translated by George Bethune, adapted and arranged by Bob Kauflin for the Sovereign Grace album Come Weary Saints.

This post first appeared on Sola Panel yesterday.

images are from wolfmanmoike at flickr and stock.xchng

a survey about books

More books! Here's where I look back over the year for a Sola Panel survey and talk about the books I enjoyed reading - and some other stuff I enjoyed - during 2009.

1. Three best Christian books of 2009:

◦Tim Chester's You Can Change
◦Elyse Fitzpatrick's Overcoming Fear, Worry and Anxiety
◦Ed Welch's Depression: A Stubborn Darkness

I've been reading a lot about change, anxiety, depression and biblical counselling, as you can see! These three books are top in their field.

2. Top stretching theological read of the year:

◦I've just written about John Piper's When I Don't Desire God for EQUIP book club, and while it's not a stretching theological read (along the line of Calvin's Institutes), it certainly continued to push my thinking about the place of joy in the Christian life—as Piper's books always do!

3. Best fiction of 2009:

◦Definitely Marilynne Robinson's Gilead: the beautiful, haunting reminiscences and reflections of an old American Protestant preacher writing his last letter to his young son, as he recalls the family relationships, long lonely years and historical events that have shaped his life. I enjoyed the book's sympathetic portrayal of the Christian faith, with reference to John Donne, George Herbert, John Calvin and Karl Barth! I can't put it better than The Washington Post article which said Gilead is “so serenely beautiful, and written in a prose so gravely measured and thoughtful, that one feels touched with grace just to read it”.

4. Best non-theological non-fiction of 2009:

◦Arch Hart's Adrenaline and Stress was exactly what I needed in a year when I came close to burnout through a workaholic and over-enthusiastic tendency to schedule far too much into my life! I'd recommend this book to anyone in ministry, and certainly to anyone who experiences stress or tends towards workaholism.

5. Favourite Matthias Media release of the year:

◦Always The Briefing, of course! It's a monthly treat when it arrives in our letterbox.
◦I was also helped by Peter Bolt's Living with the Underworld (AUS US)
◦I'm looking forward to reading Paul Grimmond's Right Side Up (AUS US) and Colin Marshall's The Trellis and the Vine (AUS US); they're looking at me eagerly and expectantly from the shelf!

6. Best website(s) discovered this past year:

◦I'm enjoying Tim Chester's blog
◦My friend Meredith has started a good blog for Christian women called ‘The key to the door’.
◦Any other blogs I read are old favourites.

7. Three best sermons or other audio downloads heard this year (individual talks or series; could be from preachers you hear locally, and not just the overseas heroes):

◦I haven't listened to many individual sermons this year. Instead, I worked through a 24-talk series by Ed Welch: Issues in Biblical Counselling. I highly recommend it to anyone in ministry or counselling, or anyone who struggles with (or who supports anyone who struggles with) any of the big four: suffering, anger, anxiety or guilt. That should cover everyone! The series is available from PTC Media at the Presbyterian Theology College in Melbourne.

8. Most memorable article(s) you've read this year:

◦Guan Un's ‘Diary of a ministry apprentice’ (The Briefing #375, December 2009)
◦Paul Grimmond's ‘Trusting in the dark’ (The Briefing #371, August 2009)
◦Simon Flinders' ‘When it's time to go: The what, why and how of leaving church’ (The Briefing #374, November 2009)
◦Jennie Baddeley's ‘The nuts and bolts of forgiveness’ (Sola Panel 31/7/09)
◦The anonymous article ‘A practical guide to fending off non-Christian men’ (The Briefing #368, May 2009).

9. Book of the year and why:

◦Tim Chester's You Can Change: This book broke through my legalism and perfectionism with the gospel of Christ—something I wasn't sure would ever happen. Chester taught me that change is possible through God's grace. He encouraged me to turn in faith from the lies of my heart to God's truth and, in repentance from the idols of my heart, to obedience. I'm sure this book will become a Christian classic. It's a rare thing to find a book on Christian growth that is gospel-centred, readable, biblical, real, intelligent, clear and practical.

This is reprinted from Sola Panel.

making it to the end

The year is winding down, and life is unravelling a little around the edges. I'm no longer so keen to get up early and read my Bible. Chores go neglected. The kids' homework tapers off, then stops. The days I planned so carefully at the start of the year and launched myself into with shiny new enthusiasm gradually become chaotic and disorganized.

We're all tired out, sick of the familiar tasks. We drag ourselves out of bed and into the car in the mornings. We hold onto what's left of our routine by our fingertips. We feel like we deserve some respite—some reward for getting this far. We'll make it to the end of the year—to holidays and rest and a new start—we will!—but we'll be glad when we get there.

It occurs to me that many things in life are like this. I once worked in ministry alongside an enthusiastic, committed Christian leader. When he knew he was moving on to another ministry position, he became distracted and emotionally absent. I imagine it's the same with a marriage that's coming to an end—or a job, a task, a relationship. When you're no longer committed to the long haul, or when the long haul is nearing its end, it's hard to keep on going.

Life itself is like this. I wonder how it feels to approach the end of a life. Does it feel like you can't be bothered any more—like you've earned some rest now that the long, hard years are nearly over? Is that why so many people retire from an active role in life when they grow old?

This tendency of humans to move on before we've moved on—to peter out before we've reached the end—to give up, give in, give ourselves over to laziness and inattention—is just one more example of how deeply sin infects us. For the attitude God wants from us is just the opposite:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.

Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted. (Heb 12:1-3)

I think of my father-in-law, who served and taught and evangelized and encouraged right into his last cancer-ridden days. I think of a faithful couple who adopted a disabled child and who haven't given up caring for that child even into adulthood—even when it's harder rather than easier. I think of friends who endure chronic illness, ongoing grief, or persistent depression—who stubbornly fight for their faith even though every day is a struggle.

Let's not give up before we get there. Let's not let go of what we've attained (Phil 3:16). Let's keep on loving, even when we're weary of loving (Gal 6:9). Let's not taper off. Let's not end weakly. Let's remember that what lies beyond the end makes reaching the end worthwhile. Let's make it our aim to be able to say one day,

… the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness … (2 Tim 4:6-8)

This article is reprinted from last Friday's post on Sola Panel.

images are from expatriotact and Mollivan Jon at flickr

of trees, trains and Christian growth

There's a stand of huge old oak trees in the park where I walk. They have a slightly surprised air, as if they've been transplanted from a genteel English landscape and are wondering how they ended up here, surrounded by scruffy wattle trees under a burning Australian sun, with graffiti tags on their trunks and white cockatoos squawking from their branches like rowdy antipodean visitors.

Like all oaks, they are firmly rooted, growing down and out as much as up, offering a dense, dark shade. Every year of their long lives, they have put out new growth in spring, watched it harden into summer's dusty green, lost dry brown leaves in autumn, and bared their twisted black limbs in winter.

There's a railway track running through the park. I watch the trains gleam and flash through the trees, humming and creaking over the heritage-listed timber bridge on its sturdy, numbered trestles. The trains are always in a hurry, tooting their horns, bustling self-importantly to the next station.

For over a century, the oaks have grown steadily as the trains have shed old fashions and adopted new ones—steam trains, red rattlers, blue trains, sleek silver trains, silver trains with green and gold, silver trains with blue and yellow stripes. (This is a Melbourne story; no doubt in your part of the world, the trains have different fashions.)

The trees and the trains bring to mind a Bible verse I read recently:

Therefore, as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving. (Col 2:6-7)

We don't grow as Christians by hurrying from place to place, taking on the colour of each year's new spiritual fad—second blessings, signs and wonders, slayings in the Spirit, guiding visions. We grow in the same way God's people have always grown: by sinking our roots deeper into Christ. Here, fed and nourished by the gospel, we gain an enduring wisdom. We give shelter. We stand firm through all the seasons and storms of life.

May God help us to be more like trees than trains.

This is reprinted from last Friday's post in The Sola Panel.

images are from formalfallacy and Mugofevil at flickr

animism, alive and well

I worked with a group of southern Sudanese pastors to help them to develop a discipleship training program for their churches. Remembering my own experience, I suggested that the starting point be a study explaining the nature of grace. “Yes”, they agreed, “after we have taught about witchcraft”. It seemed extraordinary that ‘Discipleship 101’ in Sudan should begin with a study on witchcraft. But as I talked with my Sudanese friends, I came to appreciate that to understand grace, we must first realize that God is sovereign over all creation and that our world is not controlled through curses and spells. True grace cannot be understood properly by those trapped in an animistic worldview.1

What the Sudanese church is learning, we are unlearning. We walk around towns and claim them for God; we seek deliverance from family curses; we release Christians from spirits of anger; we refuse to live in places where bad things have happened. Many Australian Christians share the belief of our non-Christian neighbours that evil clings to places and has to be cleansed or it will threaten the future occupants.

My husband and I came face-to-face with this attitude when we moved into our home eight years ago. As we met the neighbours, it became clear that our house had a chequered past. One by one, they hesitantly asked, “Did you know that the people who lived in your house last grew marijuana?” The purpose of the enclosed room under our house with metal brackets welded to the ceiling and an abundance of black plastic tubs on the shelves—the room that the real estate agent pretended ignorance of—became all too clear. ...

You can read the rest at Sola Panel.

1 David Williams, ‘One to one: The essential ingredient of pastoral care’ in The Briefing #372, September 2009, p. 23.

a bad case of mother guilt

Let's take a break from thinking about childcare (and by the way, keep those questions coming) to think about guilt. :) This is a reprint of my last week's post from Sola Panel for those who missed it! I thought it might be timely given all those childcare posts, which have forced me - and I guess, some of you! - to rethink our priorities in mothering. I've made a few changes in my life, which I'll share with you sometime; but in the meantime, here's how I've been dealing with my guilt.

I've been feeling pretty guilty recently. What have I been feeling guilty about? I'm a mum, so you shouldn't have to ask!

Like so many mothers, I feel guilty because I'm not doing enough for my family. I've been trying to juggle too many things, and I'm worried I'm neglecting my children. (Actually, I don't think I am when I'm thinking logically; if anything's neglected, it's only the dust balls. But guilt doesn't think logically.)

The other morning I poured out my load of mother guilt to God, and found him doing what he does so well—gently, powerfully, wonderfully lifting the burden of guilt from my shoulders and replacing it with the assurance that he loves me and has forgiven me because his own Son died for me.

Guilt carries a weighty load. It brings a leaden heaviness to each of my tasks. It brings desperation as I consider all the things I haven't done. It saps me of joy, so that I trudge cheerlessly through my days. It brings a hidden, unspoken fear that God is going to ‘get’ me (surely some kind of punishment—some kind of payback lies—in store for me!).

I could accept God's grace for three months of imperfect, messy, distracted motherhood. But surely six months of imperfect motherhood is stretching his grace a little too far? Surely he's run out of patience by now? Surely he's no longer interested in giving me energy and grace? Perhaps if I punish myself a little—wallow in guilt feelings, drearily drag myself through my tasks—I'll somehow make up for it.

When I write it down, the logic is so clearly ridiculous, I'd laugh—laugh if I wasn't living as if Jesus' death isn't enough without me adding something to it: my guilt, my repentance, my emotional penance, my perfect motherhood.

The truth is that God never punishes me, for Jesus took my punishment (Rom 3:21-25, 8:1). He may discipline me, but I rejoice in that as a sign of his fatherly love for me (Heb 12:5-7). He hasn't stopped loving me. He hasn't stopped forgiving me. He hasn't even stopped rejoicing over me (Zeph 3:17). There are no obstacles between us; Jesus' death took every one away.

So what do us mothers do with our guilt?

• We repent of any true, known sin. (If you're a wallower or if you're over-confident, it could help to ask an impartial observer!)
• We rethink our priorities and make any changes that need to be made (acknowledging that there are no perfect plans [we're not going to somehow ‘get it right’ next time], but making decisions in prayerful wisdom).
• We accept that there are some consequences of our choices that can't be changed (while changing what we can!). Then we fulfil our responsibilities with joy, not with a heavy burden of guilt, and trust God's sovereignty and grace.
• Above all, we bring our burden of guilt to the cross, accept God's forgiveness, and rejoice in his love.

Here I am, at the foot of the cross again. Here I am, laying down my heavy burden. Here I am, receiving God's free gift of forgiveness. Here I am, enjoying the sun of God's love and joy on my face. Come and enjoy God's grace with me, my fellow mums.

God is not looking for perfect mothers to raise perfect children. He's looking for imperfect mothers who are raising imperfect children in an imperfect world, and desperately dependent on a perfect God for the results.

* From Vicki Courtney's excellent book Five Conversations You Must Have With Your Daughter, B&H, Nashville, p. 257 - which I'm planning to review sometime, but in the meantime, I suggest you buy if you have a daughter old enough to talk! I've changed ‘daughters’ to ‘children’.

image is by Evil Erin at flickr

God's cure for weariness

Weary (adj.) Physically or mentally fatigued. Having one's interest, forbearance, or indulgence worn out. Extremely tired: bleary, dead, drained, exhausted, fatigued, rundown, spent, tired out, wearied, weariful, worn-down, worn-out.

It was a weariful week. It came right at the end of three months of draining ministry. I’d been looking forward to this week for months. I'd been telling myself that I just had to make it through the next month / week / day and then I could rest.

As I spoke the final words of my final seminar, I could feel the burden lifting. Yes! Time for relaxation! But it seems God had other ideas. My week of rest turned out to be a week of sickness, exhaustion and discouragement.

Do you ever think like that? “Just this month, and then I’ll rest.” “It’s been a hard year, but I’ll be okay after our holiday.” “If I can just make it through the day, I’ll put my feet up.” If you do, you’ll know that things don’t always turn out the way you expect. Sickness intervenes. Holidays disappoint. People interrupt.

At the end of my weariful week I stole some time from child-rearing to spend alone with God in his word. I looked up the word weary and chased it through the cross-reference trails of my Bible. Here's some of the treasures I uncovered ...

... you can read the rest at Sola Panel.

The temptations of ministry: The three Ps

Just over a year ago, I started this blog. I was full of enthusiasm and daring—the kind of enthusiasm that only comes from an almost complete ignorance of the project you're about to embark upon. I guessed it would be a great opportunity for ministry. What I didn't anticipate is how God would use this new ministry to perform surgery on my heart.

I suspect my experience isn't unique. I suspect that many men and women in ministry—whether paid or unpaid, part-time or full-time—discover uncomfortable truths about themselves. What I learned was that I'm often motivated less by love and a passion for the gospel, and more by what I've come to call the three Ps:

• pride
• perfectionism
• people-pleasing

Read the rest at Sola Panel.

the blessing of unsanswered prayer

I hate unanswered prayer. This is not just because I want what I pray for—although that would be nice!—but because my unbelieving heart takes unanswered prayer as an opportunity to doubt God. Here are some examples:

I pray for my son's only close friend, whom we've lost contact with, to call. He doesn't.

I pray that I'll be able to find my car keys so I can get the kids to school on time. They're late.

I pray that my husband will get over his illness; after all, he needs to teach the Bible and care for our family. He stays sick.

I pray that my excited, expectant three-year-old will see a kangaroo on the way home. There's no wildlife to be seen.

I pray that my mood will lift. I stay discouraged.

These are all trivial prayers, and I could give you much bigger examples. But, oddly, I find it easier to trust God with the bigger things. It's the small prayers that trip me up.

When they remain unanswered, my internal monologue begins ...

read the rest at Sola Panel

a cure for gospel tongue-tie

Tongue-tied adj. unable to speak. Synonyms: aghast, amazed, astounded, at a loss for words, bashful, choked up, dazed, dumbfounded, dumbstruck, garbled, inarticulate, mum, mute, shocked, shy, silent, speechless, stammering, uncommunicative, voiceless, obstructed.

I know people who talk about the gospel in a relaxed, friendly, winsome way. I'm not one of them.

I'm not bad at ‘God talk’, as they call it in the Two Ways to Live Training Course. I let people know that I'm a Christian, I tell them my husband is in Christian work, and I talk about praying for my children. I think this is supposed to produce gospel opportunities, but that's usually as far as it goes.

When an opportunity does come up in conversation, my mouth seizes up. I read suggested dialogues, like John Chapman's ‘Bus stop graffiti’, and I groan inwardly in despair. Put me in a situation like this and my brain races, my heart thumps and the moment slips away. If I say anything, I sound so nervous, we're both relieved to move onto a new topic. Later, of course, a thousand witty, helpful, penetrating responses occur to me.

I pray for courage, boldness and the words to say. I feel prepared (1 Pet 3:14-16)—I've learned a gospel outline, I can explain it in my own words, and I'm confident about responding to questions (although people seldom ask them!). I make friends with neighbours and school mums, and I try to love them, but in conversation, I suffer from gospel tongue-tie.

Every couple of months, I spend quality time with my hairdresser. We get along really well, and we've had a few chats around the edges of what we believe. I've learned so much from her about how to get past the block on my tongue. I've also learned a lot from Christian friends who don't see themselves as great evangelists.

So, from one inept evangelist to another, for those of you who find it hard to share the gospel, here's some things I've found helpful recently in overcoming gospel tongue-tie:

• I practise what I want to say. It sounds counterintuitive, but when I rehearse what to say before a conversation, I'm more natural and relaxed. I know my friends will ask how I'm going, so I plan an answer. Last year, my father-in-law died. While I was driving to meet my friend, I thought of what to say, and practised it out loud: “He trusted in Jesus, so he knew he was going to heaven”. I felt silly, and people driving past me must have wondered who I was talking to, but my friend and I had a longer chat about Christianity than ever before.
• I ask questions. It's easy to treat people as projects, not people. I want to love my friend by hearing her point of view. How can I speak the gospel into her life if I don't know her? Why should she listen to me if I never listen to her? I'd like to learn to ask more questions. “What do you find helpful about doing yoga?” “When you say I'm the only Christian you know, how do you see that as different from being Catholic?” “What's happened to make you dislike religion so much?”
• I get to know her issues so that I can respond to them. I might be tongue-tied when someone talks about bus stop graffiti, but my friend talks a lot about how much she hates religion. Inevitably, I can't think of anything to say, so I've come up with some possible responses: “Jesus hated religion too. He gave religious people a really hard time!” “Yes, I hate religion as well. God isn't interested in empty rituals; he wants a real relationship with us.” “God agrees with you. He doesn't just want us to give him a bit of time at Easter, he wants us to serve him 100 per cent all the time”. I'll say it until it sounds like something I could say.
• I'd like to follow up on our conversations. Sandy Grant suggests, "Sometimes it will be appropriate to go back to the person and say,
  You know what you said about X the other day, I didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t get it out of my head, and here’s what’s come to me since.
  or
  I was thinking more about what you said yesterday, and here’s something I’ve found helpful [or my minister or friend recommended] in reading on the topic… Are you interested in having a copy?
  It won’t always be suitable, but going back to the person shows you really take them seriously and they got you thinking. I suspect many people will respect that. (But don’t over do it!)"

In the end, none of these conversation starters is a substitute for getting to know the God of grace. Only his love on the cross can compel me to share it freely and fearlessly with others. Only as God helps me to love people more than I fear them will I begin to overcome gospel tongue-tie. It's the gospel that changes people's hearts; I need to open my mouth and start sharing it.

I sometimes wonder why God put me in my friends' lives; didn't he realize that someone else would do a far better job? But I can trust God's wisdom in choosing me to be Christ's representative to my particular friends and neighbours. I can trust his power to work in people's hearts through the gospel, even when the only Christian my friend knows is an inept evangelist—me.

What have you learned about overcoming gospel tongue-tie?

First published at Sola Panel.

image is from Katie Tegtmeyer at flickr.com

ageing beauty

This post appeared at Sola Panel today. I thought I'd reproduce it in full here, with pictures. I hope you enjoy it!

I'm sitting outside a cafe at a wobbly iron table, my pen moving lazily and messily across my notebook as I dream and write, dream and write. I sip from my mug-sized chai latte. A European wasp hovers hungrily above the frothed milk.

I look up and see a slim young Asian woman, neatly dressed in white shirt and charcoal bootlegs, smooth, dark hair in a ponytail, discreet silver rings in her ears. She tugs gently on the padded front bar of a walker.

Behind the walker is an elderly woman, bent sideways and stooped over like a crooked L. She shuffles one foot forward and slides the other up to meet it, swollen ankles hanging in soft folds over slippered feet. Her skin is crumpled and spotted with age, her white fly-away hair scant and dry, her patterned shirt and pleated skirt thrift-shop polyester.

She lowers herself carefully onto a bench. The young woman fetches a cup of tea and an easily digested sweet biscuit, and sits and chats about whatever comes into her head: the balmy weather, a boyfriend who left her, how she likes to sit in the garden after work. The older woman listens attentively, a small smile on her carefully lipsticked mouth.

Here is a greater humility than I have yet learned—not just to serve, but to receive service—to patiently accept help with simple tasks like walking, personal tasks like choosing which bread rolls to buy, and intimate tasks like showering. It would be even harder (for me, at least) to respond graciously when, inside, I'm longing for solitude and silence—to trade this lovely coffee shop stillness (how I love sitting alone in coffee shops!) for a constant companion who feels the need to make cheery conversation.

It looks like the younger woman is serving the older, but I suspect a different dynamic is operating. A sweet and unassuming gift is being given from older to younger—a gift of experienced wisdom, cheerful forbearance and patient stillness. It's a wisdom gained through a lifetime, a cheerfulness won during who knows how many battles with irritation and anxiety, and a stillness that has been reached after many years of cooking and washing and cleaning and serving.

How easy it would be to become bitter and self-absorbed and grumpy and anxious and shrill as I grow old! Instead, I pray that I will become like this woman, whose gentle spirit shines from her sweet face with a soft radiance. I pray that as my joints ache and my skin wrinkles, my heart would grow more lovely year by year. I pray that even now, I would be planting the seeds of humility, gentleness, cheerfulness and forbearance that will one day blossom into the beauty of lovely old age.

Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight. 1 Pet 3:3-4

images are from stock.xchng

surely goodness and mercy

How are you feeling about the year that's just begun? Are you optimistic and ready for its demands? Or are you anxious and stressed, worried that you won't be able to cope with the months ahead?

I've been regarding this year with trepidation. Normally by early January, I've reflected on the year that's passed and the one that's coming. I've thought about what areas of godliness I want to work on, and written a list of resolutions to be observed or ignored, as the case may be. I've drawn up a budget, and typed out a daily and weekly plan. But an overly busy December and illness during our post-Christmas vacation left little time for reflection and planning. What's more, last year was a hard year, which scared me a little. I feel anxious about my ability to cope with the unknown, and worried that the known will look all too familiar.

Or I was feeling like that until I picked up my Bible the other morning. I turned the pages to the well-known words of Psalm 23, and read each sentence slowly and prayerfully. ...

Read the rest at Sola Panel today

online meanderings: honesty

Is Archie (HT Honoria) right? Does the devil love secrecy?

Is Simone right? Does honesty normalise sin? She says

I'm thinking increasingly that it's unhelpful to talk about some sins. If I confess that I am struggling with, say, hateful thoughts, and everyone else in my bible study group says 'yeah, me too', I stop thinking that hate is such a dreadful thing. It's been normalised. Unless there is a very godly woman in my group who will take us to a passage and show us that murderers etc will not inherit the kingdom and then ask us all to repent and bring the gospel to us, nothing good has been gained.

Challenged by their posts, I wrote a couple of my own, and decided that it all depends on whether our honesty is loving and helpful, and shelved the issue in the back of my mind.

Until last Wednesday, when I read this paragraph by Paul:

You're sitting in church feeling a little more nervous than normal. If you had known that the sermon was going to be about that, you might have decided to stay in bed this morning. But there it is, front and centre on the service outline. What should you do? Thinking at a speed that would normally startle you, you hit upon the perfect strategy: talk to others about ‘it’ before they talk to you. If you start the conversation and talk about how you struggle with ‘it’ before they raise the topic, you're home free! People will think you're godly and open, and you'll be able to walk away feeling good about yourself without having to change a thing. The best defence is a good offence.

It was one of those times God uses what another Christian writes to perform open heart surgery on me.

I've often wondered why I'm so ready to share my sins and failings. I understand that honesty can be a great starting point for encouragement, and that's ok, but why do I enjoy it? I'm not talking about this blog. I'm talking about conversations like those with other mums, where among all the laughter, there are terrible admissions: "I said ... to my son the other day! Can you believe that?"

Thanks to Paul's post, I understand better my unhelpful motivations for talking about my sin. I'm hoping that if I get in first, and admit how terrible my sin can be, others won't challenge me. I hope that they'll be so busy admiring my honesty, they won't think to judge me. Perhaps they'll even share some sins of their own, so I can feel better about mine. Honesty can be a useful smokescreen to hide my need to stay in control. It looks vulnerable, but it stops me ever being really vulnerable to criticism or change.

So how can I decide when to be honest? I found Paul's suggestions really helpful (I've taken them from this discussion):

I need to ask two questions (1) Am I doing this for myself or the other? - if the answer is myself, then now isn’t the time to disclose (even if it would be genuinely helpful) - for myself includes things like my desire to get it off my chest and feel better about it, my desire to impress others by my humility, and even my desire to get people listening to my preaching because a personal story always gets people’s attention (we are so sinful aren’t we?!). (2) Will this genuinely benefit others in the congregation? (we don’t always get this right, but it is the right question to ask).

I've been reminded, once again, that honesty isn't an end, but a beginning.

images are from stock.xchng

an interview with me

Today my interview appeared on Sola Panel. You might like to have a read. Here's how it starts:

Jean, how did you come to Christ?

It's not an exciting story, but in some ways, it's the most exciting of all! Like Timothy, I knew the Bible from infancy (2 Tim 3:15). I was brought up by faithful, godly parents who read the Bible and prayed with us, who trained us to live God's way, who talked about Jesus during the day (Deut 6:6-7), and who loved, disciplined and cared for us. They never talked down to us, and were always willing to discuss difficult doctrines like the Trinity, predestination and judgement, as well as God's love and grace. I have no idea why we prefer dramatic conversion stories to the profound blessing of being brought up in a godly home where we're faithfully taught God's word; this is just as great a miracle! ...

Read the rest at Sola Panel today.