Friday, January 2, 2009
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Addiction
“Every decision is a limitation.”
Such an idea never occurred to me before last night, but the wife of the program director at camp in Jerusalem spoke these words with such clarity that it stunned me. She declared “each decision limits your life in important and not-so-important ways” as if it were the most simple fact ever. Choice equals consequences; idea equals implications.
Addicts live this out (even if they give no mental assent) each time they shoot up or inhale. Editors demonstrate this (with knowledge) each time they publish another book or article or poem. Politicians engage in this (fully desirous) each time they deliver a speech, book a campaign stop, hug a tree or hold a baby. So why do I not consider this truth in the light of God’s Word?
Just two weeks ago at camp, I stood in the אולם (meeting room) listening to 49 Israeli kids singing “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart” in Hebrew, and it reminded me of a verse that used to bring me such joy. Paul exhorts believers to know the fruits of the house of Stephanas because “...they have addicted themselves to the ministry of the saints” (I Corinthians 16:15). In high school and my early working years, I kept this verse as a theme and begged God to let me be addicted to ministry. I think He granted my prayer. My whole life rebelled against the “status quo” and revolved around pro-life activism, mentoring youth, and street evangelism (both with Jews for Jesus and on my own).
Two years ago in January, I was challenged to take my passion for God with my life skills and shape/hone/grow/direct them in a Christian university setting. This has proven very good and very bad for me.
Very good because I have truly stretched and changed for the better when it comes to an understanding of and appreciation for the faith of our fathers and how it is my own personal faith, today. Very good because I have been enabled to recognize the pagan ideology and humanistic thought that infiltrates Western culture. Very good because I have certainly found cause for participating in academic, social, and ministerial opportunities.
Very bad because I have developed both a sense of ineptness and a dampened incentive to try anything without a prior approval from a professor or authority. Very bad because I find myself wondering what people will think before I wonder what Jesus will think. Very bad because I notice my radical addiction to the love of Christ and others is turning into a ball-and-chain to the tyranny of the moment and its paperwork.
I guess this is all to say that recent months have been a struggle for me. Collegiate culture and even the “American Dream” try to suck me into the “bigger is better” and “better is still not best” mentality. But being back in Israel with its thousands of years of history, promise, and people reminds me that God generally works with the weaker, forgotten, and difficult...and this truth is pulling me back into my old addiction.
I have a God who is faithful, and if I say I serve this God, I must be nothing less than faithful to him. My God demands addiction when He commands, “Thou shalt love the LORD thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might” (Deuteronomy 6:5).
I want nothing more than to be forever addicted to the ministry.
If this decision limits me – which it will – I don’t care. I want my life opportunities to be limited to one thing. Me decreasing so that Jesus can increase.
A godly king named Hezekiah who was addicted to the ministry of the LORD once became sick unto death. God told Hezekiah that he would die, but he refused to listen to the prophet Isaiah and demanded longer life. When God showed the king an extra measure of grace and healed him, Hezekiah quit his addiction “cold turkey.” He hosted the Babylonians and showed off the glory of his throne...instead of showing off the glory of GOD. Isaiah returned to the king and told him that God said that Babylon would invade his dominion and take captive his seed. But Hezekiah acted as if he’d never been an addict and declared instead, “Is it not good if peace and truth be in my days?” (II Kings 20:19).
His decision to not be addicted to the LORD’s ministry, and the ensuing limitation of concern for his own offspring, show me the danger of “kicking this habit.” Better for me to not have peace in my days, and stay addicted; than for me to have peace in my days, kick the habit, and disregard descendants.
Addiction is a serious thing, like Sara Groves prays in her song “Generations.”
“Remind me of this with every decision,
Generations will reap what I sow.
I will pass on a curse or a blessing
To those I may never know...
...to my great, great, great granddaughter: live in peace.”
Such an idea never occurred to me before last night, but the wife of the program director at camp in Jerusalem spoke these words with such clarity that it stunned me. She declared “each decision limits your life in important and not-so-important ways” as if it were the most simple fact ever. Choice equals consequences; idea equals implications.
Addicts live this out (even if they give no mental assent) each time they shoot up or inhale. Editors demonstrate this (with knowledge) each time they publish another book or article or poem. Politicians engage in this (fully desirous) each time they deliver a speech, book a campaign stop, hug a tree or hold a baby. So why do I not consider this truth in the light of God’s Word?
Just two weeks ago at camp, I stood in the אולם (meeting room) listening to 49 Israeli kids singing “I’ve Got the Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in My Heart” in Hebrew, and it reminded me of a verse that used to bring me such joy. Paul exhorts believers to know the fruits of the house of Stephanas because “...they have addicted themselves to the ministry of the saints” (I Corinthians 16:15). In high school and my early working years, I kept this verse as a theme and begged God to let me be addicted to ministry. I think He granted my prayer. My whole life rebelled against the “status quo” and revolved around pro-life activism, mentoring youth, and street evangelism (both with Jews for Jesus and on my own).
Two years ago in January, I was challenged to take my passion for God with my life skills and shape/hone/grow/direct them in a Christian university setting. This has proven very good and very bad for me.
Very good because I have truly stretched and changed for the better when it comes to an understanding of and appreciation for the faith of our fathers and how it is my own personal faith, today. Very good because I have been enabled to recognize the pagan ideology and humanistic thought that infiltrates Western culture. Very good because I have certainly found cause for participating in academic, social, and ministerial opportunities.
Very bad because I have developed both a sense of ineptness and a dampened incentive to try anything without a prior approval from a professor or authority. Very bad because I find myself wondering what people will think before I wonder what Jesus will think. Very bad because I notice my radical addiction to the love of Christ and others is turning into a ball-and-chain to the tyranny of the moment and its paperwork.
I guess this is all to say that recent months have been a struggle for me. Collegiate culture and even the “American Dream” try to suck me into the “bigger is better” and “better is still not best” mentality. But being back in Israel with its thousands of years of history, promise, and people reminds me that God generally works with the weaker, forgotten, and difficult...and this truth is pulling me back into my old addiction.
I have a God who is faithful, and if I say I serve this God, I must be nothing less than faithful to him. My God demands addiction when He commands, “Thou shalt love the LORD thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might” (Deuteronomy 6:5).
I want nothing more than to be forever addicted to the ministry.
If this decision limits me – which it will – I don’t care. I want my life opportunities to be limited to one thing. Me decreasing so that Jesus can increase.
A godly king named Hezekiah who was addicted to the ministry of the LORD once became sick unto death. God told Hezekiah that he would die, but he refused to listen to the prophet Isaiah and demanded longer life. When God showed the king an extra measure of grace and healed him, Hezekiah quit his addiction “cold turkey.” He hosted the Babylonians and showed off the glory of his throne...instead of showing off the glory of GOD. Isaiah returned to the king and told him that God said that Babylon would invade his dominion and take captive his seed. But Hezekiah acted as if he’d never been an addict and declared instead, “Is it not good if peace and truth be in my days?” (II Kings 20:19).
His decision to not be addicted to the LORD’s ministry, and the ensuing limitation of concern for his own offspring, show me the danger of “kicking this habit.” Better for me to not have peace in my days, and stay addicted; than for me to have peace in my days, kick the habit, and disregard descendants.
Addiction is a serious thing, like Sara Groves prays in her song “Generations.”
“Remind me of this with every decision,
Generations will reap what I sow.
I will pass on a curse or a blessing
To those I may never know...
...to my great, great, great granddaughter: live in peace.”
Friday, July 18, 2008
Monday Musings (from July 14)
The cool of the night breeze stirs around me and the stars loom clear overhead. At the doorpost behind me, voices of children ring out in a Hebrew song.
I am in Jerusalem.
These are the stars that David saw from his palace. This is the language that Isaiah spoke when he prophesied of Y’shua. This is the wind to which Jesus referred when he taught Nicodemus about the Spirit of God. And these are the people of whom God promised His salvation to come, go forth, and return again en masse.
The second verse of the song begins. I lean my shoulder on the door and exhale into the evening.
My feet hurt, my head aches, my right hip rebels, and my eyes are tired. It’s been a long day. This morning I rose shortly after the sun and before most humane people awake; some 300 sandwiches, 6 pounds of carrots, 3 sets of instructions to helpers, 294 photographs, 23 Hebrew words, and 7 songs later, I want to cry.
Not tired tears, though. I feel really, really good (tov meod as they say here) about my day and my work. Tears of joy, of fulfillment, of peace. Tears from recognizing a song that means a lot to me in English though I can’t sing it in its original language. Tears because I want to hold on to this moment and live its treasure forever.
If only...
Today I had a conversation with a girl I barely know. We met only once in Manhattan, yet the conversation was deeper than many I’ve had with good friends in America. We “get” one another’s passion for sharing the gospel as often and as well as we are able. We want to see God working – wherever in the world it may be – and join Him. Apparently God must really be working here in Jerusalem because she came from Denmark and I came from California to join Him...and we ran into each other again at the same place, same ministry, same job. Julie and I are happily serving in the Messianic Assembly camps.
Here I feel no pressure to meet expectations, to protect reputation, to seek approval, to find novelty, to retrieve information, to promote belief. Here I have only one obligation: love the Lord with all my heart.
I love Him when I hear the birds chirping a tune at 4:30 AM outside my window. I love Him when I rise to pray and read Scripture. I love Him when I carry keys around the campus and unlock doors for Bible time, sports time, and craft time. I love Him when I see the stones that line every walkway and testify to history. I love Him when I wash the cups the children use to drink their juice. I love Him when I cut 32 pickles for tuna salad. I love Him when I put French braids in the hair of girls with whom I can barely communicate. I love Him when I try to read the Hebrew and sing along with the children’s songs. I love Him even when I make mistakes in the Hebrew. Even when I can’t sing – like tonight – I love Him.
I love Him so much it chokes me up.
And I want to worship Him with these people in the land of my fathers, together. forever.
(English translation of the song tonight...excerpts from Psalm 34 arranged by Stuart Dauerman.)
At all times I will bless Him; His praise will be in my mouth.
My soul makes its boast in the Lord.
The humble man will hear of Him;
The afflicted will be glad, and join with me to magnify the Lord.
** Let us exalt His name together forever, I sought the Lord;
He heard me and delivered me from my fears.
Let us exalt His name together, forever,
Oh sing His praises, magnify the Lord.
The angel of the Lord encamps, ‘round those who fear His name
To save them and deliver them from harm.
Though lions roar with hunger, we lack for no good thing.
No wonder, then, we praise Him with our song.
** Let us exalt His name together forever...
Come, children, now and hear me if you would see long life.
Just keep your lips from wickedness and lies.
Do good and turn from evil; seek peace instead of strife.
Love righteousness and God will hear your cry.
** Let us exalt His name together forever...
Friday, June 6, 2008
Ticket to Ride? Sebelius, Obama, Carhart, and Tiller
Kansas Governor Kathleen Sebelius is in trouble (again) for fraternizing with late-term abortionist George Tiller.
Tiller has killed over 350,000 babies since 1969, according to conservative estimates, and boasts on his website that he has "more experience in late abortion services over 24 weeks than anyone else currently practicing in the Western Hemisphere, Europe and Australia."
Last year, Sebelius wined and dined with Tiller and his abortuary staff (including partial-birth abortionist Leroy Carhart) at her governor's mansion, all at state expense.
No wonder Sebelius is so thick with Obama. Endorsing and visiting a presidential candidate that consistently voted to keep partial-birth abortion legal is second-nature to a woman who eats with partial-birth abortionists.
Newspapers and blogs are buzzing about a possible Obama-Sebelius ticket. It's a good match. Neither has met an abortion they didn't like.
Read the documentation here.
Tiller has killed over 350,000 babies since 1969, according to conservative estimates, and boasts on his website that he has "more experience in late abortion services over 24 weeks than anyone else currently practicing in the Western Hemisphere, Europe and Australia."
Last year, Sebelius wined and dined with Tiller and his abortuary staff (including partial-birth abortionist Leroy Carhart) at her governor's mansion, all at state expense.
No wonder Sebelius is so thick with Obama. Endorsing and visiting a presidential candidate that consistently voted to keep partial-birth abortion legal is second-nature to a woman who eats with partial-birth abortionists.
Newspapers and blogs are buzzing about a possible Obama-Sebelius ticket. It's a good match. Neither has met an abortion they didn't like.
Read the documentation here.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The Hand That Rocks the World Rules the Cradle
Everyone’s heard the adage “The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.” It’s sentimental, poignant, and tender. This Sunday being Mother’s Day, it’s even appropriate. But two unexpected phone calls, two situations, two years apart, shifted my focus to different hands.
--
Monday morning my cell phone rang.
“Hey, Karen.” Dad’s tone sent chills down my spine. “Matthew just called and he’s heading in to surgery so you need to pray.”
Surgery? My brother didn’t have any health problems. Why surgery?
On Saturday, my dad explained, Matthew inspected the site of a medical clinic and school being built by his Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT) in Afghanistan when the Taliban attacked. The two-hour standoff resulted in several injuries and ended only by an air strike. During the attack, severe burns on my brother’s right hand fused his skin, muscles and nerves. A day-and-a-half later, Matthew’s turn in the surgery line demanded general anesthesia, forceps and tweezers to realign the elements so that his fingers would separate and hopefully function in the future.
When Matthew applied to head up a PRT in Afghanistan after serving as a Lieutennant on a nuclear submarine in Guam and teaching chemistry and physics at the Naval Academy Preparatory School in Rhode Island, my family feared for his safety. Would he die in hostile fire? Could he withstand the worms and malaria? How long might he manage to survive IEDs killing contractors on his team?
But Matthew valued his work in Afghanistan so highly that he decided to “re-up” for another term.
After giving a stuffed animal to a girl who lost her fingers, dad, and brother in a Taliban assault; building schools, medical centers, and bridges for rural mountain villages; re-bandaging a local boy’s arm and finding it severed; witnessing one-on-one to a PRT member here or a native there; teaching locals to make real homes, not mud huts that wash away with every thunderstorm; and speaking hope into the souls of a formerly autonomous people terrorized by the reign of a cruel foreign power known as the Taliban; Matthew views his mission less like a commander and more like an agent of change.
He, along with thousands of other American guys and gals, offer new life to a jeopardized population in the Middle East.
Because of Matthew, my mom transformed from being a proud mother to being a surrogate grandmother of village boys and girls in Afghanistan. Today, military mothers like mine must be honored for their selfless love enabling their children to selflessly love other mothers’ children. Our American soldiers are children of the cradle, rocking the world.
--
Wednesday, May 3, 2006, my cell phone rang.
“Karen.” Kathy’s sobs gripped my heart with fear. “I just got a letter from my daughter and you need to pray.”
Daughter? My 50-something single on-the-go friend didn’t have kids. What daughter?
Kathy explained that as an 18-year-old in college she gave her virginity to her hunk of a boyfriend and ended up pregnant. But in 1968 parenting was not an option and back-alley abortion was dangerous, so her dad shipped her off to another city until she could give birth and sign the baby over to the state. Those months of vomit, hormones, fear and isolation burned shame in Kathy’s heart as indelibly as a lamb branded before being turned out to the prairie. “It doesn’t heal,” she said. “It festers.” At first, thoughts about her girl plagued Kathy daily. Whose nose did she have? Did she get adopted before her first Christmas? Would her new dad abuse her? What grades did she get on her report cards in second grade?
Unable to cope, Kathy buried her deep secret in the darkest recesses of her mind. She never spoke of her daughter to anyone. Life went on. She slept with all the wrong guys and stored marijuana in her freezer. Then she met Jesus and drank Living Water instead of alcohol. She joined a church, succeeded as a tax accountant, did street evangelism and kept her secret hidden.
But one day Kathy’s blood ran cold.
The tulips scented the air by the curbside mailbox as Kathy thumbed through the bills, sale flyers, AARP mailing, and the strange envelope. She slit it open. Handwriting. Unfolding the letter, one word caught her attention: “Mother.”
Shock, incredulity, anger, fear, excitement, abandonment, remorse, awe and embarrassment washed over Kathy in waves. Kleenex boxes quickly emptied as Kathy read, “I honor you and want to thank you for making the decision to give me life and not terminating me.”
Because of her newly-found daughter, Kathy went from being a hidden mom to a proud grandma of three. Today, Kathy is honored because her selfless love enabled her child to selflessly love another’s children. The adopted-daughter-turned-pastor’s-wife-and-paramedic is a child of the cradle, rocking the world.
--
No matter your position on the war or politics, I think we can agree with the Taliban and the devil: redeeming Afghanistan and college pregnancy rocks the world. One person’s decision to rock the world can change future generations.
So there you have it: The hand that rocks the world rules the cradle.
--
Monday morning my cell phone rang.
“Hey, Karen.” Dad’s tone sent chills down my spine. “Matthew just called and he’s heading in to surgery so you need to pray.”
Surgery? My brother didn’t have any health problems. Why surgery?
On Saturday, my dad explained, Matthew inspected the site of a medical clinic and school being built by his Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT) in Afghanistan when the Taliban attacked. The two-hour standoff resulted in several injuries and ended only by an air strike. During the attack, severe burns on my brother’s right hand fused his skin, muscles and nerves. A day-and-a-half later, Matthew’s turn in the surgery line demanded general anesthesia, forceps and tweezers to realign the elements so that his fingers would separate and hopefully function in the future.
When Matthew applied to head up a PRT in Afghanistan after serving as a Lieutennant on a nuclear submarine in Guam and teaching chemistry and physics at the Naval Academy Preparatory School in Rhode Island, my family feared for his safety. Would he die in hostile fire? Could he withstand the worms and malaria? How long might he manage to survive IEDs killing contractors on his team?
But Matthew valued his work in Afghanistan so highly that he decided to “re-up” for another term.
After giving a stuffed animal to a girl who lost her fingers, dad, and brother in a Taliban assault; building schools, medical centers, and bridges for rural mountain villages; re-bandaging a local boy’s arm and finding it severed; witnessing one-on-one to a PRT member here or a native there; teaching locals to make real homes, not mud huts that wash away with every thunderstorm; and speaking hope into the souls of a formerly autonomous people terrorized by the reign of a cruel foreign power known as the Taliban; Matthew views his mission less like a commander and more like an agent of change.
He, along with thousands of other American guys and gals, offer new life to a jeopardized population in the Middle East.
Because of Matthew, my mom transformed from being a proud mother to being a surrogate grandmother of village boys and girls in Afghanistan. Today, military mothers like mine must be honored for their selfless love enabling their children to selflessly love other mothers’ children. Our American soldiers are children of the cradle, rocking the world.
--
Wednesday, May 3, 2006, my cell phone rang.
“Karen.” Kathy’s sobs gripped my heart with fear. “I just got a letter from my daughter and you need to pray.”
Daughter? My 50-something single on-the-go friend didn’t have kids. What daughter?
Kathy explained that as an 18-year-old in college she gave her virginity to her hunk of a boyfriend and ended up pregnant. But in 1968 parenting was not an option and back-alley abortion was dangerous, so her dad shipped her off to another city until she could give birth and sign the baby over to the state. Those months of vomit, hormones, fear and isolation burned shame in Kathy’s heart as indelibly as a lamb branded before being turned out to the prairie. “It doesn’t heal,” she said. “It festers.” At first, thoughts about her girl plagued Kathy daily. Whose nose did she have? Did she get adopted before her first Christmas? Would her new dad abuse her? What grades did she get on her report cards in second grade?
Unable to cope, Kathy buried her deep secret in the darkest recesses of her mind. She never spoke of her daughter to anyone. Life went on. She slept with all the wrong guys and stored marijuana in her freezer. Then she met Jesus and drank Living Water instead of alcohol. She joined a church, succeeded as a tax accountant, did street evangelism and kept her secret hidden.
But one day Kathy’s blood ran cold.
The tulips scented the air by the curbside mailbox as Kathy thumbed through the bills, sale flyers, AARP mailing, and the strange envelope. She slit it open. Handwriting. Unfolding the letter, one word caught her attention: “Mother.”
Shock, incredulity, anger, fear, excitement, abandonment, remorse, awe and embarrassment washed over Kathy in waves. Kleenex boxes quickly emptied as Kathy read, “I honor you and want to thank you for making the decision to give me life and not terminating me.”
Because of her newly-found daughter, Kathy went from being a hidden mom to a proud grandma of three. Today, Kathy is honored because her selfless love enabled her child to selflessly love another’s children. The adopted-daughter-turned-pastor’s-wife-and-paramedic is a child of the cradle, rocking the world.
--
No matter your position on the war or politics, I think we can agree with the Taliban and the devil: redeeming Afghanistan and college pregnancy rocks the world. One person’s decision to rock the world can change future generations.
So there you have it: The hand that rocks the world rules the cradle.
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