In times like these, it can be puzzling somehow, that if we don’t ‘go’ to church, are we really the church?  What is the church?
 
In my reading last night in 1 Peter, I came to the second chapter, where Peter describes believers as “…living stones…”  In light of the ongoing isolation foisted upon us by our Governor here in North Carolina and the way that many churches have gone online to teach and worship, this really seemed to speak to me.  It’s always been my belief that the building is not the church; those who gather there (or not) are the church.  Some time ago, I had shared this with someone who had been skipping coming to church services and used the analogy of how he was one brick in the building of the church.  Picture everyone coming together as bricks gathering to create a structure; each that does not arrive will leave an empty space making the structure incomplete.

Peter goes on to compare/contrast those in Christ with those apart from Jesus, that those who now refuse Him will stumble and fall while we who are in Christ can declare God’s goodness and light.

"9 But you are not like that, for you are a chosen people. You are royal priests, a holy nation, God’s very own possession. As a result, you can show others the goodness of God, for he called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light."                                                                                1 Peter 2:9 NLT

The KJV puts it a bit differently:
"9 But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light…"
1 Peter 2:9 KJV (emphasis added)

As with many things, the English language has undergone many changes over the years.  In today's vernacular, peculiar has a far different meaning than it did in 1611 (much as gay and some other examples I can quickly think of), but peculiar?  Reading in the NLT (or many other translations) shows how as disciples of Jesus, we are called by Him to be different, not peculiar in the modern sense (though some of us can be), but to be set apart from what culture describes as normative. 

"a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession. Peter continues to describe his Christian readers in terms the OT uses only for the ancient nation of Israel. “Chosen,” “royal,” and “holy” describe collectively the nature of the relationship between Christian believers and God. a chosen people. See Isa 43:10, 20–21; see also Eph 1:4 and note. All who believe in Christ—whether Jew or Gentile, regardless of nationality or ethnicity—make up the chosen people. a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession. See Exod 19:5–6. As God’s royal priesthood, all Christians are to be holy and set apart for the Lord’s service as priests were expected to be in the ancient world. Regardless of one’s nationality by birth, Christians, by new birth, form a new nation in the world that is set apart for God (Mark 12:17). This holy nation is “God’s special possession” in a way that the rest of humankind is not. Christians are set apart to declare the praises of God in a world that rejects him, and they are in some times and places despised for it."
NIV Biblical Theology Study Bible
Copyright © 2019 by Zondervan.

So, what does it mean, as the church (the Body, not the building) to be peculiar or set apart?  Peter uses language in his epistle that would have shocked or even enraged ancient Jews as it is the same language applied to God’s chosen people, Israel, and specifically to the priests whose duties separated them from the ordinary Jew.  Such passages as Ex. 19:5-6; Deut. 4:20; 7:6; 14:2; Isa. 43:20-21; and Mal. 3:17 all were, in the original context, thought to be speaking of and to only the Jew.  How is it that Peter is speaking to Gentiles in this way, and what does it mean?

We, as Jesus’ disciples’, are to be different than those apart from Him.  We are not meant to be weird, strange, or odd necessarily (though many think us so), but to reflect to the world around us the wonder of God’s grace and light. 

So, peculiar doesn’t sound so bad; I kind of like it!

Even now, with a proclaimed quarantine and isolation, we are His and must use every ability at our disposal to let His light shine.  Many church families, Crosswinds Church here in Leland, The Bridge Church in Wilmington, and the Chapel Hill Bible Church, have taken their services online and shared them with many who would usually avoid ‘going to church.’  This supposed pandemic has provided His Church with an opportunity for being a witness that is unparalleled since the time of the Caesars.  In strict obedience to Governor Cooper’s mandate, we have been ‘having church’ online (and the plans are to continue broadcasting online even after we have begun meeting together in our building).  This is as it should be as we are called to obey lawful authority unless and until they are telling us to do what is anathema to God.

In The Lord of the Rings, the Return of the King, there is a particular scene that always seems to grab me by the throat. Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin are riding back to the Shire when Gandalf notices that Frodo seems somewhat disconnected from the others. When queried by Gandalf, Frodo’s response is particularly poignant;

“’ Are you in pain, Frodo.”
 
“It is my shoulder. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me.”
 
“Alas! There are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,” said Gandalf.
 
“I fear it may be so with mine,” said Frodo. “There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same, for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?”
 
Gandalf did not answer.’”

 
Gandalf had fought in the same war as Frodo, and so understood the wounds that are often unseen, yet remain deep within those who fought.  Changes that occur within anyone who has seen conflict are little understood by those who never have done so.  It seems to me that often even my beloved wife, Kathy, just doesn’t get it despite the many times I have tried to explain my wounding.  Enduring the unendurable and moving on (“Just get over it already!” is something I have heard) is, at best, an exercise in futility.  Even speaking with other Veterans can be less than helpful as we each have experienced a different part of ‘the elephant’ that is experiencing combat in its various forms.  ‘Seeing the elephant’ is a descriptive phrase first used following the Civil War of those who had fought.

 
“In some military quarters, having "seen the elephant" has been used as shorthand for having experienced combat.”

War and its many facets, affect those who have been through it in many ways. Even those in the same unit can have dramatically different views on what has happened; for those who seek to understand what the other has gone through, is best illustrated by the parable of five blind men discovering an elephant;

“A group of blind men heard that a strange animal, called an elephant, had been brought to the town, but none of them were aware of its shape and form. Out of curiosity, they said: "We must inspect and know it by touch, of which we are capable." So, they sought it out, and when they found it, they groped about it. In the case of the first person, whose hand landed on the trunk, said: "This being is like a thick snake." For another one whose hand reached its ear, it seemed like a kind of fan. As for another person, whose hand was upon its leg, said, the elephant is a pillar-like a tree-trunk. The blind man who placed his hand upon its side said the elephant, "is a wall." Another who felt its tail described it as a rope. The last felt its tusk, stating the elephant is that which is hard, smooth and like a spear.”

For me to have an intelligent conversation with a MARINE who has been through ground combat (or for him to understand my view from inside a submarine), we must first realize that, like the blind men, we have ‘touched’ a different part of the same beast.  However, for the person who has never served…well, that is a different animal altogether. 

As with Frodo, there can be no ‘going back’ to the person we once were or viewing the world from the same eyes.  Hopefully, those who love us will understand and continue to walk with us through life.  My travels through life have shown me that few will remain despite the idiocy I can do as my mind fights with itself.  Through the good and evil, they stay and my heart treasures them above all riches.  My beloved wife, Kathy, is chief among these for she sees (and experiences) the depressive episodes, the rage that can appear without warning, and just wondering if I’ll ever be sane again.  Our faith sustains us through it all (both while I was in prison and since), and Scripture is a constant reminder that Jesus is the “God Who Stays.”

Again, like Frodo, though, it seems that until I leave this life (pictured in his journeying with Bilbo, Gandalf, and the elves to the land across the Western Sea from Middle Earth), my struggles and my desire for my friends to walk with me, will continue.  God’s grace and the real friends that I have found (that God has gifted me with) are a reminder that no matter the struggles and failures, there is a “far country” waiting.

The journey continues…

Have you ever gone down a road or path and then realized after far too long
that at some point you have strayed from what was planned? What began
as a journey of conviction and passion has changed; not suddenly to alert
me to what was happening, but slowly over the years. This continued as I
went on my merry way until I no longer recognized where I was (or who).
Chuck Swindoll (Insight for Living) once remarked that such is the norm for
those who stray from the faith.

When I first surrendered my life to Christ in prison back in 1988, there was a
passion and fervor to “do” all I could for my King. Over time, and with
guidance from many of the teachers I heard on the Bible Broadcasting
Network, God showed me that it was not “doing,” but DONE thanks to the
finished work of Christ. The grace that God extends to all of us (Ephesians
2:8-10) is a GIFT and something that cannot ever be earned by any act or
deed. We are saved from ourselves and our efforts by the completed work of Jesus on the cross; a work that God put an ‘AMEN’ to through the resurrection of His Son. We, as clay in the hand of a potter, vessels in process and that is something I’d forgotten.

What had begun in faith, I sought to complete by my efforts (if ever there
was an unholy trinity, it would be me, myself, and I!). This brought no little
satisfaction on my part as I added one activity after another to my “faith.” A
vibrant and active prayer life where I kept track of requests shared with me
(or that I felt led to pray about without a request) in a series of small
notebooks. As the prayer was answered, I would mark through each, giving
thanks to God for His faithfulness. Over time, it became tedious and
time-consuming as the list of people and items that were on it began to grow ever larger. I had forgotten that it wasn’t Tony who was carrying on this ministry, but the Spirit within me. Trying to do this in my strength doomed my prayer ministry to failure which pleased the enemy to no end.  At some point years later, my prayers consisted of a rote recital of a few things, each changing with various situations I was confronted with or that affected my wife outside.

Another victim of my walk by the flesh was maintaining a pure mind and heart. It is amazing how easy it was to justify lustful thoughts and feeding them through pornography. Once released from prison I discovered online pornography and it seemed any chance of MY keeping pure went out the proverbial window. Misinterpreting the idea of God’s grace, I delved ever deeper into this until such thoughts captured my attention throughout each day. My misery at not being able to keep myself from such only deepened my despair and caused me to wander even more from His path. Nothing “I” could do made a difference long term and I had given up that such would ever change.

I have read, studied myself and followed others in going through the Book of Colossians many times, but today I met Archippus, someone Paul mentions by name in the fourth chapter (4:17).

  “... See that you fulfill the ministry you received in the Lord.” ESV
“... Be sure to carry out the ministry the Lord gave you.” NLT

What had happened to this man that Paul had to enjoin him to get back at it (my own rough paraphrase)? Whatever had happened, this saint of God had fallen away and, while not rejecting the faith that had saved him, had stopped in the work God had called him to do.  Paul had received news of this and choosing not to reject him but to encourage him to press on.  While Pastor Chris spoke on this (and it was not the main point, at least perhaps to everyone else), I could see myself as this man whom the apostle had called out.  We know nothing of what happened to Archippus, whether or not he did return to the yoke God had given him.  Only heaven will reveal that, but as happens many times, the message was not to show what had or hadn't happened with Archippus, but what was going to be my response?

In Stephen Crane's book, The Red Badge of Courage, we see the hero of the story run from battle, receiving a blow to the head from another soldier who was disgusted with his cowardice in the face of the enemy.  Sometime later a friend found him and, thinking that he had been wounded in battle, brought him back to his unit with a bandage on his head.  This young man is given another chance and takes it, becoming the soldier that is so desperately needed in the fight.  That is what Paul was trying to do with Archippus and what God is doing with Tony.  Many years ago I compared my having to go to prison for God to get my attention as a farmer bouncing a heavy club off the head of a recalcitrant mule.  I was that mule and it seems that I too needed a 'red badge of courage' again to return me to the fight.

The journey continues...

On this “Super Bowl Sunday,” many (most?) are gathering at their favorite watering hole, home, or other location to watch a game while overeating and imbibing various beverages.  The amount spent on food and said drinks (whether at home or elsewhere) is probably comparable to the annual budget of some states or smaller countries.  All for a game.  Don’t get me wrong; I love watching such games (I’ve been a Chicago Cubs fan since 1971), but I am flummoxed at the adoration for athletes who play a game.

I looked up the cost of a single ticket to this annual fete’ of football; $6,149.00 plus $300.00 for parking!  Add to this any food purchases made during the game, and you are getting into some serious money for a game!  Fans who arrive without tickets will be paying MUCH more from ticket scalpers; they do so willingly to watch the ‘big game’ regardless of the cost. 

The death of Kobe Bryant (and those with him) in a tragic accident recently seemed to highlight the shift in our nation as to what is newsworthy and what isn’t.  While this man was indeed a great athlete worthy of praise for his efforts on the court and while the manner of his death was heartbreaking, it boggles the mind at the outpouring of angst not only on television and the print media, but billboards (electronic and otherwise) around the city.  “Legend” reads the display with an image of Mr. Bryant.  Dramatic, yes, but why all this attention for someone who played a game?

The same weekend that the news of Mr. Bryant’s death was flashed around the world, other events had transpired that seemed to escape the notice of most of the media.  The report that in the preceding week seven police officers had died in the line of duty and a helicopter crash had killed 12 MARINES and sailors.  All you heard in the “main-stream media” about this was…zip, nada, crickets.  Why is that?  Why are those who play a game viewed as so much more worthy of respect and honor than those who serve to protect our nation at home and abroad?

More of our military are dying by their own hand than being killed in combat; additionally, a noticeable increase in the suicide rate of law enforcement and other first responders has been reported in some areas.  Why is this?  Could it be because the trauma and tragedy these men and women endure daily cause them to question the worth of living in a society that pours adulation on athletes, but ignores (at best) or vilifies those who make this sacrifice? 

Why?

​One of the many cartoons I watched as a kid (probably would again if it were on) involved a Mr. Wizard and his young protege', Tooter, the turtle. Their adventures involved Mr. Wizard sending Tooter into the past to meet various persons and become involved in many a misadventure.  Once in the throes of such a catastrophe, Tooter would yell out, "Help Mr. Wizard!  I don't want to be a 'whatever' anymore!" Tooter would become enamored of some dering do he'd read about and ask Mr. Wizard to enable him to be such (cowboy, pilot, pirate, whatever) to fulfill his idea of life in whatever hero he wanted to become.  Invariably, Tooter would discover his dreams of being whatever would run afoul of reality resulting in his calling out for rescue.

​There is ample evidence of comparison between young Tooter and myself when I recall my adventures (and misadventures) as a youngster acting out many so-called heroic encounters with all manner of imaginary beings.  From Flash Gordon to Sgt. Rock, as well as a myriad of other heroes, I would be a hero saving humanity from whatever scourge or enemy my vivid imagination could conjure up.  These imaginary adventures were mostly harmless, and it amazed me, looking back, how much time I spent doing such things.  One time some friends and my two brothers built a raft (ala Huckleberry Finn) out of some pallets, two discarded fuel tanks from an aircraft junkyard at MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) Cherry Point, NC.  We journeyed in our raft up and down Slocum Creek, which bordered the housing development where we lived.  Such trips usually were an all-day affair; there was something about lazing away a hot summer day doing nothing but poling our raft up and down this one section of Slocum Creek, imagining all manner of brave exploits.  Again, mostly harmless until one day, we allowed the current to capture our raft and take us to a point where the poles we had could no longer reach the bottom.  At that point, we were out of control and drifting slowly and inexorably toward the Neuse River.
We thought it just another neat way to further our experiences as young heroes, little realizing that once out of Slocum Creek and into the current of the Neuse River, our next stop could have been the Atlantic Ocean.  To say that our craft was not seaworthy is an understatement, ignorance being bliss we were enjoying ourselves.

​There is ample evidence of comparison between young Tooter and myself when I recall my adventures (and misadventures) as a youngster acting out many so-called heroic encounters with all manner of imaginary beings.  From Flash Gordon to Sgt. Rock, as well as a myriad of other heroes, I would be a hero saving humanity from whatever scourge or enemy my vivid imagination could conjure up.  These imaginary adventures were mostly harmless, and it amazed me, looking back, how much time I spent doing such things.  One time some friends and my two brothers built a raft (ala Huckleberry Finn) out of some pallets, two discarded fuel tanks from an aircraft junkyard at MCAS (Marine Corps Air Station) Cherry Point, NC.  We journeyed in our raft up and down Slocum Creek, which bordered the housing development where we lived.  Such trips usually were an all-day affair; there was something about lazing away a hot summer day doing nothing but poling our raft up and down this one section of Slocum Creek, imagining all manner of brave exploits.  Again, mostly harmless until one day, we allowed the current to capture our raft and take us to a point where the poles we had could no longer reach the bottom.  At that point, we were out of control and drifting slowly and inexorably toward the Neuse River.
We thought it just another neat way to further our experiences as young heroes, little realizing that once out of Slocum Creek and into the current of the Neuse River, our next stop could have been the Atlantic Ocean.  To say that our craft was not seaworthy is an understatement, ignorance being bliss we were enjoying ourselves.

​The rest of my life up until March 6, 1988, remained the same as I blithely sailed along down the river of life, not realizing I needed rescuing most urgently.  When I left the Navy at the behest of my first wife, I initially went to NC State University in the Nuclear Engineering program there.  I discovered through interviewing at various power plants located in Virginia, North, and South Carolina that these plants were NOT built or run to the standards that I'd been used to while a nuclear-trained electrician in submarines.  As I had been enjoying my volunteer activity as an EMT (Emergency Medical Technician), the choice made was to change majors and schools, transferring to UNC and working on a major in nursing instead.  Concurrent with that, I also earned my paramedic license, something which, together with working as an RN in emergency departments, fed into my desire to be heroic.  As it turned out, my talent to remain calm in stressful situations and to assess and treat patients, did much to advance me in the eyes of superiors wherever I worked.  I was excellent at my job; the trouble was that I knew it.

The years passed, and my pride in my efforts continued to build; me, myself and I are as unholy as any three things can be.  One day, that pride led me to a decision that would forever change my life, ending my career as an RN and paramedic and sending me to prison for almost 24 years (23 years, seven months, and 25 days to be exact).  As when on the raft floating down the Slocum Creek, my life was floating downstream (like any dead fish), headed for destruction.  To many, that destruction was my going to prison; most of my so-called friends abandoned me when this happened, and I found myself at Central Prison in Raleigh, NC, without hope of ever getting out.

​In such an environment, I came to realize that this was the place for me. Pride had led me to believe my dreams were real and that all that "I" had accomplished was because of my abilities.  Silly, but no less stupid than my fantasies as a youngster.  In this dark, dangerous place where hope was dead, and existence was more survive than thrive, I had nowhere to turn to for help.  An invitation to attend the weekly worship service in the chapel was welcomed, not for any recognition on my part of my need, but to get out of the crowding for a time.  The next week I attended the service again (same reason, the overcrowding in the processing dormitory was beyond imagining), but something unexpected happened to me.  That "...still, small voice..." whispered my name, and I surrendered to His call.

​My journey of faith has been like the screen of an oscilloscope, no straight line, but a confusing multi-directional squiggle that lacked definition.  Even today, with the areas in which struggle goes on, failure is a companion that, while I may not embrace, I am all too familiar.  Thankfully, God does not leave me there.  To lose my career that was satisfying and rewarding for a life of unemployment (were it not for my wife remaining with me and welcoming me into her home when I was released, I would be homeless), but I can go on because of Whose I am.  One book I read while in prison impacted me greatly, and the words from the author continue to reverberate in my heart.

​Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: "Bless You, Prison!""Solzhenitsyn in the 1950s at the Kazakh prison camp that inspired 'A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.'"
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: It was granted to me to carry away from my prison years on my bent back, which nearly broke beneath its load, this essential experience: how a human being becomes evil and how good.
In the intoxication of youthful successes, I had felt myself to be infallible, and I was, therefore, cruel.
In the surfeit of power, I was a murderer and an oppressor.
In my most evil moments, I was convinced that I was doing good, and I was well supplied with systematic arguments.
It was only when I lay there on rotting prison straw that I sensed within myself the first stirrings of good.
Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart—and through all human hearts. . . .
That is why I turn back to the years of my imprisonment and say, sometimes to the astonishment of those about me:
"Bless you, prison!"
I . . . have served enough time there.
I nourished my soul there, and I say without hesitation: "Bless you, prison, for having been in my life!"
—Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago: 1918-1956, Volume 2, pp. 615-617.

The time in prison and the loss of career and respect is a paltry price to pay for an eternity with my King.  I'm not Home yet, and I continue to fail my King, but one thing I do...I press on.

The journey continues...

I’m into the seventh week of the class, “Perspectives on the World Christian Movement” and to say that it has been messing with a lot of my preconceptions and ideas is putting it mildly.  Previous to this course I was comfortable (or as I heard tonight, “settled” into complacency) in my walk with Christ.  Now…

In many ways part of what is happening has to do with my priorities as well as what “I” want to do with what remains of my life.  Kathy (my wife) is planning on retiring in a few months and while our income will be adequate for some of our plans (travel to Israel is one dream), a lot of what we’ve discussed seems selfish when looking at it with an eternal perspective.  Damn it, I was happy just floating along as I had been previously.  Now…

Before taking this class I ‘knew’ much of what was happening worldwide in missions and the need for missionaries to go as well as others to support them.  Yeah, putting my share in the kitty at The Bridge Church was a part of all that, but the idea of my going somewhere seemed ludicrous and unnecessary.  Who would want a nearly 70-year-old man with a capital felony record as a missionary?  So, sitting in our comfortable home and doing odd things about the community seemed to be ‘my part’ in reaching the world for Christ.  Now…

Every week God shows me new insights into what He has done and is now doing around the world and even here in Wilmington.  Ideas of how I can help here and now seem to abound lately as well as my emotions being closer to the surface than ever before.  My heart breaks for the homeless in the area as we prepared for yet another hurricane; how will they survive or what can be done to support them?  I’d never really thought like that before (when Florence hit us last year, such thoughts never entered my mind).  Now…

My life before this course has been wrapped up in computer games, occasional study in the Word (not much, actually), just the usual nonsense that kept my focus on me, myself and I (as much an unholy trinity if ever there was one!).  I battled depression and often had no desire to do anything other than watch television, play computer games and just vegetate.  I’d fooled myself into thinking that the chores, doing other ‘stuff’ could wait for tomorrow; that after all I’d been through, as the commercial once put it, “you deserve a break today.”  My ‘break’ seemed to extend to one day, one week, one month after another.  Now…

Speaking with Barbara Yandell tonight after class I did ask if there was a future or use for me as a missionary to the Muslims.  What she said kind of rattled me; that with training God could use me here and now in the city of Wilmington reaching out to Muslim men who were suffering from PTSD from the experiences they’d suffered in their native lands that drove them to America.  Me, speak to those whose culture was so antithetical to mine, who screamed, “Death to America!” on television and celebrated on 9/11.  I could never do anything to such other than maybe a half-hearted prayer they be saved.  Never would I actually reach out to them.  It was never even a consideration.  Now…

I’ve had several people through the years since my release from prison speak to how much I remind them of Joseph whose life is shared in Genesis 38 and following. Both of us spent time in prison, though in my case not because I was wrongly accused or convicted. No, other than some prison time, there is little to no comparison between Joseph and me.

“Then it happened, in the spring, at the time when kings go out to battle, that David sent Joab and his servants with him and all Israel, and they destroyed the sons of Ammon and besieged Rabbah. But David stayed at Jerusalem.”
                                                                                                                                                            2 Samuel 11:1 NASB (emphasis added)

Note that instead of going with Israel, leading his people into war as a king should, David remained in Jerusalem. No big deal, right?

“Now when evening came David arose from his bed and walked around on the roof of the king’s house, and from the roof he saw a woman bathing; and the woman was very beautiful in appearance. So David sent and inquired about the woman. And one said, ‘Is this not Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?’”
                                                                                                                                                                Samuel 11:2,3 NASB (emphasis added)

Even if David was only out there to enjoy the air and perhaps composing a new worship song, once his eye just happened to pass over and see Bathsheba bathing on the roof of the home she shared with Uriah, all thoughts of praise to God disappeared! Even when his servants pointed out to him that she was one of faithful soldier’s wife, even then he summoned her to the palace.

For myself, idleness and the all-too-readily available pornography (or even the explosion of salacious material in ads or on television) led my heart from my King over and over. This is a war which continues to defy my most fervent prayers and the seed for this goes all the way back to when I was in third grade, living outside Virginia Beach, VA. Hilltop Manor was a nice neighborhood in which my Dad and Mom bought a home for us to live in while Dad was stationed at Oceana Naval Air Station and on the U.S.S. Forrestal, CVA-59. Lots of woods surrounded this development and many of us kids (including my two brothers and I) kept ourselves busy becoming all manner of heroes in our imaginations.

One day my Dad asked me to go to our next-door neighbor’s house to see if he was finished with a tool Dad had lent him. I rang their doorbell, and when his wife told me he was out in his tool shed off the carport, I ran out to that and when I noticed he was there stepped to the door. What met my eyes, much as David’s) was a panoply of what to this 8-year old boy, the most beautiful women in the world, all without clothes (or clothes artfully draped without covering anything). I am not sure how long I stood there mouth agape until the neighbor noticed me. He did manage to get me to tell him why I was there and handed me the tool to return to my Dad. Those images remain with me to this day, and the far too many that I’ve viewed since then.

“Covenant Eyes” is an excellent piece of software that has enabled me at least to not add to the images already in my brain. Sadly, however, when my own inactivity gives me opportunity, I too take a walk and find myself replaying those images. As with David and so many before and after him have discovered, eyes are indeed the window to the soul. For man, eyes seem to be able to bypass the roadblocks to sin that the Spirit can erect within our hearts. Successes in this battle do come, thankfully even with an increasing frequency, but it is a war that will continue until I leave this jar of clay.

I ask for your prayers for myself as well as for all the ‘David’s’ you know.

There are times when no matter how mature we think we are in our walk with Christ, words spoken that cause harm and grief to another happen and we are left to wonder from where such had come.  Words that were not expressed in anger or overt discrimination, but did in hindsight, convey a message that is all too common in society throughout the history of the world where one culture or ethnicity considers another less than itself.  Racism is an ugly word and one that has been bandied about recently for political gain by far too many; it is something that all who are human struggle against, yes even those in Christ.

Jonah was a man called as a prophet of God and that gives me hope.  Why him, you may wonder?  Pastor Swindoll of Insight for Living has been teaching through that book in the Old Testament and has not pulled any punches about this less than charming and likeable Jew.  Jonah was a man who was called to go and preach a message to a people he HATED and he went in the reverse direction in direct disobedience of God’s command!  God said to go East to Ninevah and Jonah went West, going down to Joppa to find a ship bound as far as he could get from there as he could get by going further West to Tarshish (modern day Spain).  Finding himself such a ship, he goes on board and goes down into the hold and goes to sleep, figuring his troubles are over.

Jonah continues his downward spiral, finally landing within the belly of a great fish that God prepared for his racist prophet who stewed in this fishes juices (and his own) for three days before repenting.  At this point the fish apparently had all of Jonah he could stomach and landed this racist prophet on the beach where he received the same command from God a second time.  This time he obeyed…sort of.  It was a message of destruction for his hated enemies after all; one he must have loved to deliver.  So Jonah delivers the message then camps out to the east of the city to await the promised destruction…

You all know the story; from the king to the lowliest peasant a fear of the judgement of God leads to repentance and a turning away from the evil that characterized this people.  Jonah was livid!  The most successful evangelist and prophet in history and he was upset because although he had obeyed God, his heart just wasn’t in it.  He still was a racist; he still hated the Ninevites. 

What is the take away from a study of this book of the Old Testament?  How are we to apply to our lives such a story?  Thinking about this after listening to Pastor Swindoll and that “…still, small voice…” there are several things that come to mind:
 

1. Jonah tried to run away from God, to avoid the plan that God had for him to do.  He who holds the universe in his hands…impossible, yet this prophet tried to flee from God!  Ridiculous, yet how often have we done the same?  How often have I run from the one who has called to me over and over as he sent his hound on my trail throughout my life?  Even once I had surrendered, time and again I have sought to turn away to my own way…just like Jonah.
2. Jonah surrenders (sort of?) in the belly of the fish.  He does recognize his plight, that there is no one that can save him from death.  In 1987 I was indicted and subsequently convicted for murder, sentenced to life in prison and thus entering my own ‘great fish’ wherein I expected to spend the rest of my life.  Raised in the Catholic church I had little to no exposure to Scripture other than a brief time when I went to the Chapel Hill Bible Church while attending UNC.  Still, my heart was dark and I remember looking up at the outside wall of Central Prison that cold, sleeting February night when I arrived and thought, “This is where I belong.”
3. God’s word or call comes a second time to Jonah and this time he obeys…sort of.  It is a word of judgement against Ninevah and that suits this racist prophet very much;“Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!”   (Jonah 3:4 ESV)  In my case my being within prison walls was as if Jonah had suddenly been transformed into becoming an Ninevite.  All my life I had been one of the ‘good’ guys; this had been reinforced when working as a paramedic; the old line from the TV series Beretta came back to haunt me over and over, “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”  Here I was, in Ninevah though a Jew (as it were).  The first weeks are now a blur; it wasn’t until someone invited me to the weekly worship service in the chapel that anything really changed (honestly I went to escape the crowding in the dormitory…picture the Chicago stock yard).  The first week, nothing much happened; the second Sunday, Chaplain Eugene Wigelsworth was preaching (to this day I have no idea what he said, only that a ‘feeling’ that at the end of his sermon it was ‘now or never.’ 
4. So, Jonah obeys and preaches the sermon (gleefully no doubt), then sets up outside the eastern part of the city to await the destruction to come.  BUT GOD…. His plan was very different from what Jonah was hoping for; instead of death, there came life to the Ninevites.  Jonah’s self-pity and anger at God reflects how his heart was NOT changed, but what about my heart?
   

We all must set a watch over our lips (as Scripture enjoins us), especially in these turbulent times.  Offense, even when not intended, is difficult to overcome and impossible to forget.  It will taint a relationship and can harm or destroy fellowship within a church community.   Please, let our words bring healing and not hurt. 

As my brain s-l-o-w-l-y recovers from the trauma of the surgery of last week (as I write this, 1 week ago I was still in the OR and would be for several hours for the initial stage of the DBS surgery last [the 12th of February]), some tasks become easier.  The Bridge Church, where Kathy and I worship, had listed a position, Pastor of Discipleship, and I was thinking of applying when the surgery intervened and pretty much shut down my ability to do much but mumble and shuffle.      I knew my time was limited and had prayed about it and expressed my interest; the rest was up to the Great Physician and whether he knew this was a position for me for now.

Today, February 19th, I felt enough ‘connections’ had been made in my brain that I could proceed with the application and so had gathered (electronically) my resume, references and a letter of intent (painstakingly typed out and corrected) and had saved all to a file to download once I arrived at The Bridge Church.  As I am still not able to drive, Kathy drove (she did not know about my preparations, only thought we were going to drop in to chat about the position.

We entered the office, and I asked about the feasibility of applying only to be told (very gently!) that because the applicant pool had been fill, the position was no longer listed.

Now I’ll be honest, I did feel disappointment.  It was a lot of work for this dinged brain of mine to put all that together (especially on my phone!) but overriding that was a wash of RELIEF!  I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a point man, but as I told Christina, I DO look forward to ‘holding the towel’ or helping in any fashion whomever the elders of The Bridge Church selects for this position.  My prayers will be with them in the coming weeks as the process moves forward.

From the beginning of my walk with Christ, even while in prison, I have felt my place was in a supporting role, not necessarily in leadership.  Over and over again this has been emphasized in a variety of ways, and this seems to have confirmed it.  I love discipling others younger in the faith, but not as THE point man for the Community.  My ‘thing’ in the parking lot (once I get over my Attilla the Hun act with help from my so-called Padawan Tyler[ a work in progress that perhaps the scrambling of brain cells will help?}) has helped me to really enjoy welcoming folks to The Bridge Church.  In a small way, through this service, God enables me to be a bridge to The Bridge Church and no matter the weather I hope I can reflect His Light and Love to all even as I ask them to park somewhere else.

Servant; as my King washed the apostle's feet, can I do less?  I love my calling as a doulos.
 
The journey continues…

Where do I fit?

Is there a place for me where the talents that God has given me can be of use to the local church as well as the community?

How do I discover where that place is?

I thought that with the position at Coastal Horizons, all the above had been answered.  It seemed a perfect fit and I rejoiced that the opportunities for witnessing combined with serving a population that was often treated as modern-day lepers was a calling from heaven.  My first few weeks were rough ones as my insecurity (am I the only one who is lost in the maze of acronyms and language everyone else uses so casually?) and fear had me almost pushing many (most?) of those there away from me.  It was hard for me to trust anyone or to depend on what I was told; sadly, I began identifying with the clients more than my co-workers.

After several counseling sessions with supervisor staff over this, it seemed that my focus was shifting.  One client however seemed rather adept at getting inside my head and managed to get me to do almost anything she wanted to the detriment of the other clients.  Amazingly, I would justify it in different ways, but really there was no justifying it.  The end result was that I was fired for cause and, at age 67, found myself unemployed with little to no prospects.

As with throwing away a career as a nurse and paramedic; having done the same with a possible career with Coastal Horizons, I really had no idea what to do or where to look.  When The Bridge Church announced they were looking for a Pastor for Discipleship I did, for a time, think about that.  Perhaps were I ten years younger that would be a possibility, but hopefully there may be something else I can do to help whoever is selected to fill that role?

At this point I just am not sure.  With the surgery coming up and the uncertainty of that (yeah, having holes drilled in my skull isn’t something I am looking forward to, or wires threaded into my thalamus for that matter…wonder if I’ll be able to pick up any radio stations?).  This specific procedure has been done hundreds of time with few incidents, but there is Mr. Murphy and his bloody Laws.

That is part of it, isn’t it?  Perhaps this uncertainty is wondering if there will be a need to be concerned about needing to find something to do after February 12th…

As with this world and the craziness that seems to have taken control of it, the only real comfort I can find is that my King is still on His throne.  Just so, whatever happens on February 12th (or any other day), I am his child and, as Moses put it so well;

“The eternal God is your dwelling place,
And underneath are the everlasting arms.”
                                    Deuteronomy33:27

The journey continues...