“The congregation thought this was a great idea. They went ahead and chose Stephen, a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit.”

“Stephen, brimming with God’s grace and energy, was doing wonderful things among the people, unmistakable signs that God was among them. But then some men from the meeting place whose membership was made up of freed slaves, Cyrenes, Alexandrians and some others from Cilicia and Asia, went up against him trying to argue him down.” (Acts 6:5,8-9)

The disciples needed to choose a group of people for a special work among the poor. So the record shows they chose a man named Stephen, and he was described thusly: a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit.

That kind of description would seem to mean that Stephen would be well-respected. And he was. He did mighty deeds. Whatever he did was a sign God was present, but it was his kind of faith that also led him into trouble - and eventually, death by stoning.

What does a man full of faith in the 21st century look like? What do you see when you see ‘faith’? What kind of effect does it have on the people around? I ask this, because “faith” is not something the world prides itself for having. A man of attention, we can understand. Of status, success, of leadership, of accomplishments, I can see. Of faith? What does that look like?

I remember when Tim once shared on faith. How it’s like a ledge. It’s sure. Solid. Will stand against all pressure. But it’s only this wide. Men of faith often look like trapeze artists on a narrow beam. You’d think they’d fall off. But they trust that if they just keep walking, they will reach the other side.

I wonder what I’d look like if I was full of faith. I would think that means a life of miracles at every corner, such bravery, such belief in the impossible. How people would admire such faith. That it’d be an inspiration to many.

But Stephen’s faith didn’t work that way. It led him down a path of jealousy, deceit and eventually, persecution and death. It led him to a dangerous place, and yet at that moment, he never wavered. He stayed the course. He walked, until he was done.

The idea that faith leads me to dangerous places is something altogether different. Out of my comfort zone, where life is easy, where I’m pleasing everyone, where it’s safe. Faith, however, pushes me into unfamiliar territory. A place where others cannot see a Spirit at work within. A place so contrary and even offensive to how the normal culture operates. It challenges the status quo, challenges the core of people’s beliefs until they lash out at this Spirit that calls them to a bigger, different way of living.

Is that the kind of faith I seek? I don’t think so. What’s in it for me? A faith that doesn’t draw fame and glory, but earns scoffing? I see why this is so rare in our world today. Why my life lacks it so much. A faith that brings death. Death to self. Death of my name. Death to legacy and ambitions. It’s too scary, too audacious a road to walk.

But the other option is to join the rabble of slaves. Those who would rather chain themselves to the armchair, seeking to argue and point out faults. The slaves who are comfortable, love the world they’ve created. And who never see wonderful things that prove to be unmistakable signs of our God, our Creator, a Spirit that’s so unique, potent, life-breathing, and holy.

I realise so much of what I do is to maintain the status quo in my life. Nothing too scary, because who wants to taste failure again? But if I live like that, I’m a slave. And God’s presence can never be truly seen in my life.

Faith is dangerous. Faith moves us out of what we like, what we’re comfortable with. But faith re-creates. It carves a space where a divine intervention can take place. It shakes my world as I know it, but builds a world that I might have never seen or tasted. A world of His presence.

I can only ask that God leads me by the hand, and understands my fears. My fear of rejection by others, that my name will be torn. I am not willing. But neither do I want to live in captivity.

Oh Father, I’m torn. I like safety. The walls I build up for myself. But your faith is unlike any other. Again and again and again, you break down walls and invade my privacy, and pull me up to something new. Because you believe.

I thank you Father, for even in my stubbornness, my addictions, your faith in me is unshakeable. I need to learn from You. Teach me faith. A small measure of it, day by day, ‘til I learn to live with a faith that puts me in danger.

Grant me courage and trust. Amen.

“See what I’ve given you? Safe passage as you walk on snakes and scorpions, and protection from every assault of the Enemy. No one can put a hand on you … At that, Jesus rejoiced, exuberant in the Holy Spirit. “I thank You, Father, Master of heaven and earth, that you hid these things from the know-it-alls and showed them to these innocent newcomers.” (Luke 10:19,21)

Seventy disciples of ordinary stature were chosen and sent out. Sent out to preach good news, heal the sick, and perform miracles if necessary. They came back en-couraged, full of testimonies of seeing evil fall from its perch. And Jesus rejoiced in the power of their ordinariness.

Today is my birthday. I rejoice in the encouragements of those around me, those so dear. I’m blessed. Through ups and downs, I’m blessed. In the private moments or public spaces, I’m blessed. Yet, there is a phrase that’s resonating in my heart, causing it to churn and barrel in a mixture of excitement, and yet fear.

What if?

What if I lived life knowing I’m safe, protected?

What if I know, with clarity and certainty, that God was my refuge, and nothing, no one, not voices or snickering or my own iniquities, could take that away from me?

What if I could trample on snakes and scorpions?

What if I walked through every day knowing the enemies of fame, glory, praises of men, desires of the flesh, lust of the eyes, pride of life, would not harm me?

What if I had that kind of freedom?

What could I do?

Who could I be?

How different would every day be?

What if?

The crux of this is that it’s easy to dismiss. Because who am I but a child struggling to move from the toys I play with to bigger things. A man with holes, and who fills it with so many temporal pursuits, who stumbles again and again. Why get on a train of the ‘what if’s if you never believe you could reach its destination?

But Jesus looks at my ordinariness, looks to the heavens, and exclaims, “I thank You Father, for revealing your kingdom not to the know-it-alls, the people who have it all together, the well-mannered or self-assured, but to newborns, babies, children.” These are the ones Jesus is fond of. The ordinary ones who step out and see extraordinary things. Because their faith is so radically out of place in a world of doubt and jadedness. Because they ask, “What if?” and actually dedicate their hearts, minds and strength to answering those questions.

Make no mistake: this is scary shit. All manners of arrows point at me, seeking to bring me down at the wounds I know so well. The shame over repeated failures. The belief that I can do it, be better.

But that’s courage, isn’t it Father? When I let the what ifs of life propel me into action, change my way of thinking and living. And if I fail? I think the beauty of failure is that even in failure, God protects me. Even failure has no hold. Even failure cannot stop the heart from seeking love, hope, faith. That’s when the assaults will hurt, will sting, but never destroy or separate. These are the children of God, who step into the world like they’re born again, free from cynicism, free from the “I’ve seen that, done that” spirit, who look at life and those around with a fresh, wide-eyed wonder. Who look at themselves, at my world and ask:

“What if God actually works, in me and through me?”

And the heavens rejoice. The children are free.

Oh Father, I thank you, for you are always with me. I am yours. Your child.

What if I listened to You? Teach me to hear your Spirit. To step on scorpions, to be born again.

Amen.

“By this time a lot of men and women of doubtful reputation were hanging around Jesus, listening intently. The Pharisees and religious scholars were not pleased, not pleased at all. They growled, “He takes sinners and eats meals with them, treating them like old friends.” Their grumbling triggered this story. “Suppose one of you had a hundred sheep and lost one. Wouldn’t you leave the 99 in the wilderness and go after the lost one until you found it? When found, you can be sure you would put it across your shoulder, rejoicing, and when you got home, call in your friends and neighbours, saying, “Celebrate with me! I’ve found my lost sheep!” (Luke 15:1-6)

The sinners and the saint, surrounded by men who knew religion inside out. How could a man who called himself the divine, the Saviour, be fraternizing with people of doubtful reputation? Jesus showed how differently he thought from them by illustrating how much he loves one. One lost sheep, one lost coin, one prodigal son.

It’s not easy to understand Jesus’ point here. Because it seems so far removed from what I would do. From Jesus’ point of view, one little lost sheep would prompt a desperate search, and an even more extravagant, excessive party. One lost coin prompts an entire search and upheaval of the home, and an incredible exclamation of joy to people who probably think, “It’s just a coin.”

How extravagant and excessive God’s love is. Over one, he would fight and search the terrains, to rediscover and bring that one home. It has no limits, really. Where even doubtful reputations, or the snide remarks of those who think it’s a waste of time, are not enough to deter God from pouring out faithhopelove into his rescue mission of his beloved.

What does this mean for me? What does this mean in the moments when I’m lost, when I wander, when I hide in the darkest of closets, wondering if anyone sees me? When life in the urban jungle treats people like commodities, and used ‘til they’re squeezed dry, valued for what they bring to the table, much like sheep and coins in those days. It’s easy, so easy, to get lost. To get lost in the pursuit of happiness, the pursuit of all things we desperately want to make us whole, to heal the pangs of loneliness and aches and dreams of a better tomorrow. Then before I know it, I’m not sure where I am in the first place. So far from a place my heart can call home.

Yet, this is the truth about God: he seeks and saves the lost. And He will not stop. And when we are found with Him, He rejoices. Oh, He exults, yelps, gives thanks, throws and celebrates our lives like nothing before or nothing after. This is the excessive love of God that defies logic and belief.

I know what I lose my heart to. I know where and when I get caught up in trite things. I know when I’m at my most unpleasant, treat people like dirt, fall into lust, think success is built on the accolades of other. Oh, but in those moments, God sits down and says, “Let’s eat.” Let’s dine. Let’s chat. Many times once, you were lost. But now, you are found.

Oh Father, my heart is overwhelmed by your unfathomable love and faith. Such is your love, that you’ll always come near, even if I’m a sinner blackened by sin.

Let’s dine Father. Pull me aside when I am wandering too far. Let your love take me home, next to you.

Amen.