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“Tell the Israelites, each and every Israelite and foreigner in Israel who gives his child to the god Molech must be put to death. The community must kill him by stoning… I will resolutely reject that man and his family, and him and all who join him in prostituting themselves in the rituals of the god Molech.”

“I am God who makes you holy and brought you out of Egypt to be Your God. I am God.” (Leviticus 20:1,5; 22:32-33)

God laid some extremely harsh laws for the Israelites. And amongst the litany of commands, the punishment for a lot of them was death. God seemed bent on reminding the Israelites that they were chosen people, set aside. They were not to be defiled. They were to listen to His every word. And continually, God always reminded them that it was He who brought them out of Egypt.

What was Egypt? Egypt was the place where God’s children were slaves. They were in chains. They served rulers and systems that never saw them as God’s chosen people, but only as tools to build a greater kingdom. It was God who delievered them from captivity, through divine intervention.

But why the need to always remind his children that they once came from Egypt? Because it was easy to forget. Because life in the wilderness, trekking and following and learning and relearning who their Maker and “God” is, was difficult. And many times, it seemed that being a slave in Egtpy was never as bad as it might have been.

I am an Israelite. This walk with God is complicated. It’s not easy, because I’m not easy. It’s a narrow walk, and whether I like it or not, following Christ means I’m following a different Spirit. One that calls me to leave behind false idols and Gods, that asks me to forsake the lust of the flesh, pride of life, love for the world. It calls me to put to death all manner of independence and self-centred living, one with no care or concern for others. To leave behind Egypt, the place of slavery, for a land of freedom.

But I forget. I love Egypt. I love how it can at times fill that empty space in my heart. I love how short-term pleasures, even if only for a split-second, seem worthy and mildly pleasurable. The life of a spiritual pilgrim, wandering in the desert, can feel so unnecessary, because who am I kidding? Where is God? When will 40 years finally reach a destination?

It does feel, many times, I’m fighting a losing battle. I live in a world that resolutely comes after any spirit that seeks faith, hope, love. My desires rule over me. I can be so selfish. I can feel so unconnected to who God is. And it can be lonely. Why walk? Why make the pilgrimage?

I don’t know. I guess one reason is that I’m not an Egyptian. I’m his. I’m his son. And no matter how many times I fall, how many times I taste and feel empathy to the systems of the world I live in, the world is not my father. I don’t belong in Egypt. So I guess it’s understandable that this journey is punctuated by moments of loss, that I’ll feel like an alien, that loneliness dots the landscape. I hate it. I may not deal well with it. But I understand it. Egypt is not my home. I belong in the wilderness.

My prayer is that in moments I forget whose I am, God will remind me again and again that he is the One who brought me out of Egypt. That I don’t belong here. And that faith, hope, love will always be with me as I make the pilgrimage through hills and valleys.

Father, you’re here. In my moments of weakness, you’re here. I’m not perfect. I’m riddled with fears. I want control. But I’m also yours. That makes all the difference.

Keep reminding me you brought me out and are bringing me out daily, from slavery. Give me courage to destroy the idols. To walk with you. Amen.

“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.

* I like to begin every year with a word/phrase that somehow rings in my heart, and sets the tone for the days and months ahead. In 2010, the phrase was “a year of gifts”. In 2011, it was “a year of remembrance”. These words serve as an anchor, and has become a practice I’ve really cherished every new year.

“The two of them, the Man and his Wife, were naked, but they felt no shame.”

“And Mary said, “Yes, I see it all now: I’m the Lord’s maid, ready to serve. Let it be with me just as you say … God took one good look at me, and look what happens - I’m the most fortunate woman on Earth! What God has done for me will never be forgotten.” (Genesis 2:25; Luke 1: 38, 48)

Mary, the humble, non-descript no-name, was visited by an angel. She’s told news that would shake her to her core: she would carry the baby Jesus, the divine in her womb. And as fearful and confused as she may have been, her response was: I believe. Let it be as you said. I’m here. And available.

Such was her response to the unexpected. Such was her heart, open to possibilities, as incredible and illogical and downright silly it sounds. Such was her faith that became the bridge between what is, and what is to come.

I look back at 2011, on the cusp of a new year. It was truly a year of remembrance - against all odds, and amidst all aches and longings and trials and triumphs and busyness, it was a fight to remember. To remember who I am as a Son and Child, to remember that friends around me are walking the same journey of faithhopelove, to remember the One who loves furiously and forevermore. It was tough. Very painful. But there is a sense of this presence beside, of a reassurance He’s there. That’s something I’m so grateful for. That he never leaves or forsakes. Not in the light. Not in the dark.

But what of 2012? What of the days ahead, the events to come? What of the surprises in store, wanted and unwarranted? What will be called forth from me above and beyond what I imagine I have? What of the new page?

For the last few days, the word “courage” has been resonating deep within. The word is powerful, speaking to the core of who we are as beings. The word, after all, comes from the same word as “heart”, and literally means “to have heart”, and maybe there’s a sense that God is asking me: put your heart on the line. Give it freely, without reservation, brave, in whatever condition.

And this scares me. For to have courage is to know nakedness. To be heart-full is to stand, naked, warts and all, in front of God and others, and let shame wash away. It’s to be intimately familiar with all I am not and don’t have - my ugliness, my pride, my defenses torn down and exposed - and learn to be okay with it. That’s frightful. Because who knows the situations when your nakedness will be called upon, when you’re seen by all? Will there be love, grace, by the One who knows me, and by those around?

I don’t fully understand how this word will be unpacked as the days and months of 2012 move along. I don’t know if I will have courage. I don’t know that when the times come for me to step forward, fear-full, and I have put my heart on the line, whether I will respond like Mary. But like Mary, God doesn’t see my accomplishments, my name, and is no respecter of reputations or labels. He just believes in my heart, in my core. He just speaks, allowing the power of His words to strip me bare, and change my world. He just lets love reign like a banner over me.

Take courage.
Stand naked.
Give all of your heart.
To me.
And to others.
And things will happen.
That you never thought possible.

Father, as I start the first day of 2012, I thank you for all you’ve done, and all you are. I love you Father. You’ve been so good. Thank you.

Lord, teach me courage. Teach me to be heart-full, to live with the freedom of a child who can give all his heart, and not be worried. In the face of my fears, in the moments of nakedness, always grant me the grace to take the next steps.

Let it be Father. As you have said.

Amen.

“Jesus heard that they had thrown him out, and went and found him. He asked him, “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” The man said, “Point him out to me, sir, so that I can believe in him.” So Jesus said, “You’re looking right at him. Don’t you recognise my voice?” “Master, I believe,” the man said, and worshipped him. Jesus then said, “I came into the world to bring everything into the clear light of day, making all the distinctions clear, so that those who have never seen will see, and those who made a great pretense of seeing will be exposed as blind.” (John 9:35-39)

Jesus had just healed a man born blind. By merely rubbing spit into dirt, and laying it on the man’s eyes, he could see. And yet, in the face of a miracle, people questioned the man. The Pharisees were indignant that Jesus broke the rules and worked on the Sabbath. Others wondered why Jesus would heal a beggar. Even his own parents wanted nothing to do with their son. Yet, the son echoed all he knew in the chambers of his heart - something transformational had taken place. He was blind, and now he saw. And even after he was called names and thrown out to the streets, he knew something had happened. He could see. He was made whole.

Jesus confounded expectations. He broke long-established Jewish rules, seemed to pick the most unlikely of candidates for healing. It’s fascinating, people’s reaction to his work. Many contented themselves with words of doubt, more interested that Jesus should fit into their box of what a Savior looked like. Others could care less, believed, and worshipped. The blind saw. The lame walked. And the critics carried on.

Sometimes, I wonder what God’s work in my life looks like. On the surface, I wonder if He’s working at all. I catch myself with those same Pharisical expectations - a Saviour who will wipe away all my warts and flaws, imbue me with a faith and a cape to fight back all comers. Instead, here I am, my heart struggling to make sense of the world around, prone to loneliness, self-pity, longing to find a love and courage that’s stronger than the storms, that would last.

I look back at 2011, and it would seem God has worked very little in me. Am I changing the world? Am I at peace, free? Am I connected to a Spirit of hope, a light that shines in the darkest of days? It would seem, more often that not, no. It’s been a hard year, no doubt. Hard to see myself fail at the things I want to succeed in the most. Hard to see others around me fail too.

And yet, God is working. He’s working without shouting from the clouds. He works to open my eyes - to see his wonder, to see my weaknesses, to believe once again. It’s not a work that is immediately recognised. Indeed, most would look at it and scoff. Jesus doesn’t work in that way, c’mon. But what’s important is that once I was blind. And now I see.

I want that. I’m tired of trying to impress others. I don’t want to prove my Christianity. I just want to see all of his goodness in my life, to taste all of his grace in every single moment, to run with the freedom of a child who’s always in his arms. It doesn’t matter if the world casts me aside. Because I will not listen to their voice and criticisms and ideas of living. Because even cast out on the streets, in the midst of dirt, I am at a place where I can be healed and made whole. Not in ivory castles of comfort and independence, oblivious to pain and suffering. But on my knees, begging for mercy, Jesus comes. And those who dare to admit blindness will see colours and life like never before.

Let the blind see.
The lame walk.
The stressed find rest.
In the places of dirt and spit.
In the most unlikely of places.
Because in moments like these,
when I am just begging for help,
Jesus will come.
And I will see.

Father, I cannot admit to know how you work. Yet, I know you do. I have no idea how you’ve worked in my life this year, but you have. In ways I cannot see, in ways others cannot see, but you have. And I’m humbled and grateful.

I thank you for the ups and downs. May I always walk through each day seeing your goodness, your majesty, your love. I am yours. Amen. 

“Mostly what God does is love you. Keep company with him and learn a life of love. Observe how Christ loved us. His love was not cautious but extravagant. He didn’t love in order to get something from us but to give everything of himself to us. Love like that.” (Ephesians 5:2)

“Oh just love me and right now! Hold me tight! Just the way your promised.” (Psalm 119:76)

Psalm 119 is really a psalm of courage. It’s the heart of a man who truly, deeply, weakly loves God. Of a man who is so in tune with his failings, and so in need of his presence and input. David is honest about his wanderings, his forgetfulness about the goodness of God. But he shouts his desire to please Him, follow Him, honour Him from the rooftops. It’s bold, for someone who knows he’s not all together whole. This is a man who knows Him, and wants Him more than anything.

Love. It’s been a tough year for that. I’ve come to a point where I feel like I know nothing about love. I mean, I know love never fails, that it is above all, conquers all. But, what is it? The love I thought I saw in those around has proven to be shifting sand. It’s within our grasp, but slips away so easily, leaving us broken, struggling to see any light of love around and within us.

Love has disappointed this year. Or rather, my ideas of love have come crumbling down. Do I have it? Do I know how to love? Both those around me, and my father in heaven? Love feels big. An impossible project. We hurt when love’s not returned. Or can’t deal with it when love appears to be not enough.

Paul writes that when God loves, God really loves. He holds nothing back. His promises ring true into our heart of hearts, no matter how screwed up we are. He gives everything of Himself into this creation, His child. He pours all of Himself into all of us. Not for what we can give to Him. But because God is love.

Maybe to know love is to know what it’s like to be loved. To know that even when we are incapable, we are cherished. That boggles the mind. Because I will disappoint Him. I will fall and prove unworthy of that love. But maybe that’s where it all starts. That when I really, truly, weakly embrace the love of the divine in my life, all will break loose. God’s extravagant love will free me to make equally extravagant proclamations, to be free to live and dance in this love journey. It’s not about how much love I have, for God and others. It’s about truly, fully embracing a love like no other over my life. That grace will set me free. That grace will change my life.

Then slowly, maybe one day, I will approach even just a smidgen of knowing what love is. That I will wake up every morning, and shout His promises like they’re mine, and mine to hold. That this love will pierce the darkness, through sin, in doubts, and prove to be a potent force.

Father, you love me. You love me in my shame, my frailties, my moment of pride and selfishness, my ignorance, when I’m trying to impress. You hold nothing back.

I don’t deserve this love. But you are love. You can’t and won’t help yourself. I am Yours, and nothing can take that away. Neither heights or depths, principalities or powers, darkness or success, can take that away.

Teach me to embrace you as love. Because you first loved me. That’s the love journey. Amen.