Category Archives: freedom

a cord of three strands

What’s the strongest weapon in your arsenal of faith against the forces of evil and wickedness in the world? What do you most rely upon when standing on the front lines of a spiritual battle?

Prayer? Bible reading? Fasting? Witnessing? Worship? Steadfastness?

Sometimes you enter the fray of spiritual warfare – pick up your sword, swing harder, push further, engage more fiercely – because your survival depends on it.

Sometimes you enter the battle because someone else’s life depends on it. Spiritually, you’re faring pretty well, but your neighbor isn’t. Accordingly, you lend your strength to the battle to secure the victory.

But what do you do when it’s not “you” you’re fighting for, or when it’s not “them?” What if it’s “us” you’re fighting for – a corporate battle where you stand for yourself while standing for another on the front lines for faith? What spiritual weapons bode well in battle where the warriors are weak in their faith and strong in their sin?

What then?

My life as a spiritual warrior has not always had this dual focus. Mostly, I scrap and scrape and claw my way through the battle for self’s sake. Rarely am I looking around mid-combat thinking about those who might need my victory as much as I do. There’s my battle. There’s your battle. But our battle where our struggles unite to fight for a good faith, a stronger one? My weakness coupled with your weakness doesn’t seem like a winning battle strategy. Mostly, it just feels like losing.

Or so it seems.

Lately, this profound truth has come into sharp focus for me.

I am fighting for victory over personal sin. My friend is too. A similar, shared struggle between an aged veteran of faith and a fledgling lamb just beginning the walk therein. And while my great desire is to overcome my sin, I am realizing that more is at stake in this battle than just my personal triumph. Her victory hangs in the balance as well. And she needs me to be an overcomer.

When my spiritual success becomes the fuel for someone else’s success, then warfare feels weightier, more necessary – amped up and more vital.

Prayer? Bible reading? Fasting? Witnessing? Worship? Steadfastness?

Yes. Of course. All of this and lots of it. These are the spiritual disciplines of mighty warriors in the faith. And if that’s all we ever have, then we have enough to win the battle.

But sometimes, God in his grace, gives us more – a further weapon to wield in times of struggle.

He gives us one another – the weapon of presence.

“Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.” (Ecc. 3:12)

A weakened me plus a weakened you plus Jesus = game on. This is a winning strategy to overcome wickedness in the world and wickedness within. A cord of divine strength that advances boldly, holds tightly and fights fiercely through to victory.

For seasoned veterans in the faith, even those of us who still struggle with sin, the weapon of our presence on the battlefield is a gift we give to those who are newer (maybe even younger) recruits on the gospel road.

Yes, bring your prayers. Bring your Bible. Bring your witness and your worship. But most importantly …

Bring yourself.

Plant your feet next to your friend. Link arms with one another and with Jesus. And for the kingdom’s sake, advance in holy expectation.

In the end, when the battle is over and the victory won, perhaps what will be remembered most about the triumph will have less to do with holy practices and more to do with holy presence on the field, both yours and God’s.

Be present in the fray, friends. Join ranks with your struggling brothers and sisters. Don’t ignore the pleas of those who’ve yet to experience victory. In helping them secure their freedom from sin, you may even end up securing yours.

This battle belongs to us all. May God give us the wisdom, the will, and the humility to step courageously forward for service. As always…

Peace for the journey,

on pulling weeds

He knelt down in the gravel, purposefully digging in the rock bed that houses the welcome sign for the entrance to my neighborhood. His presence there was unexpected. He was, after all, part of the work crew responsible for digging ditches and placing new gas lines on the road connecting to my street. His job description didn’t include the added responsibility of weeding neglected rock beds; still and yet, he applied himself to the task. It didn’t take him long. A few pulls at the loosely tethered vines with a subsequent toss in the ditch was all it took to clean up the entryway. I nodded my thanks to him as I walked by. He simply smiled and got back to digging ditches.

And here I am, a couple of months later, still thinking about that scene. About neglected rock beds full of weeds. About an unexpected participant in the clean up process. About long hours beneath the heat of summer and ditches being dug. About walkers walking by. About welcome signs and what they really say about neighborhoods … what they really say about me.

You see, I am not so unlike that sign at the front of my neighborhood. I, too, have a welcome mat at the front door of my heart. The heated days of a summer gone by, coupled with the random seedlings that have landed in my rocky soil, have yielded some unwanted, yet tolerated weeds. Most days, I’ve walked right by them, barely noticing their growth. Weeds, after all, start small. Over time, however, they needle their way in and around the foundational cracks that cradle my heart. Left unattended, their intrusion grows to full height, and the beauty that once proclaimed a proper “welcome” is shrouded, instead, by the overgrowth of thorns and thistles never intended for sacred soil.

In these times of neglect, when what has grown in and around me remains unseen by me, I need an attentive ditch digger to come along and to offer his knees as well as his hands to the task of removal. Sometimes it takes a set of outside eyes to see what my inside soul is longing for …

A heart free from weedy entanglements.

What about you? What does your welcome mat look like today? Is your heart free from intrusion or is it, like mine, in need of a weeding by the Ditch Digger?

Each and every day the Maker of our lives walks by the front door of our hearts. He notices things that we often do not. He sees the soil beneath our feet, the rocks along our paths, the bricks that build our lives, the seeds that blow our way, and all the plantings therein. He applauds the beauty, but he applies himself to the ugly. He notices our weeds, and every now and again, his disdain for them leads him to cross the road, to bend the knee, and to apply his holy hands to their removal.

It’s been awhile now since I’ve allowed the Ditch Digger to dig without restraint within the soil of my heart. He is welcome here today. And while some of his pulls might be painful, ultimately, they will be fruitful.

A cleaned up welcome mat for a world that needs a solid place to stand. An entryway into an eternal kingdom. God’s neighborhood, where the streets are golden and where all are welcome. Thus, I pray…

Even so, let it begin with me, Lord. Come and dig out the weeds that have grown up in and around my heart over the summer months. Rid this sacred soil of anything that is preventing fruitfulness, that is choking out my faith, that is covering up your mercy, your grace, and your welcome through me to others. I see through a glass dimly, but you see perfectly. Humbly I ask you to root out the unseen and to replace it with a holy cleanness that reflects the radiance of your heavenly hands. Thank you for being in the neighborhood and for being willing to notice my need. Amen.

on cleaning out your culvert…

“Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life.” –Proverbs 4:23

It’s been four months since Hurricane Matthew swept through our little neck of the woods. Beyond losing our power for a few days, there has been no lasting, negative impact to my family. There has been, however, a niggling reminder of its existence each time I take a walk around my neighborhood.

There are several man-made ponds in our community, connected by culverts that keep the water freely flowing amongst them. Since the hurricane, one of the culverts has been muddied up and blocked by debris. The city maintenance crew shows up now and again to poke a stick at it, but the flow of water has mostly stopped between the ponds. Accordingly, the water has grown stagnant and murky.

Something tells me it’s going to take more than a poke to get the water flowing again. It’s going to take some getting down and some getting dirty, some hands on, digging in the mud to clean out and clear up the mess that Hurricane Matthew left behind.

As it goes with the culvert in my neighborhood, so it goes with my heart.

Every now and again, a hurricane blows in and around my spirit, muddying it up with debris. The water flowing in and out of my heart gets plugged up by the ravages of the storm. An occasional poke and prod of faith does precious little to release the debris clogging up my veins. A poke and prod may temporarily bring some relief, but eventually, I have to be willing to do more in order to remove the obstruction. I have to dig a little deeper, get my hands a little muddier, so that I might, once again, feel and know the free flow of water in and around my spirit.

What does that look like practically speaking?

Well, for me it begins with the wisdom of King Solomon. I must take better care of my heart, both in feeding it and guarding it. I’ve not been very good at my feeding and guarding in recent days. Instead, I’ve been stoking the fires of my faith with an occasional poke and prod of Jesus. Accordingly, my heart feels stagnant … muddy … full of the world and its rubble rather than full of something better, something cleaner, something freer. Someone finer.

The good news? I know how to unclog the drain to my heart.

I must eliminate the debris, even if it means my getting deep into the water to do so.

With God’s help to guide me…

• I will guard my heart most fiercely in the days to come.
• I will diligently feed my soul with truth (God’s Word), not lies.
• I will live in a posture of quietness before the Lord so that I might most clearly hear from his heart.
• I will yield to sacred road blocks, and I will merge when the lane is offered.
• I will “circle the wagons” as it pertains to those who are allowed to speak into my life.
• I will reserve the greater portion of my emotional and physical energy for my family, my friends, and my students.
• I will keep my eyes fixed on the finish line instead of the cheering (and sometimes jeering) of the mob on the sidelines.
• I will start and end my day with Jesus and offer up ten thousand prayers in between.
• And I will remember that all of my “wills” are weakened if not tethered tightly to the pull and prod of the Holy Spirit.

Perhaps today, like me, your heart’s been clogged up with the debris of a recent hurricane. I don’t know if anyone’s come around to take a look at your mess yet, but if you’re reading this, maybe you could consider this a prod toward cleaning up your culvert? You might get a little dirty in the process, but once you’re free from the junk, the flow of water between your heart and God’s will begin again.

Be well, friends. Live well. Guard your heart above all else. Truly, God means for it to be the wellspring of life eternal. As always…

Peace for the journey,

80% written in red …

Quietly, she approached my desk and inquired about her quiz grade. I perused the papers in front of me and found hers.

“You made a 76.”

Her distress was apparent, burying her head in the palms of her hands. Normally, a 76 wouldn’t warrant such a response from this student, but today was different. When I asked her as to the reason behind her tears, she quietly responded, “My momma told me she was going to give me a whippin’ if I got anything lower than an 80.”

A smile formed across my heart; not because I was happy about her grade or her distress but rather because I know her precious momma and just how liberally the word “whippin’” gets thrown around down here in the South. I don’t think her momma would have whipped her for 76, but the threat was enough to spark a reaction in my student’s heart. I leaned over my desk and whispered to her, “What grade would spare you a whippin’?”

“An 80.”

I reached for my red pen, marked out the 76 and replaced it with an 80. Our eyes locked, and we shared a tender moment as grace rained down to replace shame. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that kind of joy – being able to erase what’s earned and, instead, to replace it with what’s free. I was reminded, once again, of the trust I’ve been given this year—to live my life wide-open before these young lives and to set the stage for, what I hope to be, futures lived with Jesus and with a rich understanding about his love, grace, and unmerited favor.

This moment arrives to my heart, too, as fresh grace—a red pen held in the hand of the Master Teacher who is willing to erase my whippin’ and, instead, grant me my reprieve. When my dignity (and my behind) is held in the hands of the Master, I can always count on grace. Not that I press the issue of my “76s”, serve up my “less” when I could do better; that would cheapen the gift. But on those days when a 76 is all I have to give, well, I can trust my Teacher to cover the rest of it, be it four points or more.

I don’t know if my student will remember this day in years to come, but I hope that she does … not for my sake but for hers. That somewhere down the road when she’s tempted to think that her good isn’t good enough (that a whippin’s coming because she’s failed to meet some standard) she’ll think upon today and remember that she’s worth more than what she deserves.

She’s worth God’s Son – a cross, some nails, a grave, and all hell – all because he loves her and has called her enough.

The red pen is in his hands, and he has changed her grade. He’s changed mine as well.

Grace. It looks good in red. It feels even better. As always …

Peace (and grace … and freely flowing red pens) for the journey,

my 48th year

I’m turning forty-eight this week … again. Let me explain. For the past year, I’ve been telling folks that I’m forty-eight. I’m not kidding. Somewhere in the madness of this last year called My Life, I lost a year. So when my birthday rolls around on Thursday, really I’ll have gained a year. Make sense? Me neither. Safe to say, I have another twelve months of being forty-eight, and it’s likely to be my most productive year ever since I’ve been granted these extra 365 days of fruitfulness.

Ah . . . the blessedness of an extra year! I know. Not really, but it’s a delightful consideration, is it not? To wake up and realize you’re not as old as you feel?

Somewhere along the way, I stopped counting my years. Candles on the cake (after nearly five decades) don’t garner as much enthusiasm as they once did. Turning double-digits and turning twenty-one were milestones met with eagerness. Back then, I had an entire world in front me. At forty-eight, there’s a whole lot of world behind me—a lot of life lived, enough experiences had, mistakes made, memories collected, and highlights celebrated to fill several dozen scrapbooks.

How much more can there be?

So much more.

Consider the possibilities of an extra year. With an extra year I’ll be able to . . .

  • Have the conversations I meant to have.
  • Write the letters I meant to write.
  • Make the calls I meant to make.
  • Pray the prayers I meant to pray.
  • Give the love I meant to give.
  • Send the gift I meant to send.
  • Drive the miles I meant to drive.
  • Invest the time I meant to invest.
  • Do the work I meant to do.
  • Pursue the dreams I meant to pursue.
  • Speak the truth I meant to speak.
  • Plant the seeds I meant to plant.
  • Share the fruit I meant to share.
  • Afford the grace I meant to afford.
  • Offer the apologies I meant to offer.
  • Extend the kingdom I meant to extend.
  • Enlarge the Jesus I meant to enlarge.

Indeed, a delightful consideration. With all of these extra days added to my year, I’ve been granted the rich benefit of more—a second chance of sorts, a way to re-invest my energies and my heart in the right and good direction. There’s nothing to dread. There are only opportunities to embrace. Another year, when cast in the light of sacred potentialities, is the gift that keeps on giving long after the cake has been eaten and the balloons have deflated.

This is the blessed do-over of my 48th year. I’m so grateful for another opportunity to live the life that I meant to live last year and to do so alongside the Giver of Life who graciously grants me this privilege.

Don’t dread the candles, friends. Instead, count them. Remember them, and then get busy living the life you mean to live. I’m so honored to share my 48th year with you . . . again. As always …

Peace for the journey,

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