living God’s truth | Elaine Olsen

A Toast to Vintage

May 2, 2008

“‘I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. … This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.’” (John 15:5, 8).

They arrived this week. Packaged with care and wrapped in love. My vintage treasures.

from Liz at Kentucky Bound

A tea cup, a handkerchief, some lace, and embroidered linen. A decorative pin, a sewing basket, some needles, and some thread. A CD, a book, some candles and some tea. Old and new treasures given to me because the luck of the draw landed in my favor.

I’ve never received such a gift. Partly because of the giver—someone I have never met face to face but someone who is growing dearer to me with each blogging encounter—and partly, because of the gift’s contents. Somebody’s “old” became this girl’s “new”, and I am moved by the gesture. Not because it is the right and polite way to react but because there is something wonderfully significant attached to the owning of another’s treasure from, perhaps, another era in history.

The gifts that arrived on my doorstep used to belong to someone…used to matter to someone. Now they belong to me, and I am free to do with them as I please. And right now what pleases me most is the contemplation of their worth…of their vintage significance. Not with a dollars and cents kind of worth, but with a value that extends beyond an earthly understanding.

Vintage. A word that means…

“(1) the wine from a certain crop of grapes;(2) a year’s crop of grapes; (3) the season of gathering grapes and making wine; (4) outstanding quality, choice; (5) type of thing fashionable or popular during an earlier season.”[i]

And while definition #5 seems to define the treasure in question, I am struck by the originating definition of word which is represented in the other four definitions—the choice wine from a certain crop of grapes grown in season within a particular year, and usually sown within the soil of a selected vineyard.[ii]

With vintage comes specificity. Selective choice. Particular taste.

With vintage comes a seasoned approach to the cultivation of grapes, therefore leading to the production of a wine that is meant to be savored in seasons yet to come.

And while my vintage treasure doesn’t boast a bottle of fine wine, I see the connection between the two. My gifts are the treasures from a season past. Treasures that have grown more precious and, perhaps, more valuable as time has turned its clock. Ask the original owners of said treasures and they would most likely respond with something along the lines of…

I remember when my husband gave me that pin on our wedding anniversary. That sewing basket sat beside my bed. The lace once adorned my dresser. That embroidery? I needled that when I was ten. And that tea cup? Let me tell you about some of the conversations and prayers I had over that cup of seasoned brew.

Indeed, my vintage treasures hold some value. Not from a financial perspective, but from a seasoned perspective. They were first cultivated within the soil of someone’s past, and now they have made their way to the table of my current. I will savor their flavor for a season, and then, perhaps, pass them along for a savoring yet to come.

This is the simple joy of a vintage treasure. It retains its flavor beyond the era in which it was birthed.

Two thousands years ago, a Vine grew upon the soil of Calvary’s vineyard, the branches of which continue to bear fruit. You and I…we are those branches alongside countless others who have grafted their hearts within the Vine’s embrace. We are cultivated for vintage. For the pressing through and for the pouring forth of a choice Wine whose flavor is meant to be savored for all eternity.

Not all will partake. There are those who will sniff around its edges and deem His bouquet too potent…too aromatically displeasing to the smell. Their smells are otherwise inclined…bent toward a sweeter swallow. They forsake a drink of the Vintage for the drunken folly of fools, chasing after the immediate rather than pausing to savor the timeless. They refuse to consider his value because his value is cloaked in old…in yesterday…in a history meant for containment—for an era long gone and since forgotten. Or so they reason.

But this is the simple joy of a vintage treasure…God’s treasure. He has retained his flavor beyond the era in which he was birthed.

His is a continuing savor, grown in season—past, present, and future. His Vine never boasts empty and his cup never runs dry. If we, as his branches, refuse his cultivation, there comes along another to pour forth his cup. Jesus will never be fruitless because his wine poured eternal on the day that he hung within God’s selected vineyard and bled on our behalf. He was meant for the pressing through and for the pouring forth, and this day I am drunk with gratitude for the gift of God’s costly vintage.

Jesus Christ is the finest wine I have ever tasted, and so I pray…

Fill me Father, with the treasure of your Son. Graft me within the Vineyard’s embrace and grow me with specificity. And when harvest season arrives, pour me forth as a drink offering upon the soil of my current. Fill my cup to overflow so that a taste of your eternal spills forth into the hearts of men and women who long for a drink of something lasting…something treasured…something vintage. You have transcended the embrace of history to find your place at my table this day. You have become the savor of this girl’s heart. Humbly and with the deepest of gratitude, I receive my portioned cup. Amen.

[i] Thorndike & Barnhard, “vintage,” Scott, Foresman Intermediate Dictionary (Garden City: Doubleday & Company, 1979), 1014.
[ii] http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/vintage

Keepers of the Light

April 18, 2008

“There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in the flames of fire from within a bush. Moses saw that though the bush was on fire it did not burn up. So Moses thought, ‘I will go over and see this strange sight—why the bush does not burn up.’ When the Lord saw that he had gone over to look, God called to him from within the bush, ‘Moses! Moses!’ And Moses said, ‘Here I am.’” (Exodus 3:2-3)

Keepers of the Light Candles

I am drawn to fire.

Be it through the single flame of a candle or the collective kindling of a winter’s hearth, a fire calls for my notice and beckons my participation.

Partly because of its beauty. Partly because of its warmth. But mainly because of the effecting power contained within its blaze. A power that, if not restrained, will quickly leap boundaries and consume surroundings. Fire possesses the strength to force change and to alter a forever. Fire grabs the attention of the curious and begs their approach for a closer look.

For within such closeness, the heat is felt, and once the heat is felt, the fire kindles the light of another wick that was meant to burn. A heart that was meant to flame with the effecting power of a consuming God who calls for our notice and who beckons our participation as his torch bearers in a world that longs for warmth.

Moses noticed the fire. In the midst of his normal, his eyes fixed upon the abnormal—a burning bush that flamed with furious intention, all the while refusing the fire’s consumption. Moses could have moved his normal to another location…could have taken pasture on another mountain, but he didn’t. Instead of shuffling away from danger, Moses chose to draw close to its perimeter. And once inside, he felt the flames of an eternal calling that would consume his normal and kindle his forever.

There is much we can learn from Moses about God’s kindling of a sacred fire if our hearts are so inclined for its warmth. Here are a few…

God lit the fire. Moses acknowledged its presence.

All around us…each and every day…there are fires that burn. Most burn with the flames of our normal—flames that could all too quickly consume our every moment if not for our watchful gaze. But there are other fires…a few that burn with the abnormal, sacred flames of God’s purposeful intent. Too often they go unnoticed because we are too busy putting out the fires of our routine. The key lies in discerning which fires are worthy of our pause…worthy of our Father’s fanning into flame.

God stood within the fire. Moses approached its parameters.

Fires worthy of our approach are those that contain the presence of God. How do we know the difference? We look for fires that do not die. Fires that do not smolder to ashes over time. Fires that burn with intensity…today, tomorrow, and into the next. Fires that remain. Temporal, normal fires can be quenched by temporal means…by water from an earthly well. Sacred fires can never be quenched. They burn with the heat of eternity and are meant to fuel our desire for God. Is there a fire in your life right now that won’t go away? A burning bush that exceeds the parameters of an earthly kindling? Perhaps God is calling for your approach to its flames. Only by moving closer will you be able to hear him calling your name.

God spoke from the fire. Moses accepted its proclamation.

God never forces our approach to his sacred flames. But once we arrive in obedience, he is quick to offer his voice. “When the Lord saw that he had gone over to look, God called to him from within the bush, ‘Moses! Moses!’ And Moses said, ‘Here I am.’”

God looks for our approach…for our desire that fosters our release of our normal in order to embrace the extraordinary heat of a burning bush. It is a sacred fire that never grows dim, that never breathes cold, and that never burns to ashes. With its embrace, we hear our names spoken from the lips of our Father who has ordained our lives for the kindling of his sacred and mighty purposes. It is a burning bush–a sacred calling–that we cannot afford to miss and so this day, like Moses…

Let us acknowledge its presence in our lives. Let us approach its parameters with cautious pause, and with a lot of holy fear and a portion of sacred trembling, let us accept its proclamation.

God’s sacred fires surround the normal of our every day. Our future is shaped by our embrace or by our neglect of their warmth. Nearly three months ago, God interrupted my normal with the flames of a burning bush that required my acknowledgement. In faith, I began my approach to its heat, and the closer I moved within its parameters, the clearer my Father’s voice as he called… “Elaine! Elaine!” I have accepted his summons, and this weekend I will stand in a pulpit and ask him to fan into flame the proclamation of his heart.

Am I scared? A little, but what scares me the most is what I stand to miss by not approaching the flames of God’s calling. And I don’t want to forsake the sound of my name falling from the lips of my Father’s sacred intent. I don’t want to miss the fire’s consumption for the sake of preserving my normal. Neither do you, for with the fire comes a life as it was meant to be burned—with passionate purpose and with a power that cannot be contained, and so I pray…

Burn us Father, with the sacred flames of your intent. Gives us the eyes to acknowledge your presence. Give us the courage to approach your parameters. And when our knees bow in humble submission, gives us the clarity to accept the proclamation of our calling. To go and make disciples. To go and proclaim the truth. To go and kindle the flame of another wick that longs to burn with intensity of your sacred heat. Humbly I ask. Readily I receive my calling to be a keeper of your light. Amen.

PS: For those of you in the Myrtle Beach area, I would love to meet you at Little River UMC this coming Sunday morning for worship. I’ll be preaching from Genesis 18. It’s a portion of scripture that I will be exploring with you next week via this blog. If you can’t join me in MB, then I hope you will come back next week for a look into Sarah’s question to God, and God’s question to Sarah. Be blessed, my new blogging friends! You already mean so much to me, and I covet your prayers.

a gracious Much

April 16, 2008

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus… .” (Hebrews 12:1-2).

What did your prayers sound like this morning? Here’s a glimpse into mine.

I prayed for a life that boasts…

The boldness of Peter. The reasoning and eloquence of Paul. The wisdom of Solomon. The spirit of Elijah.

A prayer simply spoken from a heart that believes in the sure probability of its fulfillment. A prayer deeply spoken in reverence for those who have gone before and finished the race marked out for them. A prayer confidently spoken to the one God who hears and who is faithful to respond.

I didn’t ask for minimal. I asked for much. And the God who created me for his glory has always been about my much. For within his blessing of my much, he stands to receive some glory…some praise…some of his much returned back on him as the Author of such a sacred plenty.

If God is willing to give much, then I bow ready to ask and to receive.

There are some saints of old…sixty-six books worth of saints…that compass my prayers. The lives that they lived were meant for our examination–for our strengthening and for the fortification of the lives that now cloak our flesh and frame our steps. Their much was, indeed, a healthy portion of their Father’s gifting. Without such abundance, it is unlikely that their stories would have found their home on the pages of holy writ.

God scripted each of their stories into his Word, not as an example of an unattainable life, but rather as a true measure of what he intends to give all of his children—the much that is available to each one of us. You and me…as we come to the table of his grace to receive our portion of such promise.

There are days when I have prayed for the patience of Job. For the courage of David. For the love of John and for the dedication of Dr. Luke. Seasons when I have asked for the faith of Abraham. For the trust of Hannah. For the strength of Mary.

Prayers I have voiced for the…

the commitment of Ruth.
the expectation of Zaccheus.
the surprise of the shepherds.
the tenacious drive of the wisemen.
the acceptance of Joseph.
the willing surrender of the boy with loaves and fishes.
the __________________________________.

Each saint in Scripture authors a sacred characterization that is worthy of our pause. Their much is meant for our now, for they are the great cloud of witnesses that hover around us in whispered tones to remind us that while our race is not yet finished, our race can be finished well. Finished with much from the same Almighty God who crowned each of their steps and walked them home to their forever.

I don’t want to finish this life with minimal expectation and mediocre existence. I want to run my race in abundance. I want to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus has taken hold of me, and a minimal grasp will never accomplish such a maximum finish.

And, my friends…I am after big. Much. Far much more than what I am due, for what I am due is hell. What I have been given is life. Abundant and overflowing…brimming with the sure probability of a saint’s existence—my very own chapter scripted within the annals of faith that boasts a story and a characterization that stands worthy of a Father’s pause.

Thus, I pray boldly this day for a portion of Peter’s boldness. For a voice that boasts some of Paul’s eloquence. For a mind and heart that thinks with Solomon’s wisdom, and for a life that exudes the fragrance of Elijah’s spirit.

They are mine for the asking because it is to my Father’s great glory and good pleasure to bestow my feeble flesh with such an anointing. He, too, wants me to finish well and to find my place amongst the cloud that houses the saints of old. He wants the same for you.

And so, I ask you again. What did your morning prayers sound like? How about the prayers of your right now? Are you praying for the minimum or for the much of God? Who amongst the great cloud of the saints stands as a witness to your greatest, current need? What portion of his or her much is your needed requirement for this day…for this running and for this finishing of your race?

I welcome you to add your prayers to mine by posting them in the comment section below. Be specific with your needs. Your Father wants to bless you with the same measure of abundance that he bestowed upon his saints in Scripture. Your need is specific, and our God is specifically concerned for that need. May we all walk in the bounty that is promised us because of his love that reaches beyond the reasonable and that extends further than the outer edges of our understanding. And so I pray…

Give us this day, Father, what we need to flourish…to live in the “much” that is promised us through the power of you Word and the presence of your Spirit. Remind us of the great cloud of witnesses that surrounds our every step and that beckons our participation in the race that will count for all eternity. Let us throw off everything that entangles…everything that minimizes the maximum that you long to accomplish through us. Forgive us when we limit your abundance. Keep our feet to the fire. Keep our hearts to the sacred journey, and keep our wills to the conformity of your will. Now and forever, until we cross our finish line and join the saints of old in the cloud above. Amen.

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The Pain of a Shut Door

April 14, 2008

“He went to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, and on the Sabbath day he went into the synagogue, as was his custom. And he stood up to read.” (Luke 4:16).

Her wail was undeniable. The piercing scream reverberated from the second floor, and I knew that my baby girl was in pain. My mother’s instinct also revealed the probable culprit behind her pain. Her brother.

Quickly, they made their way downstairs to offer their explanations. She howled inaudible utterances, while he echoed his apologies…fearing the worst. She was quick to offer up proof of his misdeeds—a tender, red, right-handed thumbnail, which apparently landed itself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The crease of the bathroom doorway.

She wanted in. Her brother wanted her out, and in the brevity of a single moment, Amelia felt the wounding of her brother’s intentional exclusion. She experienced the pain of a shut door.

He didn’t mean to hurt her, but he didn’t deny his culpability in the matter. He meant to shut the door. He simply did not calculate that his means of exclusion would cause a wounding at a deeper level. And therein lies my contemplation.

The pain of a shut door. The taste of exclusion served up on home turf…a place where security and safety should abound. Where doors should remain open and acceptance greets with arms spread wide. A place, unfortunately, that often hosts doors that swing hard and close tightly.

Jesus knew about such exclusions. And unlike my son, those that wanted him “out”, swung with intentional and calculated motives.

Jesus had returned to his familiar. To the place of his nurturing. Nazareth was his home, and the synagogue was his custom. He came to reveal the truth of his identity. To fulfill the prophetic renderings of Isaiah’s sixty-first chapter. To preach, to proclaim, to restore, and to release. To announce to those who knew him best, that indeed, the year of the Lord’s favor had come.

It was a truth they were unwilling to receive. Their eyes were as blind. Their ears were as deaf. Their minds were as dull, and their hearts were as hardened.

“All the people in the synagogue were furious when the heard this. They got up, drove him out of the town, and took him to the brow of the hill on which they town was built, in order to throw him down the cliff. But he walked through the crowd and went on his way.” (Luke 4:28-30).

They shut the door on their native son. They closed off the possibility of him being God’s Son. And in the end, Jesus’ wail was undeniable, as his tears wept a painful rejection. It was a rejection felt at the deepest crease of a sacred surrender which landed him in the right place at exactly the right time. They offered no apologies for their intentions. Instead, they offered him nails for his tender flesh, and the misdeeds of their heart wounded red for all the world to witness.

The pain of a shut door.

Indeed, Jesus is familiar with all of our griefs and sufferings. With all of the “shut doors” that slam hard and wound deeply. Some swing with intention. Some swing with little thought. Some swing on home turf, and some swing on the soil of an unfamiliar earth. Regardless of their hinge, they swing, and with their exclusion comes pain.

Jadon did not mean to hurt his sister. Not really. But he knew that by shutting the door, he would maintain control of his surroundings. And when control becomes an issue, almost invariably there is a wounding of another who is caught within its crease.

I have stood on both sides of a shut door. Receiving its pain. Initiating its pain. Either way, there is no kingdom profit from its closure because a shut door equals exclusion. Shut doors separate. Shut doors isolate. Shut doors eliminate the possibility of relationships that were meant for our shaping…for our deepening…for our understanding of what it means to walk and to live in sacred community.

God has determined for us to live our lives as open. As instruments of his intention and his invitation. His door swings wide and was never designed for exclusion, but rather for the inclusion of all peoples…all races…all humanity for all eternity. We are given the privilege of monitoring its swing. We stand as its hinge to make sure that no one is caught in the painful crease of its closure.

When my daughter brought her wounding to my attention, I did what all good mothers do. I offered her a band-aid. She declined and told me that her “blankie” would suffice as her comfort. It did, and today her tears run dry. Her wounding from her brother’s “shut door” is well on its way to healing.

Oh, that all of us could recover so quickly from the pain of a shut door. Band-aids alone are not sufficient. It requires a deeper work. A greater salve. A warmer blanket that covers the entirety of our wound and speaks peace into our suffering.

It requires Jesus. He is our Peace, and through him we come to know healing as healing was meant to be known. Safely, securely, and with an open acceptance on his home turf that greets our pain with arms wide open. And so this day, I pray…

Cover me, Lord, with the healing blanket of your love. Heal the open wounds that have come to me through shut doors. Heal the wounds of others that have come to them through my culpability. Keep my hands to inclusion…never exclusion. And when I am tempted to shut a door on my brother or sister, remind me of the “exclusion” that you embraced so that a door would be opened for all of us to come and walk in salvation’s freedom. Amen.

Carrying Our Pretty With Us

April 8, 2008

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all surpassing power is from God and not from us. … We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.” (2 Corinthians 4:7-10).

He slipped back in the house yesterday morning to show me something. His forgetfulness.

Carelessly and without thought, he picked up his “pretty case” instead of his briefcase as he headed out the door for work. We had a good laugh, and then I had him re-enact his folly for my camera. Some pictures are worth the ink. This was one of them, and it got me to thinking.

Thinking about his caddy full of pretty…

Shaving cream. Razors. Mouthwash. Toothpaste. Lotion. Comb. Floss. Deodorant. Matrix Biolage hair gel. Yes, even my husband carries some “product” for his pretty.

Thinking about what he left behind—the one thing that normally accompanies him to the church office…

His Bible.

Somehow in his process of readying himself for the day, he reached for the ordinary to the exclusion of the extraordinary, and quite frankly, he felt exposed. Naked. Something not quite right as he stood at the edge of new day to embark upon the calling that has claimed his life.

A calling that values “heart product” over “pretty product.”

And a heart can never be prettied by creams and combs. It requires a deeper work…a stronger “product.” The cleansing work of the cross.

As believers in Jesus Christ, we have been given a rare privilege. We have been designated as the dwelling place of our Father. How precious is this Treasure. How fragile its frame. God designed us to be exactly so…as dusty earthen vessels, the contents of which contain more pretty than the world can fully absorb at first glance.

He is what makes us pretty. Not our outward attempts at fortifying the frame. He applauds and even celebrates our efforts at presentation, but when the day is over and the “pretty” has run its course, he ponders the condition of the heart that remains. The heart that contains his heart. The heart that will follow us into our tomorrow and into the day after that and into all of our days yet to come.

After awhile, our pretty wears thin and no amount of “product” can cover up the heart that lies beneath. We can try to conceal its pulse, but eventually our fragile clay begins to crumble to reveal the contents within. What pours forth…Who pours forth…is revealed by the light, and we stand as naked. Before God and before man. Exposed.

An untouched photograph that discloses our truth.

And the truth that God values more than our outward “pretty” is the inward product called grace. It is the one boasting allowed our mirrors. The one treasure allowed our fragile frames. The one Gospel allowed our lips. It is the only “heart product” that never wears thin and keeps its beauty long after the lights have dimmed and the world has gone home to find its rest.

Jesus is our “pretty” and Calvary’s accomplishing work is our calling. We are given the privilege of hosting its grace…every day. Within our clay parameters that were not meant for the applause of man, but, instead, meant for the breaking of a revealed radiance and a surpassing power that was never designed for containment. A carried treasure that, sometimes, is forgotten and covered up by our attempts at “pretty.”

I don’t about you, but I think that this has been a picture worthy of some ink…worthy of some words, and worthy of some further pondering as we prepare our hearts for exposure. God, alone, is worthy of a heart’s review. Man’s opinion is always flawed and often fatal. In the end, God’s opinion is always perfect and stands as final. And final sounds perfect to me, so this day I cast my heart before its Maker, and I ask him to make it–to make me–pretty.

Not for man, but for him. And so I pray…

Heal my heart, Lord, and make it pretty for you. Cleanse me from within, so that the radiance of your grace shines forth from the mirror of this face. Forgive my attempts at cover-up, and eliminate my desire for the same. I want to be a true portrait of your Gospel, and so I ask for you to cover me with the truth of Calvary’s gift. Let my beauty be birthed because of the cross. Not as I stand in front of the cross, but a beauty that finds its depth beneath and behind the cleansing blood of your surrender. You gave your Son to death’s embrace to make me pretty. Thank you for allowing such sacred beauty to be house within my clay. Humbly and with holy trembling, I carry my portion. Amen.

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