The Promise of Eden (part one): The Posture of an Expectant Heart

“The Lord appeared to Abraham near the great tree of Mamre while he was sitting at the entrance to his tent in the heat of the day.” (Genesis 18:1).

This day, I invite you to sacred participation—an opportunity for you to come alongside your God and partake of a privilege given to you as a believer in Christ. It is privilege that, unfortunately, is often forsaken for the need of the immediate. Making time to absorb God’s Word into your very core is a pursuit of intention. The seeds of his truth will never embed within a soul’s soil without some cultivation. And so, this week, I want to dig, to plant, and then to water some of the seeds of Genesis 18:1-14 into my soil and to allow you the opportunity for the same. Thus, the invitation to sacred participation is open. Come and feast on God’s Word.

Take a moment now to read Genesis 18:1-14, out loud if possible, and posture your hearts to receive.

Posturing the heart to receive the promise of God is today’s focus.

For nearly twenty-five years Abraham had been wandering in the land of Promise…waiting for God to make good on his word. A word that had earlier promised him a night-sky filled with the lineage of descendants. So far? Only one star. A boy named Ishmael, birthed through the plans of man rather than through the promise of God.

Abraham believed God…believed that somehow all things would work out for a good and perfect end. But at this particular moment…on this particular day…in this particular season of aged living, Abraham did, what I imagine that he did on most days as he wandered within the heated boundaries of promise. He waited beneath the shade of tree. And thus begins the “posture” of an expectant heart.

An expectant heart…waits. (Genesis 18:1). Abraham’s heart waited under the great oak trees of Mamre…a word in the Hebrew language meaning “strength or fatness.” He picked the right location in which to do his waiting…a place of rest and shelter from the heat of the desert. Can I say the same? Most days, my “pausing” for the promises of God is couched within the heated sands of my current chaos, as I offer up my quick prayers amidst an even quicker pace. Rather than finding my rest beneath the strength of a shade tree, I posture my heart for a quick fix beneath the heat of a sun that blinds and blisters and bleeds a soul dry.

And so I say…teach me, father Abraham.

An expectant heart…asks. (Genesis 18:2-3). Abraham, upon noticing his visitors’ approach, invited his visitors to remain. “He said, ‘If I have found favor in your eyes, my lord, do not pass your servant by.’” Scripture gives no indication that Abraham was immediately aware of God’s identity, but Abraham was quick to realize that a visit from a “stranger” held more excitement for him than the usual of his routine. And so he asked for God to pause and to find his rest beneath his tent.

And so I say…teach me, father Abraham.

An expectant heart…attends. (Genesis 18:4-8). Abraham made ready for his guests. He monitored the surroundings in order to create an environment of sacred fellowship. It was his custom to feed and to water his guests from the abundance of the land. He brought his best as an offering of his heart. No left-overs for God. No “less than” laid before the feet of his Father. Abraham attended this particular visitation with selective and choice provision. He did what he needed to do to make sure that his guests felt welcomed.

And so I say…teach me, father Abraham.

An expectant heart…lingers. (Genesis 18:8). Abraham lingered with his guests. He did not rush a visitation. He allowed them their rest within his tent while he stood in close proximity. When God, by sacred invitation, comes to our tent…when God finds his rest within our hearts and through our attending…we would be wise to linger within earshot. The closer we get to him…the clearer his voice. And when God speaks, I don’t want miss his words because of my distant lingering. I want to press my ear to his lips and feel the breath of promise as he breathes it over my frame.

And so I say…teach me, father Abraham.

An expectant heart…receives. (Genesis 18:10, 14). Abraham listened as God, once again, spoke promise over his and Sarah’s life. God reminded him of a night sky and of the stars that would illuminate its darkness. A star that, in accordance with his perfect timing, would make an appearance in a year’s time. Abraham received the words. So did Sarah…sort of. Her laughter spoke the witness of her receptive heart, but that is another story for another day. Regardless of their response…both received God’s promise. A spoken promise that visited their tent because their lives were postured with expectation.

And so I say…teach me, father Abraham.

The posture of an expectant heart is a heart that…

Waits. Asks. Attends. Lingers. Receives.

So often we miss the visitation of God because we neglect to posture our lives with sacred expectancy. Expectations frame our forever, and when expectation is couched in “less than” limitations, then promise is never tasted as God meant for it to be tasted. Not only tasted…but absorbed down deep into the marrow of our want…to the birthplace of our dreams, our hopes, and our sacred possibilities.

God means for our lives to breath with promise, and so this day, I pray…

Come to my tent, Lord. Today I wait for your arrival. I ask for your presence. I attend to our time by offering you the best portion of my heart. I linger close to hear your voice. I bow ready to receive your promise into my life. You have taught me through the witness of Abraham. Thank you, Father, for your words of covenant that breathe true and that call me to shine as a starry witness to their current and sure fulfillment. Amen.

Feel free to share your thoughts about the “posture of an expectant heart” by clicking on the word “comments” below. If you don’t have a blogger account, you can add your comments as an “anonymous” contributor.

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(allrightsreseved, elaineolsen, April – 2008)

A Gracious Grace

A Gracious Grace

“Abraham and Sarah were already old and well advanced in years, and Sarah was past the age of childbearing…”. (Genesis 18:11).
 

…flawed perspective

…better perspective

 

I challenged them this morning to examine Abraham and Sarah’s “old.” To think about their current state of being and to pinpoint the ways in which they, too, felt old and advanced in years and past the age of bearing anything new. It was an appropriate question to ask this congregation of 400 plus, for many of them are at retirement age and have been doing this “life thing” for a long season.

Some of them are long past having a dream or a hope for anything new. Most of them are simply living out their days along the sandy shores of South Carolina…in a community called Little River…in a church nestled along highway 17…on the way to a beach named Myrtle.

I don’t know why God allowed me the privilege to serve them this morning with his Word. I believe that it had everything to do with his lavish grace. I feel like the Apostle Paul’s “least of these,” while at the same time knowing that I am well qualified to parcel out the message of God’s abundant grace. It is a message that I have lived and breathed and am now able to articulate with a knowing and thankful passion. His has been a gracious grace. A mysterious and reaching grace that is transforming my flesh into a vessel of his design.

It is difficult for me to frame for you just exactly what this weekend meant to me. My emotions run deep, and I am profoundly moved by my experience. But while it is fresh within my heart, I wanted to tell you about one moment…about one saint of God who gave me a gift this morning.

His name is Calvin, and he has been walking with the Lord for nearly 90 years.

After the first service at 8:30, Calvin was quick to make my acquaintance. He told me that he has been a life-long Methodist, surrounded by a family heritage of Methodist preachers. My heart glowed, for I can boast the same. My husband is a Methodist preacher and was able to make the trip with me this weekend. My father, a Methodist preacher, stood behind his own pulpit this morning, and we were able to share a brief but precious conversation prior to the start of our days. So Calvin and me? We had some common ground and quickly became friends.

When I told Calvin how blessed that I felt to have met him and how I looked forward to sharing heaven with him, he told me that I hadn’t seen the last of him. He would be back for a second go around at the 9:50 service.

He was there to participate in, what I perceived to be, a new experience for him—a contemporary-style type of worship. Not quite sure of the tunes and the clapping and the freedom of worship, Calvin willingly offered his participation. At the close of the service, I once again commented to Calvin about my joy in serving such a saint of God. He quickly told me that the real saint—his bride of sixty-two years—had recently passed away and that I would see him again…at the 11:00 service.

When the time arrived for me to preach the same sermon for a third time, I commented from the pulpit that Calvin was either unsure of this peculiar woman who had taken siege of the pulpit or that God was up to something…an Abraham and Sarah kind of something, and that perhaps, the third time would be the charm. Perhaps this time, something would take hold. I think that it did, for at the close of the service, Calvin made his way up front, bowed his knee at the altar, and raised his hands toward heaven.

With the “amen” spoken, I made my way to the back of the church to greet the members as they left. Calvin soon found me and asked me to step aside. He needed to tell me something. I wasn’t prepared for his words of blessing. He said…

“I’m from the old school…the old tradition. I used to think that the pulpit wasn’t a place for women. I used to think that, Elaine, but I don’t anymore. Yes…I’ll see you again. If not here, then there.”

And with these words, Calvin spoke a benediction to my heart that I will never forget.

He gave me a gift. This saint of God, well advanced in years and thinking that he was past the age of bearing anything new in his life, bowed the knee one more time to his Savior to receive the promise of grace. A “new every morning” kind of grace. A grace that fell as a fresh word upon his aging heart this day. A grace that offered a blessing to me in the process–

the privilege of sacred participation.

What God did for Calvin…what God did for Abraham and Sarah…God has done and is doing for me. For he has planted a seed of promise within my aging flesh for something “new.” God did it this morning through one of his most precious saints. A saint with whom I will share eternity.

I want to spend some time this week exploring the treasure trove of Genesis 18:1-14. Perhaps it has been a while since you have examined its worth. I welcome your participation. Take some time this day to read the scripture. Find yourself somewhere within the story, and then ask yourself the question that I asked of God’s saints at Little River UMC.

Calvin asked himself the question. Calvin answered the question with a bowed knee and a surrendered heart, proving to me that I am never too “old” to receive the promise of God’s “new.” God’s grace has, indeed, been gracious. I will not soon recover from my time in the pulpit. I think that God has planned it accordingly.

And so tonight, as I lay my weary and well-satisfied head on my pillow, I say a prayer of thanks to you…my new friends in Little River. Especially for you, Dan & Cheryl, for you Pastor Randy, and for you Beth for your gracious invitation to sacred participation. You all…every last one of you…have marked me forever with your love and with your benedictions of grace over my life. It has been my privilege to wash your feet this day, and so I pray…

Thank you, Father, for the boldness of Peter. For the eloquence of Paul. For some of the wisdom of Solomon, and for the Spirit of Elijah. You have answered the prayer of my heart, and readily I receive the “new” that you have breathed into my life this day. Bless my new friends at Little River with a fresh explosion of your presence. Blow through that church and bring new life into its pews. Strengthen its people with power of your Spirit. Guide and direct Pastor Randy as he seeks to shepherd your flock. Let this day be the day when the journey of faith begins anew for each person in unexpected measure and with the glorious freedom that comes with Calvary’s grace. You have given me more than I expected, Lord, and to You, alone, I bow in surrender and praise. Amen.

 

Keepers of the Light

Keepers of the Light

“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)

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.

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a gracious Much

“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

The Pain of a Shut Door

“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.


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