Oh, Oh, Pick Me
I often dream that I am tagging along behind Jesus, longing for Him to choose me as one of His disciples. Without warning, He turns around, looks straight into my eyes, and says, “Follow Me!” My heart races, and I begin to run toward Him when He interrupts with, “Oh, not you; the guy behind you. Sorry
These words by Michael Yaconelli in his book, Messy Spirituality, confirm that I’m not alone. I have recently become more attuned to how incredibly insecure I can be in my relationship with Christ. I want so badly to be God’s “go to” guy. I want to be able to be counted on to go the extra mile, to love the unlovable, to be the one God can rely on when everyone else falls to the wayside. “Now what am I going to do? The world is going to Hades in a hand basket…everyone has left the faith…no one seems to care about Me and My plan to save the world…who can I count on? Wait a minute. I can use Chad, he never fails, he’s always faithful!” The trumpets blare, while someone in the crowd looks up and shouts, “It’s a bird, no it’s a plane, no it’s Super Christian.” (You already knew I’d look great in blue tights and a cape.)
The truth is that this daydream isn’t any more realistic then my other ones – idealistic whims whose only use is to help me momentarily avoid reality. I’m so glad Jesus is my perfection, because I’m not doing so hot at the perfection thing on my own.
“Father, thank you for your incredible patience; for accepting me as I am, knowing that I’m not all that much better than I was last year and my confessions of sin are mostly repetitious. Help me to not give up on seeking your strength to overcome my temptations. Help me to be a little closer to who you created me to be than I was yesterday. Above all, help me to focus more on intimacy than competency, and connection not perfection. Amen”
Beyond the Blue
The sign over the entrance to the airport said, “Octoberfest at the ‘Ville: Polka ‘till you Puke.” I immediately realized that our family outing to the Roosterville Airport a few years ago had the potential of being less than I had planned. We went to look at airplanes and watch a few takeoff and land, but we were not expecting the festivities. We enjoyed the parachutists and radio controlled stunt planes, but I’ve never cared much for Octoberfest’s or polka music. I find beer and Bohemian dances to be an obnoxious combination. Throw in some airplanes and you’ve got an episode of “Rescue 911” just waiting to happen.
We removed ourselves from the section of the tarmac designated for merriment and made our way through the hangers. I was careful to teach the girls everything I knew about the planes (which took all of 3.2 minutes) and was proud when they could identify by name the differences between planes. I was as gleeful as my children when these manmade machines would make their way down the runway and defy the law of gravity by detaching themselves from the ground.
At the farthest building we peered in the open door of a hanger. We started to move on since its darkness seemed uninviting, but a man’s voice from inside beckoned us in. Once accustomed to the darkness of the room we found a beautifully restored Taylor plane. It had the aura of earlier and nobler days of flight, and its glistening paint job and obvious pampering had given it new life. The man who invited us in was not the owner, not even a close friend of the owner, just a fellow enthusiast who found delight in someone else’s passion and hard work. He had offered the owner some advice and direction about how to restore it, and was now thrilled to see the glorious outcome. For some length of time he talked with great excitement and personal satisfaction as he pointed out the numerous details and specialties of the plane.
There’s something about aviation enthusiasts. They are yearning for someone to share their knowledge and experience with. While I’m sure there are plenty of pilots who are self-seeking, I have fortunately only run in to ones whose desire is to share information, stories, and the joy that flight brings. If you haven’t flown then you probably would find them to be babbling fools. If you have been bitten by the aviation bug then you find them to be possessors of a dream.
Our visit helped me to better understand how people must view followers of Christ. If they have discovered for themselves the source of our joy, then they understand our passion and enthusiasm for sharing the dream. If they haven’t experienced the freedom of a relationship with Christ that tears us from the gravitational pull of mortality then it’s no wonder they define us as babbling fools. Hopefully, I will better understand their perspective so that I can more effectively help them experience for themselves eternal flight and freedom.
Nothing to Eat
"There’s nothing to eat," I complained as I bent down to pick up a can that had fallen from the shelf of our crammed pantry. It had taken me several minutes of sorting through bags, cans, and boxes of food to come to that conclusion. It wasn’t that there was nothing to eat; it was that when I get the munchies it is comparable to the selective appetite of a pregnant woman.
I pulled out a recipe book and began to finger through the pages to find instructions on how to make a very specific snack that I had a hankering for. I propped up the book, retrieved the ingredients from the crowded pantry, and mixed accordingly. It was about that time that I realized that this snack was to be cooked at 300 degrees for 45 minutes. I wanted to be in bed within a half hour. My well-trained, intellectually-disciplined mind kicked into gear. If it takes 45 minutes to cook at 300 degrees, it should only take 30 minutes at 400. I turned up the oven and plopped down in the easy chair proud of my mental superiority.
For those of you who have more kitchen experience than I, you are probably not surprised that there was a putrid smell that filled the air long before the 30 minutes were up. Darla beat me to the kitchen and asked me why I had set the oven so high. It goes without saying that my answer was significantly less impressive than my hypothesis seemed just moments before.
When Isaiah wrote that "those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength" (Isaiah 40:31), I am certain that he was writing to people who didn’t work, have children, deadlines, or anything else that resemble the hurry of our modern lives. Surely God knows how busy we are and doesn’t actually expect us to wait on Him. Or does He?
I have made both a science and an art of finding creative ways to try to hurry God up. I have even tried manipulation on occasion to convince God that He really should answer my prayers faster. My attempts have been even less productive than my cooking.
I am convinced that God doesn’t ask us to wait simply because He hasn’t made up His mind yet or He doesn’t know what to say, but that having us sit and listen is often more pleasing to Him than us going and doing. When it comes to prayer, waiting impatiently is a contradiction of terms.
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