Embraced by Love

July 27, 2006 began as all days do down here in South America. The work was plentiful; the opportunities to share Jesus abounded. At 7 that evening, though, our world changed forever. It was violently shaken; it was suddenly and inexplicably pillaged by man’s greatest enemy: death.

It was a normal day for my oldest daughter and her family, too. My son-in-law went to work, as normal. My daughter was home, caring for their 11-week old baby girl; it was their firstborn, our first grandchild. Michelle put Grace down for a nap sometime in the afternoon. Sometime later she went to check on Grace and found her lying there. She was still. She was not moving. She was not breathing.

Michelle called 911 and the rapid responders came as quickly as possible—within minutes. They transported the baby and mother to the hospital, where all the wonderful doctors and nurses tried with all their might to revive Grace. It was too late.

When Kory called we were stricken; we were numb with pain. It was the most inconceivable thing that we had ever experienced. It was the most painful. It still is some days.

We traveled to the states as quickly as possible. There we mourned and grieved with all who had gathered. The family honored me by asking me to preach Grace’s funeral. I did; but it was only in the strength of the Lord that any of us were able to endure that interminable day.

Almost a year has passed now. We had a choice to make after Grace died. We had to decide how we were going to let her passing affect us. We had to choose to live and let that experience become a growing time for us. Or we could choose to stay there, living in that terrible moment of pain and sorrow, remaining paralyzed and growing bitter. That's what happens when you drink from the same bottle of water for too many days. It grows bitter. It sours.

Someone I spoke with wondered aloud how any of us could move on with life. The answer is easy; and at the same time the answer is complicated. Let me be very honest with you: some days come and I don’t know if I will be able to look at a child without pain in my heart. I have had to turn away with tears in my eyes when I came close to a child Grace’s age. I have had days of pain that I have, right or wrong, hidden from those around me. And I was not the parent of this child; think of them! Think of their pain! I have seen what they write; I have spoken with my daughter. Their pain is intense, even a year later.

How do you get by that?

I find the answer in one verse of Scripture: “And now abide faith, hope and love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” – 1 Co. 13:13

Those three are ever-present companions for me; that is what “abide” means. They are there; the Holy Spirit uses them to carry us through the day. And on some days that is how we make it. One step. One hour. One morning. One afternoon. One night at a time.

We live by the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ (Gal. 2:20). It’s faith in him, not faith in faith.

We live by the hope—that wonderful expectation--to be reunited with Grace in the presence of Jesus. It's hope based on faith. Otherwise it would be wishful thinking.

We live by the love of the Father through Jesus Christ. He loves us far more deeply than we can ever understand. Someone said something like, "When you can't see his hand, trust his heart."

A friend called me the other day. We were discussing this and other issues on the phone. He reminded me that Satan cannot send anything our way that is not filtered through the love of the Father. Our Father in Heaven loves us. He wants the best for us. He understands our separation in ways that we cannot comprehend. After all, we were separated from him until we were brought to him by the blood and death of Jesus. He was separated from his only son when Jesus died on the cross and bore our sins.

The greatest is love. The other things--faith and hope--are powerful in and of themselves. But without the love of the Father, they have no real meaning.

Now I want to ask a favor of all who read this post. Take a moment and pray for the Kidd family and the Shearer family. It’s going to be a hard week for us. July 27th will be a painful day for us.

Pray that God will prepare us now.

Pray for healing for both families.

Pray each of us will sense he or she is embraced by love.

What's in Your Chest?

In a small room in my backyard, I have a tool chest. It's not just a box; it's a 6-drawer chest that once belonged to my father. Each drawer is carefully arranged, filled with the tools that I have for whatever project I may find myself involved in. In the top drawer you would find my screwdrivers. In the next one, my wrenches are carefully laid out. And so on and so forth goes each drawer.

I don't use just any tool for any job. I have seen it done, mind you. I have seen someone grab a pair of pliers and use that important tool as a wrench on a stubborn bolt. I have seen others grab a regular screwdriver and try to use it in a phillips-head screw. When we use our tools that way, it just slows us down; don't you think? It often makes the job that more difficult the next time, too. My late father-in-law, a bivocational preacher, was a master mechanic--a specialist in diesel motors. He would often wave his wrenches at us and admonish us, "Boys, you have to use the right tool to do the job right!"

As a missionary, I have another tool chest. In that one I have a lot of different ways to try to start a church. There are the storying tools; there are inductive Bible study tools; there are mass evangelism tools; there are house church tools, simple church tools, and other church styles. And that list goes on, too numerous to describe in this short post. There is no one tool that will suffice for every place I want to start a church. Each area of this megacity is distinct; each church start requires a unique approach. And that is what is important, I think. We must use the right tool to do the job right.

Don't overlook this little analogy. Don't think one tool will do the job. Don't use a house church model when another model is called for, and vice-versa.

Stop and take a look. What's in your chest?

Are You in the Grist Mill?

The elderly gentleman smiled as he pulled on a rope that lifted a gate on a stone canal and let the water flow. He stood there explaining the nature of the apparatus before us. It was a mill. A grist mill. The farmer put his grain into a bin that slowly, methodically let it flow into the path of a large stone. That stone pulverized the grain, producing a fine flour; the farmer was quite proud. The water turned a wheel, the wheel turned the gears, and the gears moved the perfectly round stones in such a way that the grain became flour.

I looked and felt that there was a true lesson in that. Sometimes we are visitors at the grist mill. We stand aside and witness difficulties in other's lives. But sometimes we feel like we are in the mill. We feel ground up. We feel like we are being pulverized.

Let's get real. Sometimes we are being pulverized. We are under the rollers, being pressed. Maybe not literally, but certainly emotionally and spiritually. Think about it; someone calls you with devastating news from a doctor. I read some news like that this very morning about a friend of mine. I was grieved for her. Someone calls in the middle of the night and tells you a loved one has died. I received that e mail this morning, too; one of my friends lost her father. That, along with many other things, has happened to most of us. If it has not happened to you, yet, hang on; it will.

The big question is, what will you do when you are in the grist mill? The purpose of the mill is to provide sustenance--nourishment--for others. Your crushed life can be something that helps someone else to grow and be more like Jesus. The one phone call that has impacted me most this year was from a friend in another South American nation. He told me that he was ready to quit, to pack it up and go home. But when we stayed in spite of the terrible, crushing blows that came our way a year ago, it inspired him and his wife. He said our "flour" was his nourishment and helped him to stay. I learned a lot from that single call. It was like a love letter from Christ to my heart.

That is not the only lesson for us. When life crushes you and me, others will see what is inside. They are supposed to see love, joy, peace, endurance, and a few other kinds of grain the Master has sown in our hearts. But sometimes others see weeds, don't they? Sometimes the cares of this world overtake the fruit of the Spirit. God shows us this so that we can correct the problem; and the problem would be that we are not walking in the Spirit.

Are you in the grist mill? Are you being crushed by life's pulverizing stones? Let the Master Miller make fine flour of your circumstance; then go feed others with it.

A Week of Miracles, part 2

This is the second installment on A Week of Miracles.

The 28-person volunteer group was a hard-working group. They started early and worked hard all day long. The bulk of the effort went into VBS and personal evangelism. There was a small carpentry team along who helped with some renovations to a community center the community loans us for our meetings.

What is so miraculous about that? Nothing, in and of itself. The miraculous happened before our eyes some 327 times. Yes, 327 people prayed to receive Christ. Some were delivered from a life of rank sin. Some were young, most were adults. We saw men, women, young people, and a few children older than ten who opened their hearts to Jesus.

It was miraculous that the men and women opened their homes to us. That is not the most common thing in these parts. They don't like people to come into their homes. But they did. The asked us in. And in we went. The floors were often just packed dirt. Sometimes the walls were made of woven mats; sometimes they were made of thin plywood. And sometimes they were made of a thin tongue-in-groove wood. Sometimes they would have a tin roof over their small hut; sometimes it was just a bit of plastic--plastic that leaked. But they all had one thing in common: there were two rooms: one for eating in and one for sleeping in.

In those primitive huts, with dangerous electrical connections and no running water or sewage of any kind, we sat (or stood stooped over because the ceilings were too low) and shared the love of Christ. They were so ready to hear the gospel. They responded with tears, with smiles, and lots of hugs.

Not all wanted Jesus. Some, like Jose, Manuel, and Naomi, rejected the Savior. They were happy in their sin. Even that was a miraculous thing. We parted as friends. The door is still open to share Jesus once again.

The fact no one was dog-bit, no one became ill from the exotic foods, no one came away with lice (which we really did see), or other potential problems was also an answer to prayer.

God was at work in our midst. For that, we give him praise and the spotlight shines on him.

A Week of Miracles

This blog has been silent for the past week. It was not a "blog fast;" I am not into such designations. It was due to plain, hard work. It was plain fun, too. It was a week of miracles.

The smaller miracle was among the sadder things I have witnessed in my 29 years of Christian ministry. It began with a phone call from Pam, my bride of nearly 27 years. She had received a call from another part of this city of around ten million. The lady on the other end of the line was crying, unconsolably so. Her father had gone on a rampage. He beat his 16-year-old daughter. He beat he wife, breaking her arm. Mom and daughter locked themselves in a room upstairs, frightened.

What kind of man would do such a thing? What kind of man would beat his family? It enraged both Pam and me. It was worse by the knowledge that this man was a pastor. Yes, a pastor. A man of God. A preacher of righteousness. And here he was, acting in as heinous a way as one can imagine.

I was over 2 hours away. They wanted me to go and speak to the father. I did not know if I could leave 28 volunteers to do so. But God had supplied a need before we ever knew about it. One of the men was an orthopedist--an M.D. from MS. He asked if he could go with me. So did a young carpenter-turned-preacher who was with the group. The doctor had begun the trip by telling me that he did not know why, but he had brought casting supplies in case of broken bones. So off we went.

When we found the family, father included, there were tears enough to fill a swimming pool. I asked to see what the dad used to beat his family. I cannot do justice to the size of the piece of wood the man used. It was a 2 X 2, over 2 feet long. It was hard and heavy. And with that piece of wood this man beat his wife and daughter. The doctor was livid. He rebuked the man, with me translating.

After some time with the family, and after an examination of the daughter's leg, the doctor told them she should get an X-ray. His conclusion without the X-ray was that it was broken, just as the mother's arm had been broken (X-rays supported that already). All other tests showed the leg was broken; it seemed very clear to all of us there. Even the protrusion on the side of the leg warned of a break.

We laid hands on the girl and prayed for her, anointing her with oil. And we left them with strong counsel to get that X-ray. They did so the following day. And when they took it to the doctor, the place where there was supposed to be a break was fine. No breaks. No broken bones. The doctor grinned like a goat eating briars. The young preacher did, too. God had healed this young lady's leg. It was a true miracle.

We serve a God who delights in demonstrating his power. This was the smaller of the miracles of this past week. Tomorrow, I will share the greater miracles that we witnessed.

Urban Migration and Missions

Today I read an interesting article that should be important to missionaries and those interested in winning our world for the glory of God. The article deals with population trends around the world. It can be found here.

The long and short of the story is this: the world is moving into cities. Now that is not news for many; we knew that. What we may not have known is that many are moving to smaller cities of a half-million or so. The larger cities are not the ones growing; it's those smaller ones where we need to begin concentrating our forces.

Those interviewed have an apparent concern that, due to the lack of a good political/governmental infrastructure, these cities could be targets for religious extremists. That is good news for us. It means what we already knew. The people will be, in all likelihood, receptive to hearing the gospel. If they are targets for extremism, they are targets for Jesus!

What does this mean for mission strategists? It tells us where to send new personnel, where to deploy existing personnel. While we are committed to reaching all the world for Christ, we should be careful not to ignore the migration of over half the world. We should not wait until unrest develops; we must get our personnel in place now.

What does this mean for the local churches around the world? It tells us how to pray. It tells us how to plan. It tells us how to encourage those we send out.

Lord, send forth your laborers!

Pray for North Korea

Consider the following from Christianpost.com

The South Korean Church urged believers worldwide to participate in the Global Week of Prayer for North Korea, June 25-July 1, when it declared 2007 as the International Year of Prayer for North Korea. The 2007 North Korea prayer event is particularly important because it occurs on the 100th year of the 1907 Pyongyang Great Revival – considered the base of Christianity in Korea.

The gates of hell will not prevail against the church that advances on its knees!

Blended Worship

This morning, after my prayer time, I turned on the local news broadcast. I learned some interesting things. First, today (June 24th) is Saint John's Day. Now, you would think that this meant that folks would be excited over the life of John, the Beloved Disciple. He was the one who sat next to Jesus, leaning against him during the Lord's last Passover celebration with the disciples. He was the one who, led by the Holy Spirit, penned simply and powerfully those words that have changed perhaps billions of lives.

The celebration in this part of South America, however, is different. The celebration I saw on TV was the clearest evidence of a successful blend of a form of Christianity and folk religions from both the jungle and the mountains of Peru. Scantily-clad young ladies representing jungle worship gyrated to music, while pythons slithered and slid over their arms and shoulders. To their right, and just behind them, sat six witchdoctors with their potions laid out, calling on their gods. Beyond them were others, vigourously shaking their bottles of beer, spraying one another, and dancing to different kinds of music blaring in the background. It was a cacophony of sounds, none of which had anything to do with John or Jesus, or the true God.

But that is life in this particular form of Christianity. One of their religious leaders once told me that they discovered that, so long as they allowed the locals to incorporate the former gods into the worship, all would be well. So he allowed men and women to worship the sun, the mountain gods, the wind, the moon, and other animistic things. It is not uncommon for a statue of some saint being paraded through the streets to have inside of it the figurine of some local deity. Often, once the local religious leader leaves a mountain church, a witchdoctor will enter the same building to hold his religious services.

"Horrible!," you cry. You turn your head in disgust. And so you should. But before you lift another stone, consider your own ways. What have you added to Jesus that does not belong? I went to a local church in the southern United States not long ago who had to cancel services so that the members could spend the entire day in the cemetary. It's called Decoration Day. I know of churches whose age-old traditions carry more value than the written, clear word of God; is that god any different than those of the mountain religions? If something stands taller than God, it's too big. If something moves you more than God, it's in the way.

It's this kind of blended worship that makes God sick. And you thought I was going to speak of hymns and praise songs...! Love the Lord with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength!

Celebrate!

I took some men to a poor community the other day. These men, Don and Tim, were visiting from the great state of Mississippi. We went to try to share the gospel. I say "try" because you just don't know what may happen in any given moment. I went to specifically share with men, men I knew would be there because they were helping us build retaining walls on the steep, dangerous hillside this community sits upon. I knew they would be there. I knew they would not mind a break from that back-wrenching work, either.

So off we went. The first part of the journey within the community was easy. It was up the new steps we had poured just 6 weeks ago. But we got to the top and my guests were on the winded side. So was I. It was a steep climb, even on stairs. We watched the men work all around us. Soon I called to the foreman and had them bring the men into two groups, well apart from one another.

It was a dirty walk across the hill. Don's navy blue pants were now blue and brown. His brown shoes were covered with the same light-brown dust. That's partly from the dirt; it was also from the fragmented grey rocks strewn all around us. We slid down the rocks on the part of the hill where we were going to be preaching. We were both covered in dirt, Don more than I. But a little dirt would not deter us from our mission. Don joked that he hoped he did not cause a landslide coming down the hill. He looked as though he tried.

My friend Don preached to one group, with me translating. Another man translated for the other guest. Off we went, preaching the gospel. There sat those men, filling up the stairs in front of us. Don startled them with one question, "If you died today, do you know if you would spend eternity in heaven?" He had their attention. The men before me live for today. They don't like to think about eternity. Or death. Or heaven. Or hell. But now they had to. It was before them, like an open chasm for them to look into.

Don shared simply, but with passion. The men listened intently. I did my best to translate with the same passion Don showed them. He ably demonstrated by Scripture that we are all sinners. Sin has wages: death--separation from God. Someone paid the wages; his name is Jesus. Jesus died for our sin. Jesus paid the price. We can be free from those wages, if we so desire. All this Don showed in the word of God.

Before long, fifteen men bowed their heads and asked Jesus to save them. I feel that most of them were genuine in their repentance and plea for salvation. Their tears seemed to indicate it. Their hearty applause and handshakes also seemed to show it.

I wish I could take you there with these words. There are no adequate words to describe the scene that unfolded before us. It was a God-moment. I almost thought I heard the joyous shouts in heaven.

Let the celebration begin!

Why Not Just Do It?

I read a lot about church planting. Sometimes I think I read too much. Maybe we all do.

Honestly, I am getting a little frustrated reading the different websites who claim to have the answer. Is there a panacea for church planting? Is there a single model that will launch all of us into such a planting frenzy that we finish the task in my lifetime? The short answer is, "No!" Please consider what Oswald Chambers said last century: "Never try to make your experience a principle for others, but allow God to be as creative and original with others as He is with you." - My Utmost for His Highest, June 13.

So here is my advice to my church-planting friends: just do it! Find God's pattern for your people and do it. Find God's plan for your people and use it. There is no short cut. There is no easy way. It's all hard work. Just do it.

Where will we find that pattern and plan? We will find it in the prayer closet. That may sound too simple; well, it is not. It is blood, sweat, and tears. Seeking the Father's face may well be the most challenging part there ever was to church planting. So, with no further adieu, let's just do it!

Still Seeking,

Kevin, Somewhere in South America

First Fruits

It was a cold day. The ocean mist hung over the city like the wet blanket it was. We were all wrapped up like cocoons, trying to find some warmth against the cool, heavy humidity that penetrated our bones. Yet, in spite of the cold, there were some who were about to demonstrate their love for Jesus.

Two brave souls endured the cool air and even cooler water in the baptismal pool. Two demonstrated their love for Jesus in a work that is only two months old. We had hoped for more; but we rejoiced with the two.

Because the work is so new and because of a shortage of national workers, I found myself doing the baptizing. It's not my preferred method of working here. I am that school of thought who wants the locals to do the work. The man we baptized was not a good candidate for that; I won't go into reasons why. I just intend to rejoice over the the first fruits of this new work.

Now, I want you to meet Hilario. I am including this profession of faith because of its uniqueness. Hilario saw us gathered like sardines in our little building the community designated as the "temple." He chose to stop by on his way home with his tiny bag of herbs for his meal that day. He listened to the story from Acts 16. He watched intently as I baptized the two new believers. And he gave his heart to the Lord. I asked Hilario his age. He is 91. And yesterday he met the Savior for the first time in his life.

But Hilario was not the first that day. A 14-year-old named Junior was the first to profess Christ yesterday. I wrote about Junior sometime ago. Junior is the one who tried to kill himself with rat poison. Yesterday we celebrated the death of the old man and the birth of the new Junior. He stood before us with a big smile telling us about his conversion. A child led Hilario. A young man will now become a warrior for Jesus.

It was a day for rejoicing and celebration. It was the Lord's Day. It was Strong Tower Baptist Church's first fruits.

Here Am I! Send Me!

They gathered in small groups. Some stood with their heads bowed, tears coursing down their cheeks. Others wept openly, shoulders heaving with the sobs that came between gasps for breath. Some stood stoically, but resolutely.

This scene was repeated no less than six times in my presence. Others witnessed similar scenes unfold before them.

In all, I think the final tally of the recent missions conference will reveal that close to one hundred men, women, youth, and at least one young boy all answered the call of God to be on mission with him. Some will stay here, but find ways to be involved in their church's missionary endeavor. A few will go to some foreign land. A few will cross over the mountains and minister in the Amazon jungles.

None will ever be the same again. God spoke their names. He whispered into their hearts and called them out. His Spirit nudged them forward. I suspect some were pushed along; I know I was 23 years ago. I hope I am not the only hard-head left in the world! I suspect others were slowly led to this point of commitment. For some, it was the first time God had spoken to them and they responded as soon as they heard. God bless them for it!

None will ever be the same again. Not even I, and I was one of the messengers. All of us said, "Here am I, Lord! Send me!"

Calling Out the Called

I am in a major missions conference this week. It is with my friends from the Christian and Missionary Alliance churches. I was floored when they asked me to participate in this conference of mega-proportions. I was humbled even more when I sat with the other two principal speakers. I felt like a small child amidst "giants" of the faith. These two men are Davids, armed with a sling and smooth stones, going up against Goliath and his brothers. I came with a pea-shooter, by comparison.

The two men and I will each speak at least thirteen times in a total of 6 different churches; that's twice in each church and once at the missions fair. We will challenge men and women to give, go, and pray. We are calling out the called. And some are responding. It is my sincere hope that someone will close the conference with an invitation to publicly repsond to the call to missions. I believe God wants to mobilize the good men and women of the CMA churches to go into all the world.

Last night I taught around two thousand men and women about what to do when one is called to missions. So now that I have said that, let me ask my friends who may read this: what would you tell someone to do who felt called to missions and/or ministry? I am interested in hearing your opinions.

Also, someone asked me last night, "How do I know if I have been called?" What you you say to that question? How would you respond?

These are exciting days in South America. God is raising up a mighty army to storm the gates of Hell all around the world. I am humbled beyond words to know that I have been able to play a very small part in His plans.

The Joy of Making Others Weep

Today I watched a grown man cry. In fact, I made him cry. But I did not cry with him. In fact, I laughed. The more tears he wiped away, the more I laughed. Such cruelty. Such hardness. Not really. Not this time.

The man cried for joy. A little more than a month ago he lost his car to a hit and run driver. When some acquaintances in the United States learned of his plight, they were moved with compassion and to action. They took up a love offering and sent it with me to him. So I was the messenger for this dear brother. So the man cried and I laughed, all of it for the joy of the Lord.

He kept saying, "I knew God would take care of me; I never expected it to be all at once." And he would cry some more; I would laugh some more. Before long, his tears gave way to laughter, too.

After all, we serve that kind of God. Sometimes, when the chips are down, when we don't know which way to turn or what to do, God shows up. He scoops up a handful of whatever we need and sends it our way. Sometimes that is something tangible, like money. Sometimes it is hope. Sometimes it is peace. It's always exactly what we need for the moment.

Don't misunderstand me. God did not bless this man instantaneously. The man has struggled for more than a month. His car was his livelihood. He drives for a living. No car, no money; no money, no food. No food, no rent, no lights, no water, nothing. But God is good. And God saw his faithfulness in spite of the severe trial he faced. And God answered with a physical blessing.

I also know that sometimes God says, "Not this time." I don't always know why God does that. But I do know that many times God holds back the blessings to teach us that, "Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God." Faith in God's words is more important than faith in God's blessings.

But this was one of those times that God let us see a blessing unfold. And it was a wonderful occasion. The man left here with a spring in his step and a stronger hope in his heart.

Who knows; maybe you can go make someone cry today. If you do, be sure it brings fruits of faith in the person's life.

The Next Pitch

I just returned from south Tennessee, just north of Corinth, MS and west of Memphis, TN. It was my turn at the plate. By day I was to seek out men and women who may be interested in volunteering for a mission trip. By night I was the guest preacher for my host church. It was a splendid time.

We were situated just off Shiloh National Military Park, one of the famous sites of the Civil War. I went there to walk in the shade of the beautiful trees. I oohed and aahed over the beauty around me. I enjoyed the wildlife: deer, turkey, and other animals promenaded about us.

At the same time I pondered the complexity of mankind. Thousands of men died in this quiet, beautiful spot. Nobody won; everyone lost. It was a bittersweet place to walk. I was able to clear my head, to think. And I waited for the next pitch.

There were no curves thrown on this leg of the trip. Things went as expected; well, almost.

I expected to see men and women moved by the Spirit of God. Some were. Far too many did not seem to be impressed by God's presence. Perhaps they will be in some future date. One thing I do know: those moments were preserved somehow in eternity.

I hit the proverbial balls that were pitched to me. Now I must wait and see what results those hits will bring.

I almost sat out for the last inning. I am glad I did not. This morning I spoke with about eight men who now burn with the Spirit's fire. Their hearts burn for the lost around the world.

I have to call that a good hit.

When Life Throws a Curve Ball

I watched a baseball game today between my favorite team and one of my least favorites. I watched in glee as my team's pitcher struck out players, or as the fielders skillfully handled the balls that came their way.

I have always enjoyed watching the pitcher. But more than that, I have always enjoyed hitting a well-pitched ball. So did those 18 men I watched play. But more than once today the different pitchers would throw a very well-placed curve and strike out their opponent.

And so I was reminded that life can be like that; for I was watching that game from within the confines of a comfortable hospital room. Now I am here in North America so I can recruit men and women to help me in South America. I had all my game plan laid out long ago. I had my visits lined up. I knew how much time I had for each planned event, including down time with my two older daughters, my mother, and my siblings, as well as my in-laws. It was carefully planned.

Then came the curve. It was so skillfully pitched that I never saw it coming. So for four precious days I sat in one hospital room or another, seeking some way to remedy the problem that arose. The problem in and of itself is not germane to this discussion. Some of you have been thrown curves, too. You have problems that have sidelined your plans. You have been sent back to the dugout, wondering what in the name of all that is good happened.

If you are anything like I am, you wanted to kick the dirt and toss your bat into the proverbial stands. But you have to be careful doing that. You can hit someone who came to cheer you along. But don't we do it? Are we too often like the spoiled multi-millionaire ball players who hurl their bats into the stands when they are outwitted by a good pitcher? It's like they are screaming how unfair it was that someone dared throw them a curve.

But don't we do that? Don't we tend to bark at the ones who want to attempt to encourage us when we have been thrown a curve? Don't we cry that it is unfair? Someone last night told me how unfair life has been. I agree. Life is unfair.

It is unfair that Christ had to die in my place so that I could live with him at his place. It is unfair that he had to be separated from the Father because he was black with my sin. The stripes on his body were unfair. The beard and hair ripped from his face and head was something unfair. The crown of thorns. The unbearably heavy cross beam he was forced to carry. The spit. The ridicule. The humiliation of dying naked before men, women, and children. It was all unfair. But he did it to throw his own curve in the third inning.

It is unfair that death claims the young and old alike. I heard death cries while at that hospital. I heard disheartened families. I saw discouraged patients. I saw discouraged staff. I felt their load.

The thing that separates the best from the good is how the respond to the curve. Today I saw some smile and wait for the next pitch. I saw others leave in a huff when they struck out. I saw a few look at the pitcher with some due respect.

We need to respond well to the curves that come our way. We need to demonstrate more than a hint of godliness. We need to be examples of grace and lives molded by the Holy Spirit. We need to show our encouragers that we appreciate their encouragement.

Do not be deceived; life will throw you a curve. When it does, look well as to how you select the next pitch.

Oh, by the way, it's a new inning. I am back at homeplate, waiting for the next pitch.

Things I Learned While Traveling to America

I am in North America today--Mississippi, to be exact. South Mississippi. The land of pine trees, catfish, and Baptists. I came for a variety of reasons, none of which are relevant to this post. So let me tell you what I learned while traveling to America; it might be interesting to someone.

1. Traveling in coach has become interesting. The seats must be shrinking in width. The leg room is certainly smaller than it once was.
2. The earphones are bigger than the seats you sit in. Sticking those things in your ears can be as painful as body piercings look.
3. If you travel on a day flight if the person next to the window closes the window blind, you lose the best advantage of daytime travel.
4. Be careful what you ask immigrations officials about their equipment. It could slow you down.
5. I learned that many Americans have a steadily decreasing vocabulary. There were many who seemed to only know four-letter words.
6. I was a confirmed and fully persuaded creationist. Then I saw the baggage handlers in the Miami Airport. Now I am not so sure....
7. You can't get a Dr. Pepper on the flights between South America and North America. Never mind that they advertise them as a part of their stock soft drinks. What is this world coming to?
8. Americans are some of the most generous people on the face of the earth. I listened with great interest to a man tell of building schools in Latin America. It's all done as donations to the countries they build them in. I listened to others tell of their contributions to world missions.
9. Americans still know how to smile in the south.
10. Americans still know how to cook in the south.
11. Americans still know how to eat really big meals in the south.
12. Northerners don't know how to eat grits and eggs.
13. Many Mississippians love Jesus. They will go anywhere to serve him.

I have two more weeks in the deep south. Then it is back to South America. Pray for a positive response to the invitation to come and help us win that continent for Jesus.

Love

He loved us first. He did not have to. He was under no obligation to love us first. He just did. It's his nature. But so is justice. So is righteousness. But God chose to exercise his love. He loved us first.

We love him because he first loved us. We would not know love if he did not love us first. We might understand affection. But love? That's a God-thing. And he first loved us. So now we love him. We stretch our arms upward to him, wanting to be held. And accepted. To be with him. It's something that happens when you love someone. You want to be with them. You want to deny yourself because he loved you first. You don't mind taking up your cross. You want to follow.

You can trust him because he loves you. Because if he loves you, you can know he wants the best for you. It may not look like the best thing. But his love is steadfast. So you can trust him.

We love one another because he first loved us. If God did not love me first, I don't know if I could love you. Not the way I am supposed to. But God loved me first. So I now I can love you, even when you are unlovable. Now you can love me, even when I show my ugly side to you.

We love our enemies because he first loved us. I was his enemy. I raged against him. I plotted evil in my bed. I twisted the truth to fit my point of view. I--well, you get the picture. Yet, while was his enemy, God sent Jesus to suffer my penalty. He took my punishment and applied that to his own Son. Then he offered me a pardon. He offered me peace. He offered full forgiveness.

Now I can love my enemies. I can love the men or women who ripped up 600 feet of hand rails off new stairs we built on the steep hillsides of one community. I can love the man who stole cement to make a new patio in front of his store. Because God loved me first, I can walk two miles with the one who asked me to walk one.

Love is there, right along with hope and faith. But faith did not send Christ to the cross for me. Hope did not send him to the cross for me. It was love. The greatest of these is love.

Faith

My last words were based on the need for hope. Hope is such an important thing. Hope often becomes our legs in dark times. Hope becomes a soft pillow instead of stone for our head. Hope lifts our head, our heart. But hope is misplaced when unaccompanied by faith. It becomes wishful thinking.


But faith gives hope its strength. Faith is the thing that can produce hope within us.


In his great work My Utmost for His Highest Oswald Chambers wrote:

Faith is not some weak and pitiful emotion, but is strong and vigorous confidence built on the fact that God is holy love. And even though you cannot see Him right now and cannot understand what He is doing, you know Him. Disaster occurs in your life when you lack the mental composure that comes from establishing yourself on the eternal truth that God is holy love. Faith is the supreme effort of your life—throwing yourself with abandon and total confidence upon God.

I work with a lot of hopeless people. It's not an economic thing; some of them are wealthy beyond my dreams. A tithe of their money would facilitate a lot of ministry here! They are hopeless because they have a misplaced faith.

Sometimes they have faith in faith itself. That is almost always the case among those who follow prosperity theology. They don't see God as the object of their faith; instead, God is the servant of their faith. Their faith is in their praying, not in the God who answers. And when He does not come through, well hope wanes and often dies.

Others have placed their faith in an image, or an icon, or in a religion. I know a few Baptists like that. I know a few Methodists like that, too. I know too many people like that. They trust something other than God. And without faith, said the author of Hebrews, you cannot please God. That is not carte blanche for us. We cannot claim that verse and then believe whatever. God must be the object of our faith. Abraham believed God and God wrote it up as righteousness for him.

I spoke with a woman this week who has a misplaced faith. So her hope is also weak. Her faith is in me. Yes, in me. She said that she wished I would return to their community and do the teaching, because then she could return to the paths of the Lord. A friend of mine once warned that our people group almost worships the missionary as a god. May we reject such a notion when it appears! I told the woman she was not on the Lord's path because she made a choice not to be there. If I allowed her to place her faith in me, what kind of man would I then be? If she could place her faith in me, when I left--and one day I will--then her hope would likely leave, because the object of her faith left.

Consider the megachurches in the world, especially the United States, where great, eloquent, appealing men of God have fallen. Soon thereafter many walk away from their faith because the object of their faith let them down. That will always happen with a misplaced faith. It's a false faith. It's an empty faith. It's a hopeless faith.

When Elisha left the place where Elijah was taken up from him, he came to the Jordan River with the mantle that Elijah had dropped. Elisha struck the water and cried out, "Where is the LORD God of Elijah?" (2 Kgs. 2:14) His faith was properly placed. It was not in his former teacher/mentor; it was in the only one who deserves to be the object of our faith.

Is your hope weak today? Consider examining your faith, too. If you shift your "faith-gaze" to the Lord, I think you will find your hope, right were you left it.

Hope

In my last post I spoke of a young man we took to the hospital. I learned yesterday that the young man had tried to commit suicide. He drank some kind of poison--probably rat poison. What moves a young teen to such despair? How can one so young believe that life is so empty that the only solution is to end it?

The boy's plight is tragic, to say the least. His father is nowhere to be found. I think he left ages ago. His mother has to earn a living by selling second-hand goods and candies on the street. Those of you in developing countries may have seen such a scene. There are men, women, or children standing on the road, holding a bag of candy. They climb onto the buses or tap on car windows, offering their goods. You can get six pieces of hard candy for about 35 cents.

My sources tell me that while the mother sold her goods, the boy drank. A lot. He spent many days quite drunk, in fact. Where does a 14-year-old get booze? What kind of pervert would sell or give it to him? Better a millstone be hung around his neck!!

So this young man is in the hospital, recovering from a self-inflicted injury. I don't know if he will be the same again. His nervous system was affected. He was already losing his eyesight when we got him there. I am praying for a different kind of eyesight. I am praying for him to see hope in the midst of a miserable life circumstance.

With the bad news flowing around the world today, with men waving weapons and executing people at will, before destroying their own lives, with men and women railing at God, we still need to have a clarion voice that there is hope in Jesus.