LESSONS IN THE DESERT.
[All of these concepts are personal reflections and paraphrases from Gene Edwards’ book, The Inward Journey.]
When I awoke, I was, I confess, in a desert.
How did I get here? Did I come here on my own, or was I thrust here against my will? I still am not sure.
But I am, as I say, in a very deserted place. Unbearably dry, hot, barren—deserted by all human life. I am, indeed, alone, in private personal suffering.
It is, I acknowledge, a wilderness. Indescribably unfriendly, unwelcoming, dangerous to the soul. I am, indeed, surrounded by danger, in battle for my very life against a raging wildness within.
I recognize this place. It is the wilderness of Judea, less than 10 miles east of Jerusalem. When the westerly winds blow into Israel from the Mediterranean, they dump their moisture on the Judean mountains, and then sweep down into the valley that contains the Dead Sea, creating a blast furnace that tortures and kills everything. How could I walk from Jerusalem and be in such a desolate place in just an hour? I can almost see the city from down in this valley, and yet I am so desperately alone.
Wait! Perhaps not so very alone. Who is that, over there? Stumbling over rocks, exhausted from hunger, on the brink of insanity. He seems to be speaking to someone—no, arguing with an enemy—though I see no one there. Through gritted teeth, He quotes the Bible: “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” He groans and climbs unsteadily up a hill, and this time He shouts, “You shall not tempt the Lord your God!” He collapses in tears. What internal agony must He be experiencing right now? I might never know, except that He and I are in the same desert, perhaps led by the same Hand. Suddenly, He leaps back to His feet and turns and screams to no one visible: “Away! Leave me, Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve Him only!’” Dropping again to His knees in exhaustion, I see a new look on this tortured man’s face. It is the look of joy. Of peace. Resolution. Whatever intense battle he has faced in the wilderness, he has won—at least for today.


Suddenly he is gone. His desert time is over, perhaps, but I am alone again, wrestling with something or someone that I can’t see. Did I imagine the whole thing? Am I the only one to experience these desperate feelings, or has someone else been here?
Someone else? Yes, over there. And old man, covered with the sores of some excruciating skin disease, with torn clothes, sits in rubble and scrapes his boils with a stone while he groans in agony. Yet, he seems to have that same peaceful, other-worldly, victorious look in his eyes. I run to him, hoping that he will not disappear before I find some answers.
“Old man!” I cry, “You are suffering, are you not?”
“Oh, yes. Trust me. I am indescribable pain. I have lost all my wealth, all ten of my children, and my health, all in one day. I am truly in misery.”
“Yet, if you are suffering so, you look so at peace.”
“Yes, I am at peace. I have never seen so clearly or been so blessed.”
“If I may ask, what did you see, old man? What did you learn?”
“I saw—Him. The Lord Almighty, the Maker.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“That I am not Him.”
“That’s it?”
“It is more than enough.”


And he was gone. I turned around and saw that I was alone again, naturally. Dryness and death was all around me, within me, upon me.
Then I heard a voice. A young man. Singing. Praises to God. Over there, behind that ridge. A small stream runs underground from Jerusalem through the wilderness and comes out here, bringing a little oasis of bamboo and reeds, and a little waterfall before dumping into the Dead Sea. This is the oasis called En Gedi, and hidden somewhere in all this growth is the youngest of seven brothers, a shepherd and musician by background, a one-hit warrior, and a man anointed as the next king of Israel. It is David, and in this wilderness he sings praise.
“How did you get here,” I ask.
“King Saul tried to kill me, so I am hiding here.”
“But you are the king of Israel!”
“Anointed as king, but not yet enthroned. There is a big difference, you know.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About thirteen years. Of course, not always in this oasis. Usually I have been in more austere settings out there, where you came from.”
“How long will you remain?”
“I can’t predict that. All I can do is to take what I am given, and wait on the Lord.”
“But you are . . .”
“Yes, the king. I know. We’ve already covered that.”
“Why don’t you raise up an army and take your place on the throne?”
“And go against the Lord’s anointed, Saul? No, thanks. God will do whatever he does whenever he does it. He keeps the score, not I.”
“But how can you sing in this God-forsaken wilderness? Aren’t you the sweet psalmist of Israel?”
“Son, did you know that I have written twice as many psalms here in this so-called ‘God-forsaken’ wilderness as I will ever write in a palace? Think about that before you judge which place is better for the spirit.”
There was a noise nearby, and King David, the mighty warrior of Israel, shot back into the undergrowth like a spooked rabbit, and was gone.


I turned to see the source of the noise, a kind of shuffling dragging sound of a log over stones. It was the first man that I had seen. He was back in the desert again, outside of Jerusalem, this time carrying—a cross.
I wanted to ask my own questions: Why am I here? Is this some sort of punishment? When do I leave? Isn’t it more blessed to be blessed than it is to be tested? There were a hundred other questions in my mind. But somehow asking them seemed unimportant now, as I watched Jesus being nailed to the cross and lifted up on it. And as he hung, he said strange things, like “My God, why have you forsaken me?” and, “Father, forgive them” and, “It is finished.”
I couldn’t remember what my questions were anymore. Somehow I had seen Him. And it was enough. For a moment, I saw clearly. The answers were not contained in my questions, anyway. The answer is—Him. Jesus. Slain in the desert before the foundations of the earth.
I guess I was not—am not—so very alone, after all.
I was joining Jacob, permanently lame from wrestling with an angel that he could not see, who worshiped while leaning on his staff. He was renamed Israel by God himself because of his experience with God in the wilderness.
I was joining Joseph, who was sold into slavery by his own brothers, and then unjustly imprisoned for years. His desert experience prepared him to be the second-highest official in all of Egypt, and to save the lives of people all through his region, especially including his own brothers who had betrayed him.
I was joining the three men in Babylon who refused to bow down to the golden idol, and were cast into the fiery furnace. Rather than preventing them from entering the furnace, God joined them in it.
In fact, being here in the desert, I join the list of saints and martyrs through the centuries; that great cloud of witnesses who together testify that faith is not based on what you see, but on what you hold onto in the night, in the wild, and in the storm. God is not surprised by the desert. He is not powerless in the wilderness. He is the Sovereign One, the Lord of the heavens and the earth. Far too often, He does not explain His purposes or His actions. But He is always here. He is Emmanuel.


Question: Have you ever been through a desert season? I don’t just mean a spiritually dry time, or a depressed time triggered by unhappy circumstances. I mean an extended time when God was absent, when you felt abandoned, when you were empty inside. Has God led you into the wilderness? If so, what was it like? What secrets did God teach you in the desert? Have you left the desert yet? If so, how did you get back out?


The thing, the exquisitely maddening thing, about God is that He so seldom explains Himself. Even when—especially when—we are in the desert, the Lord is silent in answer to our cries. What’s he up to? You never know. And the weirdest part is, maybe that’s the point.
When I am in the desert, I am forced to see myself for what I truly am. In pleasant pastures, I can spend my energies on testimonies of praise and focus my attention on what I eat and drink, what I wear, how religious I am, my reputation, intellectual studies and theology, self-control and religiosity, ambitions and goals and projects and ministry career—in short, on my outer shell. I can afford to live a soulish life when I dwell in the garden. But my comfortable habits and foods are stripped away in the wilderness, and I am left to wrestle with the very center of me while I am chewing on locusts and washing them down with wild honey. It is deep to deep, my spirit and God’s, doing business in the desert. There is really no other way for God to get me to stop long enough to see the mess in the center.
In truth, “human life, regardless of the way it manifests itself, really isn’t all that obedient to the project of being divinely absorbed.”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” (Edwards, The Inward Journey, 41).
A long reflection on the cross gives me a glimpse of what God is doing in the desert. When I see what the Father did to the Son, teaching him obedience through what he suffered, abandoning his own self for our sake, then I realize that he is willing to pay any outward price to gain inner and eternal benefits. I survey the Garden (the prayer, the sweat, the resolve), the betrayal, the injustice, the scourging, the mocking, the cross, the blood, the spear, the forsaking, the death, and the burial, and something very deep inside me catches something. And much as I would like to think otherwise, I realize that God cannot teach me the same things by blessing me and answering my every prayer. He must deliver to me a wound just as surely as he had to do it to his own Son.
Listen: there was a reason that Anthony and the other Desert Fathers chose to go to the most wasted places on the planet in order to do spiritual battle. What is it that is awakening in my deepest part here in the wasteland? Is it humility? As my self-sufficiency dies, is that God’s Spirit living in me? In my suffering am I beginning to see beyond this world and commune deeply with the Lord? In my having no answers, is the silent God planting a tiny grain of faith? Does it take a desert to do this deepest work in me? Am I becoming absorbed with God?


There was a time when I wanted to be known as a really smart person. I wanted perfect grades, and human respect. I don’t know, some sort of need for parental approval that focused on being admired by others. I pursued more degrees and a bigger vocabulary, and I was a know-it-all about any and everything. God made my intellect, but I know that was not what he wanted me to do with it. Strike one.
I learned that the Lord was more interested in what I do than in what I know. So I studied and memorized my Bible, meditated on Scripture, and set for my life certain disciplines. Secretly I wanted to be admired for my amazing self-discipline, but outwardly I tried to project a personality of humility. Strike two.
Then I discovered that it’s not what I know or what I do that makes me a good Christian It’s what I feel. God fashioned in me a heart of compassion and made me tender. I tried to have mercy on people. But then I realized that much of my mercy was because I feared people, had no boundaries and wanted respect. Strike three.
God doesn’t want thinkers or doers or feelers. All three of those qualities are elements of the soul (mind, will and emotions). But God is looking to dig deeper into me than my mind, my will or my emotions. He wants me to be mighty in spirit. And when he rebuilds me from the inside out, I forget about my precious reputation, seeking rather the heart of God.
There is a problem with the prosperity Gospel. It focuses on things of the body and soul, but not on the spirit. So what fruit does the prosperity Gospel yield? It yields people who are focused on their health, their finances, their ease of life, trappings of outward success. In short, they focus on avoiding the desert! Anything to keep from physical or emotional or intellectual suffering! The prosperity Gospel has no chance of delivering me from myself; rather, it feeds my fleshly nature even more.
Gene Edwards writes, “Most of us are either extremely sinful or extremely religious. Or both! And further, I suspect that neither one of those states pleases God more than the other. Neither impresses him. What he does in us impresses him!” (p. 53)
That’s why Hebrews 11 is full of icky details. “Others were tortured and refused to be released, so that they might gain a better resurrection. Some faced jeers and flogging, while still others were chained and put in prison. They were stoned; they were sawed in two; they were put to death by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated—the world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground.” What’s that all about? Sometimes we get the good stuff in our lives, and sometimes we get none of it, but that’s why they call it “faith.” Otherwise, they’d call it “sight.”


Does true maturity ever arise from anything other than pain? I know that the Bible says that the goodness of God [can] lead us to repentance, but I also know that in my life, and in those characters from the Bible, God seems to mostly use a cross to shape His character in our lives. So maybe I’ll ask this: what percentage of your spiritual growth do you perceive to have come in sunshine, versus the amount that came in pain?


The truth is, God uses the cross to shape me into the image of Christ. It is not pleasant, but it is right. Through the cross, God puts to death my giddy false joy by making my flippant easy answers ring hollow when they don’t work for me anymore. He uses painful means to squash my overweening pride when I realize I am not as talented as I imagined and that I have truer friends than I deserve. And in turn the cross even erases my morose self-pity—yes, even my cross must go to the cross, as I place my cross syndrome on the cross—you know, that tendency to be quick to claim myself to be suffering for the cause of Christ. I offend and irritate people, and then imagine myself to be persecuted for the sake of righteousness. I selfishly misspend my money and then think myself to be sacrificially giving when I feel the financial squeeze as I tithe to the Lord. I am quick to call something a cross, because that automatically makes me a martyr.
“There is something that will never die except for the jabbing pains of adversity. If you resist, if you hold on to that deep self-centered place, ever guarding it, making sure that it is not invaded even by the hand of God, then something in you will go unchanged and unbroken throughout all of your life upon this earth. An altar, a throne room, an inner sanctuary where self is worshiped will never be cast down. Be sure . . . one day the Lord will lift the hand of protection from you, and out of love he will say, ‘Now I will allow this one to suffer.’ On that day you will begin to fellowship with Christ in his sufferings. Those sufferings had purpose in his earthly life; they will just as certainly have purpose in yours.” (65)
I have been for most of my life a “professional minister.” Because of that, the cross is especially essential for me. Professional ministers tend to be people with extraordinary gifts—personable, persuasive, positive, prophetic—and likely to be proud. Satan certainly wants a crack at neutralizing such a person, and God wants to refine and use him or her. But take note, Satan introduces temptations and trials, but he does not and cannot introduce the cross. So what does the Sovereign Lord do to refine such a powerful person? He takes him to the desert, or he nails her to the cross. Usually, the testing comes in that worker’s area of greatest strength. And when the testing comes, it shows whether the Christian worker is only a “professional Christian” or a true disciple.
The challenge, of course, is to discern whether this is a temptation or distraction sent by Satan, or whether it is a cross sent by God. I must resist the devil, but submit to the Lord. It is a mistake to think that every blessing is from God, and every difficult thing is from Satan. And when the challenge comes, of course, my fleshly temptation is to do what comes naturally. I resist. I protect myself. I lash out. I defend. My ugly side arises, and I don’t notice it because I am in the midst of a personal crisis which I am merely trying to survive. But if this cross is from God (and it is), then my response should be the same as my Lord’s response. I must receive it, trust God, learn obedience through what I suffer, forgive my enemies, and die. Die to my strength, to my dream, to my fears, to my career. Only if I die can I be resurrected.
Lord, have you sent me here to refine me? What is left of me in this lonely place? All that I thought I could rely on to feel good about my eternal state is being challenged. I am so tired of being so arrogant, and yet I hate being humiliated. For years, I have been able to charm and sing and play my way into positions of favor. And so I have a conflict of interests, that when I have the appearance of being a holy man, I win twice—I am paid, and I am respected. So, what now? Am I to the place where I can say that I have everything I need here in your presence? Or do I then stand up, take five steps away from this sacred place, and start right back to my selfish goals of pursuing my personal goals of my professional ministry?


A desert. A cross. Paul described a thorn in his flesh. Jesus is a cornerstone, and either I fall on him and am broken, or He falls on me and I am crushed. John the Baptist said that Jesus would baptize with fire, would winnow out the wicked and call all to repent. Jesus said that the Kingdom advances strongly and that only strong men take hold of it. Are all of these concepts related? I suspect that they are. The proud are brought low and the humble inherit the earth. The first are last and the last are first. My area of greatest strength crumbles underneath me, and I am left empty and desolate, broken and spilled out, humbled and dead to myself.
It is devastating to me to have my dearest friends leave the church. It leaves me empty when people who agree with my ministry philosophy reject my ministry when it is lived out. I, the arrogant know-it-all of ministry, am left alone to sort through my ideals, my popularity, my skills and find that I am empty. As a teacher, students reject me, administrators overlook me, and I, the honor student, fail at my chosen career. At home, all my perfect parenting theories crumble in the light of overwhelming need. I fail in the relationships that are most important to me. Those who know me best respect me least, and I have no reason to get up and try again. I have finally arrived at the place of brokenness, where I realize that there is no good in me.
I came here once before. As a young teenager, I came to the place of realization that I was a sinner in the hands of God, but that God loves me and that Jesus died for me. I was overwhelmed by grace and I repented and gave my empty, rotten life to Jesus. He forgave me, filled me, set my feet on solid rock, and put a new song in my mouth. And I was born again.
But this time, I am lingering longer in the desert. My theology isn’t providing me with the instant fix, the way it did the first time. I am already forgiven, but I have somehow been allowed to come back to this place, even with my Christian theology, to revisit the wilderness. What will my response be this time?
This is the place where many followers of Christ give up. When easy answers, feel-good solutions and pious platitudes no longer work, many decide to take the nearest exit ramp and head back to civilization. I have seen it far too many times to not recognize the pattern. “Touch one of those truly basic personality flaws in a believer’s life and you will encounter a surprising amount of resistance from an otherwise very dedicated Christian.” (76) How will my own faith respond? Today, I think I’d rather be a martyr. I think I could gloriously die in front of witnesses, a quick and brave death for Jesus. Just don’t ask my wife how I did at living sacrificially for my family.



I suppose the key to getting through the desert intact is realizing that God is in control, even of the cross, even of the desert. I and my friends in the ministry have this strong tendency to attribute anything that opposes our little will and our little kingdom as being the devil. But Jesus is Lord of the heavens and the earth, Lord of the Sabbath and of the weak days. He is even Lord ultimately over even Lucifer, and nothing can happen in my life without His permission. He sends the desert, still He wants only my good. So the sooner I realize that the desert is for my benefit, the sooner I can go about learning to cooperate with God’s plan for it.
God takes me into a season of the desert. He is a God of seasons, and His desire is to make me seasonless, or rather, a man for all seasons, who moves forward through it all. This is not a day in the park or a weekend in jail; it is a season. I see how seasons work in nature, so it is not surprising that I am called to go through seasons of the spirit, as well. Then, as Paul said, I can be prepared in season and out of season.
“A church cannot always be up. A people who try to ever be in an upward state of rejoicing will one day have a lot of catching up to do on the down side. An always ‘up’ church is in for some of the most positive nervous breakdowns the world has ever seen.
“The Christian and the Lord’s body both need rain and sunshine, cold and heat, wind and doldrums. Seasons of joy and seasons of sorrow. Times when the Lord is so real it seems any activity you undertake is a spiritual experience.” (114)



And what is his goal? To make me like Christ. And how was Christ? Unjustly suffering, yet without sin. “There has to come a place where virtually nothing done to you, regardless of how unjust it is, can hurt your feelings.” (78) I was the one who foolishly prayed for the Lord to conform me fully into the image of Christ. Now that he has begun to do that work, I think it is unjust. Of course it is unjust! There are things that only unjust suffering can teach me. Am I willing to learn those things?
In my early twenties, I was pretty radically committed to follow Christ, whenever, wherever, whatever He called me to. But something happened over the next decade or so. I got comfortable, craved security, and closed myself to adventuring for the Kingdom. Partly to serve my growing family, and partly to preserve my chosen career—that’s right, service to Christ became a career to me—I settled down to life in the city. No longer was I willing to meet Christ in the wilderness, so maybe he had to take me out here against my will. Like Abraham, I am called to leave civilization and live in a tent, looking for something beyond this life for my security. Rather than accumulating money, stuff, and respect, Jesus calls me to empty myself of all of it—everything—to prepare myself for eternity with nothing—nothing but him.
Here is the mystery of my life: I have gathered with God’s people week after week, I have even led them in worship literally thousands of times, and yet some deep parts of me have remained virtually untouched by the Holy Spirit’s sanctifying power. Others who know me well (thank God for real church life!) can see my flaws and sins clearly, but I am remain unchanged. In love I have been confronted with myself, and I have failed to see what others have tried to hint to me. And so I am taken here, to the woodshed, to lovingly learn from the hand of my Daddy. He custom fits a cross, just for me.
How many ways can others tell me, “Ken, you are arrogant and unteachable. You are self-centered and lazy. You fear your reputation more than you fear God’s,” and have it not soak in? I am tempted to run and hide, to lapse into self-pity and depression, or to move on to the next church, where it will take some time before people know me so well. It has to hurt, or I will never listen!
And so, goal number one is survival in the wilderness. That is plenty for starters. There I weep and groan in anguish, but I survive. But the ultimate goal, the final goal, is to learn not to become bitter, no matter what happens, but to come to a place of peace and joy in the midst of myself. To learn one ounce of humility through yet another failure starts me down the right path to the place where eventually my spirit becomes stronger than my soul.
“There is always the danger, if you have not grown up your entire Christian life in a moderated nonfanatical experience of church life, that what you are calling your spirit is really nothing more than a distorted soul.
“Time, plus the cross. Plus church life. Plus a lot more time. Then throw in a great deal of personal, firsthand encounters with Christ. Stir. Then some more time, and a lot more of the cross working on your positive nature and your negative nature. Eventually the spirit will gain the upper hand.” (122)
When we really live church life the way that God intended, we are finding that we are the most suffering, most fragile, most dysfunctional Christians I have ever known. No, maybe we are the first Christian I have ever really begun to know, and because of that, I am discovering many layers of struggle and pain. Gene Edwards suggests that we should put a sign in our homes: “Church life may be hazardous to your health.”(147)
But when we know each other well, there is another benefit to our fellowship. That is that the ones who suffer first are able to comfort those who suffer after them. When I have allowed myself to be broken, without bitterness, I can share with those who come after me how God has enabled me to overcome. And I discover that my wilderness experience is not for me alone. I suffer for the whole body. (2 Timothy 2:10) I recognize that virtually every piece of wisdom, every moment of good advice, is born from my own lessons learned during suffering.
“The young Christian college student who walked in here ten years ago to gather with a group of other believers sitting on the floor of a large living room was a Christian capable of hurting others so deeply and being so insensitive in the doing of it. The person who sits here in that same room today is not very quick to cry, very slow to correct, very good at comforting and encouraging others, very poor at passing judgment and finding fault.
“Do you think it was the books he read? Do you think it was the messages he heard? No. It was the chilly nights of the spirit that brought this change.” (160)
Amazingly, the Bible says that Jesus did not complete his sufferings. It is for his contemporary body to continue to fill up what is left. One of us will be ridiculed, another will suffer disease, another rejection, and still another unjust death. But it is assigned to his church to suffer as our Head has suffered. When we ask, “Why?” we will always receive the same answer: silence. And that is part of the suffering, part of the desert. He is making a Bride, spotless and without wrinkle, but I am not that bride alone. We are. So, for the sake of the body, I suffer alone, because, well, I can never know why, but somehow for the sake of the whole church.
A few of us even are given the calling to enter into something even darker. John of the Cross called it the Dark Night of the Soul. It is so deep, you might describe it as the moment when Jesus was forsaken by his Father on the cross. Of course, I will never be a sin bearer, but I might be called to be so alone, so very forsaken, that there is nothing. I will never know why I am so absolutely forsaken in this life. This, too, is a grace from God.
While I might experience such a dark night of rejection from the Father, just as Jesus had that Friday afternoon, I have no guarantee of when I might experience my resurrection. Jesus was three days in the tomb before he was made alive again. Joseph was some years in slavery, even in prison, before he was elevated to a position of power and prestige. Jacob was on the run from his brother for fourteen years before they were reconciled. David spent at least as much time running from Saul before he was established in the palace. I guess I’m saying that I might be crucified on Friday, and it could be years before Sunday morning comes. But I believe that Sunday will come. And as Job says, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God.” (Job 19:25-26) I can say with Jesus, “Let this cup pass from me . . . yet not my will but yours be done.” I can agree with Job, “Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him.” (13:15)
And so I stay in the desert, patient for a season, however long it might last, knowing that the Lord himself has led me into this wilderness, has fashioned this cross specifically for me, and that he will use my experience to bless his bride in the end.

WHY STEP BACK?
"Temporary success in a city has caused many a Christian worker to begin right there to build an empire. Instead he should have built the church of Jesus Christ. Many a Christian worker has raised up a work that perhaps was worthy to be called "church life" or "body life." Once built, problems developed. He fought tooth, tongue, and nail to preserve his work. Why? I wonder. Why fight to preserve it? It will stand if it is Christ. If part of it stands, and that part is really Christ, then having nothing but that little part surviving is far better than a large work that has to be held together by reason, logic, theology, fear, accusation, doctrine, or whatever. In my judgment, the worker might seriously consider stepping back, even out--dying to his work, letting the fire fall on that work, and seeing just how much of it can survive."

Gene Edwards, The Inward Journey, p. 69.

THE LEGACY OF TOM POWELL

Tom Powell and his family have blessed many of us at cciph for some three years now. What do you suppose will be their greatest legacy? Here are some that strike me; maybe you would like to contribute more:

1. Family life. Having eight children, all with bright eyes and spiritual sensitivity and individual names and personalities. That sets a standard for many of us to realize that, yes, family is important, and it is worth it. Whatever my idealistic standards might have been, the Powells have gone beyond it and stand as a testimony of success in family life. The very fact that the first thing I think of about Tom is his family says volumes about his priorities.
2. Living by faith. They have lived on less than most people make, choose to have no insurance, and seldom go to the doctor, birthed six of their children at home. Somehow, Tom and Kerri have been in agreement, and the Lord has miraculously taken care of them. Now they long for a free church, with all the benefits and disadvantages that a free church implies. Again, whatever level of faith I have pales in comparison, and I realize that I can, with confidence, go further, because I see faith lived out in the Powells.
3. Humility and service. Tom moves easily among and poor and disadvantaged, blows no trumpets, draws no attention to self, and thinks only of service to others. Nothing is beneath his dignity, and no one knows about most of what he does. He avoids the temptation to bring up his sacrifices in casual conversation, for he does not do things out of false humility. He is the real deal, and he calls me higher (lower) in service to others. He served as pastor of this church for two years and was never given, nor did he ever claim, an official title or office. He had the authority handed to him, if he had wanted it, but he never took the mantle of The Man.
4. Spiritual wisdom. Tom really hears from God. He listens to prophets and dreams, he digs for insight in Scripture, and he pays attention to Providential details. When he speaks, he brings out insights that come from having been with God in the secret places. When I need wise counsel, Tom is one of the first people to come to mind, and I listen to Tom because I know that he hears from God.

More personally, I find myself to be losing a man whom I view as a brother or close relative. I feel like I grew up with him, and I think I did grow up with him these last couple of years. My greatest regret in Tom's leaving Cincy is that our children will not continue to grow up together. The Powell home was a safe refuge for Anthony, an island of peace in the midst of the unsafe city, and that leaves a terrible hole in my family and in my heart. I know that we will keep in touch, and I will enjoy watching from a distance as the Lord blesses the Powell family. Godspeed, Tom. I love you.

BEING A SENDING CHURCH

Daniel and I had the privilege of visiting New Life Community Church this past Sunday. There, the worship leader for that church, Mark Boys, was sent out with much love to move to Chicago. They also prayed for and sent off a young lady from the church who had been there for six years. Pastor Mike said, "We are a sending church."

I related to his words. We have seen more than our share of "sending." And we are preparing to send more, with the Powells and the Richardsons relocating soon.

And I thought of Antioch. Antioch was a first-century "sending church." The Bible tells us that they were the first true Gentile church, a lovely mix of multiple ethnicities and many house churches throughout the city. Non-biblical sources tell us that they especially flourished among the poor and in the worst neighborhoods. They were a very successful network of house churches. And yet they sent away two of their five prophets and teachers, and they were constantly sending people away in that time of transience and persecution. That church served as a model church for churches all through Asia.

The more they "sent," the more the word was spread. And God was glorified, not just in Antioch, but throughout the world. Amen.

Morpheus' Proposal
This morning, we handed out paper cups, each with a red and a blue jelly bean in it. Here is what I said:

“After this there is no turning back. You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and you believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes. . . . Remember, all I’m offering is the truth. Nothing more. . . . Follow me.”

If you take the red pill, this is what you are saying: "I am taking charge of my own spirituality. I will have real faith that is my own, and I will be Christ's alone."

If you take the red pill, you are saying, "I am committing myself to being vulnerable in true community. I will be part of a real family, bound together by the blood of the Lamb."

If you choose the red pill, you are saying, "I am opening my heart and my home to be a full-time missionary. I will be a real friend to my neighbors, as the Lord leads me."

Or, choose the blue pill, and you can wake up and forget this message as you go back to the Normal Christian Life as a comfortable American. The choice is yours.

I took the red pill. No turning back.

Follow me.

WHAT DOES THE SPIRIT DO?

The Bible says that the Holy Spirit is guiding the church and each of its members. He makes His will known through checking our movement, giving visions and dreams, interpretations, words of revelation or instruction or prophecy or tongues. Sometimes, the leaders sense what seems good to the Holy Spirit and to them, and they make a decision accordingly.

He also works wonders in our midst, at least on occasion. Jesus left the wilderness in the “power” of the Spirit. The Spirit interprets our prayers according to the Father’s will. The power of the Lord Jesus is (or at least can be, depending on how you read it) among us when we gather.

Jesus said that his disciples need not worry in advance about what to say when they are brought before the authorities, for it would be given to them at the right time just what to say. That advice may or may not be for us today (God is not necessarily dishonored by planning in advance!), but we can see His words fulfilled when Stephen stood before the council in Acts 6:15.

What does the Spirit say? When we are discerning spirits, we can know from Scripture that the Holy Spirit says certain things: Jesus is Lord. Jesus has come in the flesh. Baptized followers of Jesus are God’s children.

There are many spirits. All but one of them is a false spirit, and many of them can disguise themselves as angels of light. So we must always be discerning.

You must have Jesus to have the Spirit. Got Jesus?

HOW TO WIN AND KEEP A WOMAN.

Let me try an earthly illustration. As a young man, I met this girl named Ellen and thought she was everything I ever wanted in my life. So I bought and read a book called How to Win and Keep a Woman. It said that four times a year I must buy her flowers. Once a week I must take her out on a date. I should call her at least once a day to touch base, and the book provided a rotating list of what to say to make her think that she was important to me. There was a chapter on techniques for romancing her, formulas for determining if she was happy enough, and what to do about it if she wasn’t, and advice on manners and listening techniques. I studied all those things—over one hundred ideas in all—and to this day I strive to follow the advice of the book How to Win and Keep a Woman. Of course, I don’t keep most of those things most days, and I constantly feel guilty because I’m not doing enough. But I try.

You may have guessed that there is no such book, How to Win and Keep a Woman. If I do any of the things that I do, it is so much better if those actions arise out of a heart of love rather than a list of do’s. There is no romance in following a list of rules. But there is joy in loving a woman to death. I am guided by love, not rules, and the actions arise from the relationship. So it is with the Holy Spirit.

LIVING SPIRITUALLY.

When we live spiritually, we live in constant communication with God’s Spirit, and we are guided by Him, in step with Him, led by Him, and walking in Him. So, the Spirit uses Scripture, but is not limited to Bible study. If we are saturated with Scripture, we have given our spirits a vocabulary with which God can speak to us, and a measure by which to test the spirits. But He also prompts, checks, empowers and speaks to our spirits.

When we live in the flesh, we hear from ourselves, that is, from our flesh, from our bodies, our minds, our wills, our emotions, and yield the fruit of the fleshly life. When our lives are “fleshly,” our lifestyle is marked by striving, frustration, burnout, self-promotion, selfish ambition, shallowness, anxiety about money, and a need to control. We are marked by the fruit described in Galatians 5:13-21, which includes a legalistic spirit, divisiveness, discord, jealousy, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy, as well as more obvious sins of immorality.

On the other hand, when our lives are in step with the Spirit, our lives are marked by everyday miracles of Divine providence. We have overwhelming peace and contentment, freshness, a desire to promote the life and ministry of others, humility, depth, trust in God’s adequate provision, and letting go and letting God do His thing. The fruit of our lives is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

Which list best describes you? If you are walking in the Spirit, you may even be mistaken for a drunkard at times, because you are no longer concerned about protecting your carefully-honed dignity. Somehow, being filled with the Spirit is a joyous experience of wild abandonment, not just an intellectual exercise or theoretical game!

The central point of both of these passages is this: We cannot be good enough to please God. We don’t have it in us. And there are plenty of ways that we can try to do enough good things, keep enough laws, and outwardly control our behavior through our bodies, our wills, our emotions, or our intellects. But all of them will fail.

On the other hand, when we give up and say yes to the Lord and receive the Holy Spirit into our lives, then we are not “good enough” because of our work. We simply receive grace. And yet when we have the Holy Spirit living in us, guiding as captain of our ship, we find, surprisingly, that we are becoming good!

CHARISPHOBICS AND CHARISMANIACS

You might say there are two extremes that people fall into when they talk about walking in the Spirit. On the one hand, the Holy Spirit is seen as an almost mechanistic, or purely theoretical, non-experiential being. He secretly regenerates us when we are baptized, and He indwells us, but we cannot feel Him or know Him, except for reading and knowing our Bibles. This is the tradition in which I grew up. It is a reactionary position, trying to avoid the abuses of the charismaniacs. You might call it the charisphobic position. When you read your Bible, you have the Holy Spirit. Period.

A variation of that camp is the mechanistic liturgical camp. The Holy Spirit is the symbol of anointing oil, or a candle, or the Eucharist, or the recited prayer. It is based on the doctrine of objective efficacy, which says that whether or not I have faith, if the right act is done and the right words are said, we can be sure that the Holy Spirit was present and doing His work.

A charisphobic position seems to be safe, because it protects us from abuses of the charismaniacs, but it is ungodly, fleshly and unspiritual. Charisphobics have what Paul described as a form of godliness, but such people deny its power. There may as well not be a Holy Spirit in the daily life of a charisphobic.

On the other side of the spectrum are the charismaniacs. These people have a very subjective, pietistic, and experiential view of things of the Spirit. The baptism of the Spirit is the moment of true regeneration for them, and it may or may not have anything to do with water baptism. The Spirit works through continued revelation, giving the same signs and wonders and wishing to communicate as much today as He did 2000 years ago. Daily He leads in a mysterious, to some, nearly audible voice.

Charismaniacs see it as a satanic attack when their car won’t start. They wake up in the morning and say, “Jesus, do you want me to go to work today, or not?” They listen so much for God’s voice that they are of no earthly good. I had a friend who said he heard audibly from God. One of the things God told him is to sell his car in order to buy a sound system, and then to rent a car in order to get around. After two weeks, he couldn’t afford to return the car, because he didn’t have enough money, so he kept it and prayed for God to supply what He had promised. He bought the sound system to do a concert, and God told him to hold it outdoors. So by faith he obeyed, in spite of the weather report, and all that equipment he had bought got rained on. Now I'll ask you: Do you think that was God’s voice he was hearing?

In my own life, I grew up in the charisphobic tradition, and then my pendulum swung the other way to become something of a charismaniac myself. Having discovered that God still wants to communicate with us today, I tried to obey the Bible and constantly walk in the Spirit, doing nothing in the flesh.

I heard testimonies from people that they were on their way home and heard a prompting to turn left at a particular street and walk up to a house and give the stranger who lived there a large amount of money, and that person had just been praying for God to supply a genuine need in that exact amount. I wanted to be open to moments like that.

There was a time when I was on my way home, and I felt led to pick up a hitchhiker. I took that person home and shared Jesus with him on the way. And though my grandmother had made dinner for us and she had to wait almost an hour with cold and dried out hamburger patties, I excitedly told her about my experience. The next day, I’m driving home and asking, “Which way do I turn at this intersection, Lord? Left, right, straight? I’m waiting on you to tell me. Are you saying left? No, right? Save gas and follow the normal path?”

My epiphany came one morning when I was listening for the Spirit’s voice after showering. I stood in front of the antiperspirants, a spray kind and a stick kind, asking the Lord which one I should use today. The spray, you know, destroys the ozone layer. So maybe use the stick. But if I never use the spray, it will rust and the fluorocarbons will be released anyway. So maybe I should go ahead and finish this can first. What are you saying, Lord? One under each arm? Suddenly the light dawned: God was not in the business of dictating to me what kind of antiperspirant to use. If he were speaking to me, he would say, “Just put something on so you don’t stink and get out there and do My work!”

I was using the Holy Spirit as an excuse for being indecisive, which I have a tendency to be, if you didn’t notice. I think I’m indecisive, anyway. Maybe not so much as some people. Well, in some areas I do okay, but often I am more comfortable having circumstance, or the Voice of God Himself tell me what to do, rather than make a decision that could be wrong.

I am convinced that the Spirit works today in some mysterious, indefinable, but experiential way today, but finding a balance has been a challenge for me.

LIVING INSIDE OUT

There are two ways to live life, and if we want to please God, we can try either path.

The first, and most common, is OUTSIDE IN. By controlling the outer shell of our lives we think that we can control our behavior. Eventually, we hope that by controlling our outward behavior, it will soak into our spirits. We know this method well: it’s how we were raised, right? We started with laws and fences and outward controls. That’s how God started with humans, too. He gave us the Law.

But no one can ever really control himself or herself so well on the outside that it ever really soaks in deep enough to please God and take us to perfection. A religious spirit tells us that it is possible to be good enough, and we often fall into a legalistic pattern of trying to please God in the flesh, but the Bible tells us over and over that it simply can’t be done. A Religious Spirit cannot please God. While an outward focus can create some pockets of morality, and virtually every religion in the world follows an outside in focus, it will do you no good eternally.

The second way of living is INSIDE OUT, and it is the way that is taught over and over in the New Testament. When the Holy Spirit lives inside me, and I simply listen to his voice and obey him, he leads me into right doctrine, right living, and right attitudes. I let go of trying to change my outward behavior—if I could just quit that addictive habit, or I am going to start “acting” (notice that word) nicer to people, or I’m going to be more disciplined in some area of my life. Instead, I relax, I listen, I join in on the Sabbath rest, I say yes to Jesus, and I live in peace.

Looking at someone on the outside, you can’t immediately tell whether they are living outside in or inside out lives. Either way, they might say “No” to that second cookie, or read their Bibles and spend two hours in prayer. Sometimes, we can’t even tell ourselves whether it was the Holy Spirit or our sense of guilt and compulsion that made us do or not do something. But over the long haul, outside in living yields certain fruits, and none of them are good. And over the long haul, inside out living yields a beautiful harvest of traits, and all of them are good.

WHAT IF . . .

Let’s play What if for a minute: If the Lord were to remove His Holy Spirit from the church, I wonder how long it would be before anyone noticed? This is totally hypothetical, because we have the promise that God would not do so, but if the Spirit were removed, what would be different?

I’d like to think that it would go like this for me: In my planning, I would be very distressed; the song list would not be coming together, I’d feel out of sorts, abandoned and empty; that I’d have no idea how to proceed. I could create a song list that “works,” in that the keys, the themes and the tempos all work together, but something wasn’t right about it. Then, I’d like to think that I would arrive for practice with the worship team, and say, “I don’t know what’s wrong; I have heard nothing from the Lord. I need your help.” I’d like to think that they would get on their knees and pray, desperate to know what was wrong; and finding no solution, that we would all come before the congregation empty, and have no music. I’d like to imagine that you in turn would be out of sorts, hopeless and powerless and surprised that we just hadn’t “gotten through” with our prayers and their other acts of worship. We need the Holy Spirit to worship acceptably.

What I fear, though, is that all would go on as usual in most of our churches. The songs would be chosen based on how they fit the theme and how well they flowed together musically. The musicians would rehearse and learn their music just like normal. The congregation would experience the same thing they always experience—a fine, well-organized service with a good teaching from the Bible, and comfortable routines. Sunday morning and all’s well. Worship planning, worship leading, and worship in the flesh.

Of course, my hypothetical illustration so far only pertains to our worship assemblies. But it should apply to all of life.

What a terrible, condemning thought, that we would not even notice if the Spirit were missing! Or that we have a hard time in this hypothetical example even imagining what we, in fact, rely on the Spirit to do! May we repent of doing in the flesh what should only be done in the Spirit. So, let’s explore what it means and doesn’t mean to walk in the Spirit, rather than walking in the flesh.