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- Written by: Don Goulding
We tear down arguments and every arrogant obstacle that is raised up against the knowledge of God, and we take every thought captive to make it obey Christ. (2 Corinthians 10:4, 5)
It was the third time I checked the car for my keys. I groped beneath the seats, looked under the mats, and felt between the upholstery. Nothing. My briefcase, sock dresser, and every conceivable black hole had already been searched.
“Sorry, I won’t be coming,” I informed my next appointment via phone. It was too embarrassing to give the reason, that I’d misplaced my keys—again.
Hours later I wandered into the kitchen for a bite. There, inside the door of the refrigerator, were my keys. I must have left them there during an earlier forage.
It was time for a radical assault against my disorganization. I made a resolution that my keys would either be in use, or in a designated pocket in my knapsack—later dubbed, “their most special place.” Once this new habit became automatic, it freed up mental energies and rid me of the I-did-it-again-lost-key feeling.
The same principle applies to spiritual life. Father gives a most special place for every thought. When trials come, I can say, “This earth is not my home.” At temptations, I fall into worship—“Jesus, you are everything I need.” I counter worry with—“It’s in far better hands than mine.” During idle moments, I praise—“Lord, you are awesome and wonderful, full of grace and beauty.” Once I began these disciplines, I discovered how much life energy I had wasted when there was no special place for my thoughts.
An undisciplined mind is like a bird that flails against the bars of its cage. I continually reach for what lies outside God’s best for me. Instead of bashing and befuddling my head, I need to settle on the perch, tuck each thought into its rightful place, and sing until my Master opens the door.
Prayer: King Jesus, thank you for giving a place for every thought.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
When they had prayed, the place where they were assembled together was shaken, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak the word of God courageously. (Acts 4:31)
Jim and I heard our dying friend moan. I placed a hand on the patient’s head and prayed for relief. The Spirit of Jesus pressed into the hospital room with a tangible wholeness. Tears of joy slipped past my eyelids. Jim had his own puddle going on the other side of the bed.
The Lord’s presence woke the cancer victim enough to squeeze our hands and utter undistinguishable, yet beautiful praises. In spite of encroaching death—or perhaps in celebration of it—the three of us fell into a time of worship.
As our mini church service ended, I turned to the man in the next bed. What could he be thinking of all this … God in his room? My heart was still on fire, and I asked, “What about you sir, do you know Jesus as Savior?”
The geriatric mumbled coarse sounds and stared defiantly ahead. I turned to leave him to his refusal, but I felt an invisible wall block my exit. I asked again, “Do you want to make Jesus your Lord?”
Cold silence followed. He glared from tubes and machines into blank space. After a long while, his lower lip trembled and he nodded, yes. I knew the Holy Spirit had just cracked a tough nut.
I witness the same convicting power of worship in energetic African services and staid American churches. Whether we’re in a cathedral, under savanna trees, or in a hospital room, when we truly worship God shows up, and when God shows up, people go limp in repentance.
I need more repentance power in my life. I want to move through my days aware of my weakness and overcome by God. This is where the kingdom business is transacted. I shed self-absorbed doubt and welcome God’s intervention. A wave mounts, crashes over my heart, and leaves me a dripping heap, but washed and new.
Prayer: Holy Spirit, reduce me with your power and make me bold for you.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
But may I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world. (Galatians 6:14)
Jesus walked toward crucifixion. He accepted his day of agony knowing it bought an eternity of joy for millions. In his mind, he held the image of a sea of worshipers before his Father’s throne—and he opened his hand for the nails.
My crucifixion doesn’t include nails and a cross. The things of the world are crucifiers to me. My crown of thorns is imperfect health. My forty-nine lashes are injured relationships. My cross is a sacrifice of temporary pleasures. As incomparable as those are to what Jesus suffered, they are, nevertheless, my crucifixion.
My suffering is nothing like Christ’s, and neither will my glory be like his, but one thing is the same. I must respond as he did. He didn’t preoccupy himself with escape. He kept moving toward Jerusalem, even though he knew the cross waited.
What about me? Do I accept my mild crucifixion, or do I panic and scramble away? Embracing suffering is not popular theology—at least it’s not popular with me. But, rather than run away, I must, like Jesus, keep my mind filled with the glory ahead, through every current hardship.
By the time I showed up on the earth, the work of paying for sin’s debt was complete. There was nothing left for me to do except bind myself to what Jesus finished. That’s why I begged forgiveness, swore allegiance, and was baptized in water—to unite myself to the work of Jesus. There’s only one thing more I can do out of gratitude. Mimic his life. He gave up temporal distractions so he could grow God’s kingdom. That’s my role model.
I want to grasp the depth of what Jesus did for me. His sacrifice was too terrible for a mere shallow appreciation. And the only way into that knowledge is if I accept my mild crucifixion.
Prayer: Jesus, help learn about your love through my brief trials.