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- Written by: Don Goulding
See what sort of love the Father has given to us: that we should be called Godʼs children - and indeed we are! 1 John 3:1
“Kiti, Don’t swing so high or you’ll fall,” I said.
My four-year-old Fijian pal arced the hammock back and forth on our porch. A few minutes later, whump, Kiti hit the ground. There was a pause while he gathered air to bellow out his pain.
I told you so was the last thing Kiti needed to hear. I scooped him up and comforted the lad. He sniffled and melted against my chest. Cuddling was his way of saying, “I need you to forgive me.”
Like Kiti, I need to be scooped up and forgiven. My soul yearns to be wrapped in acceptance by my Heavenly Father, in spite of my sinful past. No human can provide that kind of ultimate love. Perhaps maternal love for an infant is the closest parallel, but the mother’s failings and self-interest are mixed in. Only the LORD our God can give perfect love.
I have been loved deeply by my parents, children, wife, and friends. But it’s not enough and I refuse to stop there. I can’t be satisfied with temporal love, no matter how grand. It’s not perfect love. I must continue my search for full contact of my soul, drawing on the strength and protection of my God, resting against his unmarred beauty—that’s the love I pursue.
Because of Christ’s sacrifice, God’s perfect love begins now. I don’t have to wait until heaven to press against his joy and peace. The problem is I often allow lessor loves to satisfy me. I opt for what I can see and touch and miss out on the more filling love from my Creator.
The key is to use all earthly love as the means to love God more. Earthly love—love for family and friends—is only made holy when I acknowledge the source as God and give him praise. Everything else is idolatry.
Prayer: Father Above, move me into perfect love.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor heavenly rulers, nor things that are present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:38, 39)
We were in the coastal city of Durres, Albania for an outreach. Our local friends were eager to show us their ancient Roman ruins where the Apostle Paul had walked. Historians record that he appointed a bishop over seventy Christian families in Durres during his missionary travels.
We dodged traffic and passed shoddy buildings from recent decades. In a vacant lot of weeds and litter, a graceful circle of Roman columns stood in contrast to the postmodern dilapidation. It was like a diamond tiara laying in the city dump. This site withstood two thousand years of wars, earthquakes, and twenty-five regime changes.
The secret to the longevity of Roman architecture was concrete. They combined powdered cement and water with an aggregate like stones or gravel, and concrete set into a nearly indestructible construction material. Concrete has the unique property that it becomes stronger over time. Even today, those columns are getting harder than when they were first made.
Precious souls reborn into Christ are like the aggregate hidden inside Roman cement. No matter our shape or history, no matter who we are or what we’ve done, the love of God binds us in impenetrable unity. It would sooner be possible to separate the aggregate from the Durres columns than it would be to remove the love of Christ from around his followers.
This love binds to my soul and encases me with spiritual protection. And it’s growing stronger. My place in heaven is more permanent now than when I was first made a Christian.
Death, angels, time—nothing in any realm can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Prayer: Protector of my life, I am forever bonded to your love.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me. (Galatians 2:20)
We camped in Africa’s Zambezi Valley as hyenas yipped about devilish pranks, lions roared with proud grunts, and crocodiles held their deadly silence. But the creation that arrested my attention was a curious tree. Clumps of pale-green leaves looked tired amidst the canopy. Fat shoots ran down the original trunk and fanned to the soil. Two trees melded into one.
Our host explained that it was a strangler fig. It began as a common acacia but a fig tree grew around the host taking over nutrients and water until it assumed the shape of the old tree. The strangler became a verdant habitat for everything from honeybees to monkeys.
I used to be a homely acacia. I had a second-rate existence. Then the Spirit blew his seed into the axis of my branches, the hollow point of my greatest need. The gospel germinated and roots drew up truth. A new form of life grew on top of the old. I still have my unique shape, but now my days are full of abundance.
Tufts of the original me poke out. They agree in theory the fig self is better, but they won’t volunteer for the upgrade. Each branch, every leaf must be choked then regrown. Fear must expire under the strength of trust, and hatred must die by the hand of love. It’s a slow but needed strangulation of a lesser me.
The fig me stands tall and majestic, but there’s no room for pride in the recreated fruit or the habitat to the hurting. The new life of the fig is the life of Jesus and the boast is in him.
Prayer: Jesus, take over and live strong.