My mom had just flopped onto the sofa in the living room when I came to the locked screen door near her and demanded to be let in. She told me to go around to the unlocked kitchen door. I refused. I wanted my own way. I persisted until she gave in, too tired to argue with me or to stand her ground.
The moment she gave in, my seven-year-old self felt something shift inside. I had gained a little power—but at the cost of my self-respect and my mother’s disgust. It didn’t feel good even though I’d gained the victory. I guess I felt guilty.
I repent, first, of my stubborn heart and, second, of my insensitivity toward my mother’s weariness. I recognize that my actions were less than stellar, but I want to thank the Lord for putting such a strong spirit inside me. Mom always said I had a stubborn streak, but if that spirit could be channeled right, it would be a good thing. Thanks, Mom, for believing in me.
So, what is this wanting my own way, not wanting to be inconvenienced, to have to walk a few paces to enter another door. Was I lazy? Self-centered? I think at the time it was driven by tiredness. I think. But, of course, that’s no excuse.
Visual: This stubborn part of my heart looks like Gimli in Lord of the Rings: strong, stout, grumbly, gruff, and tough, but determined to finish his quest. Jesus invites him to chat, but Gimli mutters under his breath. He doesn’t care much about leaving the body (the hurting part of my heart) outside with a sprained ankle. But he comes in and plops down on a chair across from Jesus who is lounging by the fire. (Mom is still sitting on the couch, oblivious to the conversation that’s about to commence.)
“Drop the ‘tude!” I want to shout at Gimli. “You have strength already without it.” (I can see the wheels turning inside his head.)
“This is just who I am,” he says. “Get over it.”
Whew! He’s a tough nut to crack, Jesus. Good luck with this one!
Jesus gets up to tend the fire in the fireplace, and somehow this action begins to melt Gimli’s gruff exterior.
“I’m sorry, Jesus. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. I don’t know to be any other way.”
“You’re changing right now . . . “
“Well, yeah, you sorta have that effect on people.”
He smiles. “What’s on your heart, Gimli?”
Gimli looks down toward his chest. He may be a literalist, but he knows what Jesus means.
“I dunno. I just want my own way.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels good. It feels strong. In control.”
“I see.”
“You see what?”
“I see where you’re coming from.”
“You do?”
“Uh huh.”
“Then figure me out!”
“You’re doing fine yourself.”
“Okay, I suspect You’ll ask me next if I’m willing to give up control? And the good feelings . . . “
Jesus nods His head slightly. “Go on.”
“And I need to find a good reason to do that.”
Jesus waits.
“Well, aren’t You supposed to show me something?”
Jesus throws His head back and laughs. He’s enjoying Himself. Apparently He knows that I know that I’m doing it again—maintaining control of the conversation.
“All right, already. I know what I have to do. I’m just not sure if I know how. I trust You. I do know that.”
Comically, this literalist Guardian, who’s as wide as he is tall, climbs out of his chair and lies on his side on the floor.
“You know I’ll have a hard time getting up,” he grumbles.
Again, Jesus laughs out loud. He loves this character.
“Okay, so now what?”
“Now what, what?”
“What do I have to do next?”
“Nothing!”
“What!? I can’t stay like this all day! I’ve got work to do.”
Jesus heads over to the couch, gets a cushion, and places it under Gimli’s head; then He retrieves a blanket and gently drapes it over him. “Rest well, my friend. You’ve earned it.”
In seconds, Gimli is sound asleep, snoring loudly.
Next, Jesus goes to the screen door, unlatches it, picks up the tired and hurting body and carries it into the room. He tends to the ankle first and then invites the body to rest. She knows Jesus will never leave her side.
Gimli opens one eye. “Jesus?”
“She’s okay. Fast asleep on the couch.”
“Okay.” And Gimli drifts back to sleep, dreaming of wars and battles and victories won. But today was his greatest victory of all.
And what of my mom? She’s curled up in her chair, also fast asleep. And through my haze, I can hear Jesus softly humming, “I lay Me down . . .”
Thank You, Lord, for laying Yourself down. You sacrificed Your body, broken and bruised, for me. How can I do any less when You ask me to sacrifice MY body for others who don’t deserve it.
In the book Rees Howells-Intercessor, the author Norman P. Grubb says, “This is the law of intercession: that only so far as we have been tested and proved willing to do a thing ourselves can we intercede for others. Christ is our Intercessor because He took the place of each one prayed for” (p. 93).
The thought here is that we cannot intercede for someone unless we are willing to answer the prayer ourselves. Rees prayed that God would spare the life a woman who was dying; but if she died, he would have to be willing to care for her children since the father was out of the picture. When she died, he was prepared to take up the slack, but her sisters stepped in at the last minute. His intercession included being willing to lay down his life for another.
Regarding medicine vs. faith for healing, he was not opposed to medicine and would recommend it. His prayer for healing was usually applied to those for whom medicine had failed—and only after he was SURE that God had told him that the person would be healed. He didn’t pray for it or believe it unless the Lord told him what to pray for.
Always, always do what God says, even when it feels bizarre. He seldom works the same way twice. Only once did the children of Israel march seven times around a city. And when they tried to conquer Ai, they failed because God didn’t tell them to do so.
Rees Howells had a policy of “First need, first claim.” Whenever he had money, he’d give it away to whatever need presented itself to him, believing God would supply his own need when the time came.
The ultimate test came when God asked Rees and his wife to leave their son behind so they could go to Africa to become missionaries. We read this today and shake our heads. Some of the Gowans Home* kids might disagree that the sacrifice was worth it. Some would protest that God wouldn’t ask a person to do that (though He did it Himself when He left His only Son to die on a cross).
I think God calls certain people to an exceptional life of faith. When He has an extraordinary job for them to do, their testing is also extraordinary. God had a special hand on Rees and on George Mueller and today on Angus Buchan (Read the book or see the movie Faith Like Potatoes).
Are we all expected to make sacrifices in our intercessions?
*GH was a home in Canada for missionaries’ children in the 40s and 50s. It was not safe in those days to take children overseas to disease-ridden countries or during wartime, so missionaries left their children behind for four to five years at a time.
Obadiah (not the Minor Prophet) is an Old Testament character who gets overshadowed by the prophet Elijah, King Ahab, and his wicked wife Queen Jezebel.
Obadiah was in charge of Jezebel’s palace and he “greatly feared the Lord” (I Kings 18:3). This intrigues me. How does he maintain his integrity while living in the midst of extreme wickedness? And why does the king retain him in service? Perhaps he is trusted and faithful and humble. Who knows. I think of Joseph and Daniel who were also placed in positions of authority under not-so-nice rulers.
When Jezebel murders all the prophets she can find, Obadiah secretly hides one hundred prophets of the Lord in two caves and feeds them bread and water. Meanwhile, Obadiah knows that King Ahab is furious with Elijah, blaming him for the drought. (Typical to blame someone else for one’s own sin choices.)
One day while Obadiah is walking along a desert road, Elijah suddenly appears next to him and tells Obadiah to inform the king that he (Elijah) is here.
“No way!” says Obadiah. (Apparently, someone had reported to Jezebel about his hidden prophets, and he’s afraid for his life.) The king has been searching the land for Elijah and made the nations swear they had not found him. Obadiah has heard the threats against Elijah, so if he tells Ahab that Elijah is here and Elijah disappears again, it’s off with Obadiah’s head!
Obadiah reiterates that he’s feared the Lord since his youth. He’s obviously on the Lord’s side. But Elijah assures him that he won’t leave, and so Obadiah agrees to deliver the message.
Both Obadiah and Elijah made courageous choices–Obadiah hid true prophets, and Elijah confronted false ones atop Mt. Carmel. Both also experienced fear. Elijah turned and ran for his life when Jezebel threatened him. And both faced their fears in the end and became victorious.
What gives a man courage? What causes him to doubt and fear?
I’ve been on a journey all my life to discover the secret of prayer. When I read others’ stories, they don’t match mine. I shift between guilt (not enough) to apathy and forgetfulness, from rote to relationship, from works to worry, from self-condemnation to self-awareness.
I’m reading the biography of Rees Howells who discovered that prayers were best made when they were God-directed. For example: don’t pray for healing unless God directs me to. Yet I do pray for healing of my every ache and pain as well as for everyone in my life who is suffering. But I don’t really expect Him to heal, or I’m so surprised when He does.
Today, Lord, I want to listen, wait, and ask for what is on Your heart. I want to be a prayer warrior.
“Hmmm,” says Jesus. “What does a warrior do?”
Well, he fights—fights for truth, fights against an enemy, defends himself, defends the weak. The weapons of warfare are spiritual, not physical. I know I’m supposed to just stand once I’m fully armed. So I guess the first step is to make sure I’m fully armed. You’re faithful to point out the chinks in my armor. And I know how to stand . . .
“But . . . ?”
But I don’t know how to use words. I don’t know what to say or what to pray for.
“Then why don’t you repeat after me?”
Huh?
“Like when you learned your ABCs or the prayer I gave the disciples or The Lord Rebuke You prayer or . . .”
So it’s that simple? Repeat after You? I can do that. Okay, I’m listening.
“Dear Lord,” He begins.
Wait a minute! You’re sitting right here with me. Why do I need to address You? When I’m talking to my husband, and he’s the only one in the room, I don’t have to say his name to get his attention—unless he’s not listening of course. Do I need to start “Dear Lord” every time?
He laughs. “No, of course not,” He teases. “I was just seeing if you were paying attention.”
Very funny. Ok, try again. I’m listening.
“Hi, Karen.”
Hi, Lord.
I wait. He seems to be thinking. (God has to think? Doesn’t He always know exactly what to say?)
“Okay, repeat after Me:
I, Karen, do solemnly swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me, God.”
This is not funny! What kind of prayer is that!?
“I like honesty. I want you to tell yourself the truth as well as to Me.”
Okay, I’m all in.
“Good. Now tell Me the truth. What’s in your heart?”
Well . . . I’m worried that . . .
“Choose your words. Take your time—and be honest.”
Okay . . . I’m worried that I’ll be judged for how little I pray.
“You mean little in chronos time?”
I suppose.
“Who’s keeping track?”
I suppose I am, for one.
“And?”
And . . . I feel guilty if I neglect to pray, to ask for favors, to cover people with the prayer of protection, to intercede for their needs.
“Intercede . . . ooooh that’s a big word.”
You’re teasing me. (I’m feeling petulant.)
“What do you want, Karen?”
What do I want? What do I really want? I want a heart that is so connected and in tune with You that conversation (prayer) flows as naturally and comfortably as breathing. I want every thought I think and every breath I take to be in sync with Yours. I want our conversation to feel natural, not formal; intimate, not forced or stilted.When I pray for people, I feel like I’m straining to think up stuff to say, but I’m not always sure what to say or if that’s what their true need is.I also want to know how often I should pray for someone. Expectations are daily, and somehow if I miss a day, I believe it’s my fault if they fail or are vulnerable to Satan’s attacks. How’s that for being honest?
“That’s better. What else?”
There’s more?
“Oh, yes. Dig a little deeper.”
It’s about me, isn’t it? It’s about pride. What if someone should discover what a fraud I am? That I don’t spend x number of hours a day on my knees. Or I can’t say with sincerity, “I prayed for you today.” How would that feel? Shameful? Embarrassing? Guilty? Or, since we’re being honest here, how I look compared to so-and-so. How sick is that?
“Anything else?”
Oh, I think that’s enough shame for the moment.
“Okay, what do you want to do about it?”
Me? I thought it was Your job to lift shame and give me truth and offer something in its place.
“Why should I? I didn’t put it there!”
Then who did? Oops . . . I guess I did. Help me, Lord, please. I want to give it up. I really do. But self-shame and blame is too heavy a brick to lift by myself.
(He hands me a sledgehammer.)
I smash the brick into smaller pieces, small enough for me to carry. What to do with them, though? It seems we’re building a brick wall for some sort of dwelling. I’m not sure I understand the significance yet, but brick now feels useful—like it’s serving a purpose.
Oh! I see it now . . . I think we’re building a house of prayer. Okay . . . but still not sure about this.
“There’s more to come,” He says. “For now, let’s stop and get a bite of lunch.”
I woke up from a dream in which I felt extreme rage. My friend had rearranged all the cupboards and shelves in our bedroom, and I hated it—it was disorderly, ugly, impractical, and inconvenient. I was surprised at the vehemence I felt. Where did that come from?
I realize that these shelves reflect how my friend’s brain is organized. It’s different from mine. No wonder she has difficulty coping with life. The curious thing is why she rearranged MY shelves and cupboards. I did not give her permission to do so.
I’ve always had a strong sense of space and personal belongings. Growing up in boarding school, I owned one pencil, one pen, and one notebook, and I knew at all times where each was located. All our belongings were clearly labeled with our own names, and we understood the boundaries of personal property. The only things we traded were marbles, which were won or lost in competitions.
Order meant safety and comfort. Lack of order felt chaotic and out of control. How much of that is temperament and how much was my attempt to control my environment? My two dresser drawers were always neatly arranged because we were rewarded in the dorm for tidiness, but I seemed to gravitate toward that lifestyle anyway. My mother recalls the time that my big sister and I were instructed to set the table at home one night. In typical fashion, Grace hurriedly flung the silverware onto the table while I came behind her straightening them.
When I ask God for insight, Jesus takes me by the hand, and we fly high up into the atmosphere. “See My universe?” He says. “I like order too. The planets and atoms are all in their orbits.” Yet there’s more. Asteroids break loose and crash into the earth.
“What does all this mean?” I enquired.
“There’s a both/and.”
I scratch my head, puzzled.
“I made order. I created it. I created you (and your temperament) to have order and logic and straight lines. Yes, you function well when things are orderly. Others I fashioned more right-brained to think more creatively. They get flustered and feel boxed in when things are too lined up in a row. Do not berate yourself for how I created you.”
I knew there was a “but” coming.
“But relationships are messy. People are not robots. You can’t have a relationship with a robot. Yes, I made an orderly universe, but I also made people. People can disrupt your orderly world.”
Just then, Peaches our cat jumped onto the bed, interrupting my writing as she rubbed against my pen and demanded to be petted.
“Did you mind the interruption to your orderly thoughts?” enquired Jesus.
“No, because she made me smile. I knew it was temporary. It is relational. I can’t have relationship with a pen.”
“Exactly.”
And with that thought, my rage dissipated. I’m glad God made us all different.
This morning, when I asked God how best to pray for my friend Suzie, He gave me this visual.
Jesus scooped me up on His white horse, and we flew over to Suzie’s heart castle. I was dismayed to look down and see the devastation. The enemy had penetrated in spite of the thick stone walls around the property. The castle and the grounds had been burned and blackened, and only the charred remains of the beautiful oak trees dotted the landscape.
“So where is Suzie?” I cried.
“Listen,” He said.
And then I heard it. Cries of anguish came from the direction of the one standing turret. I knew then that Suzie was trapped inside, fighting for her life. She had barred and locked the door from the inside, fully armed, on high alert. The enemy troops surrounded the walls and were gleefully gloating, not paying much attention except to their own shenanigans. They knew they were helpless to penetrate the turret, but they didn’t care. They knew that eventually Suzie would run out of food and water, and their mission of destruction would be accomplished.
My inclination was to rush in with a flaming sword and rescue the damsel in distress, but I knew Jesus far too well than to make plans without him. Besides, He had told me I didn’t need to bring any weapons with me because I had Him; and as long as I stayed close to Him, I’d be okay. I looked at Jesus to see what He would do.
We glided over the walls and landed softly in front of the turret. I laughed in glee as the enemy hordes scattered like rats to the edges of the compound. What will He do next, I wondered. Will He knock, inform her that all is well, and that would be that?
Instead, we slid off the horse, and He sat by the door and pulled out a bag of marbles. “Care to play?” He asked.
What!? Really? Well, okay, I trust He knows what He’s doing.
I glanced up to see a shadow cross the window above us.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“She’s noticing the quiet,” He whispered.
I listened. The screeching of the devils around us had stopped, but no sound of birds could be heard or rustling in the trees. Just silence.
Okay, that’s good, I thought. What’s next?
“She needs to know that she’s safe before she will put down her weapons, stop fighting, and rest,” He said. (He had read my thoughts, of course.)
“So why don’t we just go on in and rescue her?” I asked. “You can go through walls.”
“I could . . . but it might scare her, and she’d pick the weapons back up if she hears noises on the stairs. I want her to learn to trust Me. I’m not like the destroyer who’s out to get her. But she doesn’t know that yet.”
“But she might starve to death while You wait for her!” I exclaimed.
He smiled. “Don’t worry, Little One. She’s been starving a long time already. That’s why she called for my help.”
“Then why don’t You help her?” I asked.
“I will . . . as soon as she opens the door and lets Me in.”
“But . . . ?”
“But what?”
The question died on my lips. I already knew the answer. I had learned firsthand the lesson of waiting—when I’m ready . . . when the Kairos time is right . . . at the appointed time, all shall be well.
“Thank You, Jesus, for letting me come with You today. I asked You to help her because I knew You would. But it’s always fun to watch You work. What’s next?”
“Wait and see the salvation of the Lord.”
And so we continued to play marbles on the soft dirt. Then Jesus began to whistle a tune—a lovely melody. (I love it when Jesus sings over me. I hoped it would reach Suzie’s ears so she could hear it too.)
And that’s when we heard the sobbing. Deep, wrenching sobs of pain coming from within the turret walls.
“Now, Jesus?” I looked to see what He would do. I wanted to rush in and scoop her in my arms and tell her all would be well.
He just shook His head, silent, and I knew I was expected to stay still and remain quiet. We both looked up at the same time. A shadow and then a tousled head appeared in the window. She glanced furtively about trying to determine where the sound was coming from. But all she could see was the desolation below in her garden. We were too close to the door for her to see us from that angle.
And so we waited. But it didn’t take long. We heard the sound of footsteps on the spiral stairs, closer and closer to the door. I held my breath. What would she do next? I glanced at Jesus. A little smile played about his lips. I could hear her breathing heavily on the other side of the door, waiting for something. Jesus paused for one beat, then two, and then very softly knocked on the door. “Suzie? It’s Me. Jesus. It’s okay. It’s safe to come out now. You are safe with Me.”
“How do I know it’s You?” she demanded. I’ve been tricked before.
“Tell you what,” He replied. “Why don’t you open the window in your front door and peek outside. Don’t open the door itself until you know it’s Me and not the enemy.”
“Yes, but the last time I did that, I saw what I thought was an angel of light. But when I opened the door, all hell broke loose.”
“Good point,” He countered. “Did you use the Demon Test first?”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I know how much you love My words. You can trust them. They are life and they are true. Remember where I instructed John to write, ‘By this you know the Spirit of God: Every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God, and every spirit that does not confess that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is not of God” (I John 4:2-3)?’ Ask Me to say these words. The demons are incapable of saying them you know.”
“Okay . . . let me think about that . . . okay, yes, I do trust Your written words. So . . . whoever you are, say those words!”
“Jesus Christ is come in the flesh.”
Slowly and cautiously, the window swung open, and Suzie peered out. Jesus winked at her and smiled. “Good job!” He exclaimed.
And then He nodded over to the black spirits at the perimeter of the compound. Try making them say those words.
“Tell me ‘Jesus Christ is come in the flesh’!” she yelled in their direction.
Some of them smirked; others cringed; but they all looked away, silent.
Jesus waited.
“But what if I open this door and they come rushing back here?”
Silently, Jesus held up His flaming sword so she could see the words written on it:
And take . . . the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God (Eph. 6.17). For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart (Heb. 4:12).
“They really don’t like My sword.” He grinned.
And then I smiled because I knew what was coming. I’d seen it hundreds of times. I heard the bolts scraping open. Slowly the door swung inward, and Suzie stepped out into the bright sunshine. She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes. And I saw Jesus sheath the sword and stretch out His hand in invitation. She hesitated. She still wasn’t sure she could trust Him. Maybe He was mad at her. Maybe He was going to whip out that sword to cut her in two. The thought was still very scary.
He lowered His arm. “Care to sit down and play marbles with us?” He asked.
“Marbles!? Are you mad?’ she said. “This place is in shambles; my kingdom is decimated, and you want to play marbles?! Aren’t you going to fix this place? That’s why I prayed to You, you know. You let this happen. Where were You when I was being attacked by the enemy? Where were You when my grandma’s life was cut short? You didn’t care that my parents divorced and left me to fend for myself.”
“Who are you really mad at, Suzie?” He asked gently.
“I’m mad at myself! I’m mad that I trusted you; I’m mad that I trusted other people and they betrayed me. But I’m mad at You too.”
Suddenly she stopped. I could see the fear in her eyes. She had just told off the King of the Universe. Would He strike her down for such insolence and disrespect? He’d done it before. She’d read about it when he disciplined the Israelites. Would He react to her the same way? She shrank back into herself, still on high alert, ready to bolt back into the turret and slam the door if necessary.
Instead, He waited, saying nothing.
When He didn’t make a move, she whispered, “Don’t you care!?” I could hear the silent scream behind the question.
“Yes, I care very much,” He replied. “I cared so much that I died for you so that you could be set free . . . if you want it.”
“Of course I want it,” she retorted. “But You didn’t do anything to stop it. And You didn’t come when I called.”
He waited, silent and patient.
“Well!? Aren’t you going to do something?”
“I’d love to, Suzie. But first, would you be willing to hand your anger to Me? I’m big enough to take it, you know. You’ve been carrying this for so long. How has it helped you? What has your anger done for you?”
“It’s kept me quite safe, thank you.”
He glanced up at the turret. “Sure, sure . . . quite safe . . . and starving.”
“Tell you what,” He added.” How about we do an exchange? You give me your anger, and I’ll give you some bread.”
By this time, Suzie knew her blood sugar was crashing, and she couldn’t keep up the tirade for much longer. Meekly, she handed over the fireball she’d been clutching under her arm, and He produced a warm, fresh-out-of-the-oven slice of bread, thickly slathered with melted butter and raspberry jam. Quickly she wolfed it down and then drank deeply from the bottled water He handed her. It tasted like nothing she’d experienced before—cool and warm at the same time, fizzy, like little sparkles of light dancing on her tongue. And she remembered those ancient words, “I am the Bread of Life; I will give you springs of Living Water.”
Suddenly, she knew she wanted more. More where this came from.
“Jesus?”
“Yes, my child?”
“Thank You.”
There was more, much more, to this story to come I knew. The kingdom had yet to be rebuilt and restored. But I knew there was time, plenty of time, because I knew that God’s timing is always perfect. For now, it was good to know that Suzie was with Jesus, getting to know Him and learning His ways, and would be pouring out all of her pain in the days ahead. It had been a good day.
If I had to lose one of my five senses, I always said I’d rather not lose my eyesight. It never occurred to me that losing taste and smell could also be so debilitating. Since I had Covid, everything smells the same, and it’s not pleasant.
“An odor pleasing to the Lord” is stated five times in Numbers 15. Of course this phrase catches my eye. I may not be able to smell, but God can. And I want my attitude, thoughts, and deeds to be a pleasing odor in His nostrils.
But I need some help with this. I’m still trying to quit complaining about my loss. I have an appointment with food three times a day, and three times a day I have to face the loss of sensory pleasure. Does giving up hope jinx it? If I give up hope, am I doomed because my mind will no longer have positive energy? We teach clients they may need to give up, or let go of, the hope that their dad will ever love them. What does letting go look like for me?
VISUAL: I’m tied to one end of a rope, and the taste of food is on the other end. As long as I hold onto my end, I’m not free to explore other things. Letting go doesn’t mean I don’t ever eat again. It means I let go of the pleasure, the drug.
And so, I let the rope drop, and it retracts into the food. The flavors are still there, in the food; they’re just not tied to me anymore. They don’t belong to me and therefore have no power over me. Thank You, Lord. Now I can pick up the food and examine it—see it, feel its texture, and experience it as I am able to sense it. It is what it is.
When I Googled “sects within Gentile Christianity,” 24 showed up. Another search listed 6 branches: Catholic, Protestant, E. Orthodox, Anglican, Oriental Orthodox, and Assyrian.
We are certainly diverse on this planet, and we all think we are right. Most of us struggle to either maintain what we’ve been taught or struggle to break free and think for ourselves.
I am a far cry from the legalism of my parents’ day, but I have not rejected their God. Other adult children of missionaries have rejected everything associated with their upbringing.
Our girls may believe a little differently than we do, but they have not rejected the God of their parents. And our grandchildren will make their own decisions. I think God can handle that. He loves diversity and creativity. But most of all, He wants our hearts. In all our diversities of worship, we must learn to love and embrace those who are different. It’s the rare person who can do that while maintaining their integrity.
The Israelites complained about having to eat manna every day (Numbers 11:1-9). They missed their fresh fish, along with the flavorful cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions, and garlic.
I used to fault these people for their ingratitude. Here they were in the wilderness being miraculously fed free food, and all they could think about was what they were missing . . . and I’m convicted of my lament over loss of taste and smell. I, too, remember what pungent flavors used to burst on my tongue and the rich smell of onions, garlic, and pepper sauteed in a frying pan. I miss the diversity of flavors. I’m with you, dear travelers, in your complaint. But I want to discover the sweetness of holy manna, the gratitude for what I do have instead of the grief over what I’ve lost. How do I learn to leave Egypt behind and embrace the promise of a new land?
I see no fire of God burning at the edge of the camp, but I feel the fire of conviction in my heart for looking back. The smells and tastes in heaven are far superior to anything dull here on earth, and I look forward to what will be restored.
Returning to Egypt meant rejecting God (v. 19). I have not committed this sin, but complaining about my circumstances is a slap in the face of my God who gives me daily, adequate nourishment for my body. I must begin a more rigorous regimen of gratitude for God’s provision.
They asked for meat, and God sent quail. Be careful what I ask for . . .
But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. (Matthew 5:39 ESV)
Whenever I read this verse, I pictured a non-retaliatory response—a martyr passively submitting to bullies and taking abuse uncomplainingly. “Go the extra mile” or “give him your cloak as well” meant actively showing that you’re made of better stuff than the controlling person in your life. And so I’m intrigued with the following interpretation. See what you think.
A slap on a person’s right cheek meant the abuser was using the BACK of his right hand—an insult. “Turning the other cheek” called out the abuser: If you’re going to hurt me, do it like man-to-man, using the FRONT of your hand (which would land on my left cheek), not like a master hitting his slave.
If you take my cloak, I’ll give up my undergarment, too, and stand semi-naked. It will show up your cruelty.
The law stated a soldier could require a civilian to help carry his gear for one mile. If I offer to walk a second mile, the soldier will protest, or he’d get into trouble. My act shows up the injustice.
Either way you interpret these verses, it takes courage and grace not to retaliate.
In the Pursuit of Peace 