I hear the words “Abide in Me,” but I need a visual to make them more concrete. I picture myself in a hollow tree (if you know my affinity for trees, this should not surprise you) with a door and some windows in the trunk. It’s cozy inside, and I can rest (abide in Christ), or work if I choose, tidying up my space.
The inside of the tree is lined with a bread-like substance that I can munch on when I’m hungry. It always replenishes itself. And water? No problem. There’s a fountain of living water in the center.
When doubters peer through my windows, I can choose to believe their lies or I can tell them to go away. When I reject them, angels take their place to guard me.
In this visual, the tree house does not represent salvation. I could choose to step outside of the house—but there is no protection there from the elements and from the wolves. Better to stay inside and trust God to bring people to the door so we can fellowship with each other, and I can teach them the lessons I’ve learned.
If Jesus asks me to, I’m willing to leave my safe, cozy shelter. But first I must arm myself with the weapons of warfare, the breastplate of righteousness, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit. Why would I venture outside the tree? There are a few lost souls who are too weak to crawl to the door, and I need to find them, carry them to my house, and nurse them back to health. I may have to hand-feed them until they’re strong enough to feed themselves.
A 2024 Update. I may need to rethink this metaphor. I was processing life through a codependency grid back then, believing it was my job to rescue people. If I’m abiding in Christ, aren’t I taking my treehouse with me wherever I go? But why do I need warfare weapons if I’m inside my house? What other visual would help?
To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else . . . (Luke 18:9 NIV)
I am a recovering Pharisee. I identify more with the law than with grace, with Martha more than Mary, with the big brother rather than the prodigal son, with self-righteousness over God’s righteousness. God,help me!
Had I been at the synagogue the day Jesus healed the crippled woman, I would have been the Pharisee condemning Jesus for working on the Sabbath. That is my natural, Adamic nature, the old man, of the world. Yes, I’ve come a long, long way, but I’m not there yet—and won’t be until I get to heaven. Whenever I think I’m “better than,” I’ve crossed the line into self-righteousness.
So, I explore this thought: If I choose wisely (the God path), does that make me better than those who choose to resist God? My flesh says, “Yes, thus making me superior.” But that is arrogance. Scorn does not become me. Disgust or rolling the eyes or looking down at someone—how can that be a good choice?
I am responsible for my own faith, my own choices, my own reactions, and responses. I don’t know another person’s heart—not really. We are each accountable to our own master—be it God or Satan or money or pain.
Since I’ve chosen God as my master, then I only answer to Him. It is not my job to judge another person’s choices. I might notice that they’ve chosen a poor master, and I can urge them to reconsider their path, but they may be bound in chains and may not know that freedom is available to them. Why get upset and rage at them for not opening their eyes—when they are truly blinded by the god of this world and cannot see until the God of Heaven opens their eyes.
But God has set me free from the law of sin and death. He gives light and life and freedom. No more condemnation, judgment, pride, or superiority. Let God be God and me the chiefest of sinners whom God has redeemed.
You will never understand the heart of a Pharisee unless you realize that he sees the plank in his eye as belonging to others. (Erwin Lutzer in his book Who Are You to Judge?)
“They did not believe it [the resurrection]” (Mark 16:11 NIV).
“They did not believe them [the 2 men on the road to Emmaus] either” (Mark 16:11).
“Jesus rebuked them for their lack of faith and their stubborn refusal to believe those who had seen him after he had risen” (Mark 16:14).
Why is it so hard to believe someone else’s testimony? And when evidence is right there in my face, why do I refuse to believe it? What makes me dig in my heals and deny the truth? Everyone (including Mary, the ten disciples, and eventually Thomas) finally believed when they experientially saw Jesus with their own eyes.
I suspect fear is at the bottom of it. When I’m working with clients with D.I.D. (Dissociative Identity Disorder), the denial parts might say, “If I believe it happened, then I’ll have to admit it was real.”
“Then what?” I’ll ask.
“Then I’ll feel overwhelmed (. . . or scared . . . or someone might find out . . . or I’ll be killed).”
I wonder what lie the disciples believed that kept their denial part in place: “It’s too good to be true (. . . or I can’t let myself feel hope for fear I’ll be disappointed).” I think that’s it. Jesus’ death was a HUGE disappointment, an overwhelmingly painful loss.
Yet when Jesus met them, He didn’t encourage them like He did when someone was fearful. He rebuked and chided them for their unbelief. According to I Samuel 15:23, stubbornness (ASV) rebellion (KJV) presumption (ESV) defiance (HCSB) is as the sin of witchcraft. Apparently, there was an element of demonic control or attachment that perhaps got planted at their point of pain. Jesus doesn’t need to dig around in their psyches to help them discover why they’ve dug in their heels. He bluntly rebukes them.
God is patient with our struggles, our fears, and our doubts, but He’s not so patient with lack of faith. How many times did He say, “O ye of little faith?” There’s no pointing of fingers here. I’m plenty guilty myself. But my heart strongly desires to root out all stubbornness, rebellion, and lack of faith.
I’m currently reading books on the neuroscience of the brain and wondering how to meld that knowledge with Jesus’ words.
The women at the tomb believed as soon as the angels spoke truth to them. The men, however, continued to doubt when presented with the evidence (the women’s testimony and an empty tomb). The disciples on the road to Emmaus couldn’t seem to grasp the truth, and Jesus rebuked them. Even when the disciples saw Jesus in the room, and the joy center of their brain was activated, they had a hard time believing.
We know that the brain is a complex organ—different parts of the brain are responsible for different functions. The occipital for eyes, the amygdala for emotion, the frontal cortex for logic and reasoning, and memory resides in a different part.
Jesus created the human brain. He knew what part of the brain was being accessed during fear (Peter walking on the water; the disciples in the storm on the sea of Galilee). He knew that the frontal cortex shuts down during a fight/flight/freeze situation. Yet He seemed impatient with them: “Why do you doubt? Why do you have so little faith? Why don’t you believe when the evidence is in front of you that I’m alive? Stop doubting!”
What makes us doubt? Is the emotion center too strong? Are there lies imbedded in that emotion? Once truth enters the brain, doubt and fear flee. Jesus understood all this, so was He really impatient or was He challenging them to accept HIM, the truth, the way, the life?
I think women often believe more easily than men. Perhaps that’s why Satan appealed to Eve first. Is that because our emotion center is more active than our reason center? Was Jesus instructing these men to get in touch with their emotional side? Women are also more apt to be duped, more gullible. I know I am.
If I recorded only my struggles, you’d never know about my good times, the peaceful days. If I only recorded good memories and words of praise and gratitude to God, you wouldn’t know of my struggles, and you’d think I was a saint. Neither is true. I resonate with Paul’s words, “For in my inner being I delight in God’s law” (Romans 7:22 NIV). This may be referring to the Law of Moses, but I see it through Jesus’ words, the Law of Love: Love the Lord Your God . . . and your neighbor as yourself.
I love the Word of God, and I love THE WORD Himself. He is my only source of true joy, the author of my peace, my motive for loving my neighbor.
I don’t often record my praise and gratitude because they are a given—they bubble up inside me. But maybe it would be a good exercise to write them down as well. David did.
My praise, my worship, doesn’t sound like today’s music, nor does it sound like David’s. My praise is more contemplative, quieter, a simple thank you. It’s standing in the rain, arms raised to the heavens, drinking in the warmth and the water, dancing with Jesus, following His lead, a graceful ballet of love and appreciation.
“The mind . . . governed by the Spirit is life and peace” (Romans 8:6 NIV). One follows the other. Spirit-control yields peace. Spirit-non-control yields unrest.
The apostles performed many signs and wonders among the people . . . people brought the sick into the streets and laid them on beds and mats so that at least Peter’s shadow might fall on some of them as he passed by. Crowds gathered also from the towns around Jerusalem, bringing their sick and those tormented by impure spirits, and all of them were healed (Acts 5: 12-16, NIV).
Peter, the man who denied Jesus three times, is now performing miracles of healing. Why didn’t this happen while he was walking with Jesus before the ascension (aside from the time when Jesus sent the disciples out to the villages two by two)? Why now? The answer is the Holy Spirit. Peter didn’t ask for it. It was a gift, donated, conferred upon him—according to God’s design.
I lay to rest once and for all the notion/teaching that I’m missing something because I don’t speak in tongues, raise people from the dead, heal sickness and disease, or handle snakes without getting poisoned. I can cast out evil cosmic beings because—and only because—the person wills it to be so and because the demonic forces have been defeated at the cross.
I have no power in myself to do diddly-squat! It’s by God’s very will and choice that I draw breath and move and have my being.
It’s like I’ve been standing around with my palms up, asking to receive whatever God has for me. Instead, He says, “Just get to work! Quit standing around. When and if I offer you something, you’ll open your hand or reach for it in obedience. If you refuse a gift, then you’re being rude or disobedient. It’s not so polite to extend your hand to demand that someone give you a gift!”
Then the high priest and all his associates who were members of the party of the Sadducees were filled with jealousy (v. 17).
“And don’t be jealous,” God adds, “if I give a gift that you want, or think you deserve, to someone else. I know exactly what gift(s) you need—best for you and best for Me. Now get to work and enjoy what I’ve given you!”
A 2024 Update. I wrote this in 2016 in response to the emotion stirred up when someone claimed all believers were supposed to practice all the gifts. This week I previewed a book by Neil Miller titled Agents of Healing. Miller states that we all have authority to heal physical ailments, but we don’t all have the same power to do so. And that with practice and experience, we can increase our faith to do so. His arguments are well laid out and biblically and experientially verified, but I’m still mulling over whether or not we’re all commanded to practice all the gifts.
Miller sites the times when Jesus cast out demons without the person’s involvement or consent, but as God incarnate, He knew the innermost workings of a person’s heart and the plan of the Father to bring Him glory. In my ministry of inner healing prayer, I’ve found that involving the person’s will makes the process a whole lot easier.
Peter, James, and John, closest earthly friends of Jesus, zigzag to the top of a high mountain (Matthew 17). It’s refreshing to be away from the pressing crowds, a gentle breeze caressing their cheeks, but they’re tired, sweaty, hungry, and thirsty. The long, arduous journey affords time to ponder all that’s happened so far in this ministry, but they are clueless as to why Jesus is leading them here. One foot following the other, pausing to breathe, they wonder when they’ll ever reach their destination. They miss their families, but it’s exciting to be singled out to spend quality time with their Rabbi. The privileged three.
And then it happens—Jesus’ transfiguration, meeting biblical heroes Moses and Elijah, the enveloping brilliant light cloud, the very voice of God. It’s overwhelming, it’s exhilarating, it’s sacred, it’s terrifying, it’s unique in history.
But this mountaintop experience is not meant to be the norm—in spite of Peter’s suggestion to create shelters for the three of them. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and they are forbidden to share it with anyone—at least for now. This is a holy, between-them-and-God moment. It’s nobody’s business but theirs. Perhaps the purpose is to strengthen their faith or give them courage or enlightenment. Maybe Jesus is bursting with excitement and wants to experientially share His true story with His best friends.
And now it’s time to come down off the mountain. They can’t live there, but it’s now part of their story that shapes how they think and feel. They are different for having experienced it. And when the time is right (after the resurrection), they can tell others—it’s a testimony—both theirs as a witness and a verification of who Jesus is.
What mountaintop experience have you had? Did you tell someone, or have you kept it between you and the Lord? Why?
The book of Proverbs often contrasts the fool with the wise. The fool doesn’t listen to knowledge, utters slander, does what is right in his own eyes, is full of wrath, doesn’t learn from discipline, is contentious, and is bound for destruction.
The wise person, obviously, portrays opposite characteristics. But is being wise the same thing as being righteous? I understand imputed righteousness, but there’s our part as well. God doesn’t declare everyone righteous—just those who have responded to His invitation—and that’s being wise. (9:10)
We are all wise at times and foolish at others, but a person’s character, like a young tree, can be bent in different directions (15:24). The more mature the tree becomes, the more hardened the trunk gets—straighter or more crooked.
Sometimes I hesitate to call myself wise—it sounds prideful. But it isn’t boasting when you are being honest about your choices. To fear the Lord is to be wise. I have chosen God. I have chosen to humble myself when I recognize pride, I try to learn, I try not to defend when hurt, I try not to slander or be contentious and to keep anger under control. My tree trunk is bent in that direction. That’s not pride—it’s observing what’s in my heart.
It is not arrogant to recognize when you are wise, but I don’t know too many people who would admit they are fools. Usually they see it at the end of their life or when they suffer the consequences of a poor decision.
All a person’s ways seem right in his own opinion, but the Lord evaluates the motives. (Proverbs 16:2 NET)
The broken and bruised Little One lurched forward onto the desert stones, her parched lips whispering a desperate, “Help.”
A large-winged, iridescent creature glided swiftly from the sky, casting shade over her limp body. In one motion, he lifted her high above the earth. The wind cooled her fevered brow, and she slept. When she opened her eyes, they were soaring over a mountain and descending into a lush green valley where she spied a ribbon of river sparkling in the sunlight.
The creature landed gently near the entrance to a cozy cottage. As if on cue, the heavy oak door swung open, and a kind-faced, elderly gentleman reached for her as her spindly legs crumpled beneath her.
“Come in, my child,” he invited.
A warm glow from the fireplace revealed a table spread with a feast beyond compare. Exotic fruits and colorful vegetables spilled artfully around platters of venison, quail, and racks of lamb. Never before had she seen such abundance.
“You may eat all you want, but only a little at a time, as much as your stomach can handle.” And he began to feed her from his own hand. When she had eaten her fill, she fell asleep at the table, dreaming of lamb chops and fresh fruit and homemade bread.
The next morning, she awoke in a bed of feathers, refreshed but weak. Where was the old man? She wandered outside to explore. There by the cottage ran the river she’d noticed from the sky. And in the middle, standing chest-high, a young man beckoned her to join him. When he saw her fear, he waded to shore, offered his hand, and led her close to the edge where she tested the water with one toe. Surprised at its warmth, she allowed him to pull her further in, waist high. The mineralized liquid soothed her aching muscles and cleansed her wounds of the poisons. Finally, she plunged completely under and came up splashing and laughing. The dirt and the grime of a lifetime dissolved into a rainbow of bubbles. The man smiled, enjoying her fun. She could have stayed in this River of Delight all day, but the man had more he wanted to show her.
“Come,” he said—in the same tone the old man had used.
Curious, she thought.
He wrapped a soft towel around her shoulders and handed her a robe. Strangely unselfconscious in his presence, she slipped out of her dirty rags and let the shimmering white garment fall neatly to her feet, covering her bony frame.
“It’s beautiful!” she murmured.
She followed him down the path and around to the back of the cottage. A kaleidoscope of color met her eye. In the center of the garden stood a massive fountain with flowers and vines of all varieties growing out of its walls. A stone bench circled the base of the fountain where small pilgrims could climb to reach the water or the elderly could sit. The man reached for a dipper, scooped up some of the pristine liquid, and held it out to her. Again, she felt fear surging up from deep within.
“It’s safe,” is all he said. And she drank. And she felt life in her bones, and her flesh felt restored, and her spirit revived.
For a year the Little One stayed in this valley of paradise, learning lessons from the Master Teacher, until one day he spoke these words: “You are strong enough now, my child, to venture forth. Invite others to come here—but you must show them the way. And if, like you, they’re too weak to travel by foot, simply call, and I will send my winged spirit to carry them here.”
And the Little One, strong in the power of His might, went forth and gathered in the lame, the blind, the broken, the bleeding, and the wounded, and brought them to the feet of the Master. And they, too, experienced fullness of joy in the River of Delight. And the cottage swelled with happy voices—but was never full—for there was always room for one more. And the Fountain of Life never ran dry.
Psalm 36:7-9 NIV
How priceless is your unfailing love, O God!
People take refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the abundance of your house;
you give them drink from your river of delights.
For with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light.
Why do I resist the Father’s love? Is it because I do not love myself adequately? Is it because I think less of myself than He does?
I’ve been taught since grade school the concept of the depravity of man: “Your sins are scarlet,” “There is none righteous, no not one,” and those famous lines from “Amazing Grace”: “for such a worm as I.” We were taught that we’re abased, unholy, unrighteous, unworthy, worthless human beings.
How do I climb out of this pit of self-abasement? How do I make the transition to God’s favored one, beloved of the Father, “I’m wild about you,” redeemed, accepted, made righteous and holy and pure in His sight?
When I leap into the Father’s arms, He catches me and holds me tight. “I’ll never let you go,” He whispers in my ear. “You’re mine forever.” I nestle into His bosom—the carrying pouch for little lambs, safe, loved, secure. I no longer sing, “If Jesus goes with me, I’ll go,” but rather, wherever the Father goes, I am carried along with Him. I can hear His heartbeat. It soothes and lulls and lets me rest and sleep like a newborn.
I am an old woman. One hundred twenty to be exact. I’ve lived a long, full life, and it’s time to set my house in order and write my memoirs. To be honest, it’s not just my age that triggered these thoughts. Recently, some foreign traders stopped by to sell us some trinkets, and I recognized a gold bracelet of mine that’s been missing for years. I remember it disappeared the day of the big feast. I assumed a slave girl of mine had stolen it, and I’ve held a grudge against her all these years. I think it’s time to make things right between us. Let me tell you how it happened.
It all began when my husband Abraham bought me a gift—a beautiful 12-year-old girl from Egypt. I remember the first time I saw Hagar. She seemed frightened and shy, but she had a spirit about her, an air of determination that was unusual for slaves. I took her under my wing immediately and taught her how to cook and keep house for me. She was quick and bright and seemed eager to please. As her body began to blossom, I noticed Abraham eyeing her occasionally, but he never touched her. He was too loyal to me to be tempted by her beauty. And I was careful to always meet his needs.
About this time, my husband had another one of those encounters with God. He claimed God told him he was going to have a son whose descendants would grow into a mighty nation. He was ecstatic. I thought him a fool at the time. After all, I was too old to have a baby, and he’d never been with another woman. But he insisted God would keep his promise somehow, and he believed Him.
That got me to thinking. All my life I’d longed to have a baby. Abraham desperately wanted an heir for all his wealth. But me? I just ached to hold an infant in my arms and feel him suckle at my breast. Never mind the embarrassment and shame of not being able to produce a child; I just wanted to know what it was like to feel life inside me. But it seemed that God had shut up my womb forever.
And so I got an idea. If I couldn’t have a baby of my own, perhaps there was another way. What if I persuaded Abraham to sleep with Hagar? A child half mine to cuddle and play with was better than none. When I suggested this possibility to him, he agreed, but only if he married the girl first. Then the child could be a legitimate heir.
What a delight to my soul the day Hagar hinted that she might be pregnant. I was to have my baby at last. But something unexpected happened. Her attitude toward me began to change. I noticed it first in the way she tossed her head, like she was something special. Later she turned surly and haughty, as if she thought herself better than me. I couldn’t understand it. Here I’d given her favored status, with the best tent and food, and even shared my husband with her . . . and this was all the thanks I got?
It must have been Abraham’s fault, and I told him so. Though I was still considered beautiful by any standard, I could not compete with the lithe, young body of my slave girl. Abraham was spending more time with her at night, and I could see him watching her throughout the day. I’m ashamed I started to make life miserable for her. I sent her on long errands and demanded more physical labor to keep her out of the tent.
One day she stayed away longer than usual, and I started to worry. What if something happened to my child? What if she ran away and Abraham blamed me? I was most relieved when she showed up two days later. I could tell she’d been crying, and I was about to open my mouth to scold her for staying away so long, when something in her face stopped me. Something had changed. She had lost her defiance. Maybe she realized now where her bread and cheese came from. “That’s better,” I thought. She returned to work, but she avoided me as much as possible. That was okay with me, though, because I had mixed feelings every time I saw her swelling belly.
At last the day came for the birth. Abraham and I could hardly contain our joy. I took over immediately the oversight of all little Ishmael’s needs. Of course I had to depend on Hagar to feed him for me, but the rest of the time, he was mine to play with and cuddle while she worked.
Abraham doted on him too. He gave him the best of the best. What Ishmael wanted, Ishmael received. But something was wrong. I blamed Hagar for how he turned out—a surly, angry young man. Much to my dismay, he seemed to have an interest in hunting rather than sheep herding, and Abraham indulged him with the finest bow and arrow on his twelfth birthday. As a mom, I disapproved, but at this point I had little to say in the matter. He was a man now.
And then, a year later, the most extraordinary thing happened. Some out-of-town visitors dropped by and told Abraham that he and I would have a son by this time next year. I just laughed. Abraham was no spring chicken! And me? Couldn’t they see my wrinkles? They should have realized I was way past the time for enjoying this pleasure. But they insisted they told the truth, and I was afraid when they challenged me.
Oh, just a minute. See that handsome young man over there by the well? That’s Isaac . . . my son. You see, the men were right! Unbelievable! Not only did I get pregnant, but I got a name change too—from Sarai to Sarah. That’s when I learned that nothing is too hard for the Lord!
But I need to finish my story of Hagar. The day came for Isaac to be weaned. Hagar had remained aloof during my pregnancy and even more distant after Isaac was born. I didn’t mind. I was pretty preoccupied with what was happening in my own life. But on the day of the big feast, something happened that I’ve lived to regret.
I think Hagar was feeling left out of the festivities, and I can only imagine now how she must have felt to see her own son lose his favored status and position. I’m sure she must have said something to Ishmael, because early that morning I came upon the two of them whispering by the woodpile.
Later that afternoon, three-year-old Isaac came running to my tent, bawling like he’d been trampled by a camel. When I finally got him calmed down with the promise of a treat, he pointed toward Ishmael’s tent. It seems Ishmael had lured him into his domicile, then ripped his cloak off and started mocking him for being a cry-baby when he protested. Claimed he was the first-born, and he would make Isaac mind him, or he’d hurt him. A servant nearby heard the commotion and rescued Isaac before any more harm could be done.
I was livid. Nobody, but nobody, was allowed to touch my son, least of all a slave child. I immediately accosted Abraham and demanded he get rid of “that woman and her son.” There was no way I was going to allow him to share in Abraham’s inheritance after God had promised the blessing would come through Isaac.
I’m sorry. Please forgive my tears. I felt something had died in Abraham that day. I know I hurt him deeply with my tirade, for I knew how much he cared for Ishmael. I’ve since begged his forgiveness, and he’s assured me that God has healed the hurt. I’m glad. But it didn’t bring Ishmael back. He and Hagar left the next morning, having missed out on the feast the night before. We’ve never heard from them since.
Life went back to normal after that—if raising a child at age 93 can be considered normal! Isaac was the apple of my eye. We had a very special bond as mother and son—still do. I’m so proud of how he’s turned out. But he needs to know the stories of his childhood before I die. And I need to relieve my conscience and find some peace in my old age.
So here’s what I did. I bought back my bracelet from that trader and asked where he’d gotten it. He said he’d had it for a long time. He was passing by a woman and her son one time on the trade route, when she stopped him and begged him to trade it for some food. She looked pretty desperate, so he did. Even gave her some money for it. He said his wife loved that bracelet, but when she died, he decided to get rid of it.
I know it’s a long shot, but I plan to give it back to Hagar if my servant can find her. I want her to know that I’ve forgiven her, but most of all I want to ask her forgiveness for the way I treated her. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest a bit before I tell you my next story.
In the Pursuit of Peace 