Pursued by God

Worth

Apple believes their Watch Edition is worth $10,000. I don’t. Apple is not bothered about my opinion because plenty of people disagree with me. If someone is willing to pay ten Gs, then they have declared the watch to be worth the price. Anything of great value commands a great price. Whether a Malibu mansion, the purest diamond or the latest technology, value is revealed by what someone is willing to pay. It doesn’t really matter what the seller thinks the object is worth. Ultimately it only matters what the buyer is willing to pay. The greater the value of the object, the greater the price paid.

God bought you with a price (1 Cor. 6:20). The reality is that it doesn’t matter what you think you are worth. The purchaser has decided your value and he didn’t ask you. The one who created you was willing to lay down his life for you. He paid the highest price imaginable. He has declared you worthy. Stop arguing. 

Invisible People

“Thank you, Amanda.” My daughter spoke the simple expression with a smile. The words seemed to startle the girl with the nametag who was filling my water glass. “You’re welcome,” was her quick response, but her eyes had changed. She had been noticed. The restaurant was noisy and crowded. This young woman moved quickly from table to table, filling waters, clearing dishes and flying under most people’s radar. I watched to see how many people acknowledged Amanda. Amanda apparently was invisible.

Invisible people surround us. People who exist on our periphery, who drift in and out of our everyday lives unseen, unnoticed, unacknowledged. They may be in the coffee shop, grocery store, across the street or next door. But the relationship may not be so casual. The unseen could be in our own families. Those whose existence has become so routine that we no longer acknowledge their value.

In Galatians 6:10, God calls us to intentionality. “As we have opportunity, let us do good to all people.” In order to do good to those around us, we have to first notice them. To stop and realize who they are. They are created in the image of God. They are passionately loved by the same God who loves us. 

Jesus tangibly showed us what doing good to those around us looks like. “Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave - just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many." (Matt 20:26-28) It means choosing to serve based on our view of others. True serving is an attitude followed by an action.

Most of us wrestle with relational issues. When we are most honest with ourselves, we might admit that many of those issues are a result of putting ourselves first, of seeing ourselves as better than others.

When do invisible people become visible? When we choose to serve them. Who are the invisible people are in your life? Your neighbor? Your children? Your spouse? What if, this week, you chose to make the invisible, visible. To not just acknowledge them, but to serve them? To consider them as more important than yourself? You may begin to see them in a whole new way.

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Phil. 2:3 NIV

Hidden Away

 The sky was the variety of vivid blue that only seems to exist at high altitudes. I had awakened to a fresh blanket of snow. Fog lay in the valleys as the sun rose pink out of its midst. The pine trees that encircled my cabin hideout were freshly flocked, the angled rays of the sun highlighting brilliant white on green. Spring in the Rockies. The previous night I had fallen asleep to the sound of rain on the roof and thunder rolling through the valleys. I now stood at the large windows with the mountains spread out before me and realized God is never finished painting his landscapes.

The crouching fog rose up, gaining momentum as it swallowed one peak after another. It rolled up the valley, advancing on my miniscule hideout. A thin white mist playfully wrapped around the cabin, diffused sunlight exposing its thin tendrils. As the fog thickened, the sun was no longer allowed to visit. Within minutes I was deep in the belly of the beast. Only the closest trees were visible. The air in the room seemed to grow cold.

I pulled on a hoodie, made a pot of coffee and settled in to watch the show. As I listened to the coffee dripping, the fog transformed. Heavy snow began to fall straight and fast as the fog dissipated. It was as if the cloud had solidified and was falling to the ground. The downpour lasted long enough for the coffee to fill the pot.

Indistinguishable wind began to swirl through the pines, now visible to the next ridge.  A different kind of snow began to fall. Fine, soft flakes swirled through the air. The temperature dropped rapidly. A storm was coming. As the snow increased, the wind became more directed. It howled down off the ridges pushing waves of snow in front of it. The tall pines bent in submission, knowing their place.

I poured a mug of coffee, set the iPod to shuffle, picked up a new book and headed for a large chair. I considered building a roaring fire but at the moment my book was calling. Maybe during a good chapter break. I knew it was going to be a good day. 

Cemetery Leaves

 Leaves from the cemetery still clung to my shoes. The dried leaves were a sobering reminder of the graveside service I led in the autumn morning mist two days ago. Members of a large extended family wept as they watched the casket of a young husband and father slowly descend below the frost line while random snowflakes drifted down.

I wiped the leaves off as I dressed for another funeral. This funeral was different, though. I was not leading, but attending this one. It was for a friend. A man whose company was never boring. A good man who left behind a wife and four kids. A man who was younger than me. I knew I would see a number of old friends at the service—not how I would choose to catch up with relationships.

I have rubbed shoulders with grief too many times in the past year. A high school basketball star. A twenty one year old man who loved everything outdoors. A seventy eight year old woman who lived a great life. A nineteen year old who was tortured by the injustice of this world. The list is long. Some I never knew. Some whose smiles were familiar.

America is one of the few societies where death is viewed as optional. We attempt to distance ourselves from any reminders of our own mortality. This is not so convenient when your calling is helping people deal with the loss they thought they could ignore. While grief is part of the fabric of being a pastor, it is about more than my job. I do not practice professional detachment. I weep with those who weep. I wear their hurt. Their grief burrows deep in my soul.

Lest you think I am descending into a death spiral of depression, let me say this—I experience peace in the midst of pain and hope in the presence of loss. I feel life in the face of death. How is this possible? Because I know a God that transcends death. He is larger than life, and more important, He is larger than death.

Reminders of our transience are as consistent as interstate mile markers. If a heart beats in your chest, your deepest fears remind you that something outside of your influence makes that heart beat again and again. In your most honest moments, you know you are not in control. This realization can lead to fear or hope. Hope shapes me because I know the One who powers my heart. One day, He will no longer cause my heart to pulse and I am OK with that. I know Him now and I will know Him face to face then.

Death is a door we walk through, not a wall we run into. In our society, we tend to treat death as termination -- the end of everything. In reality, our greatest fantasy is true. We are immortal. Our souls exist forever. The only question is one of location. Either in the presence of the One who knows you or outside of the presence of the One you never knew.

Hope is about more than change or the promises of a political candidate. It rests in the reality of an eternity that possesses us. A God who longs for us. A Savior who pursues us. What beats in your chest? Hope or fear? Hope is about home. It is about Someone who loves you now and desires that you would be with Him forever. If fear haunts you, don’t ignore it. Fear can lead you to truth and truth can bring you to hope and hope can bring you home.

 © 2010 Kevin Feldotto

[email protected]

www.coloradowriter.net

 

A Generous Allowance

“God is ready to do amazing things in your life. He is just waiting for you to let him in. 

These words, or a variation of them, litter the landscape of modern Christianity. I hear them in podcasts and lyrics. I read them in books and blogs. There are many variations: Letting him have control of my life. Giving God permission to work. Allowing him to change me.

I like those words, because in those words dwells the concept that I have control. God longs to work in my life. All he needs is permission and that permission is the key I alone possess. While this may paint a picture that makes me feel good, it is not the portrait depicted in God’s word.

When I read the Bible, I do not discover a God who seeks permission. Did God consult Job before the whirlwind? Did he seek Joseph’s consent to use him to save a nation? Did he ask Jonah if it was OK to draw the very people Jonah hated to God’s heart? I see a God who calls Abraham to leave his home, Ruth to leave her people, Hosea to marry a prostitute and Paul to be shipwrecked, beaten, whipped and stoned. I doubt any of them signed a release form.

This is just as true of me today as it was of them. God is in my life whether I like it or not. He didn’t ask me if he could be there. His love compels him to walk with me. So I have a choice. I can fight with him or I can walk with him. That much is up to me, but little else.

From my office window, I can see a popular trail that runs through former ranch land. Just off that trail, an old metal gate sits atop a small hill. It is latched, draped in barbed wire, wrapped with a heavy chain and secured with an enormous rusted padlock. There is no opening that gate. The amusing part is that the gate stands alone on the hill. Any fence that existed disappeared long ago.

I picture God and I at this gate. I am standing behind the gate, feet spread in a defiant stance, both hands on the cold metal. “You can come this far, God, but no further. There are certain areas of my life that I am not willing to allow you to be part of right now. I will let you know when I am ready to let you in.” As something brushes past me, I feel a tap on the back of my shoulder. I turn around and find myself looking into his smiling face. With a mixture of love and amusement in his eyes, he says, “You mean these areas?”

An Evening at the Barr

I had planned a late evening run, just not this late. After tackling the Incline with some friends, I headed up Pikes Peak for a solo run. Barr camp, half way up the mountain, was my planned turnaround point. The descending sun silhouetted Pikes Peak in front of me, transforming the clouds into pink and blue cotton candy.  Small helicopters, disguised as hummingbirds, shot through the low tree branches. Dozens of deer drifted out of the aspens groves. Four young bucks with soft velvet antlers loitered by the trail. They exhibited a defiant teenage male attitude, pretending I didn’t exist as I ran past. One rebellious ray of light escaped around the summit, spotlighting the rounded top of a nearby peak as a ring of clouds formed a fedora hat brim around the shimmering pinnacle. The white aspen trunks took on an otherworldly radiance in the fading light. The clouds overhead became the glowing embers of a dying fire. As I hit Barr Camp and started back down, I flipped on my headlamp.

steep mountain trails, “down” is a faster concept than “up”. As the trees blurred into each other, thick pines swallowed the remaining light. The moon that was scheduled to light my exit was still rising in the east, yellow and expectant. My world was reduced to the sphere of my headlamp. I had not encountered a human for miles. Alone with my thoughts, the crunch of the crumbled granite under my shoes seemed to grow in intensity. I imagined sounds in the woods, blurred movements in my periphery. A pressing sense of my aloneness launched the thought that maybe I wasn’t alone. Maybe something or someone existed that was greater than me. Someone who knew my fears and weaknesses.  

I whispered in the dark, “Are you there, God?”

“Seriously?” He responded. 

God In My Backyard

It didn’t feel right. Dawn was yet an hour away but that didn’t explain why the sky was Starbucks black. I looked through the sunroof at the lack of stars and knew I was in trouble. With my photo gear piled on the car seat, I was headed to Garden of the Gods. My goal: that one amazing shot of the first rays of sun lighting the red rocks of the garden with a snow capped Pikes Peak in the background, all framed by the beautiful blue Colorado sky. I guess I should have checked the weather forecast.

I setup my tripod overlooking the Garden of the Gods to await the dawn. Instead of a dazzling sunrise, I was greeted by a gradual lightening of the gray. Low clouds enveloped the Garden. Pikes Peak was nowhere to be found. The light was totally flat, as were my hopes of getting any good images. I decided to do what I was supposed to be doing anyway. Yard work.

Up to my elbows in mud, I was waging war on the sprinkler system but it was winning. The current combatant was a valve that refused to shut off. Wrestling with the valve, I noticed a spider web in the grass to my right. It was no bigger than a dime and covered with dew. Wiping off my hands, I grabbed my camera. What I saw through the macro lens was stunning. Another world opened up in tiny beads of water suspended on the fine web. It was then I noticed droplets precariously clinging to fine blades of grass. Snapping pictures of grass, I found a lone ladybug climbing one of the blades. She willingly posed for an impromptu photo shoot. A honeybee buzzed me, so I followed him to the nearby dandelions. He was not thrilled about his photo shoot. I saw the sun lighting his amber wings and pollen stuck to his face like a two year old with birthday cake.

Sometimes irony is subtle. Other times it slaps you. I was searching for God in the big things. I looked for his glory in massive sandstone and imposing granite. I listened for him to shout from the mountains but he was whispering from the grass.

God is in my back yard. I happened to notice a few instances out of a thousand. That’s just in my back yard. Today he will create billions of works of stunning beauty that no human being will stop to notice. I think he does it just because it’s fun. The creator did not stop being creator after six days and a rest. It is his nature.

When I go to the mountains to be surrounded by his grandeur I sidestep the reality that, no matter where I am, his glory encompasses my on every side. His creativity is non-stop but I miss it because I am non-stop. I need to intentionally pause to ponder the intricacies of his fingerwork.

As I write this, I am sitting cross-legged on my patio. An ant just scurried by. Gotta go…

What Does It Mean?

So I went into the break room and someone had set out a bunch of candy for people to help themselves. Apparently it was an attempt to unload a bunch of leftover Easter goodies – chocolate eggs, jellybeans, the usual. In the midst of the basket something not so usual made me stop. It was a six-inch long solid milk chocolate cross. I found myself pondering the theological implications of this confectionary torture device. I understand the significance of the bread and wine, but a chocolate cross? Is it OK to eat the cross? I’m just asking. Doesn’t that seem weird to you? Would you ever see a Catholic chocolate cross? I don’t think so.

OK. I’m being a bit facetious. I don’t have an issue with someone eating a chocolate cross. If it was 70% cocoa, I might have gone for it myself. However, it did make me think about how we can so easily trivialize the significance of the cross. For whatever reason, it was a horrible form of death that God chose to pay the price I couldn’t pay. That cross points to separation, loss, suffering, and death. The paradox is that same cross points to reconciliation, redemption, joy and life. It was the means by which my creator became my savior. I hope I don’t take that lightly.

The next time you see a cross, stop for a moment and ask yourself, “What does it mean?” Better yet, “What does it mean to me?”

Waste of Time? - Easter 2009

“I want to ask you a question and I want you to be honest with me.” His desperation was tangible through the phone. “Do you really believe all this is real?” I had been counseling this man about Christ’s love for him. In one question, he stripped it all down to its essence. Have you asked yourself that question? Honestly? 

You never thought you’d be alone

This far down the line

And I know what’s been on your mind

You’re afraid it’s all been wasted time

- The Eagles

It all comes down to one incident in history. Did the event that we so casually accept as Easter really happen? Because if it did not, then everything we have believed is wrong and we are utterly alone.  

For if the dead are not raised, not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished. If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied. -1 Cor. 15:16-19

If the dead are not raised, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” -1 Cor. 15:32

There is no halfway. Either the point of my existence is about Jesus Christ or it is about me. With His dying breath He proclaimed, “It is finished.” He paid for my sins in full. My eternal relationship with my creator has been sealed. Or has it? If we stop at Good Friday, that question looms heavy in the air. The question, “Do you really believe all this is real?” can only be answered in the quiet dawn of the following Sunday. Because on that morning the rising sun revealed the risen Son.

In 1 Cor. 15:3-8, Paul gives a list of witnesses to the resurrection. They touched Him. They walked with Him. They spoke with Him. He wasn’t an apparition, a mist or a ghost. He was alive and He was real. The power in His death was revealed by the power of His resurrection. It truly is finished.

But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep. For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive. -1 Cor. 15:20-22

In Christ shall all be made ALIVE! That’s you and that’s me. He is real, we are not alone, and we have the assurance of eternity in His presence. Just try to keep me from celebrating Easter!

 

You Call That Good?

We refer to it as Good Friday, but how dare we? How can we so casually assign such an event to the category of good? We glibly proclaim that Sunday is coming, but do we really understand what happened on that black Friday?

It was on that famous day that my Maker, the Lord of hosts, the Holy One of Israel, the God of the whole earth was spat upon. He was mocked by those who claimed allegiance to Yahweh. Like so many bullies on the playground, they made fun of my God. You call that good?

Like a sacrificial lamb that was about to have its throat slit, Jesus was silently led to slaughter. He was tortured, beaten and whipped. His appearance was so marred; the crowds were astonished at him. Bloodied and swollen, Jesus didn’t even look human. He was beyond recognition. People didn’t look at him and say, “Who is he?” They said, “What is he?” You call that good?

He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Yet, you insist on calling that good.

But whose grief was he acquainted with? It was mine he bore. It my sorrow he carried.He was wounded for my transgressions; he was crushed for my sin; upon him was the punishment that brought me peace, and it was with his stripes that I was healed. His soul made an offering that healed my soul. In the midst of horror, good boldly asserts itself.

He didn’t even consider his equality with God something to be held tightly, but chose to make himself nothing. He took the form of the lowest servant. My creator counted me more significant than himself. He came to serve me and die for me. That Friday, that Good Friday, was the culmination of his humility.

Because he was dishonored, I was lifted up. By his blood that soaked the cross, I was redeemed. Jesus purchased my soul with the currency of life. Because blood and water poured from him, the riches of his grace were poured out on me. Because of his death, redemption swept creation. Yes, I would call that good. In fact, I would call that amazing. 

Would it be sacrilegious to call it Awesome Friday?