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- Written by: Don Goulding
Come, let us sing for joy to the LORD; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before him with thanksgiving and extol him with music and song. (Psalms 95:1, 2) (NIV)
We jammed into a circus tent with a hundred African Christians. They were gathered for a week of camping, worship, and instruction in Doma, Zimbabwe.
A soloist’s voice spread a mournful plea through the tent. Hearts opened to catch her tempo and ride its momentum toward God. Soon, five or six voices sustained the final note of each phrase. The parts of their harmony ranged from soprano-yellow down to baritone-purple. As more worshipers rose from the dirt floor, new voices cried out the intercessory theme.
Two or three verses into the song, some metered out the base rhythm with handclaps. Others took up counterparts to the percussion of hands. Deft palms grew into an orchestra of clapping that punctuated the flying vocal notes.
The next layer was whistles and shouts. Women spiked the praise with shrill yells as they patted their mouths like an American Indian war call. The whole congregation stomped and boogied until a holy dust cloud rose as an earthier version of the glory of God that pushed the Israelites out of Solomon’s temple.
God’s gift of music has been abducted by the evil one. In days past, African tribal music accompanied the hedonistic worship of ancestral spirits. My Christian friends reclaimed their music for God’s glory. They snatched the sacred prize from Satan’s camp, purified it with the blood of Christ, and reveled before their King with the gift held above their heads.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. If someone thinks he knows something, he does not yet know to the degree that he needs to know. But if someone loves God, he is known by God. (1 Corinthians 8:1-3)
“Why do they have gargoyles on the church?” “Why do they eat pure fat?” “Why won’t they sit on cement?”
The American teens of our mission trip to Hungary asked too many questions. They wore the leaders down until we finally set a limit—three cultural questions per day.
I also suffer from brainitis. It’s the disease of using knowledge to control my environment instead of trusting God. Brainitis is a fear based malady. I fear that what I can’t understand I can’t control, and what I can’t control will hurt me.
Knowledge puffs up. It inflates my pride into thinking I can manage the unending variables necessary to direct the future. What knowledge should do is make me realize how much more I have to learn. It should humble me into dependence on God.
There’s only one who fathoms every intricacy of all realms. God holds in his consciousness all of history’s words, thoughts, and actions, and he weaves them into a tapestry of eternal prosperity for those who love him.
Because of God’s sovereignty and love, it’s okay to lay down the news reports. I must let my spiritual organs recover from all that data saturation. Rather than feeding my fearful whys, it’s time to bask in God’s friendship.
Love cures brainitis. I’m called to the productivity of love, not to the waste of worry.
Prayer: Almighty God, silence my whys with your love.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
For this is what the high and exalted one says,
the one who rules forever, whose name is holy:
“I dwell in an exalted and holy place,
but also with the discouraged and humiliated …” (Isaiah 57:15)
Where in this vast, treacherous world does God live?
Lanky, afro headed Michael dropped out of high school, stole blankets from the orphanage, then fled to Harare, Zimbabwe. After weeks of sniffing glue on the street, Michael knew he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. He returned and begged forgiveness. On condition that he would repay the stolen articles, we allowed him to come home and resume school. Days later, he asked to be baptized, and a potent dose of Jehovah rushed into his prodigal son.
1,500 children spilled beyond a purple, red, and green striped tent during an outreach in Thiruvallur, India. After songs, skits, and a gospel message, twenty kids crowded to the front. Little brown hands clasped and faces squinted in prayer for salvation. There wasn’t a proud heart among the young converts, and God exploded into their lives.
Dani’s father, Dave, was in his mid fifties when his life imploded. Three marriages, several lawsuits, and various intoxicants had all failed him. His current mistress, gin, was treating him badly, but wouldn’t let him go. He asked Dani to help him turn to God and detoxify. The two of them lived through a hellish week.
The world used its sharpest knifes to gut the joy out of Dave, but Jesus moved into the empty shell, and those of us close to Dave saw God Almighty up close.
It’s in the broken, dependent soul that we find God pressing into every corner. He still lives in our damaged world—laughing from his hiding place inside the humble heart.
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Prayer: Mighty God, come dwell in my brokenness. |