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Written by: Don Goulding

Published: 22 August 2022

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? (Matthew 27:46)

I stared over the edge of a precipice that dropped into despair. Behind me was the theory of peace with the God who cared. Wavering between the pit and the theory, I asked that God would speak. The returning silence sickened my heart.

With my toes over the edge, I examined thought trails down the cliff—did I have a purpose? Was joy snuffed by pain? The more I thought, the less clear was the difference between the silent God behind me, and the void of puzzles below. Insanity seemed the natural conclusion of reasonable contemplation.

It’s called the dark night of the soul. Both classical and contemporary teachers speak of times when God withholds his presence and forces us to depend on the promises of Scripture alone. It can last for days, months, even years. Often, the reasons our loving Father chooses to subject us to spiritual vacuums are only revealed much later.

For me, the nearness of Jesus flowed through the fuel line to my spirit until I took it for granted. When a bubble of deprivation slipped into the line, I sputtered and reeled, sucking on the air of my own thoughts. Too much thinking about me is always perilous. I experienced the pointlessness of life without an awareness of the Holy Spirit.

Teetering on the brink of that abyss, I smelled rancid breath calling me downward. It horrified me out of complacency. I fell to my knees and begged God to whisper. Then I waited, and waited some more.

The faintest movement of hope blew and I said, “Good enough, I’ll take it.”

Prayer: Father, may I never go into that night again, but if I do, even then will I trust you.

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Written by: Don Goulding

Published: 15 August 2022

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and the regaining of sight to the blind,
to set free those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Luke 4:18, 19)

“Four of my children died before the age of five.” Tandiwe’s African head sank in grief. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder at the pudgy infant tied to her back. 

“Will she be next? Is God punishing me? Do you think a witch has done this?” A cesspool of bitter questions boiled from a stricken heart.

Most missionary newsletters focus on accomplishments—one hundred converts baptized, ribbon cut on the new building, discovery of a tribe that never heard of Jesus. Yes, God is at work in the spectacular, but he pours his heart into the pathetic. The content of God’s newsletter would be about the silent revival in confused, hurting souls.

I laid a hand on Tandiwe’s head, then listened for the Lord to show us how to minister. God’s word for the young mother came out of Romans, chapter eight. 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.

“Don’t misinterpret the deaths,” I said. “God has not abandoned you. No witch or demon can touch the souls of your babies.”

Tandiwe didn’t move. What we saw next was subtle. With those few words spoken, something happened in the deepest part of Tandiwe. She looked us in the eyes and lifted her shoulders. We witnessed a sacred moment as the silent revival resurrected another life.

This is the business God is about, all around us every day. If we’ll only tap into God’s silent revival, the power of a spiritual tsunami is available.

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Written by: Don Goulding

Published: 08 August 2022

For I decided to be concerned about nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified. (1 Corinthians 2:2)

The clouds below looked like cotton balls. Perhaps if our team jumped from the airplane, we’d only bounce. We were flying home from a missions trip in Hungary. Staring out the window, I was in the same spiritual funk I had experienced after my previous twenty-five foreign trips. We hadn’t changed the people. Our leaders had changed, the teens in our group matured, but we hadn’t penetrated the hearts of Eastern Europeans. We’d bounced.

At the beginning of the trip, on the flight across the Atlantic, I’d held a different attitude. I’d assumed I had much to give. After all, I had a heritage of spiritual freedom, years of biblical exposition, and cutting edge technology. In a word, I had pride—the sworn enemy of the Gospel.

Staring into the clouds after that twenty-sixth trip, I realized my way of living is no more significant than others. Affluence doesn’t equate to fulfillment. In fact, in the qualities of life that truly matter—trust, relationship, love—I lag behind.

My culture—the way I eat, speak, dress, even the way I worship—is nothing but a glass that holds the water of truth. The glass is not the truth, it’s merely the culture through which I hold and view truth. A cultural glass of some shape and coloration is necessary, but pride in that culture will disappear as I’m filled with truth.

The only pure culture exists in heaven, where God’s will is done in full. And the only mission that brought real cultural help was when Jesus came into our world. He is the water in the glass. What I take to others should be pure Jesus Christ. All the rest is useless cultural bias.