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- Written by: Don Goulding
An evil man is rebellious to the core. He does not fear God, for he is too proud to recognize and give up his sin. (Psalms 36:1-2)
In the expanse of our universe the only real estate where I’m sovereign is in the space of my mind. I may influence my world, but I don’t have the final say. Even my body is subjected to restrictions. But in my head, I’m free to do as I please. No one contradicts my private thoughts. I can fantasize in any direction I choose.
Inside my little kingdom, I’m always the hero. Ineptness and weak character are dubbed endearing personality traits. Sinful contemplations run opposite the reality around me, and I don’t police my conclusions. I’m too proud to recognize and give up the sin hidden inside my head.
Even on the rare occasions I try to clean up my brain pollution, I can’t do it. My only hope is to deed my mental real estate to Jesus. Let him remove the rubbish. With his word, he rakes my ungodly thoughts. With his role model, he readies piles for destruction. With his love, he burns what doesn’t belong. I’ll give him ownership, then move aside like the renter that I am, and watch him work.
When Jesus has made some progress with my thoughts, I’ll have no room for self-righteous judgment of others. He does all the work. I’m left with nothing to do but beg for grace for myself, and others.
The hard truth is that I’m not a king. Not even in the space between my ears. Jesus is the only Sovereign in the universe, and it’s time the tiny bit of acreage in my head stops living in rebellion.
Prayer: High King Jesus, clean up my thoughts.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
As they were walking along and talking together, suddenly a chariot of fire and horses of fire appeared and separated the two of them, and Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind. (2 Kings 2:11) (NIV)
The tornado was a prodigious exit for Elijah. I say this because, while working with an evangelistic team in the U.S. Midwest, I encountered some bizarre twister tales—live chickens plucked, horses relocated while still hitched to a post, and straws of hay driven into telephone poles. There is awesome power and irresistible mystery in a tornado. The fury of acres of storm condenses into a single column. It annihilates some homes and passes through others without disturbing a splinter. Thus, God safely took Elijah up as a way of pointing to the devastation, and protection, of his funnel of love.
There’s a hungry whirlwind zigzagging across the world today. It’s the tornado of the Holy Spirit blasting through the hearts of people. Here is a concentration of love so potent it sweeps some into the presence of God, purifies others, and destroys still more. My own response to this onslaught of one thousand mile an hour love has been … inconsistent.
Often, I run to the cellar crying, “Woe is me. I’ll be consumed. Hide me, fast.”
I hide from an encounter with the might of God. In doing so, I also miss out on the love of God.
Other times, I want only a peek at the phenomenon. Deep down, I panic at the risk of personal loss. It would be fine if it blew across my farm without changing anything. Perhaps a neat miracle or two would be okay, so I can join the conversation with chasers.
Now and then I catch sight of the truth that destruction of the old self leads to spiritual reclamation. Gentle breezes lifting layers of dust from my heart will never get the job done. I need a tornado. Like Elijah, I run into the Spirit’s vortex, spread my arms, and let him sweep me into union, heedless of the cost to my old self.
Prayer: Holy Spirit, I repent of hiding and peeking. Make me a chaser.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
… these are only the shadow of the things to come, but the reality is Christ. (Colossians 2:17)
Today, I received a postcard from heaven. Jesus sent it to remind me of his land and his love. The card came in the form of a four-year-old Fijian child who climbed onto my lap, pressed her blonde ringlets against my shoulder, and shared cuddle time. Only a God who is devoted to beauty and peace could have sent such a moment.
Jesus has sent postcards before. Periwinkle skies, levitating symphonies, double rainbows, and spiced mountain air—each one is a declaration of his penchant for life and goodness. While these blessings are glorious, they’re like postcards—flat cardboard facsimiles of the real joys waiting in heaven.
Imagine a cobalt glacial lake reflecting granite spires. We gape in awe as we rub our skin where the sun’s warmth penetrates the alpine chill. The adventurous among us seek an even greater union with the landscape, and go off to scale the peaks.
A heaven dweller would yawn, and say, “That’s nice, but you should see the real version in heaven.”
They’d take hold of the scene, and pull it open to a dimension we’ve never experienced. The lake would effervesce in colors we have yet to know, and the spires would gleam with a spiritual reality we only wonder about. And so it is with every postcard blessing we now enjoy. They’re low dimensional replicas of grander, truer, perfect realities that exist in heaven, away from the effects of sin. Oh, the glory that awaits the redeemed of Christ.
For now, we’re trapped behind enemy lines, groaning under the earth’s curses that come with rebellion against Jehovah. But we’re not without postcards. In fact, they arrive every day if we’ll watch for them.
Prayer: Dear Jesus, thank you for reminders of heaven and your love.