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- Written by: Don Goulding
How delightful it is to see approaching over the mountains
the feet of a messenger who announces peace,
a messenger who brings good news, who announces deliverance,
who says to Zion, “Your God reigns.” (Isaiah 52:7)
“I’d like to introduce my daughter. She was intimidated to meet you, so I’m acting as an intermediary.” A Christian brother pointed to his daughter, a girl who sparkled with charm. Why was she afraid to meet dorky me?
Later, my mind replayed the conversation, and my ego worked out the explanation that the girl was intimidated because of my ministry skill. But then, even I was embarrassed at that line of thinking.
The reality my ego neglects is that all the good in me, or coming from me, is sourced by Jesus. All I contribute is the ore scrap that surrounds the gold of truth. My listeners must be miners, adept at excavating what is from the Spirit, and tossing everything else onto the slag pile.
Occasionally, there is gold in my words—rich, permanent truths that shine heaven into our decaying world. Bouncing the weight of those nuggets on our palm assures us of the solidity of God’s promises. Truths, like eternal adoption, peace with God, the New Jerusalem, and the fellowship of the Spirit, are a joy to pass from hand to hand. But how could I take pride in these treasures? I wouldn’t be able to conceive of Christ dying for sinners, let alone forge the event.
I’m the washroom servant, ignorant of all matters of state, but called before the throne for an errand. The King would have me deliver precious rings, engraved with “Forgiven,” to his wayward offspring. The only qualifications I meet are two feet for running and a hand for carrying. But oh, what a thrill, how exciting to be the knucklehead with the rings.
Prayer: Father, thank you for using me to carry your golden words.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
Take pains with these things; be absorbed in them, so that everyone will see your progress. Be conscientious about how you live and what you teach. Persevere in this, because by doing so you will save both yourself and those who listen to you. (1 Timothy 4:15, 16)
“Brad, do you have me?” I yelled down to my climbing partner.
I trusted Brad with my life, but I was at the crux, and needed reassurance that he held the rope. My route petered out, so I traversed diagonally on a face barren of holds to a new line of ascent. Brad fed rope while I aimed for a fissure. An unsafe separation yawned between me and the last anchor. My fear practically melted the fraction of rock beneath each fingertip.
I reached the new crack exhausted and shaking. As I fumbled to set up a safety station, my toehold slipped and down I went. That off-center anchor—placed somewhere back in history—held, but scudded me across granite like a pendulum through a thirty foot drop. The results were cracked ribs, ample scrapes, and comically tattered shorts. Not to mention a significant loss of elevation.
I love climbing for one reason—topping out. Overcoming a route, especially a difficult one, yields a victory like nothing else. Not once has a great climb failed to elicit jumping and whooping. The perils melt away, and I can’t wait for the next climb.
My climb toward God has been one harrowing segment after another. I cling to ledges of truth with rubbery arms and legs. What if I fall? I know Jesus is trustworthy on the other end of the rope, but will my faith anchors prove too flimsy and pop off, one after the other, like a giant zipper? The last solid encounter I had with God is so far back I’m petrified. Even if the anchors hold, a moral fall could mean a brutal loss of elevation. Still, I inch upward.
Overriding the fear is the adrenalin rushing prospect of topping out in paradise. I see myself crawling over the final edge to find Jesus waiting with dancing and whoops.
Prayer: Jesus, victory with you is worth every risk.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
But many who are first will be last, and the last first. (Matthew 19:30)
Perhaps heaven dwellers look on the veil over earth and see only glimpses into our gray turmoil. They’re probably no more interested in our routine goings-on than a skydiver is interested in reading the phonebook. Their side has all the excitement.
Heavenly values are reversed on earth. The places and beings that shine the brightest glory in paradise mean little to us. Yet, if someone in heaven were to look into our world, they could spot our rare sources of glory.
An angel peered through the glassy curtain, but our theater-like darkness hid the details. His eyes were accustomed to the light of the throne. He began to discern shapes and movement. A politician lunched with a religious leader, they were a gray haze. In our skyscrapers, cathedrals, and all Seven Wonders of the World, he saw crumbling heaps.
With a start, the angel glimpsed a streak of color in the distance. A beam shot past our atmosphere, beyond Pluto, and into the farthest stars. It effervesced in purple and gold splendor across the universe. Beings of every celestial species applauded.
Curious about the source, the observer flew to ground zero. A wheezing old woman, disfigured by a birth defect, hunkered on the floor. Cold in her rags, she prayed for those who had tormented her when she was a youth. She loved them because Jesus loved her.
The angel burst into celebration, sang with the volume of a thousand voices, and zipped in figure eights above the women’s head.
Prayer: Lord Jesus, lift up those who have been last, but who loved you most.