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- Written by: Don Goulding
But Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit, healed the boy, and gave him back to his father. Then they were all astonished at the mighty power of God. (Luke 9:42-43)
“A seizure overtook my body and everything went black.” Fifteen-year-old Jemi’s bright eyes shown from a brown face as she and her father, Pastor Daniels, recounted the events of her death in Chennai, India. “There was no pain but I died in my mother’s arms. My father was away and he knew in his spirit he needed to pray for me.
“Two angels took me to the Lord. When I saw him, Jesus said I had to return to my grieving family and bring others to salvation, then I would come back to him later. Then my body started breathing again.”
Jemi was born with a Hindu name that she wouldn’t speak to me. Her great grandfather practiced witchcraft and gave his daughter, Jemi’s grandmother, the secret name. That lady spent her life physically paralyzed. Jemi was her namesake and the generational curse reached a gnarled hand to destroy the girl’s life as well with deadly epilepsy.
The first thing the family did after the angels brought Jemi back was to break the curse by proclaiming the power of Jesus over her new name, Jemi New Grace.
Many Westerners roll their eyes at Jemi’s story. Angels, resurrection, and family curses are not empirical enough. But Jemi and her family don’t follow a tame Jesus, they follow a valiant Jesus. Their Lord is the Great Deliver, who’s very name has power over unseen enemies.
Jemi’s life is enmeshed in the spiritual battle between light and dark. My life is buffered from her worldview by modern entertainments and scientific explanations. While I squint into the magnifying-glass of technology, she gazes through the telescope of Biblical experience.
I propose that fifteen-year-old Jemi New Grace has a bigger grasp of reality than me.
Prayer: Mighty, powerful God, open my eyes.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. (Matthew 5:8)
What does it mean to be pure in heart? I have unclean thoughts and words everyday, so how can I be pure hearted? I have to know because I want to see God, as Jesus declared.
We picked our way through mud toward a palm-thatched hovel. A six-year-old mute girl in a bright yellow dress shot out from the curtained doorway, ran past the Nigerian Bible college student leading me, and threw her arms around my legs. Normally in the villages, my white face frightened children who’d never seen a Caucasian, but this precious girl clung to me with unfettered love.
Who was pure hearted that day? The girl’s mother was inside the hut practicing witchcraft. The neighbors mocked the child. The Bible college students tried to pull the kid away from their missionary. I stiffened and set the girl aside. It was my chance to swoop her up and say, “don’t try to stop her, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” But I missed it. None of the adults were pure hearted.
The six-year-old wasn’t troubled by what others thought about her. She didn’t concern herself with pride in her stature. She only wanted to give and receive love, and that made her pure, eligible to see God.
It’s been fifteen years since I encountered the pure hearted girl. But whenever I need a reminder of what God expects from me, I look down, close my eyes, and see the yellow dress. I feel the squeeze of love at my knees, and I know that pure hearted isn’t complicated. It’s just loving others more than prideful self.
Prayer: Jesus, give me pure love for others.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
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, and 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 soul 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 the Holy Spirit.
Teetering on the brink of that abyss, I smelled rancid breath calling me downward, and was horrified 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.