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- Written by: Don Goulding
The waves roar, O Lord,
the waves roar,
the waves roar and crash.
Above the sound of the surging water,
and the mighty waves of the sea,
the Lord sits enthroned in majesty. (Psalms 93:3-4)
I was alone on the beach and the sky presented a circus of weather systems. Clouds roiled on my left, while away to the right, dark streaks evidenced a downpour. In the place of trapeze artists, seabirds swooped about the venue. Beneath it all, a far more tumultuous entertainment took center stage.
Violent waves pounded the seafloor kettledrum. Each salty eruption bellowed that it was a being unto itself, not to be mistaken as part of the general surf. The roar of a wave thumped on my chest and overwhelmed my mind. As the mass resolved into a foaming hiss, I tried to form a reaction, but the rolling of the next wave interrupted.
An aquamarine pane of foam laced water reached toward the sky. The translucent curl beckoned, “All manner of fish, plankton, and sea life thrive in my lap. Would you like to dive into my grasp to learn how you’d fare?”
Those awe-inspiring waves were more than the sum of water and sand, inertia and gravity. They were holy messengers whose every shout passed through my flesh to shake my spirit. They did not speak—they grabbed hold, pulled me to their face, and forced the message that God is mighty into my core.
With every drop and decibel the sea mountains declared the source of all authority. “God is huge,” they rose, “He is altogether beautiful,” they crested, “He is our awesome Creator,” they crashed in thunderous laughter.
This was no longer a circus tent but a holy sanctuary. I sat with hundreds of jubilant waves, and together we worshiped our LORD God Almighty.
Prayer: Oh God, no god is like you, even the waves tell me so.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears punishment has not been perfected in love. (1 John 4:18)
Our Land Rover skirted clumps of thorn trees along Lake Kariba, between Zimbabwe and Zambia. We left at sunrise in hopes of spotting a cheetah reported in the area. As the hours passed, I satisfied myself with sightings of elephant, hippopotamus, and waterbuck. After all, I’d already seen cheetahs in the zoo.
“A cat drug something there.” The guide pointed at tracks.
We fell silent, and my pulse increased. The cat signs led to a herd of grazing impala. Apparently, the cheetah was on the hunt. We parked downwind and scanned the savannah. Through binoculars, we spotted the mother cheetah, nearly invisible camouflaged in the bushes. Two cubs played behind her.
Seeing the world’s fastest land animal in a zoo is not the same as seeing her in the wild. The zoo paints the enclosure with fake scenery, and manages the inmates with poles and nets. The animals languish in despair, or pace in fear.
Satan is the temporary ruler of this world, and he goads us into captivity with fears—fear of rejection, fear of suffering, fear of death. His trepidations jab our thoughts until we snarl and claw at each other. He cages us inside walls painted with false pleasures, and tells us his zoo is life at its fullest.
Jesus snatches the stick from Satan’s hand and breaks it. Through the sacrifice on the cross, I’m accepted by God, and fear of rejection disappears. No trial is too great for me to handle with his strength, so fear of suffering evaporates. And death is not death at all, but birth into true life—no fear there.
The stick is gone, and the painted barriers are crumbling. I can see past my cage into the blue skies and free plains of real life.
Prayer: King Jesus, don’t let fear control me.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
… he spat on the ground and made some mud with the saliva. He smeared the mud on the blind man’s eyes and said to him, “Go wash in the pool of Siloam” (which is translated “sent”). So the blind man went away and washed, and came back seeing. (John 9:6, 7)
“Do you believe Jesus loves you?”
My question burst a paper thin dam holding back the tears of a young Chinese mother. Her unrestrained streams marred a beautiful face. As my trusted interpreter hugged the despairing girl, a horrid story of spousal unfaithfulness came between sobs.
I recognized the weeping that comes when a counselee draws close to grief. Tears over buried sorrow are tears of death. We grieve the expiration of a part of us that will never be seen or heard from again. In the case of the Chinese mother, she mourned the death of her love, trust, and family unity. All that was killed off by a cheating husband.
After a part of our soul dies, resurrection of peace is attainable. But first we need to lament, grieve deeply into the arms of Jesus. Let the wails explode, and allow the tears to run. Our emotion comes because we are created in the image of a feeling God.
Life has no sorrow that Jesus can’t heal. We don’t have to endure our earthly sojourn with heart wounds. Ask him to make mud with spittle and apply it to the injury. He mixes his intimate humanity with the soil of our shared pain. It sticks to the heartache, forms a scab, then creates miraculous scar tissue. We still have the mark, but the sting disappears.
Healing never comes if I hide my injuries and pretend they don’t hurt. I must expose my wound, and let the mud of Jesus do its work. Death, tears, mud, resurrection—it only works in that order.
For two more years, the Chinese mother prayed and took comfort from Jesus. Then the errant husband repented, received Christ’s forgiveness, and gave testimony of his conversion in an underground church meeting. It was a happy resurrection ending, but only after death, tears, and healing mud.
Prayer: Mighty Redeemer, apply your healing mud to my wounds.