- Details
- Written by: Don Goulding
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. (Romans 8:38, 39)
We were in the coastal city of Durres, Albania for an outreach. Our local friends were eager to show us their ancient Roman ruins, where the Apostle Paul had walked. Historians record that he appointed a bishop over seventy Christian families in Durres during his missionary travels.
We dodged traffic and passed shoddy buildings from recent decades. In a vacant lot of weeds and litter, a graceful circle of Byzantine columns stood in contrast to the postmodern dilapidation. It was like a diamond tiara lying in the city dump. This site withstood two thousand years of wars, earthquakes, and twenty-five regime changes.
The secret to the longevity of Roman architecture was concrete. They combined powdered cement and water with an aggregate like stones or gravel, and concrete set into a nearly indestructible construction material. Concrete has the unique property that it becomes stronger over time. Even today, those columns are getting harder than when they were first made.
Precious souls reborn into Christ are like the aggregate hidden inside Roman cement. No matter our shape or history, no matter who we are or what we’ve done, the love of God binds us in impenetrable unity. It would sooner be possible to separate the aggregate from the Durres columns than it would be to remove the love of Christ from around his followers.
This love binds to my soul and encases me with spiritual protection. And it’s growing stronger. My place in heaven is more permanent now than when I was first made a Christian.
Death, angels, time—nothing in any realm can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Prayer: Protector of my life, I am forever bonded to your love.
- Details
- Written by: Don Goulding
If you then, although you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him! (Luke 11:13)
“Mo, mo.”
With his hand outstretched, and a one word vocabulary, our toddler grandson asked me to pick more blackberries. How could I resist those chubby, purple stained cheeks? Of course I hand fed him the sweetest plump fruits, and also taught him about the dangerous thorns.
The Bible says God only gives good gifts, the plump sweet fruit of blessing. I agree with that truth in my head, but my heart secretly rages. Why does my wife have multiple sclerosis, and my granddaughter suffer kidney disease? Isn’t God at least partly responsible for the misery in our world?
No, he’s not. A chain reaction was triggered by sin in the garden of Eden, and it’s fueled by every human being since. The multiplied dysfunction of life is entirely the result of mans’ mistakes, not God’s. He creates the berries, we make the thorns.
I can’t throw humanity’s mud at God and expect it to stick. Our heavenly Father is goodness. All through man’s long history of failure, God’s character has remained perfect goodness. He eagerly shares his good gifts with those who ask, and teaches us the danger of the thorns.
I asked God for more wealth, and he gave me treasure in heaven, because God gives juicy berries, not spiky thorns. I asked for more popularity, and he gave me eternal family, because he gives berries, not thorns. I asked for more health, and he gave new vitality to my spirit—berries, not thorns. I must learn to ask rightly.
My grandson understood the formula. He knew what to ask for, so I could never refuse his, “Mo, mo.”
Now it’s my turn to ask for more, and ask correctly.
Prayer: Father God, please give me more of your Spirit.
- Details
- Written by: Don Goulding
For by grace you are saved through faith, and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God; it is not from works, so that no one can boast. (Ephesians 2:8, 9)
Dani and I rested with other missionaries (my sister and brother-in-law) in endless blue Greece—blue flags, bluer skies, bluer still sea. On the island of Santorini, there are three ways to ascend from the port to the chalk-white cliff dwellings. One can trudge up hundreds of steps, ride on the back of a traditional donkey, or sit in an aerial tram.
In the honeycomb of Fira, the town at the top, we found orthodox chapels so close together you could practically hold your breath for the time it took to run from one to the next. But on Sunday, we couldn’t locate a church open for worship. I wondered at the purpose of so many sanctuaries, which led me to question the way I, and those before me, have approached God.
Many of us try to climb the stairs to God in our own strength. My every step up is motivated by how I can impress the Almighty, and thereby wheedle my way into heaven. The problem with this logic is that it’s impossible for a creature with the least taint of sin to earn access to a fiercely holy God.
Others of us try to ride on the back of tradition. We think that if we pray in the right locations, and use proven liturgy, then God will sweep us into his bosom along with the throngs before us. But Jesus rebuked those with spiritual form and no real substance.
That leaves only one way up. I must entrust myself to the tram of grace. On the strong cable of Jesus’s sacrifice I risk all my weight. I may fill the tram with acts of gratitude, but they don’t lift one ounce from the burden of salvation. I must rest in grace alone, while the vastness of impossible perfection, and the vanity of hollow religion pass below.
Jesus is the only name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved. There’s only one way up.
Prayer: Messiah, you are my only power unto salvation.