The Israelites had labored under the harshness of Egyptian rule for over 400 years. They had cried out to God for rescue, and God had heard their cries. But, when He sent Moses to exhort their freedom from the pharaoh, God gave one simple reason:
“Let My people go so that they may worship Me.” Years later, the people of Judah were faced with a similar situation. After spending 70 years in captivity again, this time under Babylon and Persia, God heard their cries. This time, however, the king did not need a series of terrifying plagues to let God’s people go. Cyrus the Great, king of Persia, released them of his own accord so that they could rebuild the city of Jerusalem, and, most important, so that they could worship their God. He even furnished the temple with all of the artifacts that had once adorned Solomon’s Temple. In both situations, God’s people were freed from captivity for a purpose: they were to leave their comfort zones and worship Him. Their comfort zones, positions of slavery, were not ideal, but they still struggled to move beyond them. Worship offers freedom, but it also demands sacrifice. David once remarked, “I will not offer to God that which costs me nothing.” There is always a cost involved, but worship is always worth the price. It brings us out of bondage and into the presence of God. It is through our worship where shackles fall and we walk into the freedom only God can give.
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Perhaps it was because he had waited so long to share the Name and the Plan, but Gabriel could not contain himself. When he began to announce the news to Mary, he blurted out, "Blessed are you among women!" before her shocked face doubtless reminded him to say, "Fear not!"
I wonder if it ever surprised Mary that the first person on earth in the thousands of years of human history to hear the Name of God just happened to be a recently engaged fifteen-year-old girl. God could have chosen a king. He could have chosen a warrior. He could have chosen the greatest mind of the day. But the first person to hear His Name on earth was a little girl. I wonder what it must have been like for Him to finally hear His Name whispered from human lips for the very first time. Angelic choirs worshipped Him in celestial realms, and yet it must have been such a beautiful sound when Mary first breathed the Name of her unborn child: "Jesus." It happened long before Eve took the first bite of the forbidden fruit; God had a Name that He would use to save the world. And yet He kept it a special secret.
Although Job remained faithful through trials, he referred to Him as Redeemer. Although Moses would deliver His people from Egypt, to Moses He was simply the Great I Am. Although David took down a giant and established a kingdom, He most famously called Him Shepherd. Although Isaiah would prophecy of His coming, he could only call Him "Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." Gabriel had waited so long to reveal the Name. Israel had known countless great heroes: statesmen, warriors, intellectuals, prophets. Even Abraham – whom God called "friend" – had never been able to call Him by name. For thousands of years of human history, Gabriel had waited. But now the day was finally here. At last, God had chosen the first person to hear His Name. “I don’t dwell on it.” I often find myself thinking about my grandmother’s signature phrase. Grandma went through a lot in life – the Great Depression, WWII, and all the armed conflicts in between. She outlived seven of her fifteen children. When we asked how she coped, she simply said: “I don’t dwell on it.” Her words became my primary coping mechanism. When pain whispered, I refused to dwell on it, ignoring my tears and the feelings that went with them. I thought I knew her secret to strength: shove things aside and keep moving. Race ahead and pretend it didn’t happen. Refuse to dwell on it. But then life caught up with me. Traumatic memories played on an endless loop in my mind, storming my mind and heart like a mighty army. I realized that I had not only started to dwell on them, but to dwell in them. I finally had to deal with my pain. Healing made its way through my carefully curated collection of secret wounds, and strength surged through me. I realized Grandma had refused to dwell on things; I had refused to deal with them. I am learning to allow myself to feel the hurt when it hits because I know strength does not come from arbitrary barricades but from enforcing guardianship of my heart and mind. I now see that, while pain has been trying to invade, my God, my loved ones and my own strength have stood outside too, ready to help me fight if I would only let them in. I am now striving to be the kind of person who deals with pain but who abides under the shadow of the Almighty, and who dwells among those who are amazing enough to love me through it. And just like that we’re twenty years into the second millennium! A milestone like this one tempts us to look back and marvel at how things have changed. (Can you believe that we are closer to the year 2040 than to 1990?) But a new year presents us a new challenge: looking forward. We have a relatively clear view of the past. We see where we’ve been. But the future? Sometimes it seems like we actually have 20/00 vision when we try to look forward. But this is a special year: it’s 2020, the year of perfect vision. So why not take this year to make those changes you’ve been wanting for so long? Instead of dwelling on a list of resolutions you’re secretly afraid you won’t be able to keep, why not cast a vision for the changes you want to make in life? Make 2020 the year of perfecting that vision. Take that big goal and break it into manageable pieces. Work through it as you can, keeping the big picture in mind as you move forward. If one approach doesn’t work out, realize that you’re still being faithful to your goal: you are merely perfecting your vision. This is the year to break free. Resist the urge to stay chained to yesterday’s mistakes and realize that they have simply been tools to help you calibrate where you really want to be. It’s 2020! May this be a year of wonderful change and the clearest vision you have ever had for your life. You’ve got this! There is something truly amazing that happens when cultures come together. Perhaps it reminds us that we are not alone in the world. Perhaps it helps us to escape our own problems for the moment. Perhaps it even does something more – it reminds us that we are a part of something greater and grander than the boundaries of our own region. Last Sunday, Gateway UPC was honored to host All Nations Sunday, an international event right here in our hometown. The sanctuary decorated with flags from every country around the world; translation into English, Spanish, and Portuguese; an inspiring message about our place in the global church; and a song sung in eighteen languages – a glimpse of the kind of worship we will lend our voices to in heaven – set us up for an atmosphere of international understanding and, most of all, international worship. After the service, we enjoyed a global tour: Around the World in 90 Minutes. In an hour and a half, we explored tables decorated with items from every region in the world, complete with a smorgasbord of international foods. It was such a treat to see Mexican tamales, Chinese chow mein, Spanish paella, Nigerian jollof rice, Tahitian po’e pudding, Jamaican jerk chicken with coconut rice, Israeli falafel, Malawian mbatatacookies, to name a small fraction of everything that was available, frolicking together on the same plates. Thank you to everyone who made an effort to be involved in our All Nations Sunday celebration, whether you helped decorate, cook, or you simply showed up. It was our honor to host you and we hope you will make us a part of your future celebrations in October. We hope to see everyone again next year! Please keep our missionaries, churches, and people around the world in your prayers. God can still work miracles and is not limited by race, culture, language, or borders. It wasn’t meant to last. When Gustave Eiffel’s team won the heated bid to construct the entrance to the 1889 World’s Fair, it was meant to be temporary. Still, for two years they employed their bridge-building skills to fashion the wrought-iron lattice tower, hoping their precision would combat any destructive winds. The temporary exhibit was designed with permanence in mind and soared 81 stories high. Critics were quick hurl insults, labeling it ugly, daring, impossible, and rebellious, even to the point of circulating an “Artists against the Eiffel Tower” petition. They must have found some solace in the fact that it was at least scheduled for demolition in 1909. No one expected it to change the Paris skyline forever. After all, it wasn’t meant to last. And yet it did. In World War I, it intercepted enemy radio transmissions and dispatched troops. The next world war saw Hitler’s unsuccessful attempt to demolish it. Today, it continues to inspire us, creating moments of international solidarity when its colorful lights reflect triumphs and tragedies around the world. It wasn’t meant to last – and yet Eiffel’s team built it as if it would stand forever. Your season may be temporary, intended to last but a moment here, but how are you building it? How will your legacy outlive you when your critics and naysayers are long gone? Temporary seasons in lives lived with a legendary outlook cannot help but change skylines, worlds, hearts, and lives. The dawning of the nineteenth century brought about the birth of nations. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm chased down folk and fairy tales, realizing that it was in the telling of Germany’s stories that identity could be unearthed. The Book of Judges opens on a contrasting landscape: the people had forgotten their stories and so they lost sight of who they were each time they were conquered. But many years later, an eight-year-old king discovered some forgotten scrolls and sought out a storyteller. Although Judah was later conquered by many empires, in the telling of their stories, they remembered who they were even though it would be centuries until they had a land to call their own. In telling our stories, we tap into an incredible source of strength and power, not only for us but for those around us as well. Revelation 12:11 tells us that when the enemy attacks, we overcome “by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of [our] testimony.” In telling our stories, we have the power to overcome. Although our stories are filled with twists and turns, we have the bright hope and blessed assurance that one day He will call us into yet another new story – one that He has been preparing for years. Rather than reaching the point of happily ever after, we will realize that our once upon a time is really only just beginning. A story is not a story without a plot and a plot is not a plot without conflict. Because of a central conflict, we cheer for the hero and boo the villain. A story’s conflict gives the plot its structure. The conflict that governs so many of our stories predates us by many, many years – one that played out on a balcony of heaven where Satan rebelled against God. This same conflict, in different manifestations, continues to play out in the lives of humanity. Our own personal plots play out as we encounter conflicts with nature and mortality. When illness strikes, this conflict often takes center stage. The difficulties we encounter in relationships with others elaborate on our personal conflict plots. Still, perhaps the darkest battles we fight are the ones located deep within us – as we find ourselves at war within ourselves. These are the conflicts that are hard to explain because they are so intensely personal. Our conflicts are what make up our stories. The basic structure of beginning, middle, and end are set up around the conflict that we hope will be resolved. The beauty of our stories is that God always has a plan for resolution and restoration. No matter how conflicts have defined us or continue to govern our stories, there is always hope when we stop trying to solve and explain every conflict on our own and invite Him into the process of writing our stories. If nature hates a vacuum, then no story exists without a setting to provide context. Entire genres of literature are formed around settings and how people react to them. Stories set in small towns might have quirky characters. Stories set in jungles might be adventurous. Stories set in urban locations might be edgy. Your story, then, has a setting – a backdrop against which everything plays out. As our Author writes, He calls us out of the setting where our story has unfolded, leading us into something new. In every great story, the protagonist leaves a familiar setting, perhaps a location, a relationship, or even a mindset. The greatest stories of our lives are painted on the backdrop of the unknown. It can be frightening to leave one setting for another – to answer the call of the wild, even when we are unhappy in our current setting – but it is only by doing so that we allow our story to unfold. Stories that play out forever in the same setting are stories that linger at the threshold between the dynamic and the stagnant. That threshold becomes a place of quicksand where untold stories collect and are held captive. If our stories are to unfold, we must have the confidence to walk into the setting that our Author has prepared for us, resting in the confidence that the pen never leaves His hand and He knows exactly what He is doing. |
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