Desolate Places

"...Jesus could no longer openly enter a town, but was out in desolate places, and people were coming to him from every quarter." (Mark 1:45 ESV)

 Ah, the desolate places.  As the prideful and arrogant person that I tend to be, I often find myself in desolate places.  Pride and arrogance tend to separate one from other people.  More importantly, they are characteristics that separate us from God.  It is interesting to me, although not surprising, that when I am find myself in a desolate place I also find Jesus.  Or, I should say, I find new revelations of Jesus.  When we look, we will always find Christ in our desolation. 

Did you notice my pride slipping through again?  In actuality, Jesus finds me in those bleak places.  He is the good shepherd.  He watches His flock closely, and protects them fiercely.  When a rebellious sheep, much like myself, wanders from the safety of the flock, he searches for it....He searches for it, gently picks it up and carries it back to where it belongs. 

Every time my shepherd picks me up and brings me back, I see him in a different light.  I experience his character in a deeper and more full way.  In the desolation of the wilderness I always comprehend the Shepherd in ways I never have before.  Shades of him that were blurred become clear.  It's not that I recommend the desolate places, and I wish I possessed the wisdom and discipline to avoid them, but I do praise the Shepherd for his faithfulness to his own.  In the end, I am nothing more than a stupid sheep trusting in a diligent, loving Shepherd
               
The wilderness wanderings have produced in me a new appreciation for the words, "no one."  It is clear to me that when Jesus Christ says, "no one", he means "no one."

 "My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me; and I give eternal life to them, and they will never perish; and no one will snatch them out of My hand." (John 10:27-28 NASV)

Once I chose, by an act of grace of the Shepherd, to follow him, I became one of those that cannot be snatched out of his hand.  I don't understand it completely, for such comprehension is beyond a rebellious little sheep's capacity.  But the Word of God combined with decades of experience convince me of this truth.  No one can snatch them out of his hand.

I am certain that as, over the years, fellow sheep have looked up to see the Shepherd, once again, carrying me from the barren lands of desolation back to the flock, some have shaken their heads in disgust.  Others, I am sure, have puffed out their woolly little chests in pride that they have remained safely in the fold of the flock.  Many would just stare at the little plot of land beneath their nose, refusing to acknowledge the return of the one who hand wandered from the fold.  There were some that stared in disdain and wondered why the Shepherd wastes his time on such a worthless, straying animal.  I cannot speak for the Shepherd, but if asked, I believe his short answer would be, "Because he's one of mine."  And, while I'm not proud of my times in the desolate places, I am fairly certain that I have a better comprehension of the depth of the words "no one" than much of the rest of the flock.       

Goat Boiling Thoughts

"You are not to boil a young goat in the milk of its mother."  Exodus 23:19

"You shall not boil a young goat in its mother's milk."  Exodus 34:26

"You shall not boil a young goat in its mother's milk."  Deuteronomy 14:21

Now, that there is a rule I can get behind.  If there ever was a regulation, command or law from God that I can solidly stand on it would be this one.  When God says that we are not to boil a young goat in its mothers milk I can, with a certainty, proclaim to the world that I have never in my life even considered violating this decree.  Admittedly, I have slipped on more than a few rules, and stumbled over a couple of others, but I have never, by golly, boiled a young goat in its mother's milk.  This old boy can say with a clear conscience that I have never done that, never considered doing that and, with a fair amount of confidence, can proclaim that I never will do anything resembling the act.

Those closest to me will tell you that I am not by nature a good rule follower, and I will, most certainly, own that.  Give me a rule, and I will probably break it.  So, understand that I do sympathize with anyone who struggles with the temptation of boiling a young goat in its mother's milk.  I do not look down on those people.  I only feel slightly superior to them, and would never publicly mock or ridicule them for this weakness.

But then, a few weeks ago, I read the command from Exodus 34, and made the mistake of asking myself why God threw that little tidbit in there in the first place.  Right between telling his people to bring the first fruits of their soil into and house of the Lord, and telling them that he is making a covenant with them, God says, "And, by the way, don't boil a young goat in its mother's milk."  I certainly have read that before, and probably passed over it with the thought that it seemed a tad strange.  This time, I did a little research, and here's what I found.  Turns out, the pagans surrounding the people of Israel would actually boil a young goat in its mother's milk.  For real.  They would then take the fluid and sprinkle it on their land in order to bring fertility to the soil.

God is not a random God.  The universe does not spin randomly, our lives are not random events in time flowing from the spinning universe, and God does not guide our lives by randomly throwing words together in his Word.  There is a reason that God mentions the young goat boiling rule three times in the Torah.  There is a reason that in each of the three times it is talked about in the first five books of the bible that it is directly linked to the law of bringing the first fruits of the soil into the house of the Lord.  In the Exodus verses, the young goat boiling ban follows right after the first fruit command.  In the Deuteronomy scripture the order is reversed, but in all three the commands stand side by side.  It is also interesting that in the two Exodus scriptures, the command is also closely tied to the covenant God was entering into with his people.

It occurs to me that God's purpose in commanding the people in Israel not to boil a young goat in its mother's milk is more than cautioning them against picking up the practices of the surrounding pagans.  God does that in a variety of ways throughout the whole old testament.  There must be a reason that this particular practice is strongly tied to the covenant God was making with his people, and bringing the first fruits of the land into the house of the Lord.

I am compulsive by nature.  My compulsion for the past few weeks has been God's purpose in connecting these three thoughts in his Word:

• Bring the first fruits of your crop into the house of the Lord.

• Do not boil a young goat in its mother's milk.

• God is entering into a covenant with a people he has chosen.

As I consider the connection, I can see the Father making a clear distinction between a ritual of appeasement, and an act of celebration and worship.  God is saying to the people of Israel that he has chosen them as the people that he wants to enter into a covenant with.  But, not only has God chosen them as his covenant people, he was also determined to live among them.  His chosen people lived in tents, and so he would live in a tent in the midst of them.  An offering would be taken from the people to build the tent and everything in it....each person gave what God placed on their hearts....and God chose the tribe of Levi to take care of the tent and offer the sacrifices necessary for the God of creation to live with the people he had chosen.  Because of the honor and responsibility of maintaining everything necessary for God to live with his people, the tribe of Levi would not receive a portion of the land God was leading them into.  Since they would have no land, God provided for their sustenance by having the remaining tribes bring the first fruits of their land into the house of the Lord.

So, a short synopsis of these scriptures as I would paraphrase them would read, "God wants a relationship with the people he has chosen.  He wants to live in the midst of the people he is in relationship with.  Don't boil a young goat in its mother's milk, but rather bring the first fruits of your crops into the house of the Lord to sustain the tent God will live in and provide for the people who care for the tent.

I can imagine the pagans surrounding Israel going through the senseless ritual of taking a baby goat, boiling it in its mother's milk and sprinkling it on their fields, hoping the gods would be appeased and the crops would come.  It was done out of obligation.  It was done out of a fear of not doing it.  It was done in hopes that the unseen gods would be moved to do something on their behalf.

That is, I believe, the contrast God is making when he ties these scriptures together.  He is telling his people, by way of an example that they are familiar with, not to allow their service to him to become a mere ritual.  He is asking them not to allow their service to become a superstitious act of appeasement for a distant and angry God in the hope that he might move on their behalf.

Rather, their service to God is to be an act of praise, worship and thankfulness for what God has already done.  He has chosen them to be his covenant people.  He has chosen to live among them....to dwell with them.  He has provided them with a land that will produce abundant and plentiful harvests.  And then, as an outflow gratitude for what God has done, the first fruits are brought into the house of the Lord.  There truly is a stark contrast between working to get a god to move on your behalf, and the works that flow from a grateful heart in recognition for what God has already done.

When I consider this scripture in this light, I guess I have boiled a few goats in their mother's milk in my day.  There have been times when my giving has been based more on the fear of what would happen if I neglected to give, rather than an outpouring of gratitude to the God who has chosen me.  My prayer times and study times have, on occasion, been more ritualistic than they have been acts of praise and worship to the Father who has included me in his covenant.  At times, my acts of obedience have been more anxiety based than love based.  And, there have been occasions when my service to God has more resembled dripping milk on dry fields than a celebration of the fact that I am in covenant with the living God, and he has chosen to dwell in me.

So, in the end, when it comes to the heart of the most simple command from my God, I fall short.  I fail.  That is why I am a man who needs to tightly cling to the cross of Christ.  My every breath needs to be bathed in grace and mercy.  And that is why I am so thankful that, even when my Father knew that I would, in essence, be boiling young goats in their mothers milk....he looked on me.  He looked on me....smiled.....and said, "He's one of mine." 
       

And the Word Became Flesh

Rough, calloused hands slowly smoothed the edges of a graying beard as the aged fisherman stared into the distance. Visions of the life he had lived made their way through his mind as he contemplated what needed to be written. Even now, he could feel the rocking of the boat, and the spray from the sea when, as a young man, he threw the nets over the side. Just as all those generations before him, his future and living lay beneath the blue waters of the sea of Galilee. And, with that, the man named John would have been content, for he would have known nothing else.

How vividly he remembered the day he sat in his father's boat going through the tedious motions of repairing weathered nets. A shout from the shore drew his attention from his work. What was it about the man who called that caused the fisherman to lay the torn net in the bow and draw the boat to shore? What was it in the words, "Follow me," that made him leave the only livelihood he had ever known to follow the man with the gentle smile, and compassion filled eyes"

Unsure as to whether he would be able to put into words what it was about this man that had caused him to turn from the sea and his nets, John pondered what to write as he continued to gaze at the horizon. Finally, realizing that there were no adequate words to describe the nature of the man who had called from the shore all those years before, the uneducated man of the sea began to write.

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God...."

"...And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we saw his glory, glory as of the only begotten from the father, full of grace and truth."

Profoundly deep. Poetically beautiful. Utterly astonishing. All from the hand of the fisherman with no formal education who heard the words, "Follow me," and followed. As profound....and beautiful....and astonishing as John's words are, they still cannot capture the glorious magnitude of the Logos of God taking on the flesh of man. God had walked in the Garden of Eden with Adam, he had pitched a tent with the people of Israel, but now he had taken on the actual form of the most precious of his creation. God had become one of us.

"....And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us..."

People have struggled, trying to wrap human minds around the concept of these words ever since a virgin gave birth to the child who would reconcile the Creator and his creation. The shepherds wondered at the words of the angels announcing the birth of the Messiah. The magi steadfastly followed a star pointing them toward the child, and humbly knelt before him wondering about the meaning of his birth. Herod's wonder became an obsession resulting in the death of every child in Israel who was under the age of two.

"...And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us..." The words penned by John, the fisherman turned disciple, have been a challenge to every person of every generation who has heard the name. Who was that child? What was so special about the man he became?

As one of those people, in a much removed generation, I have been challenged by the wonder of the man who claimed to be God. I know that he always was....that he is....and that he always will be. I certainly don't understand it, but I know it. What I do understand, however, is who this, "Word that became flesh," has become to me and, perhaps more importantly, who he is to me at this moment.

Manna was amazing stuff. For the people of Israel, wandering through a barren wilderness, it was their sustenance. Manna would become to them whatever they needed. When they needed protein, it became protein. When they needed carbohydrates, it became carbohydrates. When they needed vitamins, it became vitamins. God's people, working their way to the promised land, saw this white wafer like substance, which became to them whatever they needed on their journey and said, "Manna," which is basically the Hebrew word for, "What in the world is it."

"...The Word became flesh and dwelt among us," and the world says, "Manna....What in the world is it." Christ would later tell his disciples that he was the true bread that comes down from heaven....that he was the true heavenly manna. And that is exactly who I have found him to be. I consider him...I look at him, and contemplate the awesomeness of the Logos of God walking, breathing and living in a body like mine and I say, "Manna....What in the world is it?" It is certainly more than anything my mind can begin to absorb or even vaguely comprehend.

But then I walk with him, I fellowship with him and I begin to get a taste of the heavenly manna the Father placed in that manger over two thousand years ago. As I wander through the wilderness, making my way toward the promised land, I find that this manna becomes exactly what I need for each step of the journey. When I need peace, it becomes peace. When I need joy, it becomes joy. When I am without hope, it gives me hope. When I lose my direction, it points me toward home. And, with each taste I find an abundance of grace... and mercy...and forgiveness. When I break myself, this manna fixes me. It is everything I need to sustain me on the journey.

Christmas is as profound...and beautiful...and as astonishing as the old fisherman put into words. But it is also as simple as a Creator coming to his creation and saying, "You're broken, and I'm going to fix you." It's what this Word that became flesh does...and he does it perfectly...he fixes broken people.

The Journey

Jacob slowly made his way toward the mountain. He was, with a certainty, a much older man than when the journey began over six decades ago. One could see it in his graying hair, his weakening body and the wrinkles beginning to show on the landscape of his face. Some were wrinkles of laughter, to be sure. Others, wrinkles of worry, as well as wrinkles of anguish and torment. There had been wonderful times sprinkled with times flowing with tears of disillusionment, but still Jacob walked toward the mountain he could not yet see. He walked more languidly than at first, but his goal was determinedly set in his heart.

Indeed, the destination was not the mountain, but what lay beyond the mountain. Jacob was not sure what was beyond the coming cliffs, but he knew that it was the destination the for which the journey was preparing him. Although he had a sense of what was on the other side, his mind could not begin to envision it. He knew that he would see the face of glory, but the shape that face would take was far beyond his comprehension. He trusted that arms of grace and mercy would carry him up the mountain just as they had guided his decades long journey, but the form of the arms could not be imagined. On the other side of the mountain, Jacob knew that he would be bathed in holiness and showered with righteousness, but he had little idea as to what holiness and righteousness truly looked like, or the feeling that would accompany the immersion.

When he crossed the majestic peaks, he knew that he would finally be home, but what being home would mean to him was shrouded in mystery which his mind could not unravel. Throughout his travels, Jacob had found resting places, and several of these places had indeed felt comfortable...he had felt contentment, and certainly had been happy.....but something within him would never allow him to mistake these places for home. Jacob knew with a certainty that waiting in that home was a Father and a Brother he had always known, but had never seen. How he knew, Jacob did not know, but he knew it none-the-less. It was, perhaps, the desire to be at home with the family he had never seen that had compelled him on the journey.

The man, Jacob, understood that he would be called by another name on the other side, and it was for the best, for he had tired of the burden of being Jacob. The name had served him well as he traveled. Jacob had carried it with pride, almost to a fault. But now he longed to hear the sound of the name that would define him in his new home. He also knew the body that had carried him all these miles would be replaced and, with each year, he understood the necessity. The strength that had flowed from him at the start was draining. The eyes were dimming and the legs less stable. The mind, once so focused, seemed cloudy and distant at times. A new body was going to be crucial.

And so Jacob walked, longing for what lay beyond the mountain, yet not looking forward to the climb. Directed by a constant inner drive, step by step, he made his way toward a yet unrealized goal. With more years behind him than ahead, Jacob realized that the colors around him were losing their brilliance, and the faces of fellow sojourners were becoming more blurred as his focus on the destination sharpened.

Jacob walked with memories as his constant companion. Memories of times when his stride had been long and powerful, as well as times when he had stumbled and fallen. He remembered the determination and purpose in the early years of the journey, but he also remembered, with regret, the distractions that had waylaid him and took his attention from the goal. He remembered the pits he had fallen into, and the struggles climbing out.

Thankfully, with the passing of years, even Jacobs regrets and disappointments became a source of joy to him as he walked, for he began to see them for what they really were...part of the journey. And so he walked with confidence, remembering the unseen pull that had become his compass and always pointed him toward the utter brilliance he was convinced lay beyond the mountain. He walked with thankfulness, remembering the magnificent strength that had carried him up the walls of the pits and valleys that had encompassed him. With each year, as he walked he became less aware of the steps, less mindful of his surroundings and more focused on his destination.

And, then he was there. After seeking and longing for it all these decades, the mountain appeared as if from nowhere, the most daunting spectacle he had ever seen. Jacob woke up earlier than normal on that morning, and began to walk. It was similar to any morning of any day of the past sixty years. The scenery was similar. The thoughts and feelings were much the same. Nothing foreboding was on the horizon. Midway through the morning things changed. Jacob felt an unfamiliar strangeness slowly overtake his body. His legs stubbornly refused to support him as he slowly crumpled to the ground. It was time, you see. Jacob had walked the steps demanded by the journey, and as he stared in awe, the massive mountain rose before him.

Jacob felt an array of emotions. Fear and anxiety gently tempered with excitement and a strange peacefulness. The magnitude of the mountain spawned the fear and anxiety, while the thought of what he was convinced awaited him beyond the peaks gave rise to the excitement and peace. Intuitively, from a place deep within, he knew that every step of the journey had merely been preparation for this moment. The memories that surrounded Jacob as he traveled were gone now, for his entire being was focused on the mountain. The blurred images of his fellow sojourners had faded into the back round, and Jacob felt strangely alone at the foot of the mountain. He could not turn to the right or to the left. There was no way of turning back. The mountain was his destiny. What lay beyond was his prize.

Even with his first step up the slope, unseen, yet strangely familiar, arms seemed to embrace him. As the body, which had been his pride, grew annoyingly weak with the climb, the force that had compelled him on the journey....the same force that had carried him out of valleys and dragged him out of pits....grew stronger within him as he made his way up the side. As Jacob's breaths came more slowly the impalpable arms held him more tightly, and the force seemed to lift him from the ground.

As Jacob neared the peak, his arms were useless, his legs seemed not to respond, and yet he was moving toward the ridge. Stubborn muscles in his chest contracted, pulling in much needed air. For the first time during the climb, Jacob looked back. The blurred faces of those closest to him through his journey came clearly into focus, tears streaming down their cheeks. Jacob looked past the faces and saw, with a mixture of joy and regret, the trail he had traveled to the foot of the mountain.

With amazement, Jacob saw the invisible arms that carried him take a visible form. Scarred hands reached back, touching the path, and the rough places became smooth, the valleys became level, mucky pits were filled and the broken road was made whole. In the same movement, the hands touched the faces of those Jacob loved, lingered on each one, and compassionately wiped away every tear.

Knowing the next breath would never come, Jacob smiled and slowly released the one that carried him to the peak. In that instant, Jacob understood the necessity of every step he had taken. The valleys and pits had given him a taste of the grace and mercy that how enveloped him. The beauty of the journey had been a mere glimpse of the never ending glory flowing from every direction in his new surroundings.

In an unfathomable way, Jacob knew that he filled a void in this new place and yet, at the same time, everything in the place filled him. There was, indeed, a moment...although moments no longer seemed to exist...where Jacob felt a little out of place. But that moment was filled with the form of a man bearing the same scarred hands that had touched the trail of his journey. The glory of the place flowed from this man....it flowed through him, and the glory of the place and the man seemed as one.

The face was truly the face of glory. Jacob was drawn immediately to the eyes, and trembled as they pierced areas of Jacob's being that he never knew existed. The trembling lasted for an instant. In the next, he saw a love that he could not comprehend, only experience, radiating from the man's eyes. From those same eyes compassion...and peace....and joy....flowed through Jacob, each of them touching him in a different way.

The man stepped toward Jacob, cupped his face with his scarred hands and, with a gentle smile on his lips, whispered into Jacob's ear. You see, it was his new name. Jacob was no longer Jacob, and he was overwhelmed with peace. Never again would he be defined by what he had been, for the new named told him who he was in his new home. For Jacob, contentment was no longer some elusive, fleeting thing to continually strive after. And, more importantly, life was no longer something he had lived...it was something he was beginning to experience.

Good Friday

One hill.  Three crosses.  Three men, caught in the Roman justice system, hanging on them.

And the Roman empire knew how to conduct a crucifixion: a lingering death, designed not only to maximize suffering, but to completely humiliate at the same time.  Once on the cross, nails through the wrists and feet would have pierced major nerves causing immediate, severe, radiating pain through the arms and legs. More than likely, the weight of the body on the arms would have caused dislocation of the shoulders or elbows.   And that's merely the beginning.

From the start, any movement would cause pain.  Fresh wounds from the scourging would rub against the rough wood of the cross causing torment with each slight shift of the body.  Through most of the ordeal, the victim's weight would be on his feet with the chest leaning forward placing maximum strain on the arms and dislocated shoulders.  As the arms began to fatigue, the cramps would begin.  Muscles would begin to knot causing relentlessly deep, throbbing pain.

But it gets worse.  Whether by design or accident, the pain of crucifixion was maximized with every breath.  As mentioned, the victim would lean forward with his weight centered on his feet.  From this position, he would be able to inhale, but he was not able to exhale.  Even to get one little breath, the victim would have to struggle to raise himself on nail pierced feet just to expel the air in his lungs.  He would then slump forward again until the body demanded oxygen.  Every breath would be an exercise in excruciating pain reverberating through the whole body.

One hill.  Three crosses.  And three men hanging on them.

The men on the end crosses were convicted thief's.  The one hanging on the middle cross was slightly more controversial.  Jewish leaders considered him a blasphemer, a threat to their religion.  Roman leaders considered him an inconvenience.  The man himself claimed to be not only the long awaited Messiah, but the very Son of God.

Just a little side note.  The same choices are before us two thousand years later, for any who will consider him.  He either was a blasphemer, a man who will threaten the religious.  Or he's merely an inconvenience, something to explain away whenever we hear his name.  Or he was the Messiah, the Son of God.

The man on the middle cross, this Jesus, pushed himself up and exhaled.  He slumped forward, drew a breath and spoke.  He spoke to his Father on behalf of the Jewish and Roman leaders who had sentenced him to hang on that cross.  He spoke on behalf of the centurion's who had pounded in the spikes, and were now gambling for his clothes.  "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do."

Through a fog of pain, one of the thief's listened in amazement.  Why isn't this man screaming his innocence? 

Why isn't he demanding justice or vengeance? 

Why, of all things, does he ask that God forgive those who have done these horrendous things to him? 

The thief, more than anyone on that hill, knew the agony the man on the middle cross is enduring.  And yet he sees the peace. 

He sees the acceptance. 

He sees the determination.

The thief considers the options that have faced every person since that horrendous Friday afternoon....that day when man destroyed the most beautiful and perfect thing to ever walk this earth.  He considers the options, and turns to Jesus with one humble request.  "Please remember me." 

He doesn't ask to be delivered from pain. 

He doesn't plead to live. 

He's not after wealth or prosperity or glory. 

He asks for one thing....only to be remembered.

One simple request.  And one marvelous response.  The Messiah turns to the man and, I believe, with compassion in his eyes speaks the words, "This day you will be with me in Paradise." 

A beautiful promise of forgiveness. 

A promise of hope and peace. 

A man who, by his own admission, was thoroughly guilty. A man with no redeeming quality in him, dares to utter one humble request.  But he utters it to the one with every redeeming quality.  With his final breaths he trusted the man on the middle cross, and that made all the difference.

That is the gospel in its most gruesome and beautiful form.  A horrendous death paving the way for a life of hope and purpose for those who consider the options and, like the thief on the cross, trust the crucified redeemer.

And, as we pause to remember the brutal death of the Messiah, we remember the fact that, "It's only Friday...Sunday's coming." 

Easter Thoughts

"I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast.  And when I run I feel His pleasure."  

                                          Eric Liddell (Chariots of Fire)

That quote has stuck in my mind since I first saw the movie in 1981, particularly the last sentence, "And when I run I feel his pleasure."  To be clear, I am not built for running.  I am especially not built for running fast.  Truth be told, I am built much more like an old work horse than anything resembling a thoroughbred.  But I do like to run, and I have for most of my life.  It is true that I feel closest to God when I am out running with my dogs.  Or, short of that, when I am walking them along the Kettle River.  I can feel close to God when I'm in church to be sure.  I can feel close to him when I'm studying at my desk as well.  But truly, nothing compares to the closeness I feel when I am jogging down some dirt road, or walking in the woods.  For some reason, in those times I do feel his pleasure.

Well, I was walking my dogs, Abby and Hunter, along the river the other day.  Enjoying the beauty.  Talking to the Father.  Thinking about life.  About half way through the walk, I noticed that Abby was in the river, and she was struggling.  When I got down to where she was, I could tell that something was preventing her from getting out of the water, but I couldn't tell what it was.  As I grabbed her and tried pulling her out, she yelped and retreated to deeper water.  Since I am a tad slow mentally as well as physically, it took me a minute or two to realize that she had stepped on a beaver trap.  The weight attached to the trap wouldn't allow her to move, and since any movement caused pain, Abby was content not to move.  I did what I had to do.  I grabbed the wire attaching the trap to the shore, and began to pull the trap and Abby to me.  It hurt her, to be sure, but it was the only way to set her free.  Once I had her and the trap on the shore, I opened the jaws and pulled her out.  Fortunately, she had only caught her paw in the trap, and after running on three legs for awhile decided that there really wasn't enough damage not to run on all four.

On the walk back to the car, I reflected on Abby's little accident.  It occurred to me that way back in the Garden of Eden, a similar thing happened to Eve.  The enemy set a trap by saying, "You surely will not die!  For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil."  We all know the story from Sunday School.  Eve stepped into the trap, and ate the fruit that God had forbidden them from eating.  When Eve brought the fruit to Adam, the first man could tell his wife had changed.  Adam had a choice.  He could refuse to eat the fruit, and keep the close fellowship he had with the Creator, or he could eat the fruit and become like his wife.  He looked at his wife, ate the fruit and walked into the trap.

That really is what Easter is all about.  The Creator's creation was trapped.  And the Creator came to set his creation free.  Ever since the first trap in the special garden, men and women have been stepping into traps set by the enemy, and ever since that time the Father has been working to set them free.

To be completely honest, I have stepped into a few traps myself.  Some of them I have seen, and some of them I haven't.  But regardless, just like I saw Abby's struggle, the Father sees mine.  He comes to where I'm at, draws me to himself and sets me free.  And just like with Abby, sometimes the extraction process can be painful, but the Father remains determined....and faithful.... and trustworthy.  And in the end, He sets me free.  Free to walk with him, and to fellowship with him.  And free to feel his pleasure when I run.   

The Armor

The nondescript village sat deep in the foothills of a lesser known mountain range seldom mentioned in history.  Records of the twelfth century seem to have neglected and, some would say, even ignored any contribution this little hamlet may have had on the advancement of the kingdom surrounding it.  To be sure, it was an isolated place on the banks of a beautiful river which wandered rather aimlessly from a towering neighboring mountain.  Any casual observer, strolling through this village, would have been impressed with the tidiness of the dwellings as well as the orderliness in which they were arranged.  Modest huts, some made of wood and others made of stone, neatly lined the trail that led through the center the town.  Had the observer spent any amount of time with the residents, he would have found them to be kind to one another, leery of strangers and persistent as they went about their daily activities.

A word must be said regarding the average day in this village.  There were, without a doubt, a variety of things that needed to be done every day just to provide for the survival of the community.  Of course, there were also daily rituals required to keep the area neat and orderly and the population well fed..  Over the years the villagers had become adept at quickly doing the mundane things of life so that they could concentrate on their passion.  Yes, everyone in the village shared an obsession. They would rise early to complete the required demands of they day so that they could spend any remaining time doing what they loved most.  Making armor.  And could these people make armor.  Helmets, breastplates, gauntlets and everything else necessary to clothe a knight.  They would also make shields, axes and swords as well as a variety of other forms of weaponry.

It's what these people did, don't you see.  For generation after generation, the people of this village spent their days designing and molding some truly beautiful armor and, if they would admit it, they were proud of the wonderful pieces neatly displayed outside of their tiny wooden and stone houses.  When they weren't making the armor or polishing it, for each piece would be polished daily, they spent their time discussing how the armor might be used.  They would imagine battles that would be fought, and victories that would be won with their truly splendid armor.

There was, indeed, a question that the villagers would not allow to come into focus in their minds.  While the armor did look magnificent, and while it was unquestionably beautiful and always well polished, it really had never been tested in battle.  Without a doubt, there had been opportunity, for the kingdom was constantly under attack.  But, sadly, the village was wary of allowing any of its people or armor to leave and do battle for the kingdom.  The possibility of the swords becoming dented or scratched was a concern as was the thought of the well maintained helmets and breastplates losing the sheen that can only come from decades of dedicated furbishing.  Since the village was inconsequential in kingdom warfare, the enemy never attacked and the warriors of the kingdom had little reason to pass through.  And so, the people of the village passed their time buffing their armament and discussing battle logistics.

One day, a form appeared on the horizon opposite the mountain.  A lone man slowly walking toward the isolated village.  His image was indistinct in the distance as the inhabitants of the village cautiously peered from the doorways of the small wood and stone huts.  Visitors to the area were practically nonexistent, and so the townspeople watched the approaching figure guardedly.

As the figure drew closer, it became clear that the man was a knight just recent from battle.  He approached the edge of the village with his helmet cradled in his left arm as his sword swung from his belt beneath his right.  His path took him down the trail through the middle of the town as he made his way toward the river at the foot of the mountain.  From behind closed doors, the villagers stared at the figure with the grey, grizzled hair, and several weeks worth of beard on his face.  Although weak, he carried himself with determination as he made his way between the houses.  The warrior's mind was filled with memories of substantial kingdom victories as well as remembrances of crushing defeats.  He saw the doors of the houses move ever so slightly, and knew his movements were being studied.  He saw the magnificently shining armor outside of the houses, but their beauty did not seem to move him.  So he walked toward the river, aware of staring eyes, mindful of subdued whispers, but indifferent to any of it.  The warrior was wise enough to know what was being said, but old enough not to care.

Once he had reached the river side of the town, the villagers slowly made their way outside and filled the trail behind him.  He was some distance away, but still they spoke in low tones.  They spoke despairingly of the huge gouges in his breastplate, and the dents in his helmet.  As they spoke, they could be seen pointing to the armor proudly displayed outside of their wooden and stone houses.  They compared the brightness of their armor to the dingy, soot covered and grungy armor worn by the stranger.  Smiles and snickers were common as they contrasted his beat up sword and pitted shield with the masterpieces in their yards.  And for the villagers, it was a glorious night.  They spoke late into the night about the neglected armor the stranger wore, and they laughed at his tattered weaponry.  They speculated at the battles he must of lost, and shook their heads in disdain at the defeats he must have so foolishly suffered.  At long last they slept.  They slept knowing that their armor would never be as dingy as that of the stranger who passed through that day.  And they slept reassured in their minds that they would have been victorious in the battles in which the passing warrior had suffered defeat.

The warrior slept too.  He slept next to the river with his breastplate as a pillow, and his sword at his side.  He slept dreaming of the battles to come, and victories won for the kingdom.  And the warrior slept well.         

     

“Isn't it weird that the mighty army of the children of God – shod with faith, shielded by righteousness, and armed with the Word of God – spends the vast majority of its time either polishing its armor or fighting with one another?” - Mike Warnke