I don't like boats. At all. And I’ve only been fishing twice in my life. (Cue angry Minnesotans booing in the background) Sorry guys. I know I should be a good Midwestern girl and love all things boating and fishing, but honestly? All I remember was being stuck in a boat all day, bored, watching my unfortunately pale skin burn to a crisp. No thanks. Given these things fall just above snake wrestling on my list of favorite activities, I had to laugh the other day when God used fishing to illustrate an essential process we all learn walking with him: faith. Turns out Jesus didn't pick fishermen for his disciples on accident. Why? Read on...
So if it worked for them, it might just help us, right? Exactly. And (if you’ll humor me with a few shameless fish metaphors) here’s how: # 1. Bait your hook. Fact #1: I’m awful at fishing. Fact #2: I still know that fishing with an empty hook is like trying to make toast with some bread, a magnifying glass and the sun. Fact #1: Many of us want to live a life of faith. Fact #2: Faith, if it’s not expressed through tangible actions, is pretty useless (check James 2:17) Anyone picking up the parallel here? This is the step most of us want to skip. Can’t we all just quit our jobs and roam freely about the world, sharing the love of Jesus with everyone we meet? Well, yes! And absolutely some people are called to this-- please don’t hear me knocking missions or saying wild risks are never God’s calling for our lives! But take a look at the Bible. Before he became Paul, Saul was already a leader known for his ‘zealousness’ when it came to matters of religion. His single-minded passion and position of leadership weren’t brand new traits when he started his ministry to the Gentiles, but skills already developed in his life. If we look further back in the Old Testament, we also see that each of the artisans selected to help with Solomon’s temple were selected because of their prior training and expertise in metal-working, sewing and other crafts. In other words, they had a skill God could work with. It boils down to this: if we want to step out in faith, we can’t skip the process of developing our gifts. It’s not the exciting part. It’s not the part that gets applause. Awkward moments are pretty much a guarantee. But it’s necessary. If you’re artistic, it might be time to buy some paint and canvas. If you like to write, (ok, I'm saying this to myself), it’s a great idea to finish that article or chapter! # 2. Cast your line. So we finally made it through learning how to put that stupid worm on that stupid hook. Nice! Here’s where we take that lovely (skewered?) worm from Step 1 and actually give it to God. Finally, the risk comes in. You start a business, publish a book or get up on stage for the first time. Stepping out in faith is absolutely exhilarating and risky and exciting! But it isn’t totally random. From what I've seen, God often asks people step out in areas they've already committed time, energy or finances. It's pretty comforting to know God values our resources just as much as we do. Disclaimer on this one though: the first time I tried to bait a hook, the worm went sailing through the air as soon as I cast. I hate to say it, but this will probably happen to you too. Not the worm part maybe, but definitely the failure part. This is the critical moment. It’s the moment where every person who saved a nation or sold a famous painting or sang for millions had one thing in common: # 3. Repeat. They grabbed their hook (or paintbrush or microphone), and tried again. I hate to say it, but there will be moments when you leave your line in the water and absolutely nothing happens. When you publish an article or start a group or plan an event and nobody shows up. Those moments are real, and--shocker-- they’re never the moments people write books about. So what then? You reel your line back in and cast again. Does your lack of fish (or low return on your investment or failed company or low blog readership (ha!)) indicate you’re doing something wrong? No. It means you’re learning to fish. Sometimes faith looks like instant success. At least someone, one time, told me that… I think he went on to create Twitter or something. But for the rest of us? Nine times out of ten, faith looks like this: Reeling in an empty line, asking your Father to help you bait the hook one more time, and casting that sucker as far out as you can. And yes! One day catching that elusive walleye. But in the meantime? (Unlike me in that stupid boat so many years ago) It looks like learning to enjoy the ride.
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IN a wasteland; flowers It was a lake once. I knew by the way the earth peeled and cracked like so many shattered clay jars in every direction. Years ago the rain vanished, and now dust settled ashen in my nose and mouth when the wind blew. I wandered mile after mile, and for years the barrenness of the landscape and the hollowness behind my ribs were all I knew. There was an emptiness in me deeper than my body's hunger. Perhaps if I wandered long enough something might fill the deep ache. Every long while, a shape would appear on the far horizon. As it flickered in the heat, I would imagine it was a house or a town. Another person. Each time I was certain that this is what I’d been searching for, this would be a place to call home. In desperation I would run until my breath tore ragged within me. And each time I eventually saw the form for what it was: just a cactus whose spines drew blood or a heap of bones that crumbled and blew away in the wind. The sun set, the daylight faded, and again I found myself alone. One such night, I had a dream. I sat in the shade of a magnificent tree. The branches above rose and fell, and my skin thrilled with a warm, breezy sort of aliveness. As I looked off down the ridge, I saw more water than I had ever known—a creek. When I turned back, a man sat across from me in sandals and traveling clothes. Despite his worn appearance, the kindness in his eyes made it difficult to look away. The same current of aliveness I had noticed at first felt wider and deeper and clearer the more I looked at him. A sensation rose up deep inside me that, somehow, he was the very source of it. For a long while, we sat. I didn’t know what to say, only that I very much wanted to be near him there in the dew and the forest and the cool of the morning. He studied me with intention and I noticed a tenderness in his search. After hours—or only minutes—he reached out, as if to touch my face. His hand slowed for a moment, suspended, as he looked me in the eyes. With a start, I awoke. Once again I found myself shivering on the ground as the air whistled around me. Alone. A carefully built wall of apathy within shook, and then crumbled. For the first time in all my wandering years, I felt that I was alone. The fresh pain of it tore my breath from me. I pounded my fists into the ground, choking as dust rose around me. I screamed again and again into the darkness. Alone. My hands bled and the hollow cries echoed until the wind swept them further into the desert. I kept pounding. Alone. When I could hardly raise my arms I sank to the ground, exhausted. I tried to recall the cool morning and the man in his sandals and traveling clothes, but the memory only served to make the night darker. How could I resign myself to life in this wasteland? How could I accept the darkness and the drought? All the wandering years, all the emptiness and thirst I’d assumed were life? I closed my eyes-- they were no more than dust. I sank into a half sleep, exhausted. Hours later, a suggestion of light revealed the far horizon. I blinked awake. And there in the dimmest light of the sun, I saw a man. He was far, far away but again some deep and unexplored part of myself felt strangely awake. I told myself he was a mirage—a shred of my dream lost in the wind, intruding on a reality I knew was only sand for miles. But even as my mind resisted, my body stood up. Against the howling wind, I began to walk. Miles later, I knew it was him. It had to be. He wore the same sandals and traveling clothes and from him came that same sense of aliveness I remembered from the dream. Saying nothing, he produced a jar of water from his traveling bag and held it out. In my curiosity I’d nearly forgotten my usual thirst. I sipped slowly at first but, as he nodded permission, I emptied it in desperate gulps. I returned the jar and looked down at my feet. Then he spoke. “Where are you from?” His simple question caught me off guard. Being from somewhere. A home. I realized there were only faint echoes where my early memories should have been. I saw the dry lakebed and the black, starless nights. And before that, nothing. A lake. There had been a lake once. Were there other people? People, there must hav—and again, blackness. I groped for something, anything. He tried again. “Well, what’s your name?” More blackness. I didn’t know. I looked away and whispered the only word I could think of. “Dust.” His face softened. He gently pulled on my wrist and held my bruised hand out between us. I risked a look at him, but he was gazing down, brushing dust from where it clung to my dirty, bleeding fingers. His hands were gentle, as if he held a fragile desert flower. As if he'd never seen such beauty. “My name is Jesus.” He said simply. “And yours isn’t dust.” Then he took my shoulders and turned me so we faced the barren landscape I’d walked all morning. “You look nothing like it.” He stepped back for a moment and I stood alone, taking in the desert I had wandered. Great clouds of sand swept across its cracked surface. There was not a living being in sight. But as I stood, a wind I’d never known swelled from behind me. It was cool and expectant, heavy with dew and the scent of moss. It played among the rags I wore, in my hair, and washed the dirt from my skin in gentle waves. For the first time I could remember, I felt clean. When I finally turned around, the dry and infinite horizon was gone. In its place was a rich forest that rose and fell, as if stirred by a deep and gentle heartbeat. It hummed with life, and I could see a path leading into the cool shade. The man called Jesus stood before me, waiting. “Who am I?” I whispered, looking up at him. He smiled, then held out his hand. I looked back at the heat and the endless horizon behind me one final time, then took it. He led me the last few steps toward the cool shade, then paused for a moment and looked down at me. “You ready?” I nodded. He smiled and held out the jar I had drained earlier. It was full. |
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June 2017
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