I’m just back from a wonderful retreat with a bunch of pastors and leaders from Hamilton. We had a fabulous three days of making space for God and dreaming His (and our) dreams for the city.
We were facilitated by Richard and Terry Long from the National House of Prayer www.nhop.ca. Their gentle, humorous and loving leadership not only helped us connect with God’s heart, but our own as well. One afternoon they gave us the exercise of rewriting a favorite psalm in our own words. That evening, we wove the threads of our writing into a rich tapestry of worship.
As I swish my way down the street (I love the sound of windbreaker pants - woosh, woosh, woosh), I tip my chin towards the rain and observe the honking formation overhead. Here it is, early April, and there they are, heading north. Don't they know it could still snow yet?
I've come to realize that birds are optimists. Whenever I come into our apartment, my cockatiel, Solomon, runs up and down his perch, cheeping excitedly. "Mummy's here! And I know she's going to pick me up, take me out of my cage, and scritch my crest - oboyoboyoboyoboy!"
Bert, our Orange Winged Amazon Parrot, engages his optimism in more gastronomical directions. "Oh! Kirk is in the kitchen! Peanuts live in the kitchen! Surely it's snack time!" It doesn't matter how many times Kirk emerges from the kitchen peanutless, Bert's got faith - each and every time.
If only I could face life and prayer with such unwavering optimism and positive expectation! I find myself, in the midst of all of life's uncertainties, constantly recalling Romans 8:28. " And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." I've also learned to lean into the context of that passage - Paul goes on in his next breath to say, "For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of His Son...". So the good that God is working for is in all things making us more like His Son, not necessarily making our lives nice and tidy. (Again I return to my personal pet peeve with how we confuse the American/Canadian Dream with the Kingdom of God).
So every day gives opportunity for spiritual growth. Every day gives me a chance to look/act/feel more like Jesus than the day before. Every day I can go from glory to glory, even if I'm not going from comfort to comfort. That's fuel for optimism!
Like highland heroes loping towards Loch Ontario, masses of kilted runners lolloped down Guelph Line Road. Teary eyed with laughter, I watched as waves of warriors washed by my car. Big Celts, little Celts. granny Celts, bearded and ponytailed Celts. It was the Robbie Burns run, in honor of the national poet of Scotland- perhaps you remember his poem To a Mouse ~ "the best made schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley" (go oft astray, in Engishspeak) and hundreds of runners braved the cold (good thing most kilts are made o' wool!) on that blustery January day.
Actually, most of the kilts I saw were made of cotton - recently the instakilt has come into vogue.
These handy dandy towels can transform anyone into a Celt - just wrap one around and voila! Insta-warrior! No really, they're awesome - check out the website at www.instakilt.com.
About a year ago, I met a bona-fide Celt. He's grizzly and bewhiskered, a gentleman and a scholar. Crinkly eyes - gentle radiance that denotes much time spent with Jesus. He's a warrior of another type.
He's got a super blog http://livingwaterfromanancientwell.blogspot.com that I highly recommend. He's made a life study of Celtic Christianity, prayer and community, so I couldn't resist inviting him to come to Hamilton and do a workshop for us. Put it on your calendars and rsvp at
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!
Wading into the Scrum
Scrum [skruhm]
1. a Rugby play in which, typically, three members of each team line up opposite one another with a group of two and a group of three players behind them, making an eight-person, three-two-three formation on each side; the ball is then rolled between the opposing front lines, the players of which stand with arms around a teammate’s waist, meeting the opponent shoulder to shoulder, and attempt to kick the ball backward to a teammate.
2. British. a place or situation of confusion and racket; hubbub.
I’m a terrible rugby player. We all were, really. We didn’t win a single game all season, but boy did we ever have a blast slopping and slogging our way through fields sluggish with spring mud. Who knew getting completely filthy was so much fun?
I was the team hooker, which my teenaged brother thought was hilarious. “Yeah, my sister is a hooker,” he would casually remark to his smirking and chuckling buds (aren’t adolescent boys just the bomb?). I wasn’t fast, but I was big (ok, well not tall, but certainly solid) strong, and could hit hard. I loved the moment of contact, when you just put your head down, steeled your shoulders and waded through the scrum (see above definition, for the uninitiated).
I had an embarrassing habit, though. When I hit an opponent, I squeaked. Not a growl, not an offensive roar, but a squeak. I just couldn’t help it. Not only did I hit like a girl (albeit a strong one), I sounded like one! Wham! Squeak! Wham! Squeak!
Sigh. The guys rugby team loved to stand around and laugh at us, at least when they weren’t trying to grab us at rugby parties (note to self, rugby parties are not the most spiritually edifying places on the planet).
We’re built for battle, aren’t we? John Eldridge says that we were born into a war – something I’ve been spending the last decade coming to grips with. Our fight is not against flesh and blood, but there is a battle, nevertheless. And the bombardment from the world, the flesh and the devil can be unremitting and unrelenting. There’s no hiding from it, no running away from it. The battle lines are drawn in the very warp and woof of our lives.
The ball is in our hands, the opposing team thundering down the field towards us, a glint in their eyes and the taste of our blood on their lips. So what to do?
The only thing we can do. Put our heads down, steel our shoulders, and wade into the scrum. Like Jesus, set our face like flint towards our personal Jerusalem, and go for it. Ok, maybe we’ll squeak a little, and we might have to get wrung out and hosed down at the end of it, but hey, this is what we were born and built for!
The Mousinator!
My dad was a hunter. I can remember opening the garage door and seeing ghostly goose carcasses slung from ceiling rafters. Eating wild duck for Christmas and hearing stories of how dad gave up shooting rabbits because if you didn’t kill them right away they cried like babies.
He came by it naturally. The fireplace at my Grandparents log home sported a massive rack of antlers donated by some unwitting and unwary denizen of the forest. In the guest bedroom, old rifles were racked on wall mounts made of deer hooves. I never understood the allure of it all – the thrill of the hunt.
Until now.
“Yeah! Got one!” I gleefully scooped up the trap and it’s occupant, now stiffened in rigor mousis, and released it into the bushes outside where it would be dinner to some other varmint. The fridge scoreboard read Mouse – 0, Jill 4! Who knew I was so bloodthirsty?
“Why can’t you use the live catch traps?” my husband complained, “They’re much more humane!”
It makes me think of an obscure little verse in the Song of Songs “Catch for me the little foxes… that ruin the vineyards.” The little foxes – I’ve certainly got some internal pests, squeaking and unclean. Offenses, judgments, a sense of entitlement. They may seem small and inconspicuous, hidden underneath the surface. At best they make messes. At worst, they are destructive. So they’ve got to go. No live traps and release. These suckers gotta die!
D.L. Moody was once asked who was his greatest opponent in ministry. His response? D. L. Moody! I’m always asking myself the question, am I holy, or just socialized? What’s scurrying below the surface?
We’ve all got critters, internal vermin, the little foxes, and I don’t know about you, but I’m going after mine!
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