Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Flags
Monday, September 20, 2010
We've Got Love On Our Side
I'm lifting up my hands as sacrifice
Oh Lord Jesus turn Your eyes upon me
For I know there is mercy in Your sight
Oh God, You are my God
And I will ever praise You
Oh God, You are my God
And I will ever praise You
To all creation I can see a limit
But Your commands are boundless and have none
So Your Word is my joy and meditation
From the rising to the setting of the sun
All Your ways are loving and are faithful
The road is narrow but Your burden light
Because You gladly lean to lead the humble
I shall gladly kneel to leave my pride
Oh God, You are my God
And I will ever praise You
Oh God, You are my God
And I will ever praise You
I will look to walk in Your ways
And step by step You'll lead me
And I will follow You all of my days
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
True Living = Serving
Monday, September 13, 2010
Where I Am Today
Monday, September 6, 2010
Quote of the Week
Friday, August 27, 2010
Little Bird
Sunday, August 15, 2010
A Franciscan Blessing
May God bless us with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that we may work for justice, freedom and peace.
May God bless us with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that we may reach out our hands to comfort them and turn their pain into joy.
And may God bless us with enough foolishness to believe that we can make a difference in this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done."
Monday, August 9, 2010
Die
DYING TO SELF
When you are forgotten or neglected or purposely set at naught, and you sting and hurt with the insult or the oversight, but your heart is happy, being counted worthy to suffer for Christ
-that is dying to self.
When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your advice disregarded, your opinions ridiculed and you refuse to let anger rise in your heart, or even defend yourself, but take all in patient loving silence
-that is dying to self.
When you lovingly and patiently bear any disorder, any irregularity, or any annoyance, when you can stand face to face with waste, folly, extravagance, spiritual insensibility, and endure it as Jesus endured it
-that is dying to self.
When you are content with any food, any offering, any raiment, any climate, any society, any attitude, any interruption by the will of God
-that is dying to self.
When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation, or to record your own good works, or itch after commendation, when you can truly love to be unknown
-that is dying to self.
When you see your brother prosper and have his needs met and can honestly rejoice with him in spirit and feel no envy nor question God, while your own needs are far greater and in desperate circumstances
-that is dying to self.
When you can receive correction and reproof from one of less stature than yourself, can humbly submit inwardly as well as outwardly, finding no rebellion or resentment rising up within your heart
-that is dying to self.
Author Unknown
Friday, August 6, 2010
Now, I suppose, is an appropriate time
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Song of the Week
I can only conclude that I was not made for here.
If the flesh that I fight is at best only light and momentary,
then of course I'll feel nude when to where I'm destined I'm compared.
Speak to me in the light of the dawn.
Mercy comes with the morning.
I will sigh and with all creation groan as I wait for hope to come for me.
Am I lost or just less found? On the straight or on the roundabout of the wrong way?
Is this a soul that stirs in me, is it breaking free, wanting to come alive?
'Cause my comfort would prefer for me to be numb
And avoid the impending birth of who I was born to become.
Speak to me in the light of the dawn.
Mercy comes with the morning.
I will sigh and with all creation groan as I wait for hope to come for me.
For we, we are not long here...
Our time is but a breath, so we better breathe it.
And I, I was made to live, I was made to love, I was made to know you.
Hope is coming for me...
Hope, He's coming...
Mercy comes with the morning.
I will sigh and with all creation groan as I wait for hope to come for me...
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Still?
It's late. Past midnight. So I guess it's officially March 21, 2010 (Happy 1st Anniversary to Patrick and Lauren Smalley!!!).
But that's not why I'm writing. Sorry guys. I do love y'all.
No, what's really got me up is the fact that after more than 10 months of not being in Spain, my heart is aching painfully to be there.
I don't mean to sound depressed. I'm not at all. I know I'm in Auburn for a reason, and the Lord has blessed me with so many things here. I do love it.
It's just that, I don't know, I felt so at home in Spain. With my host family, with my awesome Spanish friends, in my Spanish church, living in the gorgeous city that is Valencia. I probably think and dream as much in Spanish as I do in English these days.
I do try not to think about it, but I can't seem to go a single day without my thoughts wandering to that place and those people.
Why do I long for it like this?
I wish I had an answer to that question. One key to contentment is to never picture yourself in any other circumstances than those in which you presently find yourself. Isn't that exactly what I'm NOT doing when I desire Spain?
I won't deny, part of it has to do with the stark contrast between my life free of responsibility in Spain to that of rigorous schedule and demands here in Auburn. Yeah, there's something appealing about that.
But my ultimate conclusion is that I'm a Spaniard at heart :)
And tonight, I'm really struggling with being here and not there.
Monday, March 1, 2010
SIFAT
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Love Day
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Vision
So this guy comes up to me and says:
“What’s the vision? What’s the big idea?”
I open my mouth and words come out like this:
The vision?
The vision is JESUS – obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army.
And they are FREE from materialism.
They laugh at 9-5 little prisons.
They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday.
They wouldn’t even notice.
They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the west was won.
They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations.
They need no passport.
People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.
They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying.
What is the vision?
The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes.
It makes children laugh and adults angry.
It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars.
It scorns the good and strains for the best.
It is dangerously pure.
Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation.
It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games.
This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause.
A million times a day its soldiers choose to loose,
that they might one day win
the great ‘Well done’ of faithful sons and daughters.
Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night. They don’t need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again: “COME ON!”
And this is the sound of the underground
The whisper of history in the making
Foundations shaking
Revolutionaries dreaming once again
Mystery is scheming in whispers
Conspiracy is breathing…
This is the sound of the underground
And the army is discipl(in)ed.
Young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms.
The tattoo on their back boasts “for me to live is Christ and to die is gain”.
Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes.
Winners. Martyrs.
Who can stop them?
Can hormones hold them back?
Can failure succeed?
Can fear scare them or death kill them?
And the generation prays
like a dying man
with groans beyond talking,
with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and
with great barrow loads of laughter!
Waiting. Watching: 24 – 7 – 365.
Whatever it takes they will give: Breaking the rules. Shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs, laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mould them. Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before the cockerel cries.
They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive
Inside.
On the outside? They hardly care.
They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide.
Would they surrender their image or their popularity?
They would lay down their very lives – swap seats with the man on death row – guilty as hell. A throne for an electric chair.
With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days,
they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.
Their DNA chooses JESUS. (He breathes out, they breathe in.)
Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.
Their words make demons scream in shopping centres.
Don’t you hear them coming?
Herald the weirdo's! Summon the losers and the freaks.
Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes.
They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension.
Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.
And this vision will be.
It will come to pass;
it will come easily;
it will come soon.
How do I know?
Because this is the longing of creation itself,
the groaning of the Spirit,
the very dream of God.
My tomorrow is his today.
My distant hope is his 3D.
And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great 'Amen!' from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ himself. And he is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.
Guaranteed.