I suspect that the Wesleyan emphasis on Christian experience, both the ‘spiritual’ experience of knowing the love of God in one’s own heart and life, and the ‘practical’ experience of living a holy life for oneself and working for God’s justice in the world, might well be cited as evidence of a movement in which parts of the church did actually integrate several elements in the gospels, a synthesis that the majority of Western Christians have allowed to fall apart
I suspect that the Wesleyan emphasis on Christian experience, both the ‘spiritual’ experience of knowing the love of God in one’s own heart and life, and the ‘practical’ experience of living a holy life for oneself and working for God’s justice in the world, might well be cited as evidence of a movement in which parts of the church did actually integrate several elements in the gospels, a synthesis that the majority of Western Christians have allowed to fall apart.
I love this web comic but this one made me cry
I love the local church in all its shapes, sizes and backgrounds…There are giant christian ministries around the world that are important and being used by God, but the foot soldiers are serving in villages, towns and cities all over the world and are making an incredible difference. Thank God for His Church.
A person’s coming to Christ is like a chain with many links…. There are many influences and conversations that precede a person’s decision to convert to Christ. I know the joy of being the first link at times, a middle link usually, and occasionally the last link. God has not called me to only be the last link. He has called me to be faithful and to love all people.
It’s not a matter of time so much a matter of the heart; if you have the heart to pray, you will find the time
It’s not sinful to make a lot of money - it’s sinful to keep a lot of money.
Conversely, those of us who serve the idol of dependence simple cannot be alone. We have to be in some sort of deep friendship if single, or place unrealistic expectations on our partners if married or dating. We cannot bear the thought of being alone. While this may look loving, when we struggle with an idol of dependence, we’re in fact not loving people as much as we’re using them to fulfil our need to belong, be liked, and be desired.
The faith passes, so to speak, through a distiller and becomes ideology. And ideology does not beckon [people]. In ideologies there is not Jesus: in his tenderness, his love, his meekness. And ideologies are rigid, always. Of every sign: rigid. And when a Christian becomes a disciple of the ideology, he has lost the faith: he is no longer a disciple of Jesus, he is a disciple of this attitude of thought… For this reason Jesus said to them: ‘You have taken away the key of knowledge.’ The knowledge of Jesus is transformed into an ideological and also moralistic knowledge, because these close the door with many requirements… The faith becomes ideology and ideology frightens, ideology chases away the people, distances, distances the people and distances of [sic] the Church of the people. But it is a serious illness, this of ideological Christians.
Milliken does a nursing home service the first Sunday of every month. The past three months I have spoken at it, giving them words of comfort as they face each day. Two months ago, I was thrown a curve ball when I was asked to do the benediction since I hadn’t prepared one or ever given one but this month I was prepared. Here it is:
May the Father who loves you
The Son who saved you
and the Spirit who guides you
Bless you this week. Go in peace.
Summer Camp Sinner’s Prayer
The following is a short story I had to write for my fiction class that I took last semester. The task outlined that we had to write a short story about a spiritual experience that we had as a child, and as I had very few to choose from this one made the cut. Keep in mind, this is fiction, and the only thing that is accurate about it is it happened at a summer camp. The professor described the ending as “delightfully ambiguous” so enjoy.
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The hot July sun beamed down on us as we sat in a small circle around our leader. After a day of activities and sports with friends, sitting down in the hot sun was the last thing any of us wanted to do. The bell rang marking the end of our time with our team and I looked over at Brent. He was pulling the grass, which was already yellow and dry, and throwing it, then watching it fall in the hot, still air.
“Stop pulling the grass. It’s God’s creation and you should be respecting it. Pulling it out kills it,” piped up the counselor, who couldn’t have been over fifteen herself, “Just pay attention for a little longer and we can go back inside the chapel.” The chapel was the last place I wanted to be. I gazed across the lawn at the younger kids who were doing free swim. How I longed for the cool water to lap over my body and take away the searing pain of my sun burn. They seemed to be having more fun at camp than I was, but really who wouldn’t? Sitting around listening to a leader drone on about the importance of some book my grandmother read to me was not my ideal way to have fun. Our leader had gone over time, and all of the other groups had gathered in lines to purchase their snacks at the Tuck Shop. The buzz of excitement could be heard as children all over the camp convened in front of the shop. Those kids were the lucky ones. They got to stand underneath the awning of the shop, in the shade, and see their friends. I was just stuck here listening to this girl, who I was forced to call “Aunt Sarah”. I never understood why I had to call her aunt, she was of no relation to me. I decided to interrupt her and ask.
“Why do I we have to call you Aunt? You’re not my aunt,” I asked.
“It’s a form of respect,” she replied, responding more patiently than a teacher would have at school, “It’s less formal than calling me Miss.” Her answer was satisfactory, but all my interruption did was keep us in the sun for a few more seconds. I gazed over at the children swimming. Life for them was so simple, they seemed to not have a care in the world. The only reason I was at this bible camp was there was nothing else to do in the summer. It was free babysitting for my father who worked shift work. Ever since the divorce I had been pawned off to different people, whether it be baby-sitters, friends of my father’s or this day camp. I wondered why he chose this camp, where the bible was taught since he didn’t believe the bible to be true, and he made that very clear. The sound of the children at the tuck shop was ebbing and flowing as the head counselor chose which group would go first into the store to buy their snacks. They must be having a cheering competition. I decided to turn my attention back to ‘Aunt’ Sarah.
“And Jesus laid a bridge for us to have a relationship. It was only through him that we can be made right with God,” ‘Aunt’ Sarah told us. Why did we need saving? I didn’t do anything wrong this whole week at camp. I didn’t act out like William during team time, and I didn’t get in trouble for being in the girls change room like Douglas. In fact, I was the main object of bullying over the week, but I chose to just ignore it. Sometimes you’re just dealt a bad hand and needed to deal with it yourself. Sometimes you just make sure you’re a little late for swimming so you’re the only one in the change room but sometimes you ask questions so at least the leader likes you.
“How do I cross the bridge,” I said suddenly, catching ‘Aunt’ Sarah off guard.
“Does anyone else want to know?” ‘Aunt’ Sarah asked, looking around the group. I looked around the group and saw by their blank expressions the answer was no. Brent was still pulling grass and tossing it in the air, but now he’d stumbled upon a few maple keys and started dropping them and watching them glide to the ground like nature’s little helicopters. The rest of the children on my team were anxious to get out of the sun and get in line for tuck. Slushies were the special for Wednesday. “You guys are free to go, don’t forget your memory verses.” She turned to me, and said “Did you want to know more about crossing the bridge?”
This wasn’t going like it was supposed to. Instead of being sent off to tuck with the other children I was still here sitting in the sun, but now alone. I was in too deep now, I had to finish what I had started.
“Yes, I want to cross the bridge. I want to go to heaven. I want to be friends with Jesus.” I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of my mouth. My hair started to stand on end.
“I’ll be right back, I have to go get a book,” she said as she got up and left me sitting alone in the middle of the field under the beating sun. I looked down to the lake where the children were swimming. That’s the real reason I was here, I just wanted free swimming lessons and to hang out with my friends all day. I didn’t want to cross the bridge or learn about Jesus. I wanted to swim. I saw ‘Aunt’ Sarah running across the field towards me.
“Ryan, I got this book for you,” she said, handing me a small booklet. It was printed on orange paper and used red ink. The front of the booklet contained a drawing of a man walking across a bridge shaped like a cross. Above the bridge were the words “Walking on the Bridge to Life” in big block letters. The book didn’t look like it had been printed in this decade, and it definitely wasn’t aimed at children.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked sincerely. I couldn’t think that having a relationship with the creator of the universe could be achieved by simply reading a poor man’s comic book. She looked at me with a dumbfounded look. She took the book from me and started going through it page by page, asking me if I understood. I did understand. How could I not? It was so simple. We reached the end of the booklet.
“Are you ready to say the prayer?” she said as she put her hand on my back and for the first time since I went swimming earlier that day, I felt coolness come over me. I didn’t know what the prayer was, but she assured me she would lead me through it.
“I am a sinner,” she started, “who has fallen short of God’s standards to get into heaven.” I repeated after her. She continued, “I am sorry for sinning against you and I want to become your child. I need your forgiveness.” I repeated after her again, even though I didn’t really know what I was saying. The sound of the children at the tuck shop had settled down and I hoped I hadn’t missed it. The thought of the cold, cherry flavoured ice sliding down my throat as I drank the slushie almost made me get up and run away from her. She continued, “I’m turning from my sins and want to follow you, I want you to be the Lord of my life and my savior…” She paused to let the words sink in, “In Jesus name, Amen.”
“I’m turning from my sins and want to follow you, I want you to be the Lord of my life and my savior, Amen,” I repeated, not fully understanding what I had just done. I looked up at her and she smiled at me. She asked me how I felt, but I didn’t know how she wanted me to answer. I didn’t feel any different than I did before. I looked over to the lake where the children had been swimming. They weren’t there anymore. The sound of the children at the tuck shop had died. The camp bell rang for chapel. I looked at Aunt Sarah and she took my hand and helped me up. My legs were covered in imprints from the dead grass on my legs. The world seemed calmer now, quieter, more serene. I had made a friend that day.