Walking By Faith

Walking by faith is hard.  Every week our technical teams send out our worship services into the unknown.  We have people all over the world who watch our stream, but we really don't know who most of them are.  We broadcast live to 2000 TVs at six campuses of Florida Hospital with no way of knowing who watches and who doesn't.  We have visitors every week in our Worship Center and Worship Cafes.  We have members whose world is falling apart, and we have no idea.  But we walk by faith that the message of hope will reach a needing heart and have an impact.

At least that's what we try to do.  It’s easy to get caught up week to week and wonder if there is anyone even out there, if it even makes a difference.  That's why it was so refreshing last week when I got a series of testimonies from the people at our Winter Park Memorial Hospital Worship Cafes.  Stories of families in crisis who received the hope they needed.  Families united in a time of worship, even though one of them was in the hospital and another was at church.  People who have come to believe in Jesus through our services.

John 4:37 says that "one sows and another reaps."  In evangelism, it is incredibly rare that the same person who sows the seed will also see the harvest.  We each play our own roles, big and small, seen and unseen.  We live by faith that for every story we hear, for every harvest we see, there are others that we will never see.

The same is true in my own life.  I’ve had people who knew I was a Christian even though I never said anything about God, but something about the way I lived my life told them.  We never know when a smile or a simple word of encouragement will make a difference in someone's day.  We may never know the impact of the things we do, but by faith we can know that it makes a difference.  And every now and then, we may even get to hear a story that reminds us that this is true.

Chad Hess

Touchstone

I’m more than occasionally afflicted by sentimentalism, and my family recently underwent a group case of the disorder.

In February of 2000, Vickie and I traded her sporty Thunderbird for a practical Ford Explorer.  She was seven months pregnant with Luke, and as awesome as the Thunderbird was, it wasn't a family car.  Two months later, we drove our first baby home in that Explorer.

On Sept 11, 2001, we were on our way to get the tires exchanged due to the Firestone recall when she heard on the radio that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center.  I was following her and will always remember watching her get out of her car at a traffic light and come back to my truck to tell me what was happening.

In March of 2003, our almost three-year-old son and I went to pick up Vickie and our new baby girl, Taylor, in the Explorer.

For almost 15 years we drove that car (Sally) on countless family vacations—from the Florida Keys to Upper Michigan.  It made more than 1500 trips to school. It faithfully took us to doctors appointments, church, the beach, and always to work.  It’s safe to say that we drove our money out of that car.

So in August, it was evident that Vickie needed to trade. Sally squeaked (or talked according to Taylor) at every bump and turn in the road.  The oil stain on the driveway was becoming embarrassing.  The carpet was a series of stains (or memories according to your perspective), and you were reminded of the leak in the back window by the vague musty smell every time you opened the door.

Yet when the time came, it was hard to see the Explorer go. Intellectually, we understood that a car is just an arrangement of steel and plastic, glass and rubber.  It has no soul, no heart, no personality.  Yet we sense an emotional bond, a loss at seeing it go away. Why?

To be human means to experience loss. The older we get, the more acutely we understand our ultimate inability to hold onto anything.  We lose childhood homes. We move from the cities or towns of our youth. We leave one school for another; we get a job and leave a job. We lose friends and relatives to time, space, and eventually to death.  All of these things are the touchstones of our lives, be they a friend, a house, a parent, or a car.

These touchstones trigger the memories that make us who we are. Anyone who has ever revisited an important place from their youth will understand. When you walk into a home or down a school hall that you haven't seen in decades, or when you reconnect with a friend or relative who has been missing from your life, the lost memories flood your mind. When we lose a touchstone, we instinctively realize that we are losing a part of ourselves, a set of memories that we may never recapture.

Loss is death . . . but it’s not supposed to be that way.

God whispers that we were built for life, not for death.  That death and loss are unnatural. That there is a reality of eternal discovery, exploration, and relationship.  The reality that we were made for, the reality that our spirit is testifying to every time we sense the pain of loss.

As Jesus hung on the cross, the thief next to him, being convinced that Jesus was indeed a king who would survive this crucifixion, uttered the words, “Remember me when you come into your Kingdom.” I love those words. He didn’t ask to be saved or spared.  He didn’t seek pity or mercy. He asked to be remembered. So many seek to be remembered, to leave a legacy, to make a lasting impact, but this remembering is different.

Jesus’ response to the request to be remembered was to declare that the thief would be with him in paradise.  Jesus displayed himself as the ultimate touchstone, the cornerstone on which our true reality is founded. To be remembered by Jesus is not to leave a legacy—it’s to be his legacy.

To be remembered by Jesus is to be completed, to be healed, to be restored to the divine intention—to return to the eternal life of discovery, exploration and relationship. To be remembered by Jesus is to never lose or be lost again.

He has sought us, and he has saved us. He has done everything to restore us to the eternal life that’s written in our hearts and declared in his word. He loves us.

So our Explorer is gone.  It’s a little sad, but it’s okay.  After all, it’s just an arrangement of steel and plastic, glass and rubber.  It’s just a small touchstone of loss to remind us of a greater reality.

John Monday

My Singular Intention

I'm spending the week at a condo on the beach.  It’s our annual family beach trip when we take the week off to rest, relax, and decompress in the sun and waves.  There’s no agenda, no schedule, no work, no pressure, no distraction from the simple intention of reconnecting and celebrating the love we share for each other . . . and the beach.

Part of what makes this such a wonderful experience is the planning and preparation done in advance.  We spent untold hours searching for a condo that would accommodate our growing family, give us a front row seat on the ocean, and offer comfort and quality while staying within our budget.  We wrote out menus and grocery lists, packed swimsuits and games, put holds on mail and newspaper delivery, and lined up redundancy plans for work responsibilities.  We thought ahead for what games, movies, and sport equipment we wanted to include.  My daughter even cancelled the Facebook App on her phone, determined to take a break from even this distraction.

The addition of Adelyn, our six-month-old granddaughter, into the mix has called for some new considerations.  Each of us sport outfits complimented by spit-up, we’re more quiet when she’s napping, and we know any excursions taking place outside the condo need to be planned before her 7:00 pm bedtime.  All of these adjustments are happily accommodated with respect and consideration for each family member. Our singular intention is to be available in every way for the overall experience.

I doubt my family is unique in how we plan for a vacation.  Most people reading this blog will be nodding their heads, remembering their own trips. 

Then the Lord told Moses, “Go down and prepare the people for my arrival. Consecrate them today and tomorrow, and have them wash their clothing. Be sure they are ready on the third day, for on that day the Lord will come down on Mount Sinai as all the people watch.   Exodus 19:10-11

When the Lord invited the Israelites to meet with him at Mount Sinai, he instructed Moses that the people were to take three days to prepare.  Three days of planning, preparing, and intentional activities so they could be fully immersed in the experience – fully present in the moment.  God’s invitation required—and deserved—this.

We are invited on a weekly basis to meet with God.  His invitation is as real and important today as it was over 3000 years ago to a group of ancient Hebrew wanderers.  

Do I put the same kind of time and energy into meeting my God—the Creator of the universe, the Savior of my soul, the Provider of my very existence—that I do in meeting my family for a week at the beach?  Is my aim for quality time as determined?  Am I as careful to respect and consider the experience of the rest of those around me?  Is my singular intention to accept God’s invitation and be available in every way for the overall experience?

If not, why not?  What practices can I incorporate in my life to make that change?  How do I move from looking at my weekly corporate worship experience as more than a routine task to check off my list and become fully immersed in the sacred moment?

Tami Cinquemani

When Things Aren't "Right"

Our natural tendency is to want everything to go well. We all want a "and they all lived happily ever after" kind of life.  But it's not to be. At the worst, really bad stuff happens, and at the very least, not all our dreams come true.  How do you face difficulty?  When things go wrong, when bad stuff happens, how do you manage?

Part of the source of anger we feel when things go badly is that our agenda, our plan, our expectation was blocked.  We get married and have all these expectations of life, love and belonging.  Then there's the accident or disease or growing apart, and instead of all our visions of the future, the marriage ends and the anger we feel, at least in part, finds its source in our blocked agenda.  We sign up for a class we really want to take, and we believe that the class will enable us. We imagine painting masterpieces, or becoming a math wiz, a computer game designer, or a wise financial investor, but the teacher isn't very good or the class is at a very different level of expertise than we are.  Maybe we try some of the class ideas, and we just can't seem to master them.  Then we get mad because the agenda of our expectations is blocked. 

When life throws us a curve ball, how do we handle it?

One of the most insightful helps to handling the bad stuff or the good stuff gone bad is something I read about in Jim Collin's book, Good to Great.  He writes about an interview with Admiral Jim Stockdale, who was tortured over 20 times during his eight years in a Vietnam prisoner of war camp.  Jim asked him how he could deal with that incarceration not knowing how the story would end.  Stockdale said, "I never lost faith in the end of the story.  I never doubted, not only that I would get out, but also that I would prevail in the end an turn the experience into the defining event of my life which, in retrospect, I would not trade."

When Collins asked him who didn't make it out, I was surprised by the answer.  It was the optimists.  Stockdale said, "The optimists were the ones who said, 'We're going to be out by Christmas.' And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. 'We're going to be out by Easter.' And Easter would come, and Easter would go. And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again.  And they died of a broken heart."

On page 86 in Good to Great, there is the Stockdale Paradox. On one side—Retain faith that you will prevail in the end, regardless of the difficulties . . . AND at the same time on the other side—Confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.

As one of the farmyard animals in the movie Babe, said, "The way things are is the way things are." When our agendas get blocked—the simple agenda of being to work on time and there's a traffic jam, to our life agenda with a life partner and all that entails ending by the tragedy of death or divorce—how will we handle it?

Hopefully, we will move forward best with both faith and candor. Faith that we will prevail in the end regardless of current circumstances, and without illusion or fantasy, confronting the cold hard brutal facts of our current reality and not live in denial or dishonesty.

Shifting from our personal experience when things aren't right for us, what about where things aren't right in our world? Injustice is real. People get shot—with intention or by accident.  Forty-eight million Americans will experience inadequate food this year.  Young girls are stolen from their African village.  Rampaging extremists kill all the men in a town. Children are sold and enslaved.

With all the evil in the world, we might be tempted to say, "It will all work out," or we might simply be overwhelmed by the badness.

But an alternative in our own lives and in our culture could be to become people of faith who hold tenaciously to the hope that one day all will be set right (God wins) and who, in the mean time, acknowledge the hard cold brutal facts in order to push back and be instruments of peace and justice where things aren't right.  

So, to what place of paradox is God calling you?  Where are you uniquely equipped to hold prevailing faith in one hand and confrontation with reality in the other? 

Andy McDonald

Change

I have been fascinated in life by change.  Some find it difficult; others seem to celebrate it.  Culture changes.  My body changes. Countries around the globe change.  Our children keep changing.  

Another thing is for sure:  eventually, if you live long enough, there is the possibility that change will break your heart.

A friend of mine’s parents were married over 50 years, and then one of them developed dementia that eventually required constant care in a facility.  So my friend took them there.  The first night he went to tuck his mother into a room with a little single bed for her to sleep in, and it broke his heart.  She said to him, “But where is my husband?  I always sleep next to my husband.  I want to sleep next to my husband.”  He wasn't prepared for that question.  The only thing he could think of to say was, “But Mom, this bed is way too small.”  She simply replied, “But I could curl up into a real small ball.”  My friend hates change.

A little girl used to put her head under the pillow at night so she couldn’t hear her parents, whom she loved, yelling at each other.  Then one night the yelling stopped because her mommy and daddy were not going to live in the same house anymore.  This little girl hates change.

A man has a job he loves.  It wakes him up in the morning.  It gives him significance and identity, people look up to him, and people seek him out for advice.  Then one day he’s told he’s too old, or one day he has a stroke and he no longer can speak a full sentence coherently.  Suddenly, none of those people are coming to see him anymore.  This man hates change.

This is a change-crazy, heartbreaking world.  So what do you do?  Where do you go? Maybe these are questions you’re asking yourself today, or maybe they’ll come tomorrow.  What do you count on in a changing world?  In my opinion, you count on what the Bible names as the only hope of our heartbroken, change-infected human species.

"In the beginning you [God] laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands.  They will perish but You remain; they will all wear out like a garment.  Like clothing you will change them and they will be discarded.  But You remain the same, and Your years will never end."   Psalm 102:25-27 

Then God summarizes this great TRUTH in the ancient book written by the prophet Malachi, where God makes this statement:  “I the Lord do not change.”

I have watched despair infect many people.  This is a truth about God, one of the great truths about God.  You can build your life on this truth.  You can count on God. The Bible says you can count on God because God ALONE does not change.  He is the only sure foundation in a heartbreaking world.  

Bill Crofton

Fire and the Giant Trees

The long drive through the arid valley of Central California was finally ending. While it was interesting to see the grape vineyards, pistachio trees and endless citrus groves, the excitement was building as we started the ascent into the hills. We had come here to see the big trees.

Specifically some of the largest and oldest living things on earth - Sequoia trees. As we were driving into the forest, the large sugar pines were in themselves far larger than the pines I was used to in the East. But they were mere appetizers as we rolled down the windows to see who could catch the first glimpse of the ancient ones. The aroma was noticeably different; there was a sweetness to it, and the air was getting cooler. And then we saw one, massive in girth and Herculean as it rose skyward. We eventually made it to a grove and walked the trails to take it all in. We were all children in the candy store.

A few facts about the Sequoias:

They are the largest trees by volume.

They only grow on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevadas of California between 4600 and 6600 feet.

The trees have need to have wildfires to be able to reproduce.

The trees come from a very small seed.

Although the trees are giants, they have a very shallow root system.

Being around these trees gave me a sense of something sacred. I realized that the trees in this forest were very young when King David was ruling in Israel.

The one interesting fact that I kept thinking about was the need for fire to be present for the tree to survive for future generations. We, as Christians are reminded by Peter about the fires in our lives as well for growth:

Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal among you, which comes upon you for your testing, as though some strange thing were happening to you; but to the degree that you share the sufferings of Christ, keep on rejoicing, so that also at the revelation of His glory you may rejoice with exultation.… I Peter 4:12-13

As we continue to face the inevitable fires in our lives, let’s remember the Sequoias, the great ancient trees that, like us, must have fires to grow into the future.

Richard Hickam