Author: danefowlkes

Discipleship is rarely appealing, and authentic Christianity is increasingly unpopular. To put it another way, the handwriting on the wall spells out persecution. In a now-viral BuzzFeed video, individuals state, “I’m a Christian, but I’m not . . .” and make other similar comments. When asked, “What do you want people to know about Christianity?” responses include: “We’re all kind of not crazy,” and: “At its core it’s really about love and acceptance and being a good neighbor.” When prompted, “What do you want people to know about Christianity?” not one person even mentions Jesus. There is a movement afoot to make Jesus palatable, but what a person can swallow won’t necessarily help them when it matters most.

Following Jesus means identifying with him in life and death. “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23). Christ’s definition of discipleship contains three successive steps, each building on the previous. The final one in the sequence is “Follow me,” and may be accurately translated, “Obey me.” The order of these is critical–if I jump to obey without having first denied myself and accepted a cross, my obedience will be spotty at best. Following Jesus on my own terms is another word for disobedience.

Obedience is both a thought process and a pattern of choosing. If disobedience is the name of the game before we are Christians, then certainly obedience is the name of the game after we become Christians. A great chasm yawns between disciplined believers and spiritual couch potatoes. Grace was never intended to produce sluggish, flabby Christians. Although we rightfully gorge ourselves on an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of mercy, Scripture expects the opposite of spiritual obesity, out-of-shape believers lumbering lethargically through their spiritual journey. Grace results in heightened passion to pursue God, or we misunderstand its divine intent; grace and hunger are not only compatible, they are conjoined at the heart. The Bible unapologetically urges those who are being saved to strive, and those who have been found by grace to stay after the search for greater intimacy with the Grace-giver.In the original Greek, these steps are stated in the present, continuous tense; in other words, “Keep on denying yourself, keep on taking up your cross, keep on following me.” This is not the decision of a moment, but a program for a lifetime, to be repeated again and again, whenever we fall into circumstances which make these choices necessary. This is what it means to be a disciple. Discipleship is denying your right to yourself, and taking up the cross, accepting these incidents and circumstances which expose our pride and conceit, welcoming them, and then following him, doing what he says to do, looking to him for the power.

This is not always a very appealing course, is it? I am sure that it must have struck these disciples and the multitude with very solemn and serious impact. In fact, John tells us that at this point many turned and went back, and followed him no more, because these words seemed to them harsh and demanding. We can always be grateful that our Lord never has invited any to come after him without letting them know what would be involved. He told them straight from the shoulder what they would be getting into. And he does this with us. He is not interested in anybody’s becoming a Christian, or attempting to live as a Christian, on false terms. He wants us to understand that this is going to shatter us, change us, make us into a different kind of people. Following Jesus requires a radically new way of thinking and living.

I’m not preaching today for the first time in quite a spell, so I’m enjoying a quiet morning around Pa Amani (“Place of Peace” in Swahili), with coffee cup in one hand and a copy of “My Utmost for His Highest” in the others. Chambers has been a fairly constant companion for many years, and I rarely open its gilded pages without opening my mind as well to a new perspective or an old perspective with fresh resolve. For those of us who wonder at God’s willingness to work through broken pots, Chambers encourages:

“A river touches places of which its source knows nothing, and Jesus says if we have received of his fullness, however small the visible measure of our lives, out of us will flow the rivers that will bless to the uttermost parts of the earth.”

Christ is the source of all that lives and breathes and inspires and transforms; I am a tributary commissioned to bear his likeness to dry and parched people. Someone in a dark and lonely place longs to drink deep from the Source, and I will either bring them life or disappointment.

A thin blue line runs through our family, and we are the better for it. He daily buttons shirt over Kevlar vest and belts up with the controversial tools of his trade; we salute him and the other men and women who perform their thankless duty for embarrassingly small pay in the face of enormous cultural opposition. It is far from easy, but our son-in-law sees public safety as God’s call on his life, and he somehow finds a way to compassionately serve while firmly standing against all that’s wrong in our city. He stands tall as a blue example of strength and beauty, compassion and resolve, apparent contradictions that are required for a police officer who serves “as unto the Lord.”

The Gospel is Good News because it is a narrative of grace custom fit for each individual. None of us are cast in another’s mold; Jesus comes and interacts with my story. If he finds me cooperative and compliant, over time I start to look like him. Christianity is never forceful, but it is not passive. Christ refuses to push the issue against my will; he bends instead of breaks.
“Christ was crucified because he would have nothing to do with the crowd (even though he addressed himself to all). He did not want to form a party, an interest group, or a mass movement, but wanted to be what he was, the truth, which is related to the single individual.” 

~Søren Kierkegaard, Provocations

I’m beginning to think it’s harder to live like Jesus at church than anywhere else. Christians appear to work less at getting along than those who claim no connection to the church or Jesus; I’ll never cease to be amazed at the way we treat one another in the name of Christ. Some may say that’s just human nature, and therein lies the problem. Christians are supposed to operate according to a reborn nature. Is it any wonder that the masses are either turning away or staying away from Church? Who can blame anyone for choosing not to be the brunt of someone else’s critical spirit, even if that less than exemplary spirit is acted out “in Jesus’ name.” I learned just last week of one man who loved the Lord but left church because the stress he experienced being among other church members was too much to bear.

There is more good natured camaraderie and joie de vivre at the corner pub than in many churches. I can’t help but wish that church more resembled Alcoholics Anonymous than the Friday Night Fights. 

“No matter what far place alcoholics end up in, either in this country or virtually anywhere else, they know that there will be an A.A. meeting nearby to go to and that at that meeting they will find strangers who are not strangers to help and to heal, to listen to the truth and to tell it. That is what the Body of Christ is all about. Would it ever occur to Christians in a far place to turn to a church nearby in hope of finding the same? Would they find it? If not, you wonder what is so big about the church’s business.” (Frederick Buechner)

I have believed for years that what most of us are seeking is an accepting group of individuals that love without judgment or condemnation. I hang on to the slim hope that this may one day be found at church. 

“Faith must be tested, because it can only become your intimate possession through conflict.”~ Oswald Chambers

I should be asleep by now, but sadness won’t let me relax. I’ve known disappointment before, so I ask myself why so surprised by such an outcome. Given time and opportunity, people let you down, and at no time is it more painful than when it happens in church. Fellow church members are those that share a common name and supposedly embrace a shared purpose. Unfortunately, shared missions are easily trumped by private agendas, and if not vigilant, my heart easily crusts over in the wake of such jockeying for power.

Fortunately for me, I was able to limp away from the battlefield right into the sanctuary of my small group. This band of brothers and sisters knows no control, only cooperation; no power agendas, only acceptance. I can breathe here. I find myself in the eyes of those who better see what God is doing in me than I am able to detect on my own. In place of anger and hostility, there is love and koininia. No one receives any pay. No vote is ever taken. No committee structure dominates the scene. We worship, study Scripture, pray for one another, identify any need we’re aware of that we may address, and then take action to do just that. Grace flourishes in our small group, and I thank God for the mercy and love I find in relationship with these precious friends.

I’m not admitting to procrastination, but I finally got around to cleaning out the briefcase I used on vacation two months ago. This is my extra briefcase, the one kept for personal use versus the one I use for business on a regular basis. It serves as a professional catch-all, a convenient landing place for receipts, writing pens, socks, paperbacks, travel brochures, and the like. I created several piles atop my quilted bedspread–one for useless papers and outdated things to toss, a second stack of what is important to keep, and still another for those things that fall somewhere between the other more definitive categories. It was into the third pile that I placed a small green metal ringed notepad. First glance did not stir any memory, so I tossed it aside and completed my task. I trashed the throwaway items, carefully filed and stored the keepers, and then set about the less pleasant business of vacation triage–what to salvage and, more importantly, where to put the things that make the cut. I retrieved the small notepad to examine it more closely and opened it in order to make sure the pages were blank so that I could save it for my grandchildren’s use. Sorting vacation remnants amounts to something akin to mental hop scotch; each item jogs a memory. What I remembered about the miniature notepad was that I had found it in the rear of the rented Suburban while arranging our luggage. Time was of the essence, so I had stuffed it in a pocket and later stowed it in my travel briefcase. That’s where it remained until today. 

What I read connects me to someone I’ll never meet but am praying for nonetheless. The name ‘Olivia’ is neatly written in red ink on the cover. The first page contains a choppy explanation of the note pad’s use–Olivia is learning what it means to be homeless. She writes: “I am used to having water and food always available. Now I won’t be able to. Homeless ppl don’t. I am expecting to be under a bridge in a large group of homeless community. Long walk, cold and wet. Some said, ‘take care,’ and ‘God bless you.’ Most people just turn the other way. Stared at me and judged. Hope is for today.” That’s the line that got me. When you’re cold and hungry, life rapidly distills the essentials– locate food and warmth, and secure it now, not later. I flip the miniature page and find cryptic notes of an interview with Gary. Olivia describes him as a trucker who lived in thirty one different states, but has been “here” for three years. She learns from Gary that “flying” is another word for panhandling, and that he takes what he calls an “honest” approach. Instead of holding a sign advertising: ‘Will work for food’, his states simply: ‘Need Beer.’ Olivia evidently tried her hand at flying and took in $28 in thirty minutes. It started to rain and one person in particular bought three meals from Chickfila and told her to take care of her kids.

The mysterious little flip pad raises many questions. Who is Olivia? Where is “here?” What prompted her poverty immersion? What happened to Gary? Why did Olivia begin recording her experience only to stop after four pages and discard the notepad? How did it end up in the back of a rental, and why was I the one to find and read it? Was Olivia altered by the experience? What would she think if she were reading this right now? All of these are unsolvable mysteries, along with the identities and stories of the homeless people Olivia interviewed. All that remains is a small green notepad and one riveting conclusion–no matter who you are, hope is for today.

My wife and I approach life from opposing default settings. Mine leans toward intention while my wife’s is set resolutely on action. The chasm is clear almost daily. For example, my wife may state in an understated manner, “The rose bed needs weeding.” I readily agree, of course, because it does, but almost as quickly I think–it will be cooler in the late evening or early morning; better yet, next month will undoubtedly be much more pleasant than right now. My shoulder should be well in three-to-four weeks. Perhaps I’ll find someone I could pay to do it for us. When my wife says the rose bed needs weeding, she means we should whip it out in the next hour; there’s no time like the present. We agree on the desired outcome, but are worlds apart on how to get there. By the way, I finally did extract the weeds, and only a couple of months after the initial “suggestion.”

God and I start from eternally different default settings. We may agree on the desired outcome, say “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,” but again I lean decidedly towards intention while my Father means right now, in this place, with these people, from within my sphere of influence. Intent versus action summarizes Satan’s game plan. He doesn’t dare deny the truth of the Gospel to me; he doesn’t need to. All he need do is convince me to delay or forget, and I play right into his hands. “What one does is what counts. Not what one had the intention of doing” (Pablo Picasso). Inaction invalidates intent every time. 

“To read the Bible according to God’s providential order in your circumstances is the only way to read it, viz., in the blood and passion of personal life.”

~O. Chambers, Disciples Indeed

Air travel is at odds with personal space. Private domains end on the jet bridge, at least that’s the way I felt when my wife and I boarded a Boeing 737 for our flight from Charlotte-Douglas International Airport to Dallas-Ft. Worth en route to our home in Waco. Group Four entered last (I’m always in Group Four), making for a long and uncomfortable trek down the gauntlet of comfortable passengers in business class and weary travelers in coach, all the way to our assigned seats near the aisle and middle of the 25th row. As we located our spots, we found that a young red headed woman with brightly colored tattoos covering the exposed skin of her right arm was already seated next to the window. The 25B on my boarding pass meant that I was supposed to sit next to her. My wife could tell from my body language that the last thing I wanted was to spend the next three hours uncomfortably wedged near the tattooed female, so she came to my rescue and said she would switch places. Fighting a twinge of guilt, I accepted her offer and silently prayed she wouldn’t be too inconvenienced while I settled in to exercise one of my spiritual gifts–airplane slumber.

I’m often more adept at preaching truth than living it, while my wife heralds well the Gospel in ordinary ways with extraordinary impact.  As I physically slumped and mentally eased into airborne siesta, my wife engaged in small talk with the red headed stranger. In short order, the two became friends; the young lady introduced herself as Cherish and proceeded to narrate her life’s story. I caught only snippets of the conversation, but enough to know that she was honorably discharged from the military following three tours in Iraq, that life is hard for a female guard in a male dominated maximum security prison, and that she was holding out hope for more. My wife listened compassionately and shared just enough of her own story to underscore God’s grace in a contagious manner. Only God knows how Cherish’s story will end, but no doubt her next chapter will include some serious consideration of the Christ-life my wife described and displays. Being in the right place at the right time has far more to do with discernment and courage than anything else. I am by no means denying providence, simply reinforcing that it comes into focus when we courageously help others in Jesus’ name. While I was paralyzed by inconvenience and discomfort, my wife saw an opportunity to participate in what God was doing.

At age seventeen, I was convinced that God wanted me to join a team from my home church on an ambitious mission trip across the globe. This came at a time when churches were just beginning to move from simply supporting missionaries to sending their own members abroad for the purpose of getting their hands dirty in sharing the Gospel. I quickly encountered a major obstacle–money–or more to the point, the lack of it. My father worked for the Gulf oil refinery in Port Arthur, and a boilermaker’s salary in 1977 did not allow an extra couple thousand dollars to send someone around the world, no matter the cause. At the point when it looked like this would be one of those grand ideas that never materialized, my mother suggested I write to a wealthy Christian business woman and describe my need. At Mom’s prompting and using my best high school penmanship, I wrote to Mary Crowley, founder of Home Interiors and Gifts, Inc. of Dallas, and asked her to help make it possible for me to go to South Korea with the World Evangelism Foundation. She responded with a kind note of encouragement and a generous check–both were game changers.
Mrs. Crowley’s gift to a total stranger enabled me to embark on a journey that opened up the world for a youth from southeast Texas, whose worldview up to that time consisted of Gulf Oil and Gulf beaches. The entire experience softened my heart and cultivated fertile ground that led to another journey two years later to a different part of South Korea, accompanied by an even stronger sense of divine communication. Sitting among missionaries in Bell Chapel one Sunday afternoon on a hillside in Kwang Ju, God’s Spirit spoke in language my heart understood, and I knew that His plan for me included cross-cultural ministry. I returned to college, altered my degree plan to a missions-specific one, and set my heart flint-like towards the nations. Most roads in life are circuitous rather than straight, and it took fourteen years for me to travel from that moment in Kwang Ju to arriving in East Africa under appointment of what was once known as the Foreign Mission Board. By God’s grace and with a strong sense of destiny, I lived and labored a total of nine years in Kenya and India. Now, some 38 years after that first journey to South Korea, I am privileged to help individuals, families, and churches fulfill their own passion to advance God’s kingdom around the world through the expansive ministry of Samaritan’s Purse. It all started with a small gift from a big heart for a teenage boy Mary Crowley would never meet. Never underestimate the power of generosity.