HOPE
by Max Lucado
It's one of the most compelling narratives in all of Scripture. So fascinating is the scene, in fact, that Luke opted to record it in detail.
Two disciples are walking down the dusty road to the village of Emmaus. Their talk concerns the crucified Jesus. Their words come slowly, trudging in cadence with the dirge-like pace of their feet.
"I can hardly believe it. He's gone."
"What do we do now?"
"It's Peter's fault, he shouldn't have ... "
Just then a stranger comes up from behind and says, "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing you. Who are you discussing?"
They stop and turn. Other travelers make their way around them as the three stand in silence. Finally one of them asks, "Where have you been the last few days? Haven't you heard about Jesus of Nazareth?" And he continues to tell what has happened. (Luke 24:13-24)
This scene fascinates me—two sincere disciples telling how the last nail has been driven in Israel's coffin. God, in disguise, listens patiently, his wounded hands buried deeply in his robe. He must have been touched at the faithfulness of this pair. Yet he also must have been a bit chagrined. He had just gone to hell and back to give heaven to earth, and these two were worried about the political situation of Israel.
"But we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel."
But we had hoped ... How often have you heard a phrase like that?
"We were hoping the doctor would release him."
"I had hoped to pass the exam."
"We had hoped the surgery would get all the tumor."
"I thought the job was in the bag."
Words painted gray with disappointment. What we wanted didn't come. What came, we didn't want. The result? Shattered hope. The foundation of our world trembles.
We trudge up the road to Emmaus dragging our sandals in the dust, wondering what we did to deserve such a plight. "What kind of God would let me down like this?"
And yet, so tear-filled are our eyes and so limited is our perspective that God could be the fellow walking next to us and we wouldn't know it.
You see, the problem with our two heavy-hearted friends was not a lack of faith, but a lack of vision. Their petitions were limited to what they could imagine—an earthly kingdom. Had God answered their prayer, had he granted their hope, the Seven-Day War would have started two thousand years earlier and Jesus would have spent the next forty years training his apostles to be cabinet members. You have to wonder if God's most merciful act is his refusal to answer some of our prayers.
We are not much different than burdened travelers, are we? We roll in the mud of self-pity in the very shadow of the cross. We piously ask for his will and then have the audacity to pout if everything doesn't go our way. If we would just remember the heavenly body that awaits us, we'd stop complaining that he hasn't healed this earthly one.
Our problem is not so much that God doesn't give us what we hope for as it is that we don't know the right thing for which to hope. (You may want to read that sentence again.)
Hope is not what you expect; it is what you would never dream. It is a wild, improbable tale with a pinch-me-I'm-dreaming ending. It's Abraham adjusting his bifocals so he can see not his grandson, but his son. It's Moses standing in the promised land not with Aaron or Miriam at his side, but with Elijah and the transfigured Christ. It's Zechariah left speechless at the sight of his wife Elizabeth, gray-headed and pregnant. And it is the two Emmaus-bound pilgrims reaching out to take a piece of bread only to see that the hands from which it is offered are pierced.
Hope is not a granted wish or a favor performed; no, it is far greater than that. It is a zany, unpredictable dependence on a God who loves to surprise us out of our socks and be there in the flesh to see our reaction.
From God Came Near: Chronicles of the Christ
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1985, 2004) Max Lucado
Showing posts with label Max Lucado. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Max Lucado. Show all posts
Friday, August 20, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
A devotional from Max Lucado
Friends, this was so good, I just had to share it today!
The Guest of the Maestro
by Max Lucado
What happens when a dog interrupts a concert? To answer that, come with me to a spring night in Lawrence, Kansas.
Take your seat in Hoch Auditorium and behold the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra—the oldest continually operating orchestra in the world. The greatest composers and conductors in history have directed this orchestra. It was playing in the days of Beethoven (some of the musicians have been replaced).
You watch as stately dressed Europeans take their seats on the stage. You listen as professionals carefully tune their instruments. The percussionist puts her ear to the kettle drum. A violinist plucks the nylon sting. A clarinet player tightens the reed. And you sit a bit straighter as the lights dim and the tuning stops. The music is about to begin.
The conductor, dressed in tails, strides onto the stage, springs onto the podium, and gestures for the orchestra to rise. You and two thousand others applaud. The musicians take their seats, the maestro takes his position, and the audience holds its breath.
There is a second of silence between lightning and thunder. And there is a second of silence between the raising of the baton and the explosion of the music. But when it falls the heavens open and you are delightfully drenched in the downpour of Beethoven's Third Symphony.
Such was the power of that spring night in Lawrence, Kansas. That hot, spring night in Lawrence, Kansas. I mention the temperature so you'll understand why the doors were open. It was hot. Hoch Auditorium, a historic building, was not air-conditioned. Combine bright stage lights with formal dress and furious music, and the result is a heated orchestra. Outside doors on each side of the stage were left open in case of a breeze.
Enter, stage right, the dog. A brown, generic, Kansas dog. Not a mean dog. Not a mad dog. Just a curious dog. He passes between the double basses and makes his way through the second violins and into the cellos. His tail wags in beat with the music. As the dog passes between the players, they look at him, look at each other, and continue with the next measure.
The dog takes a liking to a certain cello. Perhaps it was the lateral passing of the bow. Maybe it was the eye-level view of the strings. Whatever it was, it caught the dog's attention and he stopped and watched. The cellist wasn't sure what to do. He'd never played before a canine audience. And music schools don't teach you what dog slobber might do to the lacquer of a sixteenth-century Guarneri cello. But the dog did nothing but watch for a moment and then move on.
Had he passed on through the orchestra, the music might have continued. Had he made his way across the stage into the motioning hands of the stagehand, the audience might have never noticed. But he didn't leave. He stayed. At home in the splendor. Roaming through the meadow of music.
He visited the woodwinds, turned his head at the trumpets, stepped between the flutists, and stopped by the side of the conductor. And Beethoven's Third Symphony came undone.
The musicians laughed. The audience laughed. The dog looked up at the conductor and panted. And the conductor lowered his baton.
The most historic orchestra in the world. One of the most moving pieces ever written. A night wrapped in glory, all brought to a stop by a wayward dog.
The chuckles ceased as the conductor turned. What fury might erupt? The audience grew quiet as the maestro faced them. What fuse had been lit? The polished, German director looked at the crowd, looked down at the dog, then looked back at the people, raised his hands in a universal gesture and . . . shrugged.
Everyone roared.
He stepped off the podium and scratched the dog behind the ears. The tail wagged again. The maestro spoke to the dog. He spoke in German, but the dog seemed to understand. The two visited for a few seconds before the maestro took his new friend by the collar and led him off the stage. You'd have thought the dog was Pavarotti the way the people applauded. The conductor returned and the music began and Beethoven seemed none the worse for the whole experience.
Can you find you and me in this picture?
I can. Just call us Fido. And consider God the Maestro.
And envision the moment when we will walk onto his stage. We won't deserve it. We will not have earned it. We may even surprise the musicians with our presence.
The music will be like none we've ever heard. We'll stroll among the angels and listen as they sing. We'll gaze at heaven's lights and gasp as they shine. And we'll walk next to the Maestro, stand by his side, and worship as he leads.
These final chapters remind us of that moment. They challenge us to see the unseen and live for that event. They invite us to tune our ears to the song of the skies and long—long for the moment when we'll be at the Maestro's side.
He, too, will welcome. And he, too, will speak. But he will not lead us away. He will invite us to remain, forever his guests on his stage.
From When God Whispers Your Name
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1999) Max Lucado
The Guest of the Maestro
by Max Lucado
What happens when a dog interrupts a concert? To answer that, come with me to a spring night in Lawrence, Kansas.
Take your seat in Hoch Auditorium and behold the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra—the oldest continually operating orchestra in the world. The greatest composers and conductors in history have directed this orchestra. It was playing in the days of Beethoven (some of the musicians have been replaced).
You watch as stately dressed Europeans take their seats on the stage. You listen as professionals carefully tune their instruments. The percussionist puts her ear to the kettle drum. A violinist plucks the nylon sting. A clarinet player tightens the reed. And you sit a bit straighter as the lights dim and the tuning stops. The music is about to begin.
The conductor, dressed in tails, strides onto the stage, springs onto the podium, and gestures for the orchestra to rise. You and two thousand others applaud. The musicians take their seats, the maestro takes his position, and the audience holds its breath.
There is a second of silence between lightning and thunder. And there is a second of silence between the raising of the baton and the explosion of the music. But when it falls the heavens open and you are delightfully drenched in the downpour of Beethoven's Third Symphony.
Such was the power of that spring night in Lawrence, Kansas. That hot, spring night in Lawrence, Kansas. I mention the temperature so you'll understand why the doors were open. It was hot. Hoch Auditorium, a historic building, was not air-conditioned. Combine bright stage lights with formal dress and furious music, and the result is a heated orchestra. Outside doors on each side of the stage were left open in case of a breeze.
Enter, stage right, the dog. A brown, generic, Kansas dog. Not a mean dog. Not a mad dog. Just a curious dog. He passes between the double basses and makes his way through the second violins and into the cellos. His tail wags in beat with the music. As the dog passes between the players, they look at him, look at each other, and continue with the next measure.
The dog takes a liking to a certain cello. Perhaps it was the lateral passing of the bow. Maybe it was the eye-level view of the strings. Whatever it was, it caught the dog's attention and he stopped and watched. The cellist wasn't sure what to do. He'd never played before a canine audience. And music schools don't teach you what dog slobber might do to the lacquer of a sixteenth-century Guarneri cello. But the dog did nothing but watch for a moment and then move on.
Had he passed on through the orchestra, the music might have continued. Had he made his way across the stage into the motioning hands of the stagehand, the audience might have never noticed. But he didn't leave. He stayed. At home in the splendor. Roaming through the meadow of music.
He visited the woodwinds, turned his head at the trumpets, stepped between the flutists, and stopped by the side of the conductor. And Beethoven's Third Symphony came undone.
The musicians laughed. The audience laughed. The dog looked up at the conductor and panted. And the conductor lowered his baton.
The most historic orchestra in the world. One of the most moving pieces ever written. A night wrapped in glory, all brought to a stop by a wayward dog.
The chuckles ceased as the conductor turned. What fury might erupt? The audience grew quiet as the maestro faced them. What fuse had been lit? The polished, German director looked at the crowd, looked down at the dog, then looked back at the people, raised his hands in a universal gesture and . . . shrugged.
Everyone roared.
He stepped off the podium and scratched the dog behind the ears. The tail wagged again. The maestro spoke to the dog. He spoke in German, but the dog seemed to understand. The two visited for a few seconds before the maestro took his new friend by the collar and led him off the stage. You'd have thought the dog was Pavarotti the way the people applauded. The conductor returned and the music began and Beethoven seemed none the worse for the whole experience.
Can you find you and me in this picture?
I can. Just call us Fido. And consider God the Maestro.
And envision the moment when we will walk onto his stage. We won't deserve it. We will not have earned it. We may even surprise the musicians with our presence.
The music will be like none we've ever heard. We'll stroll among the angels and listen as they sing. We'll gaze at heaven's lights and gasp as they shine. And we'll walk next to the Maestro, stand by his side, and worship as he leads.
These final chapters remind us of that moment. They challenge us to see the unseen and live for that event. They invite us to tune our ears to the song of the skies and long—long for the moment when we'll be at the Maestro's side.
He, too, will welcome. And he, too, will speak. But he will not lead us away. He will invite us to remain, forever his guests on his stage.
From When God Whispers Your Name
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1999) Max Lucado
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Music for the Dance - a devotional by Max Lucado
Music for the Dance
by Max Lucado
Let's imagine that you want to learn to dance. Being the rational, cerebral person you are, you go to a bookstore and buy a book on dancing.
You take the book home and get to work. You do everything it says. The book says sway; you sway. The book says shuffle; you shuffle. The book says spin; you spin.
Finally, you think you’ve got it, and you invite your wife to come in and watch. You hold the book open and follow the instructions step by step.
You continue to read, then dance, read, then dance, until the dance is completed. You plop exhausted on the couch, look at your wife, and proclaim, “I executed it perfectly.”
“You executed it, all right,” she sighs. “You killed it.”
“What?”
“You forgot the most important part. Where is the music?”
Music?
We Christians are prone to follow the book while ignoring the music. We master the doctrine, outline the chapters, memorize the dispensations, debate the rules, and stiffly step down the dance floor of life with no music in our hearts. We measure each step, calibrate each turn, and flop into bed each night exhausted from another day of dancing by the book.
Dancing with no music is tough stuff.
Jesus knew that. For that reason, on the night before his death he introduced the disciples to the song maker of the Trinity, the Holy Spirit. (John 16:7–9).
Of the three persons of the Godhead, the Holy Spirit is the one we understand the least. Perhaps the most common mistake made regarding the Spirit is perceiving him as a power but not a person, a force with no identity. Such is not true.
The Holy Spirit is not an “it.” He is a person. He has knowledge (1 Cor. 2:11). He has a will (1 Cor. 12:11). He has a mind (Rom. 8:27). He has affections (Rom. 15:30). You can lie to him (Acts 5:3–4). You can insult him (Heb. 10:29). You can grieve him (Eph. 4:30).
The Holy Spirit is not an impersonal force. He is not Popeye’s spinach or the surfer’s wave. He is God within you to help you. In fact John calls him the Helper.
Envision a father helping his son learn to ride a bicycle, and you will have a partial picture of the Holy Spirit. The father stays at the son’s side. He pushes the bike and steadies it if the boy starts to tumble. The Spirit does that for us; he stays our step and strengthens our stride. Unlike the father, however, he never leaves. He is with us to the end of the age.
What does the Spirit do?
He comforts the saved. (John 16:7).
He convicts the lost. (John 16:8).
He conveys the truth. (John 16:12).
Is John saying we don’t need the book in order to dance? Of course not; he helped write it. Emotion without knowledge is as dangerous as knowledge without emotion. God seeks a balance. “God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth” (John 4:24).
What is essential is that you know the music is in you. “If Christ is in you, then the Spirit gives you life” (Rom. 8:10). You don’t need a formula to hear it. I don’t have a four-step plan to help you know it. What I do have is his promise that the helper would come to comfort, convict, and convey.
So think about it; have you ever been comforted? Has God ever brought you peace when the world brought you pain? Then you heard the music.
Have you ever been convicted? Have you ever sensed a stab of sorrow for your actions? Then you’ve been touched by the Holy Spirit.
Or have you ever understood a new truth? Or seen an old principle in a new way? The light comes on. Your eyes pop open. “Aha, now I understand.” Ever happen to you? If so, that was the Holy Spirit conveying to you a new truth.
What do you know? He’s been working in your life already.
By the way, for those of us who spent years trying to do God’s job, that is great news. It’s much easier to raise the sail than row the boat. And it’s a lot easier getting people to join the dance when God is playing the music.
That’s what makes God, God.
From A Gentle Thunder
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1995) Max Lucado
by Max Lucado
Let's imagine that you want to learn to dance. Being the rational, cerebral person you are, you go to a bookstore and buy a book on dancing.
You take the book home and get to work. You do everything it says. The book says sway; you sway. The book says shuffle; you shuffle. The book says spin; you spin.
Finally, you think you’ve got it, and you invite your wife to come in and watch. You hold the book open and follow the instructions step by step.
You continue to read, then dance, read, then dance, until the dance is completed. You plop exhausted on the couch, look at your wife, and proclaim, “I executed it perfectly.”
“You executed it, all right,” she sighs. “You killed it.”
“What?”
“You forgot the most important part. Where is the music?”
Music?
We Christians are prone to follow the book while ignoring the music. We master the doctrine, outline the chapters, memorize the dispensations, debate the rules, and stiffly step down the dance floor of life with no music in our hearts. We measure each step, calibrate each turn, and flop into bed each night exhausted from another day of dancing by the book.
Dancing with no music is tough stuff.
Jesus knew that. For that reason, on the night before his death he introduced the disciples to the song maker of the Trinity, the Holy Spirit. (John 16:7–9).
Of the three persons of the Godhead, the Holy Spirit is the one we understand the least. Perhaps the most common mistake made regarding the Spirit is perceiving him as a power but not a person, a force with no identity. Such is not true.
The Holy Spirit is not an “it.” He is a person. He has knowledge (1 Cor. 2:11). He has a will (1 Cor. 12:11). He has a mind (Rom. 8:27). He has affections (Rom. 15:30). You can lie to him (Acts 5:3–4). You can insult him (Heb. 10:29). You can grieve him (Eph. 4:30).
The Holy Spirit is not an impersonal force. He is not Popeye’s spinach or the surfer’s wave. He is God within you to help you. In fact John calls him the Helper.
Envision a father helping his son learn to ride a bicycle, and you will have a partial picture of the Holy Spirit. The father stays at the son’s side. He pushes the bike and steadies it if the boy starts to tumble. The Spirit does that for us; he stays our step and strengthens our stride. Unlike the father, however, he never leaves. He is with us to the end of the age.
What does the Spirit do?
He comforts the saved. (John 16:7).
He convicts the lost. (John 16:8).
He conveys the truth. (John 16:12).
Is John saying we don’t need the book in order to dance? Of course not; he helped write it. Emotion without knowledge is as dangerous as knowledge without emotion. God seeks a balance. “God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth” (John 4:24).
What is essential is that you know the music is in you. “If Christ is in you, then the Spirit gives you life” (Rom. 8:10). You don’t need a formula to hear it. I don’t have a four-step plan to help you know it. What I do have is his promise that the helper would come to comfort, convict, and convey.
So think about it; have you ever been comforted? Has God ever brought you peace when the world brought you pain? Then you heard the music.
Have you ever been convicted? Have you ever sensed a stab of sorrow for your actions? Then you’ve been touched by the Holy Spirit.
Or have you ever understood a new truth? Or seen an old principle in a new way? The light comes on. Your eyes pop open. “Aha, now I understand.” Ever happen to you? If so, that was the Holy Spirit conveying to you a new truth.
What do you know? He’s been working in your life already.
By the way, for those of us who spent years trying to do God’s job, that is great news. It’s much easier to raise the sail than row the boat. And it’s a lot easier getting people to join the dance when God is playing the music.
That’s what makes God, God.
From A Gentle Thunder
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1995) Max Lucado
Monday, January 11, 2010
Your heart--God's home
Today's devotional comes from Pastor and author Max Lucado:
"I only ask one thing form the LORD. This is what I want: let me live in the LORD’s house all my life."
— Psalm 27:4
"I’d like to talk with you about your house. Let’s step through the front door and walk around a bit. Every so often it’s wise to do a home inspection, you know—check the roof for leaks and examine the walls for bows and the foundation for cracks. We’ll see if your kitchen cupboards are full and glance at the books on the shelves in your study.
What’s that? You think it odd that I want to look at your house? You thought this was a book on spiritual matters? It is. Forgive me, I should have been clearer. I’m not talking about your visible house of stone or sticks, wood or straw, but your invisible one of thoughts and truths and convictions and hopes. I’m talking about your spiritual house.
You have one, you know. And it’s no typical house. Conjure up your fondest notions and this house exceeds them all. A grand castle has been built for your heart. Just as a physical house exists to care for the body, so the spiritual house exists to care for your soul.
You’ve never seen a house more solid: the roof never leaks, the walls never crack, and the foundation never trembles. You’ve never seen a castle more splendid: the observatory will stretch you, the chapel will humble you, the study will direct you, and the kitchen will nourish you.
Ever lived in a house like this? Chances are you haven’t. Chances are you’ve given little thought to housing your soul. We create elaborate houses for our bodies, but our souls are relegated to a hillside shanty where the night winds chill us and the rain soaks us. Is it any wonder the world is so full of cold hearts?
Doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to live outside. It’s not God’s plan for your heart to roam as a Bedouin. God wants you to move in out of the cold and live … with him. Under his roof there is space available. At his table a plate is set. In his living room a wingback chair is reserved just for you. And he’d like you to take up residence in his house. Why would he want you to share his home?
Simple, he’s your Father.
You were intended to live in your Father’s house. Any place less than his is insufficient. Any place far from his is dangerous. Only the home built for your heart can protect your heart. And your Father wants you to dwell in him.
No, you didn’t misread the sentence and I didn’t miswrite it. Your Father doesn’t just ask you to live with him, he asks you to live in him. As Paul wrote, “For in him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28 NIV).
Don’t think you are separated from God, he at the top end of a great ladder, you at the other. Dismiss any thought that God is on Venus while you are on earth. Since God is Spirit (John 4:23), he is next to you: God himself is our roof. God himself is our wall. And God himself is our foundation.
Moses knew this. “LORD,” he prayed, “you have been our home since the beginning” (Ps. 90:1). What a powerful thought: God as your home."
From The Great House of God
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1997) Max Lucado
"I only ask one thing form the LORD. This is what I want: let me live in the LORD’s house all my life."
— Psalm 27:4
"I’d like to talk with you about your house. Let’s step through the front door and walk around a bit. Every so often it’s wise to do a home inspection, you know—check the roof for leaks and examine the walls for bows and the foundation for cracks. We’ll see if your kitchen cupboards are full and glance at the books on the shelves in your study.
What’s that? You think it odd that I want to look at your house? You thought this was a book on spiritual matters? It is. Forgive me, I should have been clearer. I’m not talking about your visible house of stone or sticks, wood or straw, but your invisible one of thoughts and truths and convictions and hopes. I’m talking about your spiritual house.
You have one, you know. And it’s no typical house. Conjure up your fondest notions and this house exceeds them all. A grand castle has been built for your heart. Just as a physical house exists to care for the body, so the spiritual house exists to care for your soul.
You’ve never seen a house more solid: the roof never leaks, the walls never crack, and the foundation never trembles. You’ve never seen a castle more splendid: the observatory will stretch you, the chapel will humble you, the study will direct you, and the kitchen will nourish you.
Ever lived in a house like this? Chances are you haven’t. Chances are you’ve given little thought to housing your soul. We create elaborate houses for our bodies, but our souls are relegated to a hillside shanty where the night winds chill us and the rain soaks us. Is it any wonder the world is so full of cold hearts?
Doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to live outside. It’s not God’s plan for your heart to roam as a Bedouin. God wants you to move in out of the cold and live … with him. Under his roof there is space available. At his table a plate is set. In his living room a wingback chair is reserved just for you. And he’d like you to take up residence in his house. Why would he want you to share his home?
Simple, he’s your Father.
You were intended to live in your Father’s house. Any place less than his is insufficient. Any place far from his is dangerous. Only the home built for your heart can protect your heart. And your Father wants you to dwell in him.
No, you didn’t misread the sentence and I didn’t miswrite it. Your Father doesn’t just ask you to live with him, he asks you to live in him. As Paul wrote, “For in him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28 NIV).
Don’t think you are separated from God, he at the top end of a great ladder, you at the other. Dismiss any thought that God is on Venus while you are on earth. Since God is Spirit (John 4:23), he is next to you: God himself is our roof. God himself is our wall. And God himself is our foundation.
Moses knew this. “LORD,” he prayed, “you have been our home since the beginning” (Ps. 90:1). What a powerful thought: God as your home."
From The Great House of God
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1997) Max Lucado
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Fearless, by Max Lucado
You may know Max Lucado, who pastors a large church in Texas. He's also the author of many popular books about the Christian life. Recently I received an email about the release of his newest title, Fearless; the excerpt below comes from its pages.
Lynn/FPC GEN team
"To celebrate the release of Fearless, UpWords is giving away a free chapter of Fearless each week for a month. Read on for an excerpt from the Fear Not Promise Book, then download Chapter 5 of Fearless.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Believe
by Max Lucado
Jairus fell at Jesus’ feet, “saying again and again, ‘My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live’” (Mark 5:23).
There are no games. No haggling. No masquerades. The situation is starkly simple: Jairus is blind to the future and Jesus knows the future. So Jairus asks for his help.
And Jesus, who loves the honest heart, goes to give it…[He] turns immediately to Jairus and pleads: “Don’t be afraid; just believe” (v. 36).
Jesus compels Jairus to see the unseen. When Jesus says, “Just believe … ,” he is imploring, “Don’t limit your possibilities to the visible. Don’t listen only for the audible. Don’t be controlled by the logical. Believe there is more to life than meets the eye!”
“Trust me,” Jesus is pleading. “Don’t be afraid; just trust.”
From Fear Not Promise Book
Originally printed in He Still Moves Stones"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lynn/FPC GEN team
"To celebrate the release of Fearless, UpWords is giving away a free chapter of Fearless each week for a month. Read on for an excerpt from the Fear Not Promise Book, then download Chapter 5 of Fearless.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Believe
by Max Lucado
Jairus fell at Jesus’ feet, “saying again and again, ‘My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live’” (Mark 5:23).
There are no games. No haggling. No masquerades. The situation is starkly simple: Jairus is blind to the future and Jesus knows the future. So Jairus asks for his help.
And Jesus, who loves the honest heart, goes to give it…[He] turns immediately to Jairus and pleads: “Don’t be afraid; just believe” (v. 36).
Jesus compels Jairus to see the unseen. When Jesus says, “Just believe … ,” he is imploring, “Don’t limit your possibilities to the visible. Don’t listen only for the audible. Don’t be controlled by the logical. Believe there is more to life than meets the eye!”
“Trust me,” Jesus is pleading. “Don’t be afraid; just trust.”
From Fear Not Promise Book
Originally printed in He Still Moves Stones"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
A cure for bad news
GEN-ers, the news you may have heard on the radio or TV this morning was grim. Georgia's unemployment rate has hit double digits. It's easy to feel discouraged when you're looking for a job.
But with God, there is always hope! Here's a short devotional taken from Max Lucado's book, Grace for the Moment:
"I am the LORD, the God of every person on the earth. Nothing is impossible for me." Jeremiah 32:27
Lucado writes, "We need to hear that God is still in control. We need to hear that it's not over until he says so. We need to hear that life's mishaps and tragedies are not a reason to bail out. They are simply a reason to sit tight.
"Corrie ten Boom used to say, 'When the train goes through a tunnel and the world gets dark, do you jump out? Of course not. You sit still and trust the engineer to get you through....'
"The way to deal with discouragement?...(R)ead the story of God....Be reminded that you aren't the first person to weep. And you aren't the first person to be helped.
Read the story and remember, (the) story is yours!"
But with God, there is always hope! Here's a short devotional taken from Max Lucado's book, Grace for the Moment:
"I am the LORD, the God of every person on the earth. Nothing is impossible for me." Jeremiah 32:27
Lucado writes, "We need to hear that God is still in control. We need to hear that it's not over until he says so. We need to hear that life's mishaps and tragedies are not a reason to bail out. They are simply a reason to sit tight.
"Corrie ten Boom used to say, 'When the train goes through a tunnel and the world gets dark, do you jump out? Of course not. You sit still and trust the engineer to get you through....'
"The way to deal with discouragement?...(R)ead the story of God....Be reminded that you aren't the first person to weep. And you aren't the first person to be helped.
Read the story and remember, (the) story is yours!"
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