flickr: chefranden

Well, actually, you should. But I got your attention, didn’t I? And I want to suggest there is something even better than memorizing Bible verses. Here it is: memorizing Bible passages.

I can almost hear you sigh. Who wants to be told they should memorize more of the Bible? If you’re anything like me, you tried to learn some Bible verses once, and you’ve forgotten them all, except a few stray words. And now I’m telling you that you should learn whole passages?

Yes, I am; but it’s not really a case of “should”. The Bible never tells me that I have to memorize this much this way. Memorizing Bible passages (and even whole books) isn’t really work to me. It’s joy. And that’s from someone with a terrible memory, even at my sparkling best. I did the bulk of my Bible memorization while I was a brain-dead sleep-deprived baby-toting mum. I’ve been doing this for years now: years of revelling in the best words in the world. I’m not asking you to take up a difficult duty, but inviting you to a feast (Psalm 119:103).

Why passages, not just verses? Because they are easier to learn. They stick in your head in a way that individual Bible verses are never likely to – at least if your brain is anything like mine. That’s because they come with meaning attached. They come with context, and meaning opening like a flower, and movement and mystery and structure and poetry and – did I mention meaning? They’re not just stray bits of information floating around an overloaded mind.

Why passages, not just verses? Because they are more useful to remember. Instead of a single nail, they give you a shelf to rest your thoughts on. Instead of a dot point, they give you an argument to wend your way through. Instead of a hut, they give you a mansion where you can lay your anxieties down to rest. They give you expressions for your praise and poetry for your laments and words for your encouragement. They give you food for reflection and prayer when you can’t sleep or when you’re going for a walk or when you’re waiting for the bus.

Why passages, not just verses? Because they are a lot more fun to recall, so you’ll recall them a lot. Because they’re full of meaning and sweetness, you’ll call them to mind again and again; and this will drive them so deeply into your heart that you will never forget them. You’ll do most of your memorizing when you’re not memorizing, just recalling your favourite passages, in the same way that you remember a special place, your greatest experience, or the face of a lover or a friend.

Have I convinced you? Have I even begun to convince you? I hope so. Because this is the first in a series. Next time, I’ll talk about the what of Bible memorization (which passages would be good to learn first?); then the how of Bible memorization (how on earth do I get those passages into my sluggish brain?); and, finally, the why of Bible memorization (what’s the point of all this anyway?). If going from what to how to why sounds a little backwards, yes, it is. But you’ve heard it often enough around the other way around. So I thought I’d shake things up a bit.

Why passages, not just verses? Because God has invited us to a feast. Let’s not stop at the hors d’oeuvres.

What’s your experience (if any) of Scripture memorization? How well do you remember what you learned? And how do you feel when you hear the words “Bible memorization”:

a) jumping for joy (I can’t wait!)
b) yawning widely (I’ve heard this before)
c) bewildered (No-one does that any more!)
d) guilty and anxious (I know I should, but it all sounds too hard.)?

Be honest!

flickr: notsogoodphotography

You know those times when you read a Bible passage so familiar that you barely see it any more? Then a word or phrase jumps out at you, your perspective shifts, and you see it clearly. It’s like those 3D puzzles where the picture suddenly comes into focus.

I’ve been leading some studies on Acts. We’re given an idyllic picture of the first Christians two times over, just in case we didn’t get it the first time (Acts 2:42-47; 4:32-37). They prayed. They listened to the apostles’ teaching. They ate together. They sold their possessions and cared for those among them who were in need. Ananias and Sapphira spoil the picture a little (Acts 5:1-11), but the general impression is of harmonious fellowship.

Then we come to the sixth chapter of Acts, and suddenly things aren’t so rosy. One bunch of Christians is neglecting another in the distribution of food. The twelve apostles solve the problem by appointing seven deacons to oversee the process. But it’s the reason for this that really caught my attention:

And the twelve summoned the full number of the disciples and said, “It is not right that we should give up preaching the word of God to serve tables. Therefore, brothers, pick out from among you seven men of good repute, full of the Spirit and of wisdom, whom we will appoint to this duty. But we will devote ourselves to prayer and to the ministry of the word. (Acts 6:2-4)

There are two things that struck me about these verses. The first is how much I’d like to say, next time I’m asked to cook for a church event, or five o’clock approaches and I have to pull together a meal for my family, “I’m sorry, I can’t serve tables, I have to devote myself to the ministry of the word.” (You’ll be glad to know I haven’t given into the temptation yet; after all, cooking is one of my responsibilities, and these days I even enjoy it.) The second is that, when God called the apostles to spread the news about Jesus (Acts 1:8), they saw this as involving two main tasks: prayer and the ministry of the word. They even mentioned prayer first.

You only have to look at the letters of Paul, that apostle “untimely born” (1 Cor 15:8), to see it’s true. He prays for all the Christians he can, including those he’s never met. He prays for their knowledge of God, their growth in the faith, their endurance in suffering. He does this every day, night and day, always, constantly, continually, ceaselessly, without stopping, whenever he thinks of them (Rom 1:9-10; Eph 1:15-23, 3:14-21; Phil 1:3-11; Col 1:3, 9-14; 1 Thess 1:2, 3:10; 2 Thess 1:11-12; 2 Tim 1:5; 2 Tim 1:3; Philem 1:4-7). Of all of us, surely Paul could say, “I’m sorry, I’ve got more important things to do than to pray. God has called me to the ministry of the word” (Acts 9:15; 1 Tim 2:7). He had enough to do, what with preaching and tent-making and living in peoples’ homes as an itinerant evangelist (Acts 18:3; 1 Thess 2:9). Yet it’s clear that he spent much time in prayer, and not just any old prayer. For Paul, praying wasn’t the last item on a to-do list he never quite got through: it was heartfelt, strenuous, unremitting work (1 Thess 3:10 cf Col 4:12).

What about us? How do our priorities compare to Paul’s? We may be “ministers of the word” or we may serve in other ways, but do we pray for those we teach and serve? Do I pray for my children as well as teach them the truth about God, or am I too busy cooking and cleaning and heading off tantrums? Does the average pastor give focussed time to praying for the people in his congregation, or is he too busy writing sermons, visiting people and running church events? What about Bible study leaders, Sunday school teachers, and youth group leaders? What about the rest of us, to whom God has given the responsibility of speaking his word into each others’ lives (Col 3:16)? What about those with ministries of evangelism or giving or leading (Rom 12:4-7; 1 Pet 4:10-11)? Do we pray? Are we devoted to prayer? Or do we say, by our actions and choices, that it’s really us running the show, growing Christians into maturity, helping our friends to know Jesus? We can do it without God, thank you very much! We don’t need help! People’s hearts are in our hands, to be changed by us – aren’t they? Well, aren’t they?

Lest we think that sweaty, struggling, unceasing prayer is only for important people like apostles, Paul holds us to a similar standard. Our prayers are to be four kinds of “all”:  all the time, all kinds of prayer, with all perseverance, for all believers (Eph 6:18). But how can we possibly pray in “everything”, “steadfastly”, “without ceasing”? (Phil 4:6; Col 4:2; 1 Thess 5:17 cf. 1 Tim 2:1; Luke 18:1) Clearly, we can’t pray consciously at every moment. But we can fall asleep and lie awake at night and get up in the morning and shower and love our babies and go to work and drive home and wait in traffic and walk in the door with prayer never far from our minds and our lips. We can pray our worries and our joys and our anger and our tears. We can keep praying for people even when our prayers seem to go unanswered. In some ways, prayer is as natural as breathing: the first expression of our thoughts and the first outlet for our emotions. But prayer is also earnest, dedicated labour, requiring attention and organisation and perseverance and, for most of us, the commitment to pray, with God’s help, for certain people at regular, planned times; not in obedience to a rule, but in the love that flows from God’s grace.¹ 

There will be seasons of life when long disciplined prayers are out of the question – for example, when we’re depressed or chronically ill or during the baby years – but we can still get into the habit of praying brief prayers whenever and however and for whoever. Perhaps we can stick the names of people to pray for on the wall or write them on a bookmark, associate prayers for particular people with different daily chores, or make a commitment to pray for people when we go on Facebook or before we spend time together or after we chat on the phone. We don’t have to pray in long blocks; we can pause to pray for a shorter time here and there throughout the day. When we’re really struggling to pray, we can ask others to pray with and for us. There’s no need to wait until we’ve got our act together, or we’re in the right frame of mind, or we have a clear time and space: our Father is there, ready to hear us, and all we need do is speak to him about the mess and the people and the need. 

I know. You’ve heard it before. Prayer matters. God listens to the prayers of his people (Prov 15:29; 1 Pet 3:12; 1 Jn 5:14-15). He works powerfully when we pray (James 5:16-18). He is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine (Eph 3:20 NIV). We say we know this. But I wonder how many of us, as we think about our Christian service, should write these two words on our hearts and minds, our diaries and calendars, and our Bibles and bathroom mirrors:

• ministry (or service: ministry just means service)
• prayer.

How would this change our priorities and shape the way we use our time?

flickr: kourtlynlott

I woke up this morning with a headache. There’s nothing remarkable about that; but as I stood at the bench and gulped down a couple of pain killers, I was reminded of how unpleasant a headache can be, and how easy it is for me to get rid of it.

It’s not so easy for my son. Over the last two years, he’s missed many, many weeks of school due to headaches, tiredness and general all-around blah-ness. We’ve had blood test after blood test: all negative. A few weeks ago I took him to a paediatrician, and she told me it sounds like migraines. They run in the family, but I’ve never seen them like this before. They persist for over a week. His face is pale and his eyes dark. He sits listlessly, wrapped in a blanket. He misses yet more school. And migraines are tricky: there’s no cure, only vague management plans that may or may not work. So we’re not looking at any quick solutions.

This feels all too familiar. Four years ago, I wrote these words about my daughter: “She has been sick for over a month. Sore stomach, a bizarre headache in the back of her head, aching muscles. She’s been dragging herself through school and putting herself to bed an hour early every night, as her skin grows whiter and the circles under her eyes more purple”.¹ I checked the Internet, as parents do, and alarmed myself with long words like slow-growing chronic myelogenous leukemia. Blood tests and a gastroscopy revealed a less sinister cause: coeliac disease. It took months on a gluten-free diet – months when she missed yet more school, or went to school teary and sick – before her health was restored.

So why am I telling you this? Because this is normality. It doesn’t feel normal, because kids don’t get sick all that often in our protected Western world. Not very long ago, they would have spent months in bed with the usual childhood diseases: mumps, measles, chicken-pox. Some got polio and were crippled for life. Many died young. They still do, in much of the world. We take vaccinations for granted, and we take healthy children for granted. But health isn’t normal: in this fallen world, sickness and struggle are normal (Gen 3:1-24; Rom 8:18-21). As Christians, we’re not exempt from these things. Indeed, they many come with greater frequency, as God grows us – and our children – into the likeness of his Son (Rom 8:28-30; Heb 12:7-11).

What attitude shall I bring to my children’s suffering? How shall I regard it? After long weeks of sickness, I’m tempted to complain to God and give in to despair. Why me? Why another child? Wasn’t one child with a long-term illness enough? Weren’t two? (I have a third child with ongoing health issues that I haven’t written about here.) In the back of my mind, I’m thankful that God has preserved us, so far, from the terrible suffering that many parents go through – a still-born baby, a child with leukemia, a disabled teenager – but in the forefront of my mind I’m confused, lost and desolate. Yet God is teaching me and my children so many things through these afflictions.

I learn not to expect perfection. What is it about our arrogant Western mindset that makes us expect perfection in our children, our families and ourselves? We assume that our children will be healthy and intelligent; that they’ll excel at school; that they’ll be well-behaved and accomplished. Go down this path, and it leads you to a world too terrible to imagine, where the lives of unborn children are worth nothing unless they are (apparently) perfect. But these are my children, infinitely precious, healthy or not.

I learn patience. The patience that enables me to cheerfully give up my precious solitude for another day home with a sick child. The patience that companions me during long hours in the doctor’s waiting room. The patience that helps me lay aside my plans and sit with my son on the couch, reading a story or playing a game. The patience that waits through many months to find an answer – any answer! – to a child’s worrying symptoms.

I learn to care. I’ve discovered that it’s remarkably easy to distance myself from my children’s pain. I’m tempted to tell them to stop whining and snap out of it. But it only takes a headache, like the one I had this morning, to remind me of how unpleasant pain is and how important it is to weep when my children weep (Rom 12:15) – to give them a cuddle and loving words, and make them as comfortable as I can² – to turn these long days into precious memories of a mother who was there to comfort, leading them into the knowledge of a greater comfort (2 Cor 1:3-4).

I learn to pray, to bring my confusion and aching questions to God. Shall I refuse to trust him because he hasn’t made life trouble-free for me and our family? Shall I let fear and self-pity grow strong? Shall I pretend that God isn’t in control, that this suffering is caused by something other than him? Or shall I allow it to drive me to God, cast my anxieties on his strong shoulders, and beg him to help me in my unbelief?

I learn trust: the faith that grieves to watch my children suffer, yet somehow trusts God, on their behalf, that he has purposes in their lives that I cannot see. It’s trust in God that carries me through the dark days when I wonder what the next diagnosis will be, and that bleeds through words in my journal:

I can live with this uncertainty. I like to know the reasons, but I can live without a reason. I can live with the absolute certainty that God loves me and my children more than I will ever know, that he always has a reason for allowing us to suffer, and that the reason may stay hidden in his loving Father’s heart. I can trust my heavenly Father with my life and the lives of my children.

I learn to teach my children. I learn to work with, not against, God as he makes them more like Jesus (Rom 8:28-30). I pray with and for them. I help them to practise patience and a cheerful heart. I speak God’s words to them. As I write this, it sounds so much neater than the reality! The truth is that I have to remind myself to make this about more than another day of getting through it. I have to remind myself that kids need loving discipline, even when they’re sick. I have to remind myself to give attention to their needs. I have to remember to speak of God’s sovereign purposes and loving care. 

I committed my children to God many years ago. I gave him their lives: the lives he once gave to me. If the choices he makes for them are different from what I’d choose for them, I know his decisions are better and his love greater than my own. And if I ever have to face the worst of my fears – if I hear the words from a doctor that bring an end, for a time, to happiness – then I pray that God will help me to say “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). On that day, may I bring him my doubts, cling to him in my grief and trust his goodness. I want to love him more than anything, more than life itself, more even than the lives of my children.

So I go back to another day of getting on with my life and caring for my son at the same time. I ask how he’s feeling. I get him a drink. I do some chores. I check how he’s going. I pray, yet more prayers, that God would restore his health. This is normality. This is life. This is the Christian life. And I will trust my heavenly Father, and encourage my children to do the same.

flickr: BRAkesh Rocky

I came to you in weakness with great fear and trembling. (1 Cor 2:3 NIV)

These words startle and comfort me. They remind me that the apostle Paul felt like I do. He was weak. He feared. He trembled.¹ This is exactly how I feel:

• before I read the Bible with friends. What will they think of Jesus? What will they think of his outrageous claims? What will they think of me?
• before I lead a Bible study. Who will turn up? How will the discussion go? Will they want to come back next week?
• before I visit women from other cultures or religions. Will I be able to enter their world? Will I trangress some unspoken cultural law? How can I share the love of Jesus with them?
• before I go out for coffee with a friend. Will I get any opportunities to talk about my faith? Will I have the boldness to take them? Will I know what to say?

I love doing these things, and I love the people I do them with. I bring my fears to God (Phil 4:4-7, 1 Pet 5:6-7), and my worry lessens as my trust and confidence grow.² But I still feel anxious. I’ve come to accept this – the apprehension that builds over several days, the wakeful hours in the night, the butterflies’ wings tickling my stomach – as part of the cost of living for Jesus (Rom 12:1). Feeling a little nervous is a small price to pay for helping people get to know him.

In all this, Paul is my example. For while he trembled and feared, he never let it stop him talking about Jesus. Instead, he boasted in his weakness because it highlighted Christ’s strength (2 Cor 12:9-10). He became all things to all people, so that by all means he might save some (1 Cor 9:22). He asked people to pray that he wouldn’t give way to fear (Eph 6:18-20). He set his mind on the goodness of God and the love of Christ that would never leave him (Rom 8:18-39). He revelled in the chance to share in Jesus’ suffering (Col 1:24). Why? Because he was compelled by the love of Christ to live not for himself, but for the one who died for him (2 Cor 5:14-15 NIV). 

I’ll probably never have as much reason as Paul to fear. I don’t expect to be thrown into prison, shipwrecked, flogged, beaten with rods or pelted with stones (2 Cor 11:23-33). If his troubles were ‘light and momentary’, mine are a speck on the face of eternity. Still, I’m tempted to choose an easier path. So I say to myself, with Paul:

…we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal. (2 Cor 4:16-18)

 With God’s help, I’ll follow Paul’s example, fears and all.

flickr: The Arches

A few years ago, our family of six left a congregation full of parents with young children, and joined a church made up mostly of university students.¹ This wasn’t an ideological statement on our part: it was simply because my husband works in university ministry, and that’s where we needed to be at the time. But it’s made me aware of some of the benefits and costs of going to church with people from a different age and stage from your own.

It’s easy to spend your entire life going to church with people just like you. Many of us start out in our parent’s church: a place, perhaps, with lots of other kids and teenagers. We graduate to a university church (that’s what my husband and I did), to a worker’s service, to a family service (ditto), to a congregation full of empty-nesters and, finally, retirees. It’s not so simple for those who are single, childless, or divorced; but that’s how it works a lot of the time. Even churches with mixed-age congregations find they tend to become homogeneous: for example, families with young children often attend church in the morning, while young adults go in the evening.²

Then there are the ‘church invaders’, people who make a deliberate decision to go to church with people who aren’t like them. I’ve met some of them: an energetic lady in her 60s who goes along to the youth service so she can show an interest in young people. A woman in her early 20s who attends a church where she’s the only person under 40, because she believes older and younger Christians need each other. A childless woman great at relating to kids, who gives her time to reaching out to children and their parents. A couple with older children who feel a little out of place in a congregation full of younger families, but who go to provide encouragement, support and wisdom.

So what is it like, crossing the frontiers? I won’t deny that I found it hard at first, going to a university church. I worried about my children growing up without lots of Christian kids their own age. I worried that no-one would want to talk to me - after all, what 20-year-old wants to hang out with a 40-something woman surrounded by noisy children? My instinct was to retreat to the back of the church, serve supper, feed my kids, and talk to the few women my age: to leave the boundaries between age groups uncrossed and unchallenged.

I’d love to claim some great godliness that helped me overcome this self-absorption, but I can’t. What happened was that, one memorable morning, I prayed about my attitude to church, and God’s Spirit convicted me that I was acting like a spoiled child: self-centred, self-conscious, self-pitying. Too wrapped up in myself to love those around me. Too concerned about what people thought of me to be concerned about them. Too obsessed with my own needs to consider the needs of others. I wept, repented, and asked for God’s help to start again.

In God’s very good timing – how often he brings us to the end of ourselves before he brings about a change in our circumstances! – the women in our church got together the following week. Older, younger, student, graduate, mother, teenager: we laughed and ate and swapped our stories. We met again, and talked about how we could better encourage each other. We met again, read Titus 2:3-5, and saw how God wants older and younger women to be involved in each other’s lives. Soon, I’ll start meeting regularly with two younger women to read the Bible and pray. It’s no coincidence that, at the very point I stopped worrying about whether I belonged, I felt a sense of belonging.

I’m beginning to see how important it is that I’m here, right now, in this church, being encouraged by and encouraging these particular women. In a few years time, when they get married and have kids, or wonder if they’ll stay single, or start out in work and ministry, I hope I’ll be beside them, helping them find the way into mature Christian womanhood. I look back to when I was a student going to a university church, and I’m deeply grateful to the older single people, couples and families who came along, modelled the Christian life for us, and taught and trained us in godliness. There’s a richness of encouragement that happens between Christians of different ages and stages that’s beautiful to see.

What about our kids? Is it fair to them, going to a church with only a few other children and teenagers?³ Our two younger boys are loved and cared for by a bunch of enthusiastic young people who enjoy having them around, and who are learning to lead as they teach them in Sunday School. Our older son enjoys hanging out with the godly young men who surround him. Our teenage daughter is excited about being mentored by a lovely young Christian woman. Our marriage and family are a lived-out, messy, week-by-week example for many who never experienced a Christian family growing up. In the end, it’s not the patterns of church that matter to us and our children: what matters is that the gospel is taught, and they are loved and prayed for by the members of our church family.

Not everyone is built to be a church invader. We know many Christians – single workers, couples with young children, retirees – who do their best ministry loving and serving people in a similar situation to their own. We’ve advised others, who find it hard to get to church at all, to go to a church that’s designed for their needs. But even if you don’t invade a church, do invade people’s lives. Be aware of the unseen boundaries that cross churches: old and young, married and single, privileged and disadvantaged, we’re all part of the body of Christ (Gal 3:28; Col 3:11). Think about who might feel in the minority, even if they hide it well. Invest time in younger Christians, and seek out the wisdom of older Christians. Invite people who are different from you into your life.

But perhaps you are built to be a church invader. Maybe you’re an older person who’s good at relating to young people, a member of a family who would like to reach out to single workers, or a young person who’s never seen a Christian marriage in action. If that’s the case, why not choose a church where you don’t naturally belong? Why not choose a church, not because it meets your needs, but because it needs you? Why not make a home for others in a place that feels far from home? Why not become a church invader? We’d love to have you along!

by Andy, age 5

The other day, my husband Steve told our four children to grab a piece of paper and a pen. Then he rolled out those old, familiar words: “God is the loving ruler of the world…”.

We’re teaching the gospel outline Two Ways to Live to our kids. Steve told them they’ll get five dollars for every panel they get word-perfect. Actually, he wanted to give them one dollar, which says something about what a dollar was worth back when he was a child!

We figure that kids have great memories, so why not make the most of this by stuffing their heads with good things? And what better to fill their heads with than a simple gospel outline?

So far, our eight-, eleven- and thirteen-year-olds are word-perfect on the first panel. We’re yet to see if the five-year-old can get his head around it. Although now I think about it, jelly-beans might be a better bribe reward for him than a five dollar note.

Oh, and we’re getting the Two Ways to Live app on our daughter’s iPod.

flickr: activefree

I’m no saleswoman. I don’t have the thick skin, the showmanship, or the gift of the gab. But apparently, that’s not what I need to help people get to know Jesus. The best salespeople, I’m told, show genuine concern and sympathy, and believe in what they’re talking about.¹ That sounds a bit more like me. I can love; I can believe; I can pray. But I also have to open my mouth and speak.

That, I’m not so good at. Clever ideas for gospel conversations run off me like water off a waxed car. I’ll never be one of those gifted individuals who can turn a chat about graffiti into a conversation about Jesus. Instead, my tongue ties itself in knots, and only later do I have that lights-on moment when I realize, yes, that’s what I could have said. I’m queen of the sweaty palms, the awkward silence, and the fumbling answer.

I’m beginning to realize that it doesn’t have to be so hard. Speaking about the gospel isn’t some obscure skill I have to master. I don’t have to become like someone else to do it. In fact, it’s not even something I “do”, an added extra to my faith. It’s just me being who I am, chatting about the things that really matter to me. So what I want to do here isn’t to talk about gospel outlines or apologetics, useful as they are.² Instead, I want to share ten things that have made gospel speech more natural and joyous for me. 

• Close the gap
  When I’m with Christians, I’m relaxed and open: I share what God has been teaching me and talk about my struggles. When I’m with others, I’m cautious and reserved: I weigh what I say and look for rejection in their eyes. It’s exhausting. I’m tired of being two people! It’s time to close the gap. It’s time to talk the same way whoever I’m with. There’s something deeply attractive about people who talk about their faith with enthusiasm and warmth. What have I got to lose? 
• Don’t assume people will respond in a certain way
  For so long, I’ve assumed that people will respond badly if I talk about Jesus. They’ll be bored. They’ll be offended. They’ll be embarrassed. Inevitably, this makes me nervous, and invites the very reaction I’m trying to avoid: I’m embarrassed, so they are too. To my surprise, I’ve found that people are often interested in what I believe. One woman even wanted to read the Bible with me! It took years to work up the courage to ask her; now I’m kicking myself for not asking sooner.
• Speak the way you speak
  I’m not sure where my mental image of “evangelism” comes from. I know one thing, though: it doesn’t look like me. It’s masculine and argumentative, maybe because much that’s written about evangelism is by men. It’s extroverted and eloquent, like my gifted female friends. Lionel Windsor says, “Different people will speak the gospel in different ways.” Phew! I’m introverted, relational and reflective, so these things will characterize my gospel speech, and that’s just fine.
• Talk about your life with God (and do it from the start)
  “I’ve been praying for you”; “We went to church on the weekend”; “I’ve been thinking about…”: there are lots of little ways to talk about God without explaining the whole gospel. Some people show further interest; some don’t. I’m learning to put it out there and see where it goes. It’s important to do this right from the start: this avoids that embarrassing “Oh, gosh, I never let them know I was a Christian” moment.
• Listen more than you talk
  “Do twice as much listening as talking”: so says my friend Ben Pfahlert. I’ve got a long way to go on this! Too often, I shut off a conversation by talking about what I think instead of asking others what they think. Next time someone tells me they’ve got a Catholic-Charismatic background (something that happened to me recently) I hope I’ve got the good sense to ask them to tell me more about what that was like, what stopped them being part of it, and where they’re at now.
• Get ready to answer the questions you know are coming 
  We all know what the questions are likely to be: “How are you?”; “What do you do?”; “What are your plans?”. Why not get ready to include God in the topics you know are coming? It’s a little corny, but sometimes I rehearse – out loud – what I want to say. “My father-in-law died, but I know he’s gone to be with Jesus” rolls more easily off the tongue when I’ve practised, or at least thought about, what to say.
• Live differently – and be ready to explain why
  Here’s a fine moment from the life of me. I was chatting to a friend when she said, “I can’t believe how some parents over-protect their daughters, not letting them go out with guys and stuff.” Through my mind ran the words, “Well, actually, that’s pretty close to how we plan to raise ours”, but I laughed sheepishly and didn’t say anything. Later, I realised that living in a way that’s shockingly different can be a good thing, because it gives me a chance to explain why we live the way we do.
• Relax
  One of my friend’s friends told her that when she talks about her faith she sounds anxious and unnatural. That’s a little close for comfort! Telling yourself to relax can be a bit like trying not to think of a purple hippo (try it now), but it helps me all the same. I remind myself that this isn’t the Roman arena: it’s just a chance to chat about something I care about. I take a deep breath, smile, and make eye-contact. It can also help to admit, “I’m a little nervous telling you this. Would you mind if I talked about it?”.
• Get lots of practice - and make lots of mistakes
  I think the main reason I find gospel speech hard is that I don’t get much practice. It took time to learn to lead a Bible study: why do I expect this to be any different? The more I talk about my faith, the easier it gets. I make heaps of mistakes; but instead of berating myself, I try to learn, apologise (if needed), and do better next time. In the meantime, I remind myself that God is sovereign: he’s the one who chose me to be part of these people’s lives. 
• Bring it all back to Jesus
  In the end, it’s Jesus I want people to meet. It’s the gospel – the good news of his life, death and resurrection – that will bring people to him. So that’s where I want my conversations to end up. If I can bring every question back to Jesus; if I can talk about the hope I have in him; if I can read a gospel with a friend: well, that’s half the battle. The rest happens as God’s Spirit works in people’s hearts.

This probably all sounds very upbeat. The truth is, I find talking about my faith difficult. I battle fear, laziness and inertia. It’s easier not to bother. But to my never-ending surprise, when I start chatting about Jesus, I discover an openness in people’s hearts (because God is at work in them), and a joy in my own heart (because God is at work in and through me), beyond anything I expected. And if I can learn to talk about my faith, anyone can!

• Rachael appreciates the Thematic Bible Reading Plan. She says, “There are two or three readings a day. You read through each book from beginning to end. The books are placed together in such a way as to help you to make thematic connections between them.” This plan looks excellent – another one I’d like to try.

flickr: Hasitha Tudugalle

Last night we opened the window and risked the mosquitoes. As I leaned on the window sill and savoured the cooling air, I heard a munching noise from our persimmon tree. I could see leaves moving, and glimpse a furry face in the gloom. I shone a torch in its direction, and sure enough, there was a fat old possum, munching on a green persimmon. I’m not sure how he can bear it! I’ve tasted a persimmon far riper than the ones on our tree, and it shrivelled my tongue.

The possum is an old friend. As I sit on the couch and sip my morning coffee, there he is, regular as clockwork, trundling along the fence. He’s twice the size of a small cat and twice as heavy as a large one, solid with muscle and fat. I’m not sure how he can move his bulk along the narrow fence. He waddles, balancing himself with a thick, fuzzy tail, and the leaves of the persimmon tremble as he disappears behind them. I don’t know where he sleeps during the day, but it can’t be far away.

Last night his eyes gleamed red in the torchlight. I said a mental “Goodnight” and retreated to the wrinkled sheets of the bed. When the night’s this hot, I don’t sleep deeply: I doze, half-waking to the heavy scent of eucalyptus oil hanging in the still air. I breathe it in, and the mosquitoes don’t seem to matter.

Like so many generations of Australian children, I grew up on the literature of Britain. The oaks of Narnia and the elms of Middle Earth marched across my imagination, and the grey-green eucalypts of Australia didn’t quite measure up. This wasn’t helped by the cutesy gumnuts Snugglepot and Cuddlepie or the unlikely antics of Blinky Bill: Australian children’s literature hadn’t yet come of age. Hopefully, it will be different for my own children, thanks to authors like Alison Lester and John Marsden; but I’m only starting to feel like I belong here.

This morning I sat on our back veranda and listened to the dawn chorus. Which makes it sound far more ethereal than it is! No robins or thrushes here. Not even the Australian equivalent, the unearthly carolling of the magpies or the gurgling of the kookaburras; instead, the gums behind our house explode every morning with a flurry of buttercup-and-white feathers and the screeching of the cockatoos. They prance up and down, display their crests, jostle for position, play king-of-the-branch, and goggle at me with reptilian eyes.

There’s a pause in the cacophony, and a quiet breeze rustles the wattle leaves. The cool change is coming. And suddenly, I know it: this is my place. My country. For a little while.

To live in one place and long for another is good training: you learn to long for heaven. To live in a place and love it is a different kind of training: it gives you a foretaste of what is to come. Because however at home I feel here, this isn’t my homeland. I belong to a better country. In Jesus, I have finally found the way home.

All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. (Hebrews 11:13-15 NIV)

flickr: danielmoyle

Once I realised this, I stopped making resolutions. But this year, I tentatively stuck my foot in the waters of the New Year’s resolution once again. My resolutions aren’t vows. They’re not promises. In fact, they’re not really resolutions (I don’t have enough confidence in myself for that!). They’re prayerful commitments, shaped by the Bible: a description of the life I want to live as a woman who’s received God’s grace (Titus 2:3-5, 11-14; 1 Tim 5:10).

Here are my eight resolutions – my statement of purpose for the new year.

1. To keep Jesus at the centre. To seek his glory instead of my own, to receive his grace instead of wallowing in my guilt, to trust in his greatness instead of being overcome by anxiety, and to rejoice in his goodness instead of giving in to self-pity.² To keep my eyes fixed on Jesus so I don’t grow weary in doing good (Hebrews 12:1-3 NIV).
2. To invest time in keeping my eyes fixed on Jesus. To give the first part of my day to God’s word and prayer, even when I really need to get something else done. To read more faith-encouraging books than faith-destroying books. To have a go at memorizing a book of the Bible.³
3. To put my primary responsibilities first. To love, help and care for my husband. To love, teach and train my children, especially my daughter, showing her what it means to be a woman of God. To be faithful and purposeful in caring for our parents. To care for our home, not giving in to laziness or neglect.
4. To serve my brothers and sisters in Christ. To love and encourage younger women without worrying about what they think of me. To think less about whether our church serves my needs and more about how I can serve others and help them grow. To give time to the Christian friends and prayer partners that God has given me.
5. To do good in our community. To chat about Jesus every chance I get, with gentleness, honesty and courage, trusting God to work in people’s hearts. To love, not counting the cost. To engage in people’s lives, not retreat. To keep an open home.
6. To be prayerful, loving and brave in my writing and speaking, using them to glorify Jesus and encourage others. To make sure that online life – blogs, Facebook, Twitter, emails – don’t steal time that belongs to face-to-face relationships. To treat these things as a useful servant, not a master.
7. To care for my body and health so I can serve Jesus more energetically. To trust God in times when my health, or my family’s health, gives way.
8. To look to God’s grace, because I know that all of these things are beyond me.

I’d love to hear some of your resolutions – at least those that are suitable for public ears and encouraging to others!