Brian Walker had a ruddy, weathered complexion, evidence of his time living in the doorways and back alleys of that concrete jungle. His jacket was threadbare by now, a faint glimmer of the beautiful cashmere coat he had been given as a birthday gift by his father. Life on the streets of the Windy City was always a challenge but especially so as old man winter tightened his grip.

He tried to banish the thought of the impending deep freeze forecast for that evening, allowing his mind to drift back to his last hot shower. It had been a week..no, maybe 10 days. It was hard to remember the last time he had wandered into Beale Street Mission. The shelter filled quickly on nights like tonight and if he didn’t get there before sunset, there would be “no room in the inn” so to speak. He looked forward to his visits to the Mission mostly for the hot meal and a safe place to rest his head considering he had been mugged twice since his life on the streets began.

The fall had given way to winter many times since he and his father had their falling out and Brian had left the only home he had ever known for the lights of the big city. A distant but bitter taste of that conversation still lingered but now, after so many years of living on the streets, he could only faintly remember the why. One thing that still clung vividly in his mind however was the shocked and ashen look on his fathers face as he demanded his share of the healthy trust fund that was promised to him when he turned eighteen. He had grown tired of the pace of life living in the family home and dreamed of greener pastures…a life of freedom and independence.

And so, that day in late May, with the sun shining and his fathers reluctant blessing, he set out, dreams of grandeur and pockets lined with the proceeds from his liquidated trust. It was the summer of ’72 and he was anxious to chart his own course and live life the way he wanted to.

That summer had been one of boundless fun – a gorgeous loft apartment overlooking Lake Michigan, one befitting Chicago’s newest young millionaire! And with his lavish spending came a new group of friends, all clamoring to ride his coat tails with admittance to the swanky private clubs of the cities neveau riche! In that first year, he spent lavishly on a luxury skybox at Wrigley Field, a growing collection of priceless art and a seemingly endless supply of fast cars and equally beautiful young ladies. His epic parties were the talk of the twenty-somethings and it wasn’t uncommon for Brian to wake up reeling from a long binge of cocaine and single malt scotch. The weekend abuse eventually rolled into the week days as sycophants clamored for his attention and wealth. He had become so enamored with his new independence that he didn’t notice the gathering storm clouds on the horizon.

That fall, Brian met a man 20 years his senior while sitting court side cheering on his beloved Chicago Bulls. Bill was a seasoned investor who had found his way out of Chicago’s tough south side by speculating in real estate. They struck up a casual friendship as the season progressed and which found them frequently throwing back a few beers at a local watering hole close to the stadium.

Bill was a boastful man, confident and talkative. He and Brian were kindred spirits from that perspective. One evening, Bill launched into a filibuster about one of his business ventures and the money he was about to make investing in a commercial building ready to go into foreclosure. As the drinks flowed, he shared that he had come across a small group of investors that were planning to make a play for a building in the Hyde Park area not far from the University of Chicago. It was their intent to get in before a local private commercial builder who was planning to convert the property into student housing. The university was in dire need of the space for its ever growing student population and according to Bill, the first party to the table could gobble up the abandoned building for pennies on the dollar. It was a slam dunk Bill yelled, slamming his half full glass of Heineken on the table.

Brian was immediately intrigued as he pondered his dwindling trust fund which had taken a substantial hit over the past few years, a direct result of his rampant spending, drug use and failed small-time investments. What he needed was a financial shot in the arm and Bill had just the ticket.

The returns he spoke of were outstanding and the turnaround on his investment was to be less than 90 days. It was conceivable that he could nearly double his money before the spring. Brian was enamored with the idea of quick money and asked if there was any way he could get involved. Bill offered to introduce him to the investors at a meeting over lunch scheduled for Tuesday of the following week.

Brian arrived at Alexanders Steak House, his mouth watering for the filet mignon – medium rare, au gratin potatoes, and asparagus paired with a hearty cabernet from what had become one of his favorite places to enjoy a meal. The investors were already seated and chatting away which Brian found slightly odd since he had arrived 10 minutes early to the scheduled meeting. He found himself quickly engulfed in handshakes and hearty laughter, a comfortable familiarity that he had seen in his fathers business dealings.

Bill introduced Brian to the other six men, all of whom appeared old enough to be his father but then again, Brian had just turned 23. A man, introduced as Ben Williams, dressed impeccably in a black Brooks Brothers pinstripe suit, stood at the head of the table and spoke eloquently about the condo development, quoting a double digit “return on investment” to which Brian nodded, trying to hide the fact that he had absolutely no idea what was being discussed. He had barely made it out of high school let alone studied Business & Finance at the University of Chicago as Mr Williams claimed.

He explained that if they wanted to take advantage of this opportunity, they would need to act fast as the building would be offered publicly to the highest bidder within the next 10 days unless a private investor came forward to buy it from the bankruptcy trustee. He could feel the swell of the opportunity to “strike it rich” burning in his heart. The blood coursed through his veins as he lusted over the new Range Rover he had been eyeing at the showroom just around the corner from his loft…midnight blue, big tires and a tan leather interior. His eyes must have glazed over as Mr Williams finished outlining the investment contract when he found himself roused from his auto erotica to the stares of the other investors. “Are you in Brian?” asked Bill. Without hesitation, he responded “Hell yeah!”

The storm clouds were swirling.

Brian called his banker at Wells Fargo that afternoon to arrange for the wire transfer. While his balance was dangerously low, the greed and lust that had accompanied him over the last few years quickly drowned out the voice that urged caution. “$250K is a lot of money” he thought….”how well do you know this guy”? Brushed aside, the voice of reason was dismissed as he completed the transfer and prepared for the evenings festivities.

The party that night was insane as he and 20 of his closest friends hopped from one VIP club to the next. Brian loved the finer things in life, from his affinity for Macallen whisky and Cuban cigars to his taste in high priced escorts, and he spared no expense on either! As he customarily did, Brian picked up the entire tab for the evenings debauchery.

He awoke at 2pm the next afternoon to the stench of his own vomit, his head pounding from a third straight night of overindulgence. He glanced across the bed to see the face of a young brunette that he clearly didnt recognize.

He pulled himself to the edge of the bed and swung his legs over the side in an effort to steady himself and stop the spinning. Gingerly, he gathered enough strength to wander down the hall in search of something to ease the pounding in his head. He stumbled to the kitchen, rifling through the cabinet above he coffee maker for the bottle of Percocet he kept stashed there for just such an occasion. He popped the cap and swallowed 2 tabs along with a tall glass of tap water and turned back to assess the damage.

His loft apartment had been trashed. Two of his prized Jackson Pollock originals had been defaced and his small bookcase of rare first edition novels had been vandalized. Discarded bottles lay strewn about the living room with ash trays overflowing onto his hardwood floors. A rancid stench lingered in the air. As he went to open the thick glass door to the balcony, he wondered “Who were these people sleeping on my couch?” The stragglers picked up along the way last night had shown no regard for his home. In disgust, he roused the slackers and pushed them out the door.

Brian shuffled back to the living room, picking up empties along the way, stopping to push the blinking light of the answering machine. Still be couldn’t come up with the name of the woman asleep in his master suite. All at once, frantic words from Bill echoed through the loft, his voice urgent in his request for Brian to call him back immediately. Bill’s voice sounded different this time so, adrenaline pumping, he picked up his phone and dialed. After what seemed like an eternity, Bill answered and launched into a tirade. Brian could barely decipher Bill’s cries but what he did hear sent his heart into his throat. The money was gone…all of it…they had been scammed! There was no investment property…no student housing plans. Their money, along with Mr Williams had vanished into thin air. Brian dropped the receiver to the floor and collapsed onto the love seat, head in his hands.

The tempest had officially arrived!

It didn’t take long for the bank to foreclose on his loft or the credit card companies to shut down his lines of credit for non-payment. Creditors were crawling out of the woodwork as fast as his so called friends were abandoning ship. His vehicles repossessed and his trust account in the negative, Brian was forcibly evicted from his home by a Cook County sheriffs deputy in the spring of 1975. He was broke, destitute and completely alone. Brian was frightened for the first time in his life.

The pages of the calendar continued to turn and Brian found himself pulled deeper and deeper into depression. It felt like being swallowed up by a black hole…an endless abyss with an inky darkness that was palpable. Old man winter was on his way and the icy stares from the Christmas shoppers matched the temperature on the thermometer. Some would look at him with disgust as he squatted on the cold concrete sidewalk while others would purposefully walk to the other side of the street to avoid interaction. He had been abandoned in every way a man could be abandoned…no friends, a family he had cut himself off from and no visible means of support aside from panhandling.

As the December temperature plummeted to 28 degrees and the wild winds swirled around him, Brian pulled the collar of his tattered coat around his neck and walked solemnly to the Beale Street Mission. At least there, he could find a warm bed and a hot meal to stave off the cold. He rounded the corner onto Beale Street and settled into line with the other homeless, all clamoring for a safe spot to weather the impending storm. As he shuffled forward in line and approached the door, one of the attendants pushed his way past the crowd of men to announce that the Mission was full for the night. An emergency shelter was being prepared at one of the local churches a few blocks away but with the enveloping darkness, Brian knew he wasnt going to make it in time.

Tears in his eyes, abandoned and alone, Brian staggered into the alley around the corner from the mission and huddled beside a dumpster behind Giovanni’s, a restaurant he used to frequent when he was a “rich man”. He could hear the laughter of the patrons as they celebrated and toasted to the season but today, Brian found himself picking through the remnants of the days discards just to quell the hunger pangs that gnawed at his stomach. It had been three days since he had eaten a square meal and the cold pasta was doing little to settle the growing sadness that was enveloping him. Tired and alone, he crawled into the dumpster and collapsed in exhaustion. He pulled some discarded newspaper and cardboard boxes over himself, shivering uncontrollably. It had been a long time since he had thought of his family. He recalled the last time he saw his fathers face…the sadness that washed over his Dad as he demanded his trust money, cursing his legacy and spewing forth accusations that his father had always secretly loved his older brother more! Overwhelmed by grief, he cried out, hot tears streaking the dirt that caked his face. That night, he cried himself to sleep for the first time since he was a young boy as the storm swallowed him whole.

He awoke the next day, his breath visible in the still morning air. The winds had calmed and the skies had cleared but Brian was weak, hungry and thirsty. He struggled to get out of the dumpster, grabbing a portion of a pizza box as he fell hard on the concrete. He limped to the Mission where breakfast was being served. He had to hurry as they ran out quickly on cold mornings.

He found he was able to get something of substance in his stomach and felt slightly renewed. He borrowed a black magic marker from the front desk and scribbled something on the cardboard. Brian settled on to his familiar spot on the corner of Delancey and Beale. His sign read simply – “Tired, Alone and Hungry – Please Help Me Get Back Home” He stood for hours watching the shoppers glide past him unaware of his despair. He stared longingly at them, recalling the times he has whisked past a “bum” and telling him to “get a job”. Tears were so near the surface that they washed down his face again when he saw a father and son walking toward him, laughing, their arms full of presents for their loved ones. He barely noticed when the boy stopped and whispered something to his father. They approached him warmly and knelt down, catching Brian squarely in the eyes. The gaze was unfamiliar and haunting as it dawned on him how long it had been since someone…anyone, had shown him a kindness.

The man took him by hand and pressed something into his filthy mitten. He smiled and as quickly as they were in front of him, they had vanished around the corner. Brian blinked to clear the tears from his eyes and glanced down to his glove where he found a $100 bill and a note that said “Merry Christmas! We hope this will help to get you back home’.

Exhausted and darting in and out of a hazy slumber, Brian could faintly discern the familiar crunch of gravel as the cab pulled down the drive. His hair was a tangled mess and he reeked from 10 days on the streets since his last shower. His voiced cracked as he told the driver to pull over by the mail box. It was Christmas Eve and he could see the sun glinting off the metal roof of the family home. His stomach turned and he felt nauseous to the point of vomiting. He drew in a deep breath of cold December air and walked slowly down the path.

Oh, the thoughts that raged in his head! Overwhelmed by guilt and shame, he labored over each explanation and excuse he had conjured during the long cab ride to the family estate. No matter what words were formed in his mind, every scenario resulted in being rejected by his father. How could he ever welcome him home after the hurtful things he had said, after squandering millions of dollars from his trust. The tears welled in his blue eyes as he swallowed and inched past the front gate.

From deep within him, every fiber of his being screamed against his forward momentum. By sheer will, he trudged forward when all at once he recognized the familiar slam of the front porch door. His head shot up, heart in his throat, as he squinted against the bright afternoon glare. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. Beyond his imagination, his father was bounding down the steps two at a time, sprinting toward him, arms wide, and screaming “Brian…my son, you’ve come home!!” As he neared, Brian could see the tears streaming down his fathers face. Finally, the glimmer of hope he had maintained for the return of his prodigal son had come true. The dam burst and he emptied himself as he rushed to greet his youngest son.

Brian was quickly swallowed up in the embrace and at that moment, he melted. Years of anger and resentment washed forward in waves of tears. He was engulfed by emotion and sobbed with cries that shuddered from deep within his soul. He could barely catch his breath as he tried to offer one of the feeble explanations he had concocted earlier but his father quickly put his hand to his son’s mouth, gazing deeply into his eyes and said simply “Welcome Home my Beloved Son! I’ve been waiting for you all this time.”

The tempest had passed and with the setting sun on that Christmas Eve, Brian and his father walked the rest of that gravel road, arms entwined in a warm embrace. The prodigal son was home.

It is a stark reminder that we are a collection of wounded souls, truly anxious for answers to our deep longing for connection. Unfortunately, living in a fallen world, we experience the raw consequences of broken hearts, betrayal and abandonment at the hands of former friends, family members and yes, even the church.

There is really no escaping it – no remote island or wooded sanctuary you can run to to avoid getting hurt. We absorb the blow, stagger back for a few moments to let the wound scab over and then soldier on! Eventually, just as a physical wound develops scar tissue, impairing the use of our bodies, so too is our soul hindered by the emotional scarring that takes place just trying to survive in a harsh and unrelenting world.

A friend of mine is a physical therapist that confronts the effects of injury on the human body on a daily basis. Rehabilitation of these injuries requires a strong commitment to working through the pain as scar tissue is stripped and loosened to bring back the full intended use of a limb.

Friends, so too is the work we must undertake to free our souls from the myriad of arrows we have taken in our hearts over the the years. A hardened, cold heart, distant and detached from the love it so desperately craves. Shame and guilt laden reactions to past transgressions must be brought into the light to release the soul from its prison. This is difficult work and does not come without trial…without deep soul work…without a Healer that can bring a balm of true and deep healing that no psychoanalysis can ever cure.

For understanding the source of a wounded heart is just the first step…coming to grips with abuse or sinful actions can provide clarity but is rarely followed by a heart fully free to live and love again.

My own experience is that I find myself back at the grave site, excavating some dead and buried wound I thought I had processed years earlier. However, what I also find is that Jesus meets me there. He tenderly ushers forth the tears that cleanse the wound. He stretches me to offer forgiveness to myself and others, stripping the scarred and wounded areas of my soul in the process and freeing them to feel again. There is no substitute for this soul work!

Each time I meander back to the grave site however, the work is lighter, less painful and more refreshing and freeing. It becomes a GRACE site. My prayers are such that I have asked God to just miraculously heal me in an area of struggle but just as He did with the apostle Paul, he reminds me that His Grace is sufficient and that the gradual healing we do together is what bonds us so intimately. I need Him in those moments when I am lost in my brokenness…when I have wandered off the trail and am simply lost….it is HE that finds me and brings me home.

This intimate friend is the Jesus I desire to introduce my wounded friends to…ones that may have never been introduced to Him or those who may have run away for fear of his followers and their clubs and stones.

If your understanding of God and Jesus is some flannel graph Sunday school character or worse yet, some harsh, dictatorial Gandalf-type, please know that is completely wrong. I encourage you to seek out a confidant who knows the Jesus I describe and is willing to usher you into a deeper understanding the Lover of your soul.

He awaits…

Many years ago, as a young man in my mid 20’s, I was faced with such a crossroads. It was one of the more difficult seasons of my life and in search of answers, I drove deep into the Arizona desert following an intense storm, intent on walking the normally dry washes and arroyos in search of direction for my life. But, in the Sonoran desert, summer storms can be intense and the dry ground resists the onslaught of the rain, causing the dry washes to rage with muddy brown water which cascades down from the nearby McDowell mountains. These pulsating waters can be highly destructive with a power that is gone as quickly as it arrived.

By the time I reached my destination, the riverbed was but a trickle again but what I discovered was evidence of the intense power of the water. Boulders had been dislodged and overturned, mighty Mesquite and Cottonwood trees had been uprooted and scattered like wooden match sticks. The intoxicating aroma that lingers after a desert rain is one that I will always remember – a sense memory of creosote bushes, desert brush and cactus.

As I wandered the wash, i discovered the freshly exposed roots of a mesquite tree that had been sacrificed by the power of the flash flood. I was drawn to their beauty – twisted and gnarled, still clinging to the desert sand, a compacted mixture of stones flecked with pink and green hues. They were unlike the roots of any tree I had ever seen – mottled tones of earthy browns appearing almost sculpted by unseen hands and wrapped around the stones and sand that had kept them in place by that river bed for hundreds of years.

I broke off several sections to take back with me not knowing they would be part of my soul’s journey some 15 years later.

By this time, I had moved to North Carolina in search of greener pastures. As a lifelong prodigal, I was still in search of direction and answers to some of life’s deep struggles, when I crossed paths with a counselor who happened to also be a gifted artist. As we talked about my past, I mentioned how I used to wander the Arizona desert in search of solitude and direction. He opened his Bible to the book of Hosea and read the following words:

“Therefore I am now going to allure her: I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her. There, I will give her back her vineyards, and will make the Valley of Achor (meaning Trouble), a door of hope”

You see, Hosea is the picture of a long-suffering God who relentlessly and lovingly pursues his bride Gomer, the wife who receives and yet, rebuffs his love time and time again. Gomer is a prodigal, always wandering away from the One who loves her deeply, always in search of something to fulfill her aching soul.

As my counselor read these words, it exposed a bitter root deep within me. I was just like Gomer – always wandering in search of something to fill my heart when it was God Himself who had been wooing me into the Arizona desert all those years to speak tenderly to me…that the relentless, loving Creator was offering to exchange my Valley of Trouble for His Kingdom of Hope.

The picture attached to this post is that of the art created by my counselor incorporating the mesquite roots that I saved that summer in AZ. They represent the roots that God was trying to expose in my life. They speak to the tender and patient ways that The Lord whispers words of Hope into difficult times. They are evidence of His fingerprints on my life as I stood at that crossroad and can now look back in hindsight and see His guiding hand.

So, in this Advent season and during the week where we lit the HOPE candle, let us be reminded that we have HOPE in the relentless love of Jesus, the One that sacrificed Himself that we might be reconciled to the Father. And, let us be reminded to be “joyfully expectant” (the Greek meaning for the word HOPE), that He will come again.

You see, there is a long history of abandonment in my family line. My maternal grandfather was abandoned by his father after his mothers death and my paternal grandmother was put on the Orphan Train at the tender age of three after the death of her parents. I could go on but trust me, its a fairly depressing genealogy.

So, when I look at the areas of my life that have been under the intense but loving scrutiny of Jesus over the last decade, I am now seeing how that sense of abandonment has clouded my view of God. Questions like “Will He rescue me when I am in trouble” or “Is He trustworthy to come through when I need Him?” have plagued my subconscious for years.

I have been a life long prodigal son. On the surface, a dutiful and responsible older son but inwardly, I strongly identify with the younger prodigal. If you are unfamiliar with the story, the Prodigal decides to abandon his family , take his portion of the inheritance and squander it on his fleshly pursuits. While wallowing in the pig crap (literally), he has an epiphany…he missed his father and longed to be reconnected. So, imagine the scene – heart empty, deeply lonely and with empty pockets, he conjures up his best set of excuses and sulks home only to be greeted by the sight of his father sprinting down the path to meet him with hugs and kisses. He demands no explanation of his sons exploits but rather begins to shower him with fine robes, rings and other symbols of his acceptance back into the fold. It was the Prodigal who abandoned the Father, not the Father who abandoned the son.

I have always just moved on from that chapter in the Bible, recognizing my kindredness with the younger son except my story ends a little differently. You see, right after being welcomed home, I would turn around a run off again the next week! Over and over again, I have repeated that routine, year after year, for three decades, always with the lingering questions – “how many more times will my father welcome me home?”…”haven’t I exhausted the depths of his mercy”, nervously waiting for the one time I scurried home to find his crossed arms and disapproving stare – fulfilling my suspicion…now HE had abandoned me.

But that thinking is a sick trap designed to keep me questioning the Fathers capacity for love and forgiveness. When the truth is that there is nothing that can separate me from the Fathers love…That Jesus ransomed me from that life and rescued me from the pit so that I never have to wonder if the Father will come sprinting down the road to greet me with open arms. Jesus continues to intercede for me so that the Father sees me (and ALL of you who have accepted Him as Lord) as blameless in His sight! That is the Good News of the Gospel my friends.

So, in my men’s group tonight, I asked them “What are you joyfully expectant for this season”? For me, I am joyfully expectant that God is completing the work He began in me on November 18th 2008. I am joyfully expectant that He continues to run toward me with open arms and a warm embrace when I have wandered far from home. I am joyfully expectant that healing from past wounds is available today?

So, I pose the same question to you this advent season…what are you joyfully expectant for?

I had been dealing with the battle raging in my mind…moments of clarity and connectedness interrupted by the sirens song that has dreamily enticed me for the better part of three decades.

The voice is my own which presents its own set of problems. An argument bubbling up from the pit of hell but translated into words that sound strangely familiar, always coupled with a promise to soothe…bathed in secrecy so no one will ever know.

It has been five years this month since I had my last drop of alcohol although my old nature continues to wage war within me in the area of lust and fantasy. I had gone as far as getting dressed, grabbing my keys and was on my way out the door to buy a bottle of wine which I realized the hard fought ground I have taken back with five years of sobriety from alcohol.

Addiction is a strange relationship (and I choose that word carefully). There are times when a person has become so entangled, so familiar with its ways that they are loathe to break off the relationship even when it is dysfunctional. I remember standing over the sink that cold November evening five years ago as I poured bottles of gin down the sink…it was like mourning the loss of a friend, “someone” who had brought me comfort all those years. I mean, consider the woman who stays with the husband who beats her…we wonder, “how can she stay with the man who is physically abusing her”, but there is something much deeper going on beyond the abuse. There are deeper feelings of lack of worth, undeserving of love that typically roll around in the person’s head.

In doing my “work” in our P3 meeting this week, I recognized, maybe for the first time, that a part of me, the sixth grade boy who was introduced to the dark realm of pornography, was still trapped there. Stuck in that musty storage room of hardcore video and magazines…enticed by an adversary who played right along with the burgeoning hormones of a pubescent pre-teen.

This is the bitter root…where it all started. Years of sexual acting out and decades of objectifying the daughters of Eve…all rooted in this one evil place.

It had been a trap set by the enemy of my soul. He knew how hard the move to Phoenix had been…the feeling of losing my doting Father who was now distant, working incredibly long hours at his new job and lost in his own struggles with alcohol. He knew of my loneliness and need to fit in with a new group of friends. He knew of my empty heart and targeted me…a deadly sniper hiding in that shack.

My issues with Abba seem to stem from a lack of trusting that He will come through for me…that He will come for me, to rescue me. Because no one was there to protect or rescue me from the darkness that was quickly enveloping my young heart.

And so Jesus and I went to that shack, back to that place where “little Scott” was trapped. I took him by the hand and spoke comforting words over him….”it will be OK”, “I have come for you”. I took “little Scott” by the hand but before we left, I torched the room. Lit fire to the magazines and videos and watched it burn to the ground. All that remained were ashes, smoldering embers.

There is nothing to run back to now. So, i look toward a new normal and walk forward in grace and freedom.

I have been on a voyage…

No where in the literature did I see a description of what would be required of me on this journey or that the calm waters of the shore would soon give way to the raging swells of deep water.  If I had known the length of the journey or the treacherous waters I would encounter, I would have certainly come more prepared but then again, that has been my problem for so many years.  My journey through life has been characterized by careful analysis and calculated risk rather than the bold, offensive  embrace of life that to me used to seem so wanton…so careless.

As a natural loner, I spent many years dipping my toes in the pool of friendship, always wishing I had the balls to jump off the cliff into the deep cool water of relationship but to do so requires much.  It requires an honesty and commitment that I just didnt seem to have…at least I didnt see that as a personal characteristic.

**  I rediscovered my long lost blog The Wild Goose Chaser and saw this unfinished post from almost four years ago and I decided to finish it tonight**

I look back over the voyage of the last four years and realize its been a long hard climb of growth.  There are so many things that I just wish God would have miraculously “taken away” from me but in His infinite wisdom, He has allowed me to learn perseverance, which has Scripture tells us, build Character.

So, as I embark on a new portion of my journey, I am more assured and comfortable in my understanding that it is in life’s trials that we find our deep need for God.  I cry out to Him in the midst of the challenges of life but can look back now in retrospect and see His faithfulness and pursuit of my heart.

Sail on…

]]> https://wildgoosechaser.wordpress.com/2013/05/09/a-voyage-of-discovery/feed/ 0 wildgoosechaser https://wildgoosechaser.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/surrender/ https://wildgoosechaser.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/surrender/#respond Mon, 12 Apr 2010 14:52:21 +0000 http://wildgoosechaser.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/surrender/ “Today, I surrender to God – making no promises but merely asking for His aid” . This is the first of seven statements in The Path from the Samson Society – a brotherhood of men who are learning how to live their lives in Christ and with each other.

For some strange reason, when I thought of that phrase this morning, the lyrics from the song “Surrender” by Cheap Trick came to mind. What I kept hearing in my head was “”…surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself away…”” It’s an interesting thought but something that I don’t think can be accomplished. In fact, the very essence of surrender is to give up and admit that you have been defeated.

We all like to think of ourselves as free. So why is the idea of surrender so difficult? I suppose its that we perceive that to do so will cost me my liberty, the independence and freedom that I cling to. You see, if I really think about it, I’ve been surrendering for years…to the multitude of “idols” and “gods” that I’ve given myself over too all these years. Initially, these “idols” appear benign but over time, I relinquished control and the very things that I thought I had control over eventually controlled me. You see, we give our “power” over to these things and begin turning to them for comfort and to cope with the difficulties in life. The release of the chemicals it produces helps to manage our moods and by managing our moods, we can try and control our world.

We tell ourselves that we can draw the line – only drink in certain social situations, or gamble on the weekends with the guys but eventually, this “god” will drag us across that line and as the line continues to move, we lose the freedom to choose. Our only hope lies in surrendering to a power greater than the one that holds us captive.

Surrender, like the healing and freedom that often accompany it, is a progressive thing. It happens slowly over time. Surrender is something that we must choose to do on a daily basis. That is why we in the Samson Society recognize the need for daily prayer, study and self-examination (step 4 in The Path). It is a part of the path that leads to life and godliness. So, when I feel turbulent, restless, stressed or discontented, I recognize the signs that the flesh is attempting to exert its control and I retreat to God. I take refuge in a call to a brother to share with him the deceitfulness of my thinking and am reminded that there is grace for today…that His mercies are new today and that, as I surrender my plans and expectations, I see a glimpse of the life that Christ promises me. I must choose to give up my plans…my script for how I think life should treat me, my thought about the rules of this world and surrender these rights, plans and expectations to the God who is living His life in me.

It is not an easy task by any means but it is made easier by making the daily walking of The Path a part of my life…it’s a way of daily Christian living. And so, I stop making false promises to God…ones that I have no ability to keep in my own strength and I merely ask for His aid. I move forward into the day cloaked in the reminder that surrender is a progressive thing…that I surrender that which God has revealed to me today and look forward to repeating that process again tomorrow.

I love this clip. 

It is one of my favorite segments from the classic comedy The Princess Bride and is almost certain to be heard around my house at any moment when the subject of marriage is brought up.  

As the clip illustrates, the emotions in a marriage can change on a dime.  It is filled with laughter, disappointment and, at times, anger but, in all things,  it is about the pursuit of True Love.  Intuitively, as a follower of Jesus, I know that True Love is meant to be found in a relationship with the Father but in reality…following Jesus and being married can be tough.

C’mon…you take two broken people with years of baggage and put them together for life…what do you expect.  As John Eldredge says, its like putting Cinderella together with Huck Finn and expecting it to work out without any issues?

Speaking of Eldredge, my wife and I, along with several other couples, made the trek to Charlotte to listen to John & Staci Eldredge speak about marriage last night.  Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the Eldredge’s, they are the founders of Ransomed Heart, a relational ministry out of Colorado that has published best sellers like Wild at Heart and Captivating.

Having attended their Boot Camp in Colorado several years ago, I have become a huge fan of their message of restoration and healing….and what marriage isnt in desperate need of both of these?

While last night’s session was centered around the tour promoting their new book Love and War, it was also a message of hope to married couples.  You see, married couples are engaged in a great love story set amidst a great war.  Not only do we bring in decades of individual baggage but we have an Adversary that hates the entire institution and he utilizes his most common weapon of “divide and conquer” to tear apart couples who are not aware of his tactics.

While it can be as confrontational as abuse or neglect, the damage that comes is often more subtle in the form of agreements we make with the Enemy about our spouse and our marriage.  It comes with such ease in phrases like “…she doesn’t really understand  me” or “…he never really listens to what I say” or (insert your own lie here).  Each agreement, compounded over years, clouds how we relate to our partner and will serve as the lens through which we filter most every interaction.  Acknowledging and breaking these agreements is step one in wrestling back the reins of control in our marriages.

Please don’t dismiss these agreements as inconsequential.  Each is just one of a thousand paper cuts (see my previous post) that, over time, causes an infection that harms the entire body. 

My wife and I have just begun to talk about the ways we have made agreements about each other in our marriage and frankly, its a scary conversation.  There are things I know I have done in our marriage that have caused damage and some of these agreements were made as a direct result of my actions but invariably, they hit at something much deeper in her….those places where wounds have existed for years.  And it is precisely those wounded places that Satan attacks when he whispers his lies.

But…Hope comes in the One who can heal these wounds…it springs from a Father who anxiously awaits our cry out to Him to rescue us from our own insanity…it lies deeply rooted in a Savior who died to free us from the bondage and captivity of our past. 

Take stock today…be aware as you move about your day, how your heart can quickly respond with a tape about your spouse that sounds strangely familiar.  It is accusatory…promotes Self…and characteristically blames others.  If you find yourself aware of this tape playing in your head…step back and ask the Father to reveal its true root and give it over to Him.  Making this our response to these agreements is the new habit which leads to a new response toward the dearest ones in our lives.

Honestly, in my efforts to try and figure it out, it has only become more difficult to understand. I mean, I have been a Christian in name for years but only in the last few years have I begun to look at the pattern of life I have chosen to live in comparison to the life He has called me to.

So here is the rub – as Believers, we are called to rid ourselves of sinful behavior…be transformed to look more like Christ…noble pursuits for sure but terribly elusive if you ask me. Most of my efforts in this area have been mustered up in my own strength…destined for failure from the beginning.

Is this “New Life” one of comfort and convenience…peace and prosperity? Sunday’s pulpits will be full of messages that preach such things but the promised life is one of contradictions. Jesus tells us that He came to bring abundant life while Paul laments that we will live in constant battle between the Spirit and the flesh. It leaves us in a constant state of striving either toward this abundant life or away from the battle of the flesh. Unfortunately, the reality of a walk with Jesus is that all of it is true for those “in Christ”. The true battle can be, after years of grasping and striving in our own strength that we give up on the precious promises of freedom that fill the Gospel…just settling for a life where we allow a low level of sin and malaise to exist.

Unfortunately, we live in a culture that feeds on the pursuit of independence. It’s part of the fabric of our Constitution and who we are as a nation. It ‘s taught in homes and schools across the nation but it is in complete opposition to the Way. God admonishes our independence instead calling for us to live in submission to Him as the source of all life.

I find it strange that my independence, the thing I so often equate to freedom, is actually the one thing that has enslaves me. My flesh is fiercely independent from God. I must admit that I have no idea how to die to my own flesh outside of my own efforts. Exactly how does one crucify his own flesh? I mean, c’mon, I know the book answer and intellectually can grasp the fact that we are supposed to “walk in the Spirit“, but practically, how is this accomplished in the day-to day reality of living in this fallen world? (OK…so here is your golden opportunity to try and “fix” me!)

Submission is contrary to the nature of my flesh. Decades of patterns of behavior dominate my thought processes and like a highly trained athlete who relies on muscle memory to perform, I have learned how to react in certain situations through years of practice. Yes, my relationship with Jesus now defines me as a new creation but that definition is only complete when “in Christ” is added. It is only in His Strength that I can accomplish anything for “apart from Him I can do nothing“.

It’s hard to admit but the life I live is often inconsistent with what I believe. I certainly relate to Paul’s lament in Romans 7 where he says…

“…and sin keeps sabotaging my best intentions…I can will it but I can’t do it…my decisions, such as they are, don’t result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep inside me and gets the better of me every time. It happens so regularly that it’s predictable. The moment I decide to do good, sin is there to trip me up…parts of me covertly rebel and just when I least expect it, they take charge.”

I have come to realize that there is no amount of effort I can muster up, in my own strength, that will allow me to live freely.

So…the Christian life feels at times like a game of tug of war between the new creature that Jesus says I am and the lingering effect of sin that resides in my flesh. Maybe it is exactly this realization that defines the beginning of the Christian life. Sure, salvation starts it all out but to avoid being stuck there, a change of reference is necessary.

And it is my new, old friend Ian Thomas that says…

“…the flesh within will never cease to love sin and given half a chance will always seek to manifest its corruption and depravity….even the godliest of men have latent within them a terrible potential for evil. It is the godliest of men who know this best, for it is acknowledgement of this fact which is the secret to godliness. They have learned through bitter experience that character does not change for the better by improving the flesh but only by allowing it to be replaced by the Holy Spirit”

There is a reason Jesus tells us to abide (or make our home) in him because,  leaving the relative safety of The Path that Jesus has laid out,  I can easily find myself chasing rabbits down a trail until I’m lost in the woods.  For me, it happens slowly, like the hunter who catches sight of his prey and follows after it until, looking back, I realize I have lost sight of the trail.

But Jesus (and Henry David Thoreau) calls us to choose the “road less travelled”…the one that lies beyond “the narrow gate“.  It is less travelled because the Jesus life is not easy to follow.  At first glance, this path appears more difficult to navigate…and it is if we intend to do so in our own strength and using our singular resources.  It is not the path of least resistance.   But the difficulty of this terrain is an illusion because the sheer grace and extended mercy available to us on the Jesus Path are exactly what makes this path the right choice.  The relationship with Jesus as our intimate trail guide gives us something not available on the “wider path”…a tender offer of encouragement during trials, a source of strength in difficult times, a deep pool of water from which to drink when our souls become parched from the journey, a voice of truth to guide us back on to more charted territory.

Writer Howard Macy said “the spiritual life cannot be made suburban.  It is always frontier, and we who live in it must accept and even rejoice that it remains untamed”.  The Wild Goose is full of mystery – his ways are not our ways…his path is not the well worn one that the world lays before us.  The path, as any avid hiker will attest, requires our full attention in order to navigate the often treacherous landscape.

I’ve spent years exploring the rabbit trails along the Jesus Path and while there can be peace and solitude in that neck of the woods, it is also a place where a man can hide out…induldge himself in the loner role.  Anyway, that is where a good part of my heart has been residing over the past two months.  I am thankful for the gentle prodding of Jesus to get back on The Path and that He doesnt leave me to find my own way back!

Albert Schweitzer said…”The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives” 

The reality for many men (myself included) is that we can be walking on the less travelled path, sure-footed in our recognition of The Path but,  just for a moment, we allow ourselves to be deceived…to think that we know a better way….to trust our own navigation skills.  I believe that the secrets we keep are one of the great culprits of the death he describes.  When we make choices to live a life of secrecy, it chips away at the soul, bit by bit, until parts of us die.  The secrets may be the big and blatant kind, like pornography or alcohol abuse but they can  just as easily be a secret way of thinking…and deep undercurrent of anger, lustful escapism, or greedy focus on the self. 

Jesus so tenderly allows us to experience that death of self because it was part of his plan from the beginning.  Paul reminds us of that in Galatians when he said, “it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me”.  My flesh (and its selfish desires) must die in order for me to fully experience the life that Christ has planned for me and the disparity between a life lived chasing rabbits in the woods pales in comparison to the one we are called to live exploring the path with Jesus.