The Prophet Habakkuk and Miracle Max

She and I were engaging in the delightful kind of online banter which has become typical in our relationship.  A comment I’d left on her blog reminded her of a scene from The Princess Bride, so of course she posted a video clip. I responded,

It is my firm belief that there isn’t a conversation in the world that can’t be enriched by a quote from The Princess Bride.

(True story: the first time my daughter brought my son-in-law-to-be home for a visit, before going to bed I hugged him and said, “Good night. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”)

So it should come as a surprise to no one that as I was reading through Habakkuk, Miracle Max sprang to mind.

Habakkuk is a tiny little book of prophecy, tucked near the end of the Old Testament, the pronunciation of which, I’m sure, has tripped up many a young person trying to memorize the books of the Bible in order to win a Sunday school award. Not much is known about this prophet, but his words are mostly an argument with God about why he wouldn’t just hurry up and do something already about the violence and wickedness that were troubling his people.

Habakkuk launched two complaints before God and, after the second one, waited for God to answer him. Rendered in these beautiful words from The Message, God spoke:

Write this.  Write what you see. Write it out in big block letters so that it can be read on the run.

(And, if I might hazard a guess, so that generations later when people like Nancy Franson stumbled across it she wouldn’t miss the point)

This vision-message is a witness pointing to what's coming. It aches for the coming—it can hardly wait! And it doesn't lie. If it seems slow in coming, wait. It's on its way. It will come right on time.  Look at that man, bloated by self-importance—full of himself but soul-empty.

But the person in right standing before God through loyal and steady believing is fully alive, really alive. Habakkuk 2:3, 4

Then because I’m terribly irreverent, or quite possibly because I have way too much useless trivia stored in my head, these words of Miracle Max sprang to mind:

It just so happens that your friend here is only MOSTLY dead. There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive.

For Westley, erstwhile farm boy and dread pirate wannabe, Miracle Max’s words represented good news. He was still slightly alive.

But for Easter people, those of us staking everything on the reality that death could not hold Jesus and that his resurrection changed everything, slightly alive hardly seems like cause for celebration. God says he offers me more.

In truth, on the day I read those words I felt as though I was merely ambling through life, neither all dead nor fully alive; somewhere in between.  I was existing--going through motions, rearranging bathroom cabinets. Waiting for something—I don’t know what—a shoe to drop?

Not really living up to my full potential.

So what did the good prophet Habakkuk have to say to someone like me? How am I supposed to do this living fully thing? Two things:

Be in right standing before God. That’s the good news-gospel part, the part that says because of Christ’s work on the cross I am, by faith, declared righteous before God.

Loyal and steady believing.  In order to live fully I need to keep believing this Easter story, day after day. Jesus conquered death. He rose, and he reigns. And he is good.

On Easter Sunday my pastor read these words from David, the sweet psalmist of Israel, singing about what the reign of the risen Christ looks like:

When one rules justly over men,
    ruling in the fear of God,
 he dawns on them like the morning light,
    like the sun shining forth on a cloudless morning,
    like rain that makes grass to sprout from the earth.

“For does not my house stand so with God?
     For he has made with me an everlasting covenant,
    ordered in all things and secure.
For will he not cause to prosper
    all my help and my desire?

2 Samuel 23:2-5, ESV

The reign of the risen Jesus is characterized by the dawn of morning light, sun shining and rain falling; abundant, fruitful, life-giving things. He offers plenty of evidence through his word and all about me that he is present, his promises are secure, and he is good.

So maybe when I’m ambling about, feeling as though I’m waiting for a shoe to drop, I need to get out and muck around in this world where Jesus reigns; see, touch, taste, and feel all the way up to my head, shoulders, knees, and toes. Perhaps this is the invitation God is writing for me in big block letters. And he waits for my response:

As you wish.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

The Words of My Mouth

My hometown was a church-going community. For many years all its businesses shut down on Sundays, and some closed early on Wednesdays to accommodate those attending mid-week prayer services. The principal of my high school was a faithful Christian man, and I believe his influence granted the local Young Life ministry nearly unfettered access to its facilities. Many of those on the school’s A-List--the cheerleaders, the athletes, and the popular crowd--identified themselves as followers of Jesus.

It was not hard for me to label myself as a Christian during my high school years. I could close my eyes, raise my hands, and sing about that spark that kept the fire going along with the best of them.

Yesterday we celebrated Palm Sunday at my church as did, I suppose, many other congregations. Each year my pastor calls the children of the congregation forward and hands each a palm leaf. As the children wave their arms, jostle about, and attempt to avoid poking one another in the eye, my pastor talks with them about familiar elements of the Palm Sunday story:

Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Crowds lined the streets. They waved palm branches and shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”

Even though, he told the children, many said words they didn’t mean.

Had I been one of the crowd lining the streets of Jerusalem, I easily could have waved my palm branch along with the rest, honoring Jesus with my lips while my heart was far from Him. Because I’ve done so more often than I’d really care to admit.

I’m fairly certain that most of the praise I sang to Jesus during my school years sprang more from peer pressure and a desire to fit in than from a heartfelt desire to offer him what he deserved. And though I’d like to think I’ve matured in my faith and that my worship is now more heartfelt and authentic:

I affirm, It is Well with My Soul, though I toss and turn at night doubting God’s care for me.

I claim to believe that God’s Word has laid How Firm a Foundation, even though I neglect to read it.

I assert that I Surrender All, even while clinging tightly to idols of time, money, and possessions.

I sing Holy, Holy, Holy, though I am careless about observing the Sabbath or offering works of justice and mercy in God’s name.

The good news of the gospel is that Jesus came, riding into Jerusalem on that donkey not to condemn me for my careless acts of faithlessness. The One who conquered death offers me newness of life, the kind that actually starts to reflect the words I sing in church. He woos me to himself, transforming me into the kind of person whose heart moves toward the words which flow from my lips. He offers streams of mercy, never ceasing, that call for songs of loudest praise.

One of the dangers of growing up in the church, I suppose, is that the songs and stories have become almost too familiar. I can mouth the words without engaging my heart. My prayer during this holy week--leading toward the most familiar, most important story of all--is that both the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer. (Psalm 19:14, ESV)

Joining Michelle @ Graceful:

And Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

And with Shanda for On My Heart Tuesday:

Brother Jed, Sister Cindy, and Me

They reappeared on campus each year, returning faithfully as did spring robins, blooming daffodils, and budding trees. As warm weather coaxed students to linger outside classroom buildings, street preacher Jed Smock and his faithful sidekick Sister Cindy drew crowds on the walkways between Sackett and Willard on the Penn State campus. They shouted and preached, proclaimed and condemned; emboldened, it seemed, by every act of ridicule and insult tossed in their direction.

I remember discussions, among members of my campus fellowship group, about how best to respond to the spectacle of Brother Jed and Sister Cindy. We couldn’t pretend we simply hadn’t noticed them. It was hard to ignore the wild-eyed recovering disco queen wearing a floppy hat while shaking a tambourine and stomping on the devil.

Some thought this pair and their brand of street theater created an opportunity to engage students in thoughtful conversation about what the gospel really said. A few brave souls attempted to out-preach Jed and Cindy, setting themselves up across the quad in a kind of battle-of-the-street-evangelists.Several thought we should embrace these two as members of the family, distant and perhaps crazy, but family members nonetheless.

Frankly, they embarrassed the living daylights me. I just wanted Jed and Cindy to shut up and go away.

I hadn’t thought about these two for years, until I read on Sunday about David, Israel’s king, and his bold proclamation of love for God. Near the end of his life, he sang a song of praise to God, describing His mighty acts of deliverance. In the words of Psalm 40, David said:

I have told the glad news of deliverance
    in the great congregation;
behold, I have not restrained my lips,
     as you know, O Lord.
 I have not hidden your deliverance within my heart;
    I have spoken of your faithfulness and your salvation;
I have not concealed your steadfast love and your faithfulness
    from the great congregation. (Psalm 40:9, 10 ESV)

David was not embarrassed to speak up and tell others about God’s faithfulness and deliverance. He did not restrain himself from speaking up about God.

I think when I hear the word proclaim, I get a mental image of Jed and Sister Cindy on the steps of that Penn State classroom building and I think, “I don’t want any part of that.” I’ll probably never take to the streets and preach. Nor am I wild about knocking on doors to ask strangers if they want to hear about Jesus.

But here, in this space, I tell my stories of God’s faithfulness and deliverance. I aim to do so with compassion and humor. Since reading David’s words yesterday, I’ve been wondering about how bold I am in proclaiming the glad news of God’s deliverance here, where I have the opportunity to do so.

So here goes.

In general, I would say the historic words of The Apostles’ Creed summarize what I believe. But in my own words, in an attempt to proclaim boldly the story of God’s deliverance:

I believe that in the beginning there was God and that He made everything and it was good. This is a free country, and many people believe there is a different story which explains how everything that is came to be. But I believe that, ultimately, only one of two possible explanations makes sense: either something came from nothing, or Something always was.

I believe that Something always was; and He is God, and He is good.

As I walk this earth and look around, I see evidence that things are no longer good. Something went wrong. Everywhere I see echoes and whispers of God’s goodness, but I also see sickness and suffering and pain which cry out, “This is not the way things are supposed to be.”

I believe that sin entered the world through one man’s rebellion, and all the grief in this world flowed as a consequence of that original sin.

Sin separated man from a holy God and, though we try, we cannot attain His standard of perfection. Not only man, but everything in creation groans under the consequences of man’s rebellion against God. Creation itself cries out for deliverance.

But because God is rich in mercy, He sent His Son as a sacrifice as the only means of reconciling sinful man to himself. If there were any other way for God’s wrath against sin to be satisfied, then Christ’s death on the cross was both unnecessary and cruel.

By grace through faith in Christ’s death and resurrection, I have been reconciled to God; not because of anything I have done. And Christ offers this same forgiveness and the promise of eternal life to anyone who desires it.

Not only have I experienced forgiveness, but I have also known God’s provision and protection throughout many seasons of life. He walked with me through years of treatment for infertility and led me to the adoption of my children. He sustained me through the grief of my father’s death. He has taught me to extend forgiveness and receive it from others. I see ongoing evidence of God at work healing, repairing, and restoring brokenness in my life and in the world around me.

Because the gospel is about more than restoration of my personal relationship to Christ. It is about all things being reconciled to God. Christ came not only to forgive sinners, but also to establish His kingdom. He came to make all things new.

And he invites me to participate in His work.

So here I tell my stories, attempting to bear witness to God’s acts of faithfulness and His work of deliverance in my life. I’ve never had anyone disagree with me here, trying to shout me down on the internet, having taken issue with something I’ve said. Perhaps someday someone will.

I have no interest in creating a spectacle or of drawing a crowd like Brother Jed and Sister Cindy. I hope my words are not an embarrassment to the cause of Christ. But I also, like David, don’t want to restrain my lips.

I want to proclaim publicly that God is good.

Joining with Michelle @ Graceful:

With Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

And shared with the Write It, Girl Community:

Out of the Flames

The very first time my name appeared in print was in a news story, a mere couple of paragraphs long, in my hometown newspaper. The account tells of a twenty-month old treated at a local hospital for burns sustained after falling into a barbecue grill.

Yep. Even at a young age I was a bit of a drama queen, terrifically clumsy, and intent upon drawing attention to myself.

It seems I’d been scooting around my parents’ porch on some kind of toddler bike. My dad was grilling hamburgers at the foot of the porch stairs, a safety gate stretched between us. When Dad opened the gate to take the burgers into the house I made my move, down the stairs and into a hot charcoal grill. My dad scooped me up out of the flames and carried me to the local hospital which was just a few blocks from our home.

There are reasons I look the way I do.

Family legend has it that the nursing staff were all quite impressed with my ability to perform Bend and Stretch, Reach for the Sky, which I had learned from watching Romper Room with Miss Nancy on the TV. If only I’d had a feather boa back then.

Everything I have accomplished since that day, I owe to my dad’s quick response: running, however poorly, on my high school track team; graduating from college; marrying the beloved Swede; raising my children; typing out sentences here. Had my dad not reached in to pull me from the flames, I would not have been able to do any of these things.

As a follower of Christ, I often wonder whether or not my efforts amount to anything. I fail, miserably and often, to do the things I want to or think I should. I’ve endured my seasons of doubt, wondering about the genuineness of my faith; questioning whether or not it was real or just some act on my part. And I know I have an enemy of my soul who amplifies my doubts. He accuses me, most often in the middle of the night, of my unworthiness to claim any connection to Christ.

Last night my pastor preached about the idea of assurance—how a believer can be confident that he or she belongs to Jesus. He began by reading from the Old Testament:

Then he showed me Joshua the high priest standing before the angel of the Lord, and Satan standing at his right hand to accuse him. And the Lord said to Satan, “The Lord rebuke you, O Satan! The Lord who has chosen Jerusalem rebuke you! Is not this a brand plucked from the fire?” Now Joshua was standing before the angel, clothed with filthy garments. And the angel said to those who were standing before him, “Remove the filthy garments from him.” And to him he said, “Behold, I have taken your iniquity away from you, and I will clothe you with pure vestments.” Zechariah 3:1-4, ESV

If I am looking to my efforts as proof that I belong to Christ, I will never be convinced of my worthiness. My assurance is rooted in Christ’s rescue. Had he not reached down to pluck me from fire, removed my sin, and clothed me in his righteousness, I would have been completely unable to accomplish anything pleasing to God. Whatever good things I may have done; in whatever small measure I have loved others, my actions are but a feeble response to the One who first loved me.

Assurance is rooted in the gospel, in believing in God’s rescue of me through Christ. Good work is the fruit of the gospel, evidence that new life is flowing through me. The fruit of my efforts may appear pathetic and shriveled at times, but the tiniest berry is evidence that God is at work in me.

And God gives his Spirit, during seasons of doubt, to whisper to mine that I belong to him. Through his presence, I enjoy a down payment of what it will be like to enjoy eternal communion with Father, Son, and Spirit. In his presence I will dance and sing with all the others rescued from the flame.

Perhaps I’ll even lead them in a rousing rendition of Bend and Stretch.

This is how we know that we belong to the truth and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence: If our hearts condemn us, we know that God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything. Dear friends, if our hearts do not condemn us, we have confidence before God and receive from him anything we ask, because we keep his commands and do what pleases him. And this is his command: to believe in the name of his Son, Jesus Christ, and to love one another as he commanded us. I John 3:19-23, ESV

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:



With Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

And with the Write it, Girl Community:

Many Convincing Proofs

The good doctor Luke, personal friend of the Apostle Paul, wrote a couple of books to his friend Theophilus. In those accounts, Luke’s aim was to present many convincing proofs that Jesus had risen from the dead. And, though the canon of Scripture is closed, during Sunday morning’s session of The Jubilee Conference, speaker Bob Goff encouraged participants to continue to look for convincing proofs that Jesus is alive.

Goff’s work is one of those convincing proofs.

Throughout the course of the conference, speakers explored the themes of creation, the fall, redemption, and restoration. Goff, an attorney, is President and founder of Restore International, an organization committed to rescuing and rehabilitating victims of forced prostitution and slave labor, and of bringing the perpetrators of those crimes to justice.

Taking the stage while carrying a bunch of balloons, Goff told the crowd he had no idea how helium kept the balloons in the air. Likewise, he said, he had no idea how forgiveness worked. But, he said, forgiveness is real and it’s powerful.

Because of Christ, said Goff, we get to introduce people to forgiveness.

Restore International pursues justice for the needy in some of the poorest countries of the world. Goff worked with the judiciary in Uganda to resolve a backlog of court cases which had kept nearly a hundred young men imprisoned. At the end of one day, almost all were restored to their families.

Because of the nature of the crimes of which they had been accused, they faced the likelihood that they would be rejected by their families upon their release. Restore worked with the families, emphasizing their need to forgive their children and welcome them home. And, the young men were encouraged to forgive their captors.

During the course of his work in Uganda, Goff learned of an eight-year old boy who was mutilated and left to die, having had his genitalia cut off by a local witch doctor that trafficked in body parts. Restore International was able to prosecute the case against the perpetrator, a man who will spend the rest of his life in an overcrowded, windowless prison.

Goff, convinced that Christ’s message of forgiveness extends to all, visited the witch doctor in prison, shared the gospel, and prayed with him.

The young boy accompanied Goff to the United States where he was invited to visit theWhite House. And, through a generous donation and the skill of a surgeon at Cedars Sinai Hospital, this young boy has now undergone restorative surgery.

Throughout the course of the conference, I heard many stories, like this one, which bear witness to the reality of forgiveness and restoration through the living Christ. Have you seen them, the many convincing proofs that Jesus is alive? Where?

Linking with Laura @ The Wellspring, with whom I got to play during Jubilee:

And with Michelle @ Graceful:


And Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

Fightin' Words

Kids earn trophies for all sorts of accomplishments: horseback riding, Little League, academics, even baton-twirling. I have earned exactly one trophy in my life, and that one was for memorizing Bible verses. As a child I participated in an AWANA program and earned the Timothy award, based on 2 Timothy 2:15:

Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.

Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed – AWANA, get it?

I never was quite sure how to pronounce the word shew.

We talked, in last week's women's Sunday School class, about the value of the practice of memorization. As a former Bible verse memory nerd, I started thinking about the ways this practice shaped my early understanding of Scripture. One of the things I thought about was this: I wonder how much of my understanding of certain Scripture passages was formed when I memorized them as a child. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to have been taught God’s word from a young age. I’m thankful that I still remember verses I learned as a child, or at least snippets of verses. Most of them, I still remember in the King James.

Consider this verse, about the value of memorizing Scripture:

Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee. Psalm 119:11, KJV

For as long as I can remember, I’ve accepted as fact the idea that memorizing Bible verses would keep me from sinning.

I’m wondering how my childhood brain might have imagined that would work.

Maybe I assumed that if I memorized Scripture it would act like an immunization, inoculating me against sin.

Or perhaps I thought Bible memorization would create in my head a database of right and wrong.  If, for example, I found myself tempted to knock over a liquor store, I could simply consult my memory to see whether or not armed robbery was on the naughty list. If I found it was, then obviously I would decide against doing any such a thing.

Or maybe I thought the power of Scripture memory would act something like Captain America’s shield. When temptations came my way, the verses I had stored in my heart would deflect them away.

I’ve been thinking lately about the particular sins that have a tendency to trip me up, wondering how hiding God’s word might actually keep me from falling face-first into them. Knocking over liquor stores doesn’t really hold as much appeal for me as one might suspect. My pet sins tend more along the lines of worry, fear, unbelief, and doubt that God really does love me.

I’m tempted to believe that God is not good, or that my situation exceeds His ability, or that He won’t do what He promised. Most often, the temptation toward those kinds of thoughts comes to me in the dark of night when I don’t have a Scofield Reference Bible at the ready. Or a Geneva Study Bible. Or any other version that might help me beat back the lies and temptations which assault me in the middle of the night.

The only way I know how to do battle against that kind of temptation is the same way Jesus did, by using every word that proceeds from the mouth of God. Assuming I have those words handy when I need them. Assuming I’ve allowed the word of Christ to dwell in me richly.

It’s been many years since I’ve given serious thought to the practice of memorization. And, I suspect I’ll find it much more difficult than I did when I was a child. But I’m thinking it may be time for me to pick it back up again.

Even if there are no trophies at stake.

Considering the practice of memorization? Here are several useful tools:

Ann Voskamp’s Scripture memory cards for the book of Colossians

Ann Voskamp’s Scripture memory cards for The Sermon on the Mount

Laura Boggess’s Scripture memory cards for the book of James

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

Enter the Story

If you could be present during any of the accounts of Scripture, which would you choose and why?

Last week I asked the above question on my Facebook wall, and received a number of interesting responses:  The account of creation. Elijah’s battle with the prophets of Baal. David and Goliath. The moment Anna and Simeon first saw Jesus. The woman at the well. The transfiguration. One person responded that, though she knew it would be heart-wrenching, she would want to stand beneath the cross and witness all Christ had suffered on her behalf.

My pastor  is preaching a series on the life of David, showing how his life points to Christ. During Sunday’s sermon, he mentioned that he knew which story in Scripture he would most want to witness.

 “The road to Emmaus, without a doubt,” he said.

My pastor is a profoundly gifted preacher, skilled at opening the Scriptures in a way which reveals how all of it points to Jesus. And yet he said he longed to have that experience of walking with the disciples, and being joined by Jesus as “beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he interpreted to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself.” Luke 24:27, ESV. He wants to have his eyes opened to see more deeply how all things point to Christ.

I’ve thought long and hard this week about where I’d like to be inserted, Forrest Gump-like, as an eyewitness to an event in the biblical narrative. Mostly, I kept coming up with episodes where I’m sure I would not have wanted to be present.

The account of Noah’s ark is, perhaps, the most familiar of all Bible stories, even among many who aren’t well acquainted with Scripture. Baby nurseries and children’s storybooks often feature images of the ark, surrounded by pairs of happy animals set against the backdrop of a vibrant rainbow.

But the account of the ark isn’t really a happy story, and I’m not sure I would have wanted to be present as it was unfolding. The account of Noah and the ark is a dark one, filled with judgment and destruction and death. I don’t think I would have liked being cooped up inside a wooden boat, surrounded by two of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. As much as I love my family, I think I might have gone a little stir-crazy not knowing for how many days we would be enjoying nothing but one another’s company. I would have missed the blue sky. And I think it must have been terrifying, being tossed about by wind and storm and sea, protected by nothing but a wooden boat and the promise of God’s word.

Of course my only other alternative would have been taking my chances outside the boat.

I wonder what it would have been like to witness Jesus perform one of his miracles. I imagine myself sitting on a hillside, waiting to hear this speaker who’s been causing such uproar throughout all of Galilee. Knowing me, I’d have grumbled and complained about the lack of concession stands and clean bathrooms. Maybe I’d have listened to what the itinerant preacher had to say; maybe I’d have been distracted by my own irritation. I wonder if I’d have been one of the ones who came just for the spectacle, begrudgingly grateful for my share of bread and fish brought in by an unlikely caterer.

Would I have followed Jesus or gone home unchanged, determined to write a letter of complaint directed toward the organizers of the day’s event?

I wondered, when I asked my question, whether or not anyone would choose to stand at the foot of the cross. I respect the one who wrote and said she would. I couldn’t. The words penned by the eyewitnesses are hard enough for me to read. And I think about Mary standing there, watching her son as He was tortured and humiliated. As a mother, I’m not sure I could have stood by watching her agony.

After Sunday’s sermon several of us gathered for a meal, and we talked about the pastor’s question. One said he would choose to be with Jesus at the wedding at Cana.

And I knew. That’s where I would want to be; sitting across the table from Jesus, drinking the miraculously good wine, the best which was kept for last.

And that’s where I want to be; where there are no more storms or darkness or night. I look forward to raising a glass in celebration that God has always kept His promise, bringing me safely home. I want to know that Jesus didn’t leave me sulking and stubborn and sitting on a hillside; but drew me irresistibly to follow after Him. I want to party with Jesus; breaking bread with the One who was broken for me, and knowing nothing will ever again break this mother’s heart.

How about you? If you could be present during any of the accounts of Scripture, which would you choose and why?

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

Living the Benediction

Church services, when I was a child, seemed to have a hard time winding down to an end. Often I’d try to steal a glance at the clock at the rear of the sanctuary, knowing the pastor had preached well beyond the noon hour.  A lengthy altar call usually followed the sermon.  We’d stand and sing through all the verses of Just as I Am, only to start over again from the beginning as though my pastor was signaling his determination to outlast the very last recalcitrant sinner still clinging to his pew.

Now and then I’d catch my mother’s nervous glance, and I could tell she was thinking about the pot roast she’d left simmering at home. I often just wished someone would hurry up and get saved just so we could go home and eat. I could never tell how my pastor decided enough was enough, but eventually he’d call us to sing one of the verses as the last. He’d offer a prayer, release us, and send us on our way.

A time of coffee and fellowship follows the service at the church I now attend. Before dismissing us to our Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee, however, my pastor raises his arms and invites us to receive the benediction. Often he recites this one found at the end of the book of Hebrews:

Now may the God of peace who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, by the blood of the eternal covenant,  equip you with everything good that you may do his will, working in us that which is pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen. Hebrews 13: 20, 21 ESV

Benediction. The word means blessing, and it’s used quite often in Scripture. Patriarchs of the Old Testament pronounced blessings on their firstborn children, and something real happened when they did so. A transaction occurred. A son received real rights and privileges; he was assured of his inheritance.

Brothers formed lifelong resentments toward one another based on who did, or did not, receive his father’s blessing. Twins brothers struggled to beat one another out of their mother’s womb, wrestling to grab hold of their inheritance. Brothers threatened violence toward one another. In one case, there was some unpleasantness involving deception and bowls of soup.

The patriarchs of the Old Testament were mere men. They were not magicians who could speak words of blessing and cause them to happen. Of their own, they possessed no more power to bless their children than did a squirrel. These men did what God told them to do; they laid hands on their sons and spoke over them the words He told them to say. In doing so they conveyed something which had substance, something real.

When my pastor invites me to receive the benediction, something real happens. He’s not just reciting ceremonial words to signal the end of the worship service before dismissing me to my coffee. He is asking me to lift my eyes and receive my inheritance. He is reminding me of God’s promises and, in prayer on my behalf, is reminding God of the promises He’s made to me.

• He prays that God will equip me with everything good.
• He prays that God will enable me to do His will
• He asks God to do the work in me that will please Him.

Notice what does not happen in a benediction. My pastor does not raise his arms and say, “Okay, now that I’ve given you a pep talk from God’s word, I want you to go out this week and try really, really hard to do what I just said.”

He invites me to receive God’s blessing. He reminds me that God is at work in me, growing me up to do things that are pleasing to Him. He reminds me of what is already true about me.

When I get up each morning, I don’t stop and ask myself whether or not I’m going to behave throughout the day like a gray-haired middle-aged woman. That’s just who I am. Granted, on any given day I may behave like a twelve-year old; but my behavior doesn’t change what is true about me.

I don’t know how your church service typically ends. Perhaps you sing all the verses to Just as I Am multiple times. Perhaps it ends with a simple prayer. But. If your service concludes with a prayer of benediction, I encourage you to stop and listen to the words. Lift your eyes and receive God’s blessing. Then, after you’ve received your Styrofoam cup full of coffee, go in peace to live what is true about you.

Grab hold of your blessing. Live the benediction.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood: