Life is built on a sequence of events played out over time.

I can’t buy my next guitar until I sell my present guitar. Which I just did.

(Enjoy, Mark R.)

I couldn’t write this post until I got here to Hawaii. Between the build up to Easter, the launching of our North Campus, and leading worship and speaking at Redline Conference, I haven’t had anything more to give a public. This post was conditional upon my last “posting” of service to another audience.

All this to say, I’m simply reminded that we can’t do the next thing unless we finish the present thing.

The next thing sounds wonderful and exciting. It’s a distant horizon, an unopened gift beneath the Christmas tree.

The present thing is familiar.

Overly familiar.

It’s old.

And not the vintage, old-timey old. I mean nasty old. The “dear lord, I’m so sick of this and I just want it to end” kind of old that demands a high level of something to tolerate.


Of endurance? Patience? Stamina? Fortitude?

Patient endurance is what you need now, so that you will continue to do God’s will. Then you will receive all that he has promised. (Hebrews 10:36 NLT)

The next thing becomes the sweetest thing only when the present thing is treated faithfully.

Said differently with some verbose alliteration, don’t rob your pending promise of its pleasure by prematurely parting with your present plan.

Stay with it, whatever you’re doing today. There is a very real reward on its way.

I’m off to dive on a plane wreck in O’ahu. Yes, rewards are worth being patient for.


On Romans 12:12

Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.
(Romans 12:12 ESV)

There are some hard truths in the Bible in that they are difficult to get away from. Impossible, in fact. They’re non-negotiables, ones in which we cannot expect to find favor with God over, or even favor in life, without engageing—without wholly adopting them on as our own.

Many of these divine realities happen to but heads with the American Dream quite severly, therefore making a First World man’s task at incorporating them more challenging then others. Namely, that they require us to resist the urge to emerge from the warmth of the womb and come kicking and screaming into the cold, dry air of reality.

To “rejoice in hope” means we must first have a hope superior to the vehicles we see as our “immediate hopes.” If there is a need, financially, let’s say, then our hope of meeting it must see beyond the next pay check, the next side job, the next bonus. If it’s an emotional need for the desire of a spouse, or the verbal encouragement of esteem, it must be fulfilled beyond that of the earthly persons we expect it to come from. Ultimately, all such hopes must rest in the person of Jesus.

The “rejoicing” we engage in then directly betrays the true measure of our hope, not in a system, but in him. Of course, if a people can’t rejoice, it’s systemic of having little to no hope in him. But can you blame them? Our hope has been conditioned to radiate from our comforts. The very freedom and high-living that we’ve been raised to expect has become our greatest adversary on a Sunday morning.

Some might argue that we should then trade such lofty offerings in for a lesser state of living in order to attain a higher spiritual awareness, as more spartan cultures have. To do so, however, means we also abdicate the power of our present position to bring freedom to others while somehow gaining better traction for our souls to rejoice by placing ourselves in a deprived context. This, then, is self-serving as it only has one party’s best interests in mind, chiefly our own. Abandoning a powerful position to a selfless one in the name of self-betterment is still self-focus. While I wholly respect the hard work and production of the Amish family down the street from me, I am equally put off that in their radical embrace of the anti-modern in the hopes of preserving their own families, they have openly abandon the door that would serve me and my family into a similar state of salvation. Invitation is always stronger than intrusion. And they have sent me none.

The only true escape is to be faithful to the position you’ve been placed in by rejoicing in the hope of Jesus within your context. 

And so I must find hope outside of my immediate First World provisions. I battle against them to see clearly into a realm that is far superior. And in that gaze, I rejoice. Loudly. Boldly. Lavishly.

“Patient in tribulations.” And what tribulations do I have that I am not able to mitigate quickly? I have more resources at my disposal than I’m able to count. Even if the resources don’t bring immediate remedy, at least the knowledge that I’m pursuing something constructive does. I search online, call a doctor, consult an app, strategize with a satalite map, move funds, apply for a class, submit a resume, go to a mechanic, order a part online. 

Tribulations? Even a prison sentence in the United States comes with a gym and cable television. I’m even wondering if I identify with Dietrich Bonhoeffer when he wrote to his family from within the Gestapo prison in Berlin, telling them not to worry about him. “Suffering? I don’t think any of us truly endure suffering.” 

If I’m so quick to bypass even the onset of discomfort or inconvieniance with the resources at my immediate disposal, how can I truly be expected to be patient when real tribulation sets in? 

The answer has everything to do with my first reaction, with training my eyes on where to look when the status quo is first ruffled. This type of conditioning builds in an automatic response system of sorts. Since I may never have decades of earth-shattering tribulations, I must treat even my smallest inconveniences as initiators—not to inflate the trivial to a level of the grandiose (and in so doing, insult the plights of those in the world who are actually suffering), but to train my first instinct how to behave. Or better, to whom it needs to look.

If my hope worth rejoicing about is Jesus, then he also becomes my patience supplier, whether the task is a tremor or turmoil. The answer to my “tribulating patiently” is once again not a how, or a what, but a who.

“Be constant in prayer.” Such a state, taken literally (as some of the monastic life have) would say as much passively to the heathen world as my Amish neighbors have to me: “I’m too busy saving my own neck to be concerned with giving a thought to the state of yours.”

This speaks so much more to a state of prayer, or the condition of the praying heart, than it does to the litany of words contained between the prefix “Dear Father” and the suffix “Amen.” By no intention do I mean to discredit the need and extreme importance of verbally praying before the Father on a regular basis; if Jesus himself needed to do so, I need to do so much more. And there are fewer deeper acknowledgements to the human soul that prove the existence of God than that of a man verbally addressing a being who isn’t there, at least according to his natural eyes. 

However, this open-source, constant connection between our deepest spiritual nature and the presence of the Holy Spirit constitutes an intrinsic lifeline that’s reliant on more than just speech. Such integrity is derived from a pursuit of awareness, a God-consciousness, as John G. Lake put it, that invites the Maker of the Universe into the intimacy of every moment of the believer’s day. Whether by verbal invocation, mental assertion, or physical activity, our conduct as a whole is offered before the Father as a holy act of communion, of communicating in seen and unseen realms. So whereas a pious man might ascribe integrity to his spiritual life based on the eloquence or longevity of his prayers, a man who truly understands connection with the Father does so with the backing of his lifestyle of prayer holistically.  

The substance of this single passage of Romans is therefore a clarion call to an immersive indulgence into the person of Jesus Christ. No orthodoxy can summon its energy, no modernism can clarify its importance so much as faith in the person will produce the blind leap needed to land safely in the embrace of Jesus. 


Don’t Delay Destiny


Last night was our first meeting here at Watson Homestead in Painted Post, NY for the Southern Tier Youth Baptist Association’s annual Winter Retreat. Aside from two breaks, Jennifer and I have been coming to lead worship and speak for about nine years.

I was younger then, and had no kids. But this time around we decided we’d make it a family getaway. And I’m loving it.

Camping out in the same hotel room.

Eating meals in the cafeteria together.

Worshipping together.

And even ministering to people together.

Last night Eva and Luik had no problem jumping into the fray and praying for some teens during a time of altar-ministry. As their dad I was so encouraged.

Many times we see what we want to become “one day,” but often don’t take practical steps toward it. My kids’ prayers may not have been the most intellectually sound prayers, but they were sincere.

Our sincere attempts mean more to shaping our future than our wishful thinking.

Don’t just dream about what you want to become, ask God for the next step and be faithful to engage in that process with a bold and humble heart.

Sleeves up! ch:

Eat Your Words

Most of my posts are written in bed from my iPhone. One eye open, my thumb pecking out the words.

No sooner had I finished yesterday’s, than a knock was on my door. It was Luik, crying. “I spilled the milk.” (The punniness wasn’t lost on me).

What he meant was, he dropped and broke open an entire gallon in the kitchen.

One look downstairs and I was eating my words from my post:

“The grateful are never disappointed.”

I used 6 towels, 2 paper towel rolls, 2 different kinds of antibacterial something-or-other, and a mop. You can now eat off of the floor underneath the stove and the fridge. I found a missing iPhone, too. As well as my attitude. Did my best to sop up that rotten smelling thing.

What did Luik learn? Well, he’s suspended from making breakfast by himself for a while. But hopefully that – while dad was sure upset – he knew it was an accident and didn’t entirely lose his cool. There was cuddle time when it was all over.

What did dad learn? We need to be ready to mop up and eat our own words more often than we think.

Next time, though, I’m dumping a box of cereal on the floor and getting some spoons out for us. (Thanks Jason) ch: