## **Contents**

CHAPTER ONE Preface

CHAPTER ONE

Preface

Listen to the Music

Listen, do you hear it -- the discordant music of people without hope? Belligerent, accusing voices mingling with cries of despair. Hear the clashing cymbals of triumphalism all but drowning the simpering violins of those crushed underfoot; drumbeats of war, deep throated tubas of groaning, synthesized screams of pain and low organ resonances of mourning; strident saxophones of blame and smooth flutes of self-righteousness. It's the music of the age, with no score and no conductor. And it's getting louder and more cacophonous each day.

As militant atheists rail against the notion of God, and children are stolen and raped; as babies are burned and dismembered in the womb and heads roll in an orgy of hatred and misplaced religious zeal, the jarring music is reaching a crescendo of untold agony and misery.

Yet, turn your ears to heaven and you'll hear a different sound. Through the noise and the railing and mockery you'll hear the warm cello strains of the Son of Man "Come to Me, all who are burdened and heavy laden and I will give you rest." Cutting through the weeping dirge of a bereft mother with her dead child, is the song of the Saviour "The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit". Woven through the drumbeats of war is a tambourine dance of promise, "They will beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks."

The chaotic noise gets louder, but the Song of the Saviour is becoming more insistent. Everywhere people are starting to hear it. Mothers, weeping for their aborted children are tuning in to the life-giving strains of Amazing Grace and finding forgiveness. Muslims, tortured and bereaved by their own brothers are finding the cleansing blood of Jesus more persuasive than the spattered blood of Jihad. Mockers, suddenly finding they are the mocked, are hearing the God-Man who resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble.

Though the noise is loud, the rumbles frightening and the screeching makes you quake, the Saviour's song will prevail. When the final curtain falls, He will get the standing ovation. Stand up, stand up for Jesus. Listen now, to His song, for if you do, one day you will sing it with all of creation. His is the song that will triumph, with a thousand thousand angels joining the chorus, linking voices with the saints who heard His music in the midst of their suffering and called on His Name. Turn your ear to heaven and your heart to the Saviour.

He waits, your unique score in His hand, for you to join for eternity, the harmony of heaven.

A Perfect Place for Jesus

There's tangible despair – if despair is the opposite of hope – as one enters the premises.

As we drive up the narrow road past the women's dormitories, Mary and Hazel are sunning themselves in white plastic chairs placed in the narrow space between the driveway and the building. Their faces brighten as I stop and Margie, a co-worker from our church, alights. Further along, on the steps of a steel shed, Fiona sits motionless, her head bowed.

I drive on alone, up the road to the men's quarters. I pass Nicholas on the way, but he ignores me. Marcus, further on, gives a curt nod.

I park my car and, armed with some packets of biscuits and a Bible, walk up to greet the men sitting on a broken sofa, a sun-bleached kitchen chair and dilapidated plastic ones. Andrew ducks inside as I approach, but others greet me with enthusiasm.

This is Happy Valley, named by an anonymous humorist with a taste for irony. Situated on the side of a mountain, it is not a valley; neither, to many of its inhabitants, is it particularly happy. Yet this shelter for the homeless is my delight. God has given me the privilege of working with these people, many of whom would describe their lives as an omnishambles.

It's a place of deep pain and destructive shame; of outbursts of anger and sullen retreat. A place of desperate cries for help, yet, often, refusal to accept it when offered. Many have made bad choices in life, which have left them alienated from their families, robbed of their livelihood and filled with crippling guilt. It is a place of beautiful people whose treasure is buried deep.

What better place for Jesus? What better place to share His love and allow one's heart to be broken along with His?

Behind each face, eloquent in its suffering, or impassive behind an unyielding wall, is a story of how Satan comes to steal, kill and destroy.

Bruce found his best friend in bed with his wife. In a rage, he beat him up, not knowing that he had a medical condition that flared under the beating and killed him. Eighteen months later, acquitted of murder, Bruce emerged from prison with no wife, no business and a silent, raging heart.

Neil's paintings hang in Europe's galleries, but with the 2009 depression, financial difficulties wrecked his marriage. He found solace in the wrong places and lost everything.

Sharon left great work prospects in Johannesburg to follow the man of her dreams -- he'd invited her to leave her work and join him in Cape Town. Two weeks later, he tried to murder her. She escaped with her life and the clothes on her back.

The stories vary, but the need is the same. It's the overarching need of all mankind ripped open and laid bare through unbearable circumstances. It's the need to forgive and be forgiven. It's the need to be valued -- to count in the greater scheme of things. It's the need for Jesus.

It's easy to be discouraged when entering an open war zone in which the Enemy's inflicted casualties abound. Hurting people hurt people. Yet God is at work always. Even at Happy Valley, there are people who love Jesus when they arrive, or who learn to love Him while they're there.

Derek was chased from place to place as he slept on the streets. He started reading a Bible when a priest allowed him to sleep against the churchyard wall and brought him sandwiches and tea in the morning.

Andrew cannot stop talking about Jesus since finding him in a Christian rehab centre.

Paul met Jesus on an Alpha Course we ran at Happy Valley. Jesus set him free from the bondage of an unhealthy relationship with a deranged girl who had dragged him, after his wife divorced him, from an executive post into the gutter.

Shelton is a Zimbabwean, promised a job in Cape Town that did not materialize. He also met Jesus on the Alpha Course. He's now employed and has left Happy Valley, but comes to support those still there and tell them about Jesus.

It's my joy to visit there, for here I dig for buried treasure. Lives may be in omnishambles, but Jesus is the omnifixer. There's no life He cannot mend.

There's no greater joy than looking for the gold buried in the dirt and seeing Jesus wash it clean and make it shine.

Death by Execution

Surging and seething like some grotesque animal, the crowd milled around the guillotine baying for blood.

The king, his head held high climbed up the scaffold. Suddenly, with a look from him, there was silence. The roll of drums which had heralded a thousand drops of the bloody blade of death were silent. The king's voice, steady and majestic carried across the masses. 'I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge; I pardon those who have occasioned my death, and I pray to God that the blood you are going to shed may never be visited on France.'

The silence was tangible. Then a ruffian in uniform shouted, "The drums! The drums" Others joined in. "He must die! The king must die!" The drumrolls thundered, the king lay prostrate and the blade dropped. Hideous cheers erupted as the monarch's head was held high by his hair.

Maximilian Robespierre looked on from his vantage point. The Reign of Terror had begun. As a politician who had sided with the revolution, he had the adoration of the masses. Now, with the king eliminated, he became a virtual dictator and set about eliminating anyone deemed to be an enemy of the people. He was a man possessed, and The Terror knew no bounds. Nobles, foreigners, ordinary citizens suspected of disagreeing with the revolution --- all were thrown into the Bastille or summarily executed without trial. In the frenzy of killing, a pall of fear enveloped France as the thirst for blood gripped the masses swirling each day around Madame Guillotine. It is estimated in the 10 months the Reign of Terror lasted, more than 10,000 souls died in prison and over 17,000 heads toppled into the baskets.

But Satan kills and destroys even those who serve him most loyally. Robespierre's megalomania was fuel for his enemies. Less than a year after the start of his Reign of Terror, he was arrested. Within a day, without recourse to a trial, and amid the jeers of a bloodthirsty mob, his head joined the thousands he had caused to topple from the guillotine. He reaped what he had sown so abundantly.

\------------- o -------------

1700 years earlier another execution had taken place. A restless mob had crowded a courtyard crying for blood. The ruler tried to intervene, but the mob would have none of it. "We want him dead," they shouted. The cry rang through the courtyard and into the streets, "Crucify him! Crucify him!"

When Jesus staggered through the streets of Jerusalem, the crowds had seen it all before. The Roman roads were lined with the victims of crucifixion as reminders of their oppressor's cruel sovereignty.

Now, He hung upon a cross, breathing His last. There was no cheering mob, merely a mocking, supercilious one. As in France, the air was thick with evil. Yet, when He died, there was no rejoicing --- no raucous jeers, but hushed awe as the sun grew dark and the earth shook. History was tilting upwards.

The Man on the Cross was reaping what others sowed. Into the field of His life, he took all the seeds of sin and destruction sown by man since his creation and reaped their fruit --- the wrath of God. It came physically in the form of flesh ripped raw on His back, thorns plunged into His forehead, nails thrust through the nerves and sinews of His hands and feet, a sword in His side and an excruciating death. Spiritually, it manifested in the utter loneliness of abandonment by His Father.

As Jesus bore the fruit of our sin, He cleared the fields of sown sin for whoever believes in Him, making them fertile with divine love, ready for the seeds He gives us to sow. As we plant the seeds of His Spirit, we reap love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, kindness and self-control.

And because He chose to reap what He did not sow, we can sow His seeds into the lives of those around us. And how rich is that harvest.

Murmurs of a Guilty Conscience

I think I made a mistake. It's not easy being a governor in a foreign land -- especially one with such crazy bigots.

I had the whole pack baying for his life, because he didn't toe their theological line! How do you keep the balance between order and what you know in your heart is right? Things were heading for a riot as they yapped at my heels like hunting dogs slavering for his blood. I couldn't let it go on.

So I killed an innocent man.

I don't usually care. I've done it before. Even enjoyed it, watching them writhe and seeing the people cower at the power I can wield -- or grow angry, depending on their mood. It's never affected me this way before. What's it to me as long as I can keep law and order? That's the priority.

But there's something bothering me about this one. He was different. He wouldn't cower and he wouldn't talk, but his looks were eloquent enough and I didn't like it. He seemed to look into my heart, and that's a private place. I don't even like going there myself, sometimes. For all the pleasure I get from seeing others squirm under my power -- especially those filthy Jews -- sometimes the inner door opens a chink and there are longings........and doubts.......I like to keep that door shut.

There was something else in his eyes, too. What was it? That's part of what's bugging me. I've spotted fear in eyes a hundred times or more and enjoyed the smell of it. I've seen arrogance, too and I like that even more. It spurs me to greater cruelty with no remorse.

His eyes had neither. The closest I can come to describe it is... let me see...pity? No, though there was some of that. Love? Perhaps. Compassion! That's it. It was as though he was looking at ME with compassion. I had the power of life and death in my hands -- his life -- and he's looking at ME with compassion. It was so absurd that it unnerved me.

And that conversation about truth! Everyone knows that truth is relative, changing with our experience. Yet when I looked at him, he seemed so completely integrated, so sure -- as if behind the man was a colossus, solid and unmoving -- eternal, almost. I had the weirdest feeling I was looking at Truth itself. I had to turn away and give a mocking, "What is truth?" But in a sense I was asking myself the question.... and wondering if he could tell me.

That's when I decided to let him go.

I tried my hardest. I tried to flog and release, and when that didn't work, I used the Jewish feast to release one prisoner, trying to persuade the Jews to accept him as the one. Nothing worked with those unbending fanatics. Then the crowd started getting ugly and it was order first, as always. I washed my hands of the case and let them have their way.

But no matter how much I wash my hands, they still feel smeared with his blood.

I heard some of the things he said from the cross -- strange things to come from a dying man, especially one unjustly tortured. When I heard of them, I had a flashback to those eyes. I thought I saw that same compassionate look that unnerved me when I questioned him. How could a dying man plead for the forgiveness of those killing him? And did that include me?

I heard he even had words of encouragement to that scoundrel crucified next to him. He spoke as if that wasn't the end of him -- that they'd meet again.

And the eclipse that lasted so long (why hadn't our astronomers predicted that?) at the same time as an earthquake. Was it coincidence that it all happened round about the time of his death?

Yes, I have a feeling that for once I made a mistake. This was one man I should have let free. Claudia thinks so too. She's not one to nag, but she she told me on the day of the trial, and I've never heard the end of it since!

But why should I worry? No-one can touch me. I'm Pontius Pilate and I have all the power of Rome behind me.

Yet, this one thought keeps bugging me:

"What if he wasn't just a man?"

Born Ugly

There are few who get a worse deal in life than those with severe facial deformities.

As the anaesthesiologist for the Pietermaritzburg Craniofacial Unit, I saw these patients a month before their surgery, when they came for assessment and planning of their operations.

Some, like Peter, had arrested growth of their mid-face. His nose was squashed against his face, and his jawbone, carrying his lower teeth, protruded far beyond his uppers. His eyeballs, bulging like a bullfrog's from shallow undeveloped sockets, seemed about to fall onto his narrow cheeks. His profile -- with a small mid-face wedged between normally developed foreheads and lower jaws -- was C-shaped punctuated by his enormous, protuberant eyes near the top and protruding teeth at the bottom.

Others had eyes as much as eight centimetres apart, giving their faces a peculiar triangular shape, while others had sharp pointed noses, almost no cheekbones and a receding chin, making them look like strange birds.

One child had a huge cleft that extended through his palate, along his nose and beside his eye. His mother, In a wonderful expression of grace and love, had named him Goodenough.

Many of these unfortunate people were kept holed up in a back room out of society's sight.

What do you do when you have a face that makes people recoil when they see you? Characteristically, when I saw them at the Clinic, they looked down, first to the right then to the left, trying vainly to hide their faces, the source of their ugliness, too ashamed to look up or look me in the eye. In spite of my caring, and being there to help, they endeavoured to hide.

How like them we sometimes are with God -- trying in vain to hide because of who we are, unwilling to see that He is loving and caring, looking beyond our ugliness of our sin to what we can become in Him.

For, indeed, in a physical sense, that's what we did in the Clinic. We looked beyond what they were, to what they could become. The Surgeons took photographs, measurements and 3D CT scans, and devised the operations together. Later, they used the CT scans for computer simulations of what they planned to do. I evaluated the patients for the anaesthetic risk, how best to produce optimal operating conditions, and what postoperative ICU management they would need.

Can you imagine what it must be like to spend most of your young life locked up or hidden away? Imagine having people shudder and look away when you walk down the street.

Now, picture looking at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes no longer bulge, but gaze back clear and straight, you smile and your teeth are in line; in fact for the very first time you can feel your upper and lower teeth meet when you chew your food. You walk down the street and no-one stares. You are free. What you were is behind you now. You can dream and plan.

In all my years of practice, I can think of few things that gave me more satisfaction than having one of these patients, now normal in appearance -- sometimes frankly beautiful -- look me in the eyes and smile.

Yet many of the patients had skills to learn and habits to unlearn. Early on, the Craniofacial Unit incorporated psychological counselling as part of the treatment. The stigmata of past rejection lingered; many did not know how to deal wisely with their newfound freedom. In the fresh joy of being accepted, they trusted all and sundry and some -- particularly the women -- were taken advantage of by unscrupulous men.

Again there are parallels with our spiritual walk. As Jesus sets us free from the terrible ugliness of sin, there are bad habits to unlearn, and new wisdom to be gained. We need discipleship and wise counsel.

In a sense, each of us is like a craniofacial patient, though many do not realise it. We have been born into the distortions of God's beautiful plan for us by the ugliness of sin. Deep down, we know we have an ugly side, which we try desperately to hide, though God, of course, sees it all. He has all the means to transform us, but we need to come and ask.

When we do ask, and allow Him to change us, nothing gives Him greater pleasure than to see us smiling confidently, able to look Him in the eyes. Because of what He has done at Calvary, as we come to Him in faith, we're sure of our beauty as His new creation, ready to plan and dream.

Yet, like the craniofacial patients, we must learn to walk in our new life. The stigmata of negative thinking and bad habits need to be broken through mentorship and wise counsel.

As the craniofacial patients, radically changed visibly, need to learn the invisible qualities of wisdom, integrity, self-confidence and trust, so new believers, also radically changed, but on the inside, also need to learn to walk in holiness, allowing the Holy Spirit to mould and fashion them into the likeness of Jesus.

The song

Alistair rubbed his eyes as the faint light brushed the curtains. He blinked, shook the lingering mists from his mind, threw back the duvet and stumbled to the window and the light. The parting curtains revealed fingers of pink and gold that stretched from the eastern horizon across heaven, thinning as they approached him, to reveal the morning star. The scent of jasmine caressed him through the open window. He shrugged it off.

"Morning has broken," he muttered, "yet again."

In spite of himself, however, he could not repress a lift in his spirits, as a half-forgotten song tried to surface, notwithstanding his efforts to squash it.

Morning has broken

Like the first morning

The tune echoed in his head like the soft bells of a distant cathedral.

"But it's not like the first morning, is it, Lord? Everything's changed.

He tried to quell the song to assuage the guilt. He shouldn't feel happy while he was mourning for Jill; yet the song persisted, as though the voices of a thousand saints who had sung it through the ages were urging him to join them.

Almost absent-mindedly, he started humming the tune.

Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning......

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy --- My joy --- comes in the morning."

Where did that come from? So clear was the whisper that Alistair looked behind him. There was only the empty bed.

He'd heard that before. Where was it? Oh yes. At Jill's funeral. The pictures flashed before him yet again. The phone call. The rush to the scene. Ambulance sirens. Intensive Care. Finally, the weight of the doctor's hands on Alistair's shoulders and the look of deep compassion in his eyes. Night closing in. Deep, black, night. Three people in each other's arms, sobbing till their hearts physically ached.

Bill and Susan had been wonderful since then. The young seem more resilient. Though they loved their mum dearly, they were able to pick up their lives and move forward.

But he was stuck in the silence and blackness of night.

Until now.

What was happening? Something was bubbling to the surface --- crystalline champagne laughing through the brooding. Alistair was still in his pyjamas as he tossed his reluctance to the wind and surrendered to the song. His deep-throated voice, made deeper by the early morning huskiness, filled the room, the house, the universe, with praise.

Mine is the sunlight

It was streaming through the window now.

Mine is the morning

"Yes, God. I choose to receive Your mercies, new every morning."

Praise with elation, praise every morning.  Only a Christian knows the paradox Alistair experienced as the joy accompanying his praise did not eliminate the pain, but mingled with it in a divine dance of anguish and delight.

God's re-creation of the new day.

\------------- o -------------

The special ring that told Susan it was her dad seemed to reverberate in a minor key that tore at her heart. She braced herself for yet another dark comforting session. Poor Dad. He's lost without Mom.

Bill looked at her expectantly as she answered. He saw her eyes widen, her jaw drop and then her lips break into a broad smile as animated chatter and laughter filled the room like confetti dancing in sunlight.

When she finally said goodbye, she turned to her brother.

"God's done a miracle with Dad. He's put a new song in his heart. It's no longer a dirge."

Her eyes sparkled as she hugged her brother and swung him around. "Nothing's changed --- in his circumstances, I mean." She bubbled and sparkled. "But everything's changed. He still loves Mom dearly, of course, but he's able to hand her over to God and live with the beautiful memories."

She threw herself onto the sofa. "He's going to sing again. Oh, how I've missed that lovely rich baritone these last two years. He's rejoining the choir. He says he's going to request that the first song they sing when he's there is Morning has Broken."

He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the LORD and put their trust in him. (Ps 40:3)

The Face

His face was hard and battle-scarred  
His narrowed eyes were filled with hate  
He looked at me, then looked away  
The man behind the grate.

I smiled at him and said hello  
The cold eyes didn't hesitate  
He faced my stare, then gave a scowl  
The man behind the grate.

I wondered what had put him there  
What evil did he perpetrate  
To send him into solit'ry  
Alone behind the grate.

It's usual when we go to pray  
And walk the prison floors till late  
To see the faces and the hands  
Pressed hard against the grate.

They want the touch they want to see  
Who's come -- who doesn't hesitate  
To show His love and Christ-like care  
To those behind the grate.

But in that solitary cell  
A man who roared against his fate  
Sat eaten up with bitterness  
And glowered through the grate.

It seemed to me that as I looked  
I saw like a precipitate  
The smut of evil clinging to  
The crossbars of the grate.

Then ... in the face behind the bars  
I thought I saw a child of eight  
Being bruised and beaten, kicked and cursed   
Brought up on fear and hate.

And then I saw another face  
The Man who sealed my fate  
He too was beaten mocked and scorned  
Like that behind the grate.

Lord Jesus You have been with him  
His sin -- You bore its weight  
You know the pain behind the scowl  
Of him behind the grate.

Be with him now, he needs your love  
To melt his pain so great  
Embrace him with Your nail-pierced hands  
Let love replace his hate.

Imprisoned in that lonely cell  
Let all his fear abate  
Be with him, let him feel you sit  
With him behind the grate.

He can be free, he can rejoice  
He can appreciate  
A Lord, a Savour and a Friend  
Who's with him by the grate.

For everything that he's endured  
You can ameliorate  
Though he's restrained by prison bars  
You are the way, the Gate.

You melt a raging heart of stone  
That seeks to make men quake  
And take him through the Gate, to heav'n  
Far from the fiery Lake.

You're with him in his prison cell  
You'll set him free and take  
His spirit to a spacious place   
While still behind the grate.

Miracle at Bethesda

In a sense I was resigned to my fate, though I was in a place of healing. When the wall collapsed, trapping me under it, I should have died. For many years I wished I had, for what is life with useless, numb legs and spastic arms?

Martha, bless her, was wonderful the way she carried me, washed me and fed me, putting up with my misery as I cried out against my fate. Slowly, I adjusted to my condition though an anger against God simmered in my soul for allowing this.

One day Martha came from the market with excitement in her eyes. "A group of women were talking about a man who was healed of blindness at a pool called Bethesda. Every now and then the water stirs and the first one into the pool is healed. I'll see you are carried there each day."

"It's no good, Martha. I'm a cripple. Can't you accept me as I am?"

Martha glared. "Don't you want to get healed?"

I struggled with my thoughts. Why was I so reluctant?

"I think I'm scared. What if I get my hopes up and nothing happens? What if I stop accepting the way I am? Can I live with constant dissatisfaction with my lot?" Yet part of it was guilt. I knew what I had been doing when the wall fell on me. I couldn't tell Martha. Perhaps I deserved what I got.

Martha was persuasive.

For three long years someone carried me to the porch surrounding the pool. All around was the pall of sickness and despair. Blind men tap-tapped their way to a place on the porch, others retched and groaned in pain. Occasionally a demented man cried out and an epileptic shook convulsively. I hated it, though every so often someone would give a triumphant shout and emerge from the water healed. But I knew it could never be me. I could hardly move to the water. Nevertheless, I went every day. Sometimes I'd give encouragement to someone close by, or gain some comfort seeing others worse off than me.

Then, one Sabbath afternoon a man strode confidently onto the porch. "What's he doing here?" I thought, "He doesn't look sick at all."

Catching my eye, he walked up to me. "Hello Simon," he said. How did he know my name? " How long have you been coming here?"

"About three years."

"Do you want to be healed?"

What a question! But then I thought about it. Did I really want to be well? Did I deserve it? Was this my penance?.... No, I decided, I would really like to be well.

"I'm too slow getting to the water when it is stirred, Sir, but I'd give anything to walk again and use my arms properly."

His eyes blazed with righteous fury at my condition and compassion for me as they met mine. His voice reverberated with the authority of heaven itself.

"Then get up. Roll up your mattress and walk out of here."

Power pulsed through my body. My legs tingled. I felt the mattress beneath them as sensation surged back . Strength returned. I stood for the first time in thirty eight years and rolled up my mattress with strong, relaxed arms. Yet the strength in my limbs was nothing compared to the soaring song in my spirit. A crowd was gathering. I looked around to thank this miracle worker, but he had slipped away.

Outside, the Pharisees berated me for carrying my bed on the Sabbath.

They glanced at one another, suspicion evident in their narrowed eyes.

"Who was it?"

"I've no idea. He disappeared before I could even thank him."

I only dropped my mattress when I got home and then it was to prance and dance before my beloved Martha, who had so faithfully had me taken to the pool each day. The memory of her tears and sobbing in gratitude and joy are with me to this day.

Eventually she found her voice. "We must go to the temple and give thanks to God."

In the temple, I suddenly nudged Martha, my heart throbbing. "That's him. Over there. That's him." He turned to me, smiled and came over, as Martha whispered, "That's Jesus. Everyone's talking about him."

"You're looking good." He held both of my hands in his. I wanted to kneel and worship him, but he held onto my hands and continued, "Go your way and sin no more or something worse could happen to you."

Memories flooded back from that terrible accident. How did he know I was going to rob the house when the wall fell on me?

Yet that would be unthinkable now. Not after a touch from Jesus. My heart was filled with gratitude and love for God, and my greatest desire was to follow Him.

For that Sabbath did more for me than just heal my body. It set my crippled, guilty spirit free.

Origins

Patrick O'Donaghue, like a shipwrecked sailor drifting amid the ship's flotsam, sat among his belongings that were strewn over the front lawn. Bridget was weeping and he didn't know how to comfort her. Sean and Mira sat solemnly beside their mother, clutching their soft toys.

Patrick cursed his leg, which had been too inflamed for him to work reliably for the last month. Most of all, though, he cursed his landlord. He'd worked twice as hard when he could, but his landlord didn't notice ---- or chose not to.

The other tenants were sympathetic.....yet he'd heard rumours.......nah, they couldn't be true. Rory wouldn't do that --- or would he?!

Down at the pub, Patrick's plight was the main topic. All agreed the system was wrong. To evict a family without notice or a stated reason wasn't right. In fact, the Irish Land League had drawn up what was known as the three 'f's. Fair rent, fixity of tenure and free sale, and were agitating for the implementation of these.

Someone mentioned he'd heard a rumour that as soon as the eviction order was served, Rory Blake made a bid for the house.

Shaun's eyes smouldered. "A man that does that should be killed."

"Aye. And his house burrned t' the ground!"

The place shook with a vociferous "Aye!" "Aye"

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen." Charles Parnell pounded the table for silence. "There's a more Christian way t'do it. If any man dare be so unkind, he should be shunned. The bartender here should refuse to serve him. Dame O'Malley should serve him no groceries, the postman not deliver his letters, nor the milkman his milk. There should be no greeting in the street --- all services denied."

The rumour proved unfounded, but Charles Parnell's words, repeated at the Land League's meeting some time later, were not forgotten.

\------------- o -------------

Captain Boycott was a mean-spirited, selfish man who managed an estate in Claremorris. Times were bleak after a bad season. The tenants asked for leniency in paying their rent. They were granted a ten percent reduction. It was not enough.

They descended on Boycott's stately home. "Ten percent's too little. Can't y' see we're starving? Give us twenty five."

Before Boycott were men in rags, skinny children and gaunt women trying to feed their children on morsels, but all he saw were troublemakers trampling his garden.

"Get off my land, or I'll set my dogs on you!"

He appeared at the door, the snarling dogs at his feet. As the mob shuffled off, he wrote out eviction orders for 11 of the tenants.

News of the pending evictions, like sparks to a thousand fuses, rushed from ear to ear, inflaming hearts and tempering the steel of resolve to resist.

The Land League backed them, and Parnell's tactics were implemented. The grocer refused to serve Boycott, the laundress wouldn't wash his clothes, the postman delivered no mail, nor the milkman his milk. His nephew, trying to retrieve his mail, was intercepted and threatened. No workers appeared to tend the fields or animals, or work in his house. Anyone who dared to arrive for work was manhandled and sent home. The crop could not be harvested.

\------------ o -------------

Lord Sandler called from behind his newspaper. "I say, Sarah, listen to this. Some poor chap in Ireland has written in, saying his crop is about to fail because the Irish peasants are refusing to work for him. Bad show, I'd say. We should help the unfortunate fellow. We can't let the Irish treat an Englishman like that."

His response to a letter by Boycott to the London press was reiterated throughout England and Northern Ireland. A 'Boycott Relief Fund' was spawned to help him and fifty Orangemen, guarded by 1,000 policemen and soldiers, marched to Claremorris and harvested the Captain's crop. It was estimated it cost £10,000 pounds to harvest the £500 crop.

Yet God favours the poor and hates injustice. The enormous publicity the Boycott incident engendered highlighted the plight of the peasants. Within a year sweeping land reforms, including the Land League's three 'f's were written into law.

It wasn't long afterwards that the same tactic was used in New Pallas. New York Times reporter James Redpath was chatting to Father O'Malley about how to report the incident.

"I don't know what to call their action, Father. When the peasants isolate a wicked landlord it's ostracism, but that's not a word peasants understand. We need a more graphic word."

"Hmm." Father O'Malley's nod showed his agreement. "How would it be to say they 'Boycotted' him?"

Thus a new word was born.

I Did it My Way

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I remember lying on my bunk listening as the moaning wind made our trailer tremble and creak like a frightened creature. The plain pasta sat heavily in my stomach and burned into my throat. My thin blanket failed to stop the cold from settling its icy fingers on my skin. My brother dreamed next to me, moaning and thrashing about and my parents laughed and murmured through the thin walls.

Suddenly, I was sick of it; the scraps for supper, the ill-fitting hand-me-downs, the teeth-chattering winters, and baking, airless summers. I didn't want to see my parents' anxious eyes as they trusted God and wondered where their next meal was coming from.

That pivotal night, my life changed. I forsook family, church, God and friends who couldn't help me in my quest. My sights were set on one thing only. I was going to be rich.

My mother saw my fierce restlessness and tried to placate me. "We may be poor, but we've got each other and we've got God."

I inwardly scowled.

"We may have each other, but we're poor," I muttered to myself, "and we may have God, but He's not helping us. If He doesn't then, by God, I'll help myself."

And I did. God wouldn't like my methods, but I didn't ask Him. From then on I did it my way". I'd rather not say how I got the starting capital. Never touch the stuff myself, but if people choose to ruin their lives and are desperate, and I have a supply......... I've made up for it since, with my donations to charity. It's good for business. The Ian Goodrich Foundation for AIDS orphans has an impressive ring.

And here I am, driving on this hellish night with the wind relentlessly hurling liquid bullets at my windscreen, and sending wet twigs and leaves skittering through the air to be beaten to the ground by the rain. But I'm driving a Porsche, and the Playboy pin-up, who is my third wife, waits for me in my New York penthouse.

People say I've a brilliant business mind, (what a night -- is this rain or sleet?) but I know it's more. It's self confidence. "There are just two ways of doing a deal," I'd tell my subordinates "my way and the wrong way. If you don't like my way, tell me. I'll have your office cleaned out in the morning."  
No, no silver spoon in my mouth. A self-made man and I've made myself pretty good, if I may say so.

Someone tried to tell me about Jesus the other day and I remembered my mom (who doesn't approve of my methods). I remembered her say "We're poor but we've got each other and we've got God." So I told him I've got a poor mother praying for me and that's enough. I'm doing things my way. "Hey, look out, your lights are dazzling me. Dim your light! I can't see in this rain. Get on your side of the road. I can't control this slide. ...No!... a truck!"

\------------------- o ---------------

"Where am I? Why's it so dark?"

"You're on the threshold."

"The threshold? What's that? Who are you?"

"I'm Jesus"

"...................Am I dead?"

"Yes."

"The truck? Jesus, thank God you're here. I knew You'd be here for me. You've seen all the good things I've done; the success I've made of my life, the charities I've supported. You're full of love, I know. Can you let me in now? Into the light? It's so dark here."

"Sorry, Ian, I made a way for you to come in, and there's no other way. It's the way of the Cross. I showed you how. It's the path of humility, putting others before yourself. You might have made it in the world -- you did it your way -- but when I came to save the world from their sin .... I did it My way."

"I am the Way, the Truth and the Life. No-one comes to the Father except through Me." Jesus (John 14:6)

"God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble" (James 4:6. 1 Peter 5:5)

New Life for an Old Man

The old man leaned against a crumbling boulder, surveying the valley below. Fine clothes on bent shoulders, smooth hands and a short-sighted squint betrayed an affluent man of learning. Yet today he felt poverty-stricken and dull. The bleakness of the desert before him reflected the state of his heart.   
Beneath an overcast sky, an icy wind blew eddies of dust along the barren spaces. Far below, herdsmen, oblivious to his pain, called to a scattering of sheep, enticing them to a path between the rocky outcrops. They couldn't see the ache, the regrets at not being more firm, more insistent on a different course of action. God forgive me. A gross injustice was perpetrated and he did nothing to stop it. Yet how could he, without facing their derision? Just the mention of the man's name ignited such fury in his colleagues that, like enraged bulls, they lost all reason.   
It was all very civilized, of course. There were no violent outbursts. No snorting, pawing the ground and charging; everything was discussed politely, with political correctness. Yet there was no hiding the raging acrimony that burned in their souls. He was a threat. He must be removed.  
With fearful eyes and growing alarm, the old man had watched a tactic as well-worn as the institution itself: Discredit the person in the eyes of their constituency, tarnish his reputation and persuade the authorities he is a threat. It had never failed.  
It was much harder this time, however. Their "opponent" was quick witted; a man of impeccable integrity. Yet they had won in the end and, though he knew they were making a terrible mistake, he had done nothing. He watched as they had their way, as always, manipulating the people like a merciless juggernaut devouring the masses for its own ends.  
Now that it was over, he realized how much he cared. He felt he'd lost a son -- nay, a father -- though he, himself, was twice his age. As they buried him, his timidity -- his fear of their rage at the mention of his name --seemed so trivial, so petty in light of the enormity of the injustice.  
This was the third day he had come to his place of meditation. He could not bear to be with his grimly gloating colleagues. Here, in the desert, he could think.   
And mourn.   
And, perhaps, still pray.  
God, are You merciful enough to hear me, though I am such a poor servant? Did You hear Your Son's pleas for You to forgive?  
As though the sky mourned with him, dark rainless clouds brooded over the landscape each day, making it an eerie, chilly wasteland.   
Yet even as he watched, the clouds were breaking and shafts of sunlight threw beams from heaven into the valley, highlighting the shepherds, as if showering down favor. Inexplicably, his spirit started lifting. Yet I am still guilty. Why, then, do I feel this release? Not understanding, he sank to his knees, head bowed.   
Then, like an arrow through the air, he heard his name. Someone was calling him; someone who knew where to find him.  
"Nicodemus. Nicodemus. Come down. Come back to Jerusalem."  
It's Joseph! He's running. With shining eyes Joseph grasped Nicodemus by both shoulders. "My friend, I have wonderful news! You must come back at once. Jesus is alive. He has appeared to His disciples. He's alive!"  
Nicodemus shook his head to clear it. "But Joseph, we buried him together. We both know he was dead. There must be some mista..."  
"It's no mistake, Nicodemus." Joseph interrupted excitedly. "He has power over death. It's as you suspected all along. He's more than a man. He's the Lord.   
Hurry. He will want to see you. You see, we were in the right place at the right time. It was all in God's hands."  
Realisation dawned. Everything was orchestrated by God. The self-elevating religious system was not a juggernaut riding roughshod over the Son of God. It was a pawn in God's hands carrying out His perfect will. Even Joseph of Arimethea, his friend, was perfectly placed for his part, providing a grave for Him with the rich as predicted by Isaiah.  
He hurried down the hill, kicking the sand with joy and dancing. The sun broke through the clouds, resting on two elderly men skipping down the mountainside like young calves.  
And God smiled. It is indeed finished. There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

The Day Michael Came

I was content; happily married, fine job, good family, (except for Jonah), nice house.  
Then he came.  
I'd walked past those like him many times, without a second glance. Homeless people embarrass me. I avoid their eye in case they want something. Often they avoid mine, too. Ashamed of their circumstances, I suppose.   
That day, though, I noticed him.  
He wore a tatty old coat two sizes too big. His hair was matted. His moustache and beard straggled across his lower face like an untidy Jesus. He should have looked pathetic -- I'd always regarded the homeless as wretched -- but he stood erect with an air of quiet assurance.   
I looked him in the eye -- and was transfixed. His clear, acorn-brown eyes drew me into a world of hope and beauty. Something stirred, as though a rainbow settled in the reservoir of my soul. I saw the bland emptiness of my existence, the pointlessness of accumulating status symbols. His eyes revealed something beyond my grasp, something lovelier, like the music of the stars.  
I stood, mesmerised.   
He smiled, showing a line of unkempt teeth. "Hello. Thanks for stopping. It's tough when most folk just walk past. If you want to help, I'd be so happy. You see, I badly need a bath. That's the worst of being on the street. You usually get some food but there are few places we can wash. Offering me their bathroom is rather threatening to most."  
I agreed. I wondered what Jane would say about letting him into our pristine bathroom. Yet ... I couldn't leave him. Not after the stirring in my heart.  
He extended a hand half enclosed in a frayed finger mitten. "I'm Mike." I grasped it, wondering what the passers-by were thinking.  
"I'm Bill. Come. Have a hot bath and a meal."  
The brown eyes shone with pleasure, but I somehow felt he was pleased for me, not himself.  
Jane's jaw dropped when I opened the door and ushered Mike into our living room. She shook the tips of two of his fingers gingerly as I introduced him. The boys were fascinated. Jonah stumbled across in his spastic gait, and with a crooked smile, tried to speak. "Huy-y-yo! Moy nay-y-m-s Jo...Jo..Jonnnah!"  
Pete explained. "That's my brother. He nearly died when he was born and now he's got cerebral palsy."  
Jane retreated to the kitchen and called the boys. I left Mike running the bath, hid the silver, opened the bathroom door a fraction and dropped one of my shirts, trousers, socks and shoes inside. Then I joined Jane and the boys. Jane looked at me with puzzlement and fear. "What are you thinking, Bill? These men can be dangerous."  
"I can't explain. Something stirred when I saw him. There's more to life than what we've got, Jay. We must get involved. His eyes.... they touched my soul with music." Her quizzical look and shrug spoke volumes.  
The meal was memorable. Mike, clean shaven and dressed in my shirt and trousers had certainly been around. He said he'd shared meals with Hurricane Katrina's victims and rescued people from the Oklahoma bombing; he'd sat in murky hell-holes with those living dead caught in the merciless grip of King Heroin. Jane looked sceptical. I wasn't sure, but the boys were fascinated.

After the meal, he thanked us profusely. "What you did tonight was life-changing. Now I must go."   
I asked him to excuse us and took Jane to the kitchen. "We can't just leave him back on the street, Jay" I whispered urgently, "What are we to do?"  
"He's a hobo, Bill. All those stories. We don't know they're true. He could rob us tonight."  
"But his eyes. Did you notice his eyes?"  
As Jane hesitated, hysterical shouting burst from the living room. We rushed through expecting trouble. Mike was gone. Pete was jumping up and down. "Look at Jonah. Look at Jonah."  
Jonah walked slowly towards us testing legs that walked perfectly straight. He smiled broadly, a straight, perfect smile. Then he spoke. "Mommy, Daddy, I can walk and I can talk. "Mike did it."  
"Where is he, boys?"  
"He's just left. Said he heard you in the kitchen. Didn't want to cause trouble between you two."  
I ran to the door and peered out. The place was deserted.

\------------ o ------------

Jane and I love our church. We serve in a soup kitchen and realise God's given us our worldly goods to share.  
Now I know what Mike (Michael?) meant when he said what we did was life-changing. He was talking about our lives.   
The music and the rainbow have never left my soul.

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by doing so some people have entertained angels without knowing it. (Heb 13:2)

Provision

It was a cold, blustery day when they buried her husband. Gusts of wind, sweeping past the gravestones blew swirls of dirt from the mound, into the empty grave as if impatient to get it over with. "Michael would approve." Patricia thought. "He was never one for standing on ceremony." Patricia hugged her two daughters as they stood, teary eyed, while the priest intoned. "I am the resurrection and the Life..."

Why, God? Why take him so young? And so suddenly?

The mourners stood silent and still. Some listened attentively. Others, disengaging, stared vacantly ahead. "He who believes in Me, even though he die, yet will he live."

He lives with You, God, but I'm left to live here alone.

"Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes."

It was as the relatives were throwing soil on the coffin that she saw him. At first she thought he'd come to another grave -- but he faced them, his young head bowed. His shoulders sagged and shook slightly and he twisted the edge of his black T-shirt around and around in the fingers of his right hand.

During the final hymn, her eyes travelled to the coffin, to the young man, back to the coffin and again to the young man. Who is he? What does he have to do with Michael?

As soon as the service was over, Patricia moved towards him, but comforting mourners gathered around her, blocking her way. She watched the young man brace himself against the wind and disappear between the tombstones.

Once free, she ran in his direction, but he was gone. Slowly, she returned to her family.

\------------- o -------------

The hole at home was gaping. No cheerful. "Hello, I'm home." Her body ached for his touch. So lonely. So quickly. A gasp, clutching his chest --- and he was gone. How she had enjoyed his deep voice and strong arms. Now there was no man in the house; just a yawning void. Funny how she'd never told him how much she longed for a son. If only....... but it was too late now.

Her thoughts travelled to the graveside and his grieving relatives. She saw the young man, standing at a distance, sobbing, twisting his T-shirt in pain. Who was he?

\------------- o -------------

Patricia didn't realise Michael's popularity until the condolences poured in, giving her new insight into the very private man who had been her husband. Twelve years of marriage, and only now she learned that he climbed mountains, helped at an orphanage, and was a party man at Varsity.

As she tore open another letter, she paled; her hand shook. Michael's handwriting!. It was on an envelope enclosed in another. She read the first letter, which was brief.

"Dear Patricia.

Michael asked me to send this to you, should anything happen to him. I'm so sorry for your loss that necessitates my carrying out his wishes.

Heartfelt condolences.

Barry."

Patricia opened Michael's letter:

"Dearest Patricia

I suppose I've been cowardly in hiding this from you. Please understand, my motive was to spare you pain.

A few years ago, I received a phone call from a girl I dated at Varsity. Imagine my shock when she told me that a few weeks after we broke up, she discovered she was pregnant. She never told me, but brought up her son by herself, in another state. She was back now, sixteen years later and would love her son to meet his dad.

I was shattered and excited, but terribly afraid it would affect our marriage, so I said nothing. I've grown to love Jimmy (yes, that's his name) dearly. If I go, he'll need someone to love him. His mother's moved in with an abusive man, so he's in digs by himself. I've been seeing and supporting him.

Please, darling, don't be angry. For my sake, look after him.

Your loving husband

Michael"

A slip dropped from the envelope with an address.

Patricia's knees buckled. Heart pounding, she prayed. "Why, God, why? Why the secrecy?"

Silence.

"What am I to do?"

Suddenly her mind was filled with Scripture verses she'd learned as a child.

A Father to the fatherless, a defender of widows.(Ps.68:5)

He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow.(Deut.10:18)

He is now fatherless and I am a widow. Are You putting us together? Will You be our defender?

I prayed for this child, and the LORD has granted me what I asked of Him.(1Sam 1:27)

I wanted a son. Is this Your answer?

A deep peace filled her heart.

She called out to her daughters. "Carol, Stephanie! Come. How would you like to meet your brother?"

The Mocking

At the cathedral exit, Jacques paused and looked at his friend. "Wait here. I'm going back to shock the priest out of his cassock!" Turning back to the aisle, he made his way towards the confessional.

Jacques and Mario were touring the world and having a blast. Cathedral tours were not usually included with the beaches, night clubs and extreme sports, but this one was supposed to be famous. Jacques found it ornate, cold and otherworldly. He needed to inject some fun.

Drawing back the curtain of the confessional, he sat down. "Father, I have sinned," he said in a contrite voice.

"Nothing is beyond God's forgiveness, my son. Please confess your sins."

Jacques, his imagination at full sway, recited in lurid detail, stories of every abominable sin he could think of. He had murdered, he said, fornicated, cheated, lied, blasphemed and betrayed. Finally he stopped, waiting for a response.

After a silence the priest spoke up in deep, clear tones. Was there a slight mocking? Had he seen the prank?

"My son, you have much to repent of. This is the penance: At the life-size crucifix overlooking the chapel to your right, look into the face of the statue of Jesus hanging on the cross and repeat ten times, "Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." Then, with the hint of a smile in his voice, he said, "Do not let the game end here. Carry it through to the end."

So he DID know. Oh well, Jacques would accept the dare.

He found the crucifix easily. He never understood this Jesus thing. Why did people make so much fuss about a man on a cross improbably taking our sins? Was the story true? It seemed unlikely. Uncertainly, he started. "Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care. Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." Gaining confidence, he made it part of the fun. Beating his breast in mock despair, in a cracked voice he called, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done," then he straightened himself, looked defiantly at the statue's face and spat out the words, "and I don't care." He tried looking him in the eye, daring him to flinch, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." There, that was four times. Six to go.

On the seventh time, as he looked into that face, he noticed, for the first time, how the thorns of the crown pierced the skin of his forehead, causing blood to trickle down into his eye. Inexplicably, he felt an urge to wipe it away. "This is silly. It's only a statue!"

The next time, his eyes wandered to the hands fiercely impaled with large, rough nails. Again he noticed the blood trickling, this time, from the palms to halfway along his arms before forming drops that hung, about to fall. "Jesus, you're ... you're hanging there ... for all I've done, and ..... and I don't care." He forced the words out. "I am just talking to a statue." Why, then was he feeling so emotional about it? He looked back at the face. Those eyes; they seemed to know what he was saying and yet remained with that same compassionate look. Of course they would. They were the eyes of a statue. And yet.... what if it depicted a real person?

Two to go. He started, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done and.... and... " He felt his knees shaking, then giving way. On his knees he started sobbing, "and I DO care, Jesus. I'm not that callous. Or maybe I am. I am sorry. I am so sorry that you had to do this for us. Why do you love us so much? How could I not care, Jesus, when YOU care so much? Forgive me, please. I don't ever want to willingly do anything that makes me more responsible for your suffering."

As he knelt before the cross, a tangible peace flooded his soul. Through his tear-filled eyes he half-imagined Jesus coming off that cross, laying a forgiving hand on his shoulder. And he felt clean; for the first time he could remember, he felt washed from the inside out. He looked up and saw the man-God behind the statue. He also saw, in every repeat of his own mocking another reason for those brutal nails. And, born again, he wept.

The Meeting on the Shore

They say we're full of energy  
They say we're full of steam  
We get things done no matter what   
We're loud, we're brash, we scream.

We're called the Sons of Thunder  
'Cos we rumble and we roar  
Our tempers flare with every dare  
We're volatile, for sure.

We help Dad with his business  
He's into catching fish  
We mend the nets, repair the boat  
Fulfil his every wish.

For he's the thunder, we're his sons  
We dare not disobey  
Or else he'll shout and stamp and curse  
That's how he gets his way.

And that's the way we've learned from him  
Our nature's fire and steam  
And yet.... at night when all is still  
I sit outside and dream.

I see the moon across the lake  
The myriad stars above  
And deep inside this brawling man  
A small boy longs for love.

I know that there's a God up there   
He's infinite, that's clear  
Yet what's He really like inside  
What is it He holds dear?

Can He love an angry man  
Who pouts and shouts and swears?  
Does He see my longings?   
Does He really care?

Today I'm at my father's nets  
My brother's next to me  
Who is this man approaching   
By the Sea of Galilee?

He's stopped. He's looking in my eyes  
I'm naked in His gaze  
It seems my whole life's clear to him  
He knows my angry ways.

And yet... there's lovelight in His eyes  
He doesn't seem to care  
That I'm a rough and loudmouthed man  
Who'll loudly curse and swear.

He really likes me, cares for me  
I see it in His smile  
The way He talks is strong, yet kind  
Devoid of any guile.

I want this man to stay with me  
I like Him more and more  
Perhaps He'll help me with the nets  
Stand by me on the shore.

He makes as if He wants to go  
"Don't go." I cry, "Not yet.  
I recognise the love I've sought  
Although we've hardly met."

He smiles at me as if He likes  
The anger, fire and steam.  
Or is He looking deep inside  
And sees the boy who dreams?

"You want me to go fishing, John?  
But come with me and then  
Instead of catching ocean fish  
I'll let you fish for men."

I glance behind and see my dad  
He glares impatiently  
The contrast 'twixt the steam and love  
Is plain for me to see.

I choose the love and leave my nets  
I feel a joy so free  
I'll go with Jesus, Lord and Friend  
I'll let Him tutor me.

I feel the anger and the steam  
Melt as I'm by His side  
This son of thunder's yen for love  
Is being satisfied.

The Lord of heav'n has chosen me  
From long before my birth  
To be "The One Whom Jesus Loved"  
To truly know my worth.

It's not in shouting, being rude  
And brash, to get my way  
It is in loving, being loved  
At home, at work, at play.

And just as He has chosen me  
He'll meet you where you are  
He'll take your anger and your hurt  
And show you how to care.

For if the Son of Thunder  
Can become "The One He loves"  
Then surely He can take your heart  
And make it like a dove's.

He's asking you to leave your nets  
And look into His eyes  
And see that He delights in you  
And wants to heal your sighs.

When tempted to ignore His call  
And stay to huff and steam  
Know, as with me, He sees your soul  
With all its secret dreams.

He'll take you from a churning heart  
That kicks and heaves and shoves  
And soon, like me you will declare  
"I am 'The One He Loves'."

Reflecting God

He was a cripple... through his nursemaid's clumsy handling. Even twenty years later, in his mind he still heard the crack, experienced the searing pain course up his legs and felt them crumple under him as she dropped him and he hit the floor. From then, he hobbled on twisted, deformed feet that refused to take his weight.

His nursemaid was in a hurry, acting in fear. Thinking someone was coming to harm him, she grabbed him and hurried away; but she stumbled on the stairs and he slipped from her grip. There were no bannisters to stop his fall.

It was the death of his father and grandfather that caused her panic. His grandfather was king, and she thought the newly appointed king might annihilate all his family members, so no-one could challenge his rule. So, she hid him....But the king sought him out.

He was a young man, when there was a knock on the door. Machir, the man hiding him, opened it to the king's soldiers. "You have a man named Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan here?"

Machir nodded slowly.

"We have orders to bring him to the palace."

His heart pounding with dread, unable to walk, and with no-one helping him, He crawled into the presence of the king and bowed low, expecting to die. The king's voice was strong and commanding. "You are Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan?"

He answered from a dry mouth and a tongue that moved clumsily in it. "Y-e-s, your Majesty."

"Your father was a great man." He felt a stab of pride, in spite of his terror as the king continued. "We made a blood covenant together. Do you understand what that means?"

He barely heard the words, so great was his fear. He could only croak, waiting for the order to kill him, "I am as a dead dog before you." (2Sam 9:8)

Ignoring his stammering, King David continued. "It means what's mine was his and what's his is mine."

He paused to let it penetrate. "It means for Jonathan's sake, you're now as a son to me." His eyes softened. " How, having loved your father so much, can I not love you, who were so dear to him?"

His servants raised Mephibosheth from the floor and seated him beside the king. From then, his life changed.

Yes, he was a cripple, because of someone's clumsiness, yet he was honoured by King David. He had land, with thirty five servants to work it and look after him; He dined sumptuously at the king's table each day and slept in peace between silk sheets.

\------------ o ------------

I was a cripple, through my ancestors' clumsy handling of the commands of God. Though I was yet to be born, in my mind's eye I hear the seductive whispers, <i>"You will not die... You will be like God."</i> I sense the hesitation, then the careless disregard for the truth spoken by a God who walked with them in the cool of the evening. I hear the crunch of that first bite and the searing pain in their spirits as they dropped all mankind into a spiritual void. The peace of God and sense of His presence dissolved. I see their crippled spirits hiding in fear, lest He slay them.

That's my inheritance. I, too, handled the words of God carelessly. At times, I made clumsy, futile stabs at truth, without God or His Word for reference. At others I guessed in a blundering, half-hearted way at the nature of God. And got it wrong. Afraid He would come at me with condemnation and vindictiveness, I hid in fear, a crippled fugitive.

Yet the God of history brought Mephibosheth into King David's grace as a concrete example to us of His dealings with us.   
When the King of Heaven arrested me, I came trembling, till I heard the words of the Father. "I have a Son whom I love. He loves you so much that He died for you. How, loving Him as I do, can I not love you, who are so dear to Him?" He raised me to my feet and seated me in His light.

Now, as His son I feast at His table, seated with Him in heavenly places. There is room there for all Mephibosheths.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil and my cup runs over. (Ps 23:5)

Plundering a Hell on Earth

Amidst the paradise of the tropical Hawaiian Islands, Molokai was the closest thing to hell on earth. The clear blue skies, azure seas and lush vegetation made a mocking backdrop for hovels housing deformed creatures shuffling in putrefying bodies through barren activities of a meaningless life. Everywhere the stench of rotten flesh hung like a pall, while the shouts and cries of angry men brawling, carousing and habitually drunk spoke of a people abandoned by society and left, without hope, to rot.

Though not shouting, like the lepers of the Bible, "Unclean! Unclean!" those words rang out unceasingly in their hearts. This was the leper colony of Hawaii where doctors reportedly examined them by lifting their dressings with a cane and left their medicines on a bare table to be collected when they had left. It is no surprise that the decadence and decay in their bodies was mirrored in their spirits.

Then one day, in the person of Damien de Veuster, a Roman Catholic priest, Jesus came.

The Catholic church was aware of the appalling conditions on Molokai. Reluctant to sentence anyone to a life in such horrendous conditions dealing with a contagious disease, they called for volunteers to go there for three months before being relieved.

Father Damien volunteered.

On arrival in 1873, he immediately set about showing the people their dignity as beloved children of God, made in His image. He honoured those who had died by giving them a proper burial, personally digging graves and making proper coffins. He protected the cemeteries from marauding wild pigs and dogs, enlisting the help of those still capable. When his three months was up he elected to stay.

To restore the dignity of his flock, he made an agonising, Gethsemane decision. He would show them love in every way, casting aside his own fear of leprosy. So he dressed their wounds -- sometimes rushing outside for fresh air before returning to the stench of gangrenous flesh; he hugged them; he shared their meals; he anointed their leprous foreheads with oil and drank the communion cup with them.

He so identified with them that in talking about them, he spoke of 'we lepers', though there was no evidence of the disease in him. He wrote: "...I make myself a leper with the lepers to gain all to Jesus Christ. That is why, in preaching, I say 'we lepers'; not, 'my brethren....'"

In the meantime, he enlisted their help in restoring the settlement. Working tirelessly, the hovels were replaced by neat lines of painted cottages with their own gardens, the church was extended and a hospital and orphanages built.

Slowly the dignity of the people was restored. The church was packed and the gospel fearlessly proclaimed.

Then one day, as he warmed his feet in scalding water, he felt no pain... He had contracted leprosy. Working feverishly to complete his many edifying projects, he now felt the full brunt of prejudice and loneliness of the disease.

Prohibited from seeing his fellow priests and travelling freely, he remained with his beloved flock as the disease progressed. Some people, regarding the disease as the judgement of God, linked it (quite erroneously) to a licentious lifestyle. In many quarters he was despised and rejected.

Finally, in 1889 at the age of 49, he died of the disease.

"This is how we know what love is," says John, "Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for others."(1John 3:16)

John also tells how Jesus, after washing His disciples' feet said to them, "I have set for you an example that you should do as I have done for you."(John 13:15)

How closely Father Damien followed the example of Jesus! Jesus touched a leper. Damien washed their wounds. Jesus humbled Himself, became a man and took on the form of a servant. Father Damien served his flock tirelessly, calling himself 'we lepers' until he became one.

Who can doubt that, in following His example, Damien brought Jesus to the settlement of Molokai.

Physically, he plundered a hell on earth, transforming it into a beautiful settlement.

Spiritually, the wails of a population rejected by man and destined for hell became songs of a loving community destined for a life with God; the God who shone through a man who dared to take radically, Jesus' exhortation to follow His example.

Soliloquy of Moses

You were in it from the start:

As my head was squeezed till I thought it would surely burst and then, with a gush of water and blood, I emerged to gasp and slowly blink my eyes in wonder at this strange new world, You were there supporting me.

Born a boy and considered dangerous, I was decreed to die; but You were there nurturing and supporting. Amidst the carnage, and the moans of mourning mothers, You held me firm. You leaned, unseen, into me. Among the reeds of the Nile, You rescued me.

From the start, You formed Your words in me. Like the writings in a holy book, You wrote my life's story, destined to ring through the ages. And, like a bookend, You propped me up when I leaned and threatened to fall. In all of my mistakes, You were there.

Reared in Pharoah's palace, You kept me as a Jew, so I could bear it no longer as I saw my fellow beaten. I retaliated.

"Murderer!" they shouted -- and I knew they were right. Yet You spared me the ultimate price.

With me as I fled, You supported me, writing, writing, writing into my life; forming the book that was to be me. You took me to palaces, deserts, through thick darkness, plagues and visions of Your flaming light; through defeatist murmurings and victory songs.

So many times I faltered. Stammering, unsure, I would have fallen from the shelf, pages torn, story unfinished, but as I leaned on You, You held me till Your support became my delight; till I knew, deep in my heart, that without You I was nothing but a few scraps of paper with meaningless scribbles. Until I begged You not to leave.

Oh, the stories written in the pages of my life. What a book! Sweltering days and freezing nights; acmes of ecstasy and valleys of dark despair; ferocious fighting, rebellious dissenters and tired, angry mobs, wailing for water or moaning for meat.

You wrote my story from start to finish. I didn't want it, but You ordained it, and how glad I am that You did.

That You should choose me to be Your Deliverer is more than I can fathom.

That You should talk with me face to face, revealing secrets long hidden in You -- secrets of our origins so that I, as part of my story, would write more manuscripts, starting with the Book of Beginnings.

And now You have revealed that it's time to close this book.

I am on the mountain overlooking the Promised Land. Far in the distance, I see what we have been longing for these past 40 years. You told me I shall not enter it -- but I am content with my story, for it is not really mine, but Yours. It is the story of Your sustaining faithfulness, Your sustaining grace in times of failing, Your sustaining purpose for Your people and above all, Your sustaining love. Each man, each family, each tribe is a book of Your writing. Like divine bookends, from Egypt to the Promised Land, You have supported them, holding them together as a nation when they should have fallen apart.

As for me, my story is told. I am satisfied. It is time to remove the bookend, my God. Let me fall to the dust from whence I came, while my spirit breaks free and soars to You without restraint.

(Extra)Ordinary

Shadows dance on the stable wall, leaping and receding with the flickering flame. The man, candle held high, draws his wife close. Together they gaze adoringly at the soft new face, the puzzled eyes blinking slowly, uncomprehendingly, at the first perception of light. Banished are the memories of the frantic, fruitless search; the desperate plea, "Even your stable will do."; the hastily spread blanket to soften the straw; the contractions, the rush of water and blood; the first cry; trembling, unfamiliar masculine fingers tying the cord, severing the afterbirth, wrapping the child. For now, there is wonder. Wonder at the miracle of that first breath, at perfect little fingers and toes bending, straightening, trying out this new world.

Humanity at its most poignant, most vulnerable, most heart-warming.

Yet hardly earth-shattering. Not to the passer-by.

So much to overwhelm, with the census. So much to engage the crowded dusty streets for: Accommodation, provisions, registration. No time for a second glance at the new family. History is made at Caesar's census booths, not in a stable.

Yet heaven holds its breath, angels gaze in awe, the scene reverberates through the cosmos and history tilts upward as He, who once hurled galaxies, lies helpless in a mother's arms. The extraordinary wrapped in the ordinary.

How often God wraps the extraordinary in the ordinary:

The leader of God's nation hidden in a stammering old refugee. (Moses)

A king clothed as a shepherd boy. (David)

The very Word of God enclosed in personal letters from prison. (Paul)

Angels entertained as strangers. (Hebrews 13:2)

A carpenter's son packaging the Creator of all He spoke to; of all that shone upon them from the heavens; of all that nourished and preserved them.

And now, ordinary citizens, the wrapping for recreated beings; Creator's children; God-bearing vessels; channels of His very Spirit. Mingling unnoticed with the ordinary. Yet extraordinary. (2 Cor 5:17, 1Cor 3:16)

God, give me eyes that look beyond the wrapping.

Beyond the cantankerous old woman to the bearer of Your word to me for today.

Beyond the brash young boy to Your sonnet, scripted exclusively at the dawn of time. (Eph. 2:10)

Beyond the criminal, the patient, the hungry beggar to an entrance to Your heart --- treasures hiding in the world's trash. (Matt. 25:37-40)

And beyond the stumbling, imperfect church to a glowing, resplendent Bride treasured and transformed by her majestic Groom of Glory. (Eph.5:25-27)

The Journey of a Lifetime

Here I am again, back to the familiar where nothing's changed. I see I left a shirt on the bed and crockery drip-drying by the sink.

It seems incredible that this place -- this home -- should be just as I left it, when God's light is rampant on earth. And I've been part of it. What a journey! It was a spur of the moment decision, but the best I've ever made. I teamed up with Theo, and we just decided we'd take a road at random and see what village it led to.

The wiry old man sitting outside his house had half a dozen children playing at his feet. That gave us an opening.

"Are those your grandchildren, old man?" I asked.

His face softened and his eyes brightened as they wandered, first to them and then to us.

"All of them," he said.

Theo joined in. "Children are so trusting."

The laughter lines creased around his eyes. "They come to me with anything."

"Did you know that's the way we must enter the Kingdom of Heaven?"

The old man stiffened, his face suddenly hard. "Trust God like the children trust me?" He looked at the ground, frowning. "No. You see, I've had experience, which these children haven't had." His eyes misted over."I know what it's like to pray to God and have a silent heaven."

It was my turn. "Will you tell us about it?"

He stood up. "Come. I'll show you."

He opened the gate and ushered us into his home, leading us to a room at the back. On the way, we heard cries and the pounding of heels on the floor. He opened the door a fraction and bade us look. In the middle of the room tied to a pole that was fixed to the floor was -- what was it --- an animal? No, although like a crazed beast, its eyes burned with fury, the head swayed back and forth and the heels drummed up and down, up and down while it wrenched at the ropes holding it to the post. It was barely recognisable as a young girl, tormented and crazed by a thousand demons.

Closing the door, the old man took us to his sitting room. "That's Lydia. I've prayed to God day and night for my grandchild, but He's not listening." The tears glistened on his lined face. "Can you see why I cannot trust Him as a little child?"

I glanced at Theo and saw his face shine. "Sir, God has heard your prayer. His timing is perfect. He wants you to know about His Messiah. He's come to save us from our sins and deliver us from the oppression of the Evil One."

He told him the good news of Jesus, the Messiah. On finishing, he said, "Now, take us to Lydia."

It was our first taste of the power Jesus gave us. With screeching and a stench that filled the house, the demons fled. Lydia's eyes softened, her face transformed and she spoke to her grandfather in a voice as sweet and clear as a mountain stream. "Thank you, Grandpa for praying so earnestly for me." She smiled as she held the weeping, trembling old man. That evening we preached to a packed house. Lydia, had waltzed around the village in a dance of joy, spreading the good news. The Kingdom of God permeated the whole village as we stayed at the old man's home preaching, teaching, healing the sick and driving out demons in the Name of Jesus.

Then we moved to the next village and the scene was repeated as we used Jesus' strategy, staying in people's homes and ministering from there.(Luke 10:7) We'd never experienced such power.

Finally, after filling village after village with the light of God, we reported back to Jesus. "Even the demons obeyed us!" we exclaimed with excitement. The other seventy disciples had similar stories.(Luke 10:17)

But Jesus warned us, "Don't get carried away with the power I've given you. Remember from whence it came and rejoice that God has chosen you to be with Him."(Luke 10:20) It was a sober lesson. I admit, the power had gone to my head a little.

And now, my little home, it'll be good to sleep in my own bed with familiar things around me, but then I'll have to say goodbye to you. You see, there's a Messiah who has no place to lay His head,(Luke 9:58) and I'll be following Him wherever He goes.

Scorched Earth, Seared Soul

James sifted through the charred ruins, looking for valuables.

His mind raged thinking about the stubborn Afrikaans farmers, turned guerrilla fighters who refused to admit defeat. They harassed and killed the British at every opportunity. Now Lord Kitchener had employed a Scorched Earth policy, capturing the women and children and burning the crops and houses to starve the menfolk into surrender.

James kicked aside a charred doll, a broken mirror, burnt dresses and bonnets. The woman and her children would have been dragged from the house and incarcerated in a concentration camp under appalling conditions of starvation, exposure and disease, such that 26,000 would die in two agonising years. Rummaging through the smouldering remains, he pocketed a necklace and rings, but found little else. He'd heard they hid their silver when the British were close.

He wandered over to the charred stable. Nothing here. Unless their silver's hidden here. What's this? ... A loose stone in the wall. He pulled it from its position, revealing a deep recess. His pulse beat at his temples. He reached inside, extracting --- not silver, but a small book. He felt again and pulled out a violin. Intrigued, he sat and read.

31st Jan 1901

Petrus is no soldier, but what can you do when your livelihood is threatened? The poor, sensitive man. I know he'd prefer to be with me, Sarie and Hannah.

James felt a twinge of conscience. I'd rather think of him as the enemy, not a sensitive man.

He read on:

2nd Feb 1901

Praise God, Petrus came home last night. He looked exhausted. My heart broke for my darling husband. To ease his mind, we reminisced about the happy days of farming, the thrill of my pregnancy; how he played his precious violin to the new baby.

3rd Feb 1901

One all-too-brief day at home to be fed, washed and rested, before returning to fight. Poor, man. How he hates this war. Dear Lord, let it be over soon.

James thrust the book away. I didn't come to read this stuff. Lousy Afrikaners. Where have they hidden their silver? He rummaged through the stable, but his heart was not in it. Images filled his mind of Mary and Jonathan safely in England. He missed them, but at least they were safe, far from this vicious war. Like a magnet, the diary drew him.

9th Feb 2001

I haven't seen Petrus for five days. The British are getting closer --- they're burning all the farmhouses and crops. What'll we do if they come here? Lord Jesus, have mercy on us. Almighty God, protect Petrus.

11th Feb 2001

Still no word. The British are almost on us. We've nowhere to go. I fear for the children. Yet I know God is always with us. Whatever fire or flood we go through, He promises in Psalm 66, He'll bring us to rich fulfillment. Perhaps that will be when we see Him face to face, or perhaps we'll see it here on earth. Only He knows.

James' heart was bursting. In the smoking ruins, he saw the ruins of a devoted, loving family.

He turned the page. It was blank. He realised today was the 13th February. Idly, he turned the blank pages, eager for more. Five pages on, he found more.

Dear British soldier

If you find this, it will mean we've been killed or captured. Please understand. I know you are far from home and from your own family. Perhaps you do not even want to fight this war, like my Petrus. I don't know how many Boers you have killed (perhaps even Petrus), but know that I forgive you. You see, I know what it's like to be forgiven much. I have a Saviour who has forgiven me.

James' knees shook. Memories flooded back of soaring choruses bursting from his village church and entering his heart. He pictured this devout little family kneeling in prayer --- and now ripped asunder. He wiped his eyes to read on.

I urge you to see us, not as the enemy, but children of God, as you are. Ask God for forgiveness and come to Him. Live as the child He'd like you to be.

Sobs burst uncontrolled from James as he read.

If you do that, I'll see you in heaven and introduce you to Petrus.

James knelt in the ashes and, in a stable, like the place where it all began 1900 years earlier, Jesus entered his world and his heart.

The Seeker

Wild-eyed and dishevelled, he roamed the streets and alleys peering in the doorways, tearing at his hair, distraught and distracted.

"I'm looking for Love. I've lost it. Has it left? Is it hiding? Has it gone forever? "

Hedon looked over his tankard and gave a snigger. "Still looking, old man? No luck yet? Try the whore house. There's plenty will love you there, for a fee."

"Oh, help me, help me please. I'm looking for Love. I've lost my love. Has the whole world grown cold?" His hands shook, causing his matted locks to tremble around his face as he staggered on.

"Come in here, wild man, and learn from me." A fat man in a business suit sat at a table. A girl sat on his lap; men hovered, fawning around him. Money bags littered the table. "Make your fortune and the world will love you. Look at you, penniless old beggar. Who will love you like that?"

A haunting wail left the old man's lips. "Oh-oh-oh-oh, the pain. Who will help me? Who can lead me to Love?"

A pretty young lady, barefoot, in a flowing gown and with flowers in her hair, sauntered up to him. She put a flower in his bedraggled mane and kissed him playfully on the nose. "You don't need to look for love. You are love. Love is the god in you. He lives in each of us. Just let it out and you'll find Love.

The old man threw himself on the floor, beating the ground. "Will no-one tell me where to find Love? Love has deserted us. The world is cold."

"Come with me, old hermit." A tall man with a kind face and a long pony tail pulled him to his feet. "I'll show you where to find it." He took him to the country and showed him flowing mountain streams, a pure white lily, snow covered peaks, a soaring eagle. "Look," he said, "at the beauty that surrounds you. In that beauty you'll find Love."

"I see it," the old man cried, his voice sobbing in despair, "but it's remote; it's distant. I don't feel it. I can't find it. I've lost it in the coldness of men's hearts." He hid his face in his hands and his body shook.

For a long time he sat there, shaking. Then a small voice said, "Why are you crying mister?" A little girl stood beside him. As she laid her hand on his shoulder, a glimmer of light touched his soul.

"I've lost Love. It's left this dark world and no-one can find it."

"I'll take you to it." The pure innocence of her voice made him rise. "Come," she said, "We must climb a hill to find Love."

"What is your name?"

She smiled sweetly. "My name is Grace. I'm the one who takes people to Love." She was thoughtful beyond her years as they trudged upward. "I must warn you, love is costly."

"I have no money."

It won't cost you, but it comes at great price."

"Then who will pay?"

At that moment they crested the hill and he stopped in his tracks. At his feet was a man so disfigured he scarcely looked human. Blood oozed and congealed on lacerated flesh; rivulets of scarlet trickled from his brow down a swollen, bruised face.

The girl pointed, her voice trembling. "He will."

The battered man lay on a cross. A bleeding hand was outstretched, a brutal nail of iron poised at its wrist.

"No!' the old man cried, "Stop. Who did this?"

Grace looked at him steadily. "You did...... He's paying the price for your love."

"No. No. Don't do it. I'm not worth this." His eyes were wide, his mouth contorted.

"He thinks you are." The hammer struck the nail. Sinews and nerves split as the man convulsed in pain.

Bewildered, the old man cried out, "This is love? This ugliness? This horror?"

Then realisation struck. He's doing it for me. His face shone with light and a warm peace flooded his soul. "Yes," he said, "this is true love. Love for me. True beauty in the midst of all this gore."

Tenderly, he laid his shaggy head on the torn, bleeding breast, weeping with the love that filled his heart.

"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down His life for us.." 1 John 3:16

Consequences

They walked in light and beauty. The crystal rivers flowed through meadows of sun-tinged green and orchards of trees heavy with fruit. The song of birds filled the pristine air and animals wandered unafraid everywhere. Adam's heart filled with joy as he looked into the eyes of his darling wife; eyes sparkling with life and love.

They rested beside a waterfall. The soft murmur of tumbling water resonated with his deep contentment. Soon the sun's warmth would wane and the evening breeze would stroke the air with coolness.

And God would come.

Not that He was ever absent. He is love and where there's love, He is there. But in the cool of the evening He was manifestly present. They spoke with Him face to face while walking through the garden. Sometimes, He spoke of His love and His plans for them. Sometimes Adam showed Him what he'd been doing that day. Yesterday, he'd told Him the names he'd given the animals that came to him. Always, however, his greatest pleasure was feeling His presence, basking in His glory.

On impulse, Adam jumped up and in one lithe movement of his perfect body, pulled Eve to her feet.

"Come! I'll race you to the centre of the garden."

Eve was up to the challenge and they streaked off --- two splendid athletes running in harmony. Adam slowed as they reached their destination, allowing Eve to arrive first. Laughing, he pulled her to himself as he arrived and felt her lovely body against his. How he adored her! What a beautiful gift God had given him.

Then they looked up at the tree. It looked different today. Its fruit was almost incandescent. Eve put Adam's thoughts into words. "I wonder why God doesn't want us to eat that fruit."

Adam rejoined. "What did He mean when He said we'd die? What is death? Everything here lives forever. How can something cease to exist?"

Suddenly, with a blinding flash a beautiful creature stood before them and spoke in a voice like pure, soothing music. "You won't die. How can you? God forbade this fruit because He doesn't want you to be like Him, who knows good and evil."

Eve looked at Adam. "Do you think God's deceiving us? Holding us back from something He doesn't want us to know? "

Adam shifted his gaze uneasily from the fruit, to Eve and back. "I don't know."

The creature before them shone with light. In his hands the fruit glowed as he spoke. "It's only a little thing. You're not committing some horrific crime. What can happen?"

Adam hesitated. Above them, unseen, the angels watched apprehensively. In the wings, the spectre of wasted victims of the Holocaust, of a billion babies ripped to death in their mothers' wombs, of glazed-eyed living dead languishing in a smoke-laden hell, of battle fields strewn with the bodies of young men waited, ready to be unleashed, pending Adam's decision.

Eve was first. "It's only a bite of fruit. It can't do much damage. God loves us. He won't harm us. He can't mean what He said." She took a bite and gave a murmur of approval. "It's delicious! Have some." She passed it to her husband. He bit into it .......... And all creation convulsed.

For the first time, Adam felt ashamed. "We shouldn't have done that." Suddenly, he was not looking forward to the cool of the day. He looked for the brilliant figure that was before them beside the tree and gasped. Now, a creature dark and hideous, grinned obscenely at his victory.

There was weeping in heaven where there is no time, for there the spectres became reality. And sickness and death invaded. Sickness of bodies and sickness of mind. Sickness of plants and sickness of animals. Sickness of individuals and of societies. Wasted bodies coughing blood, writhing in pain and breaking the hearts of loved ones, entered the world.

Yet, as Adam took that bite and bowed to satan, in heaven --- where there is no time --- God came to the rescue. Nails were plunged into the hands and feet of a Saviour as He hung on a Cross. All the sickness and pain from six thousand years and more was laid on Him.

That bite seemed such a small thing to Adam...... Yet it cost the Son of God His life.

What repercussions might there be to an act of disobedience that we perform that seems so small to us?

The Storm

The parched land opened its face to the heavens, longing for a sweet reviving kiss. The trees bent their leafy canopies to shelter the wilting ferns, though their own foliage had lost its turgor. The birds were silent, save for an occasional call for a companion crying in their mutual thirst. An industrious warthog dug in the dry river bed until a small pool formed in the hollow, providing momentary relief. Giraffe, zebra, impala silently panted in the heat.

From far off it came, like a soft recurring growl. Impala, suddenly alert, raised their heads to sniff the air. A lion rolled onto its stomach and stood up, looking towards the sound. Birds called, hesitatingly at first, but gathering courage from each answering note. Frogs, long dormant in the dank river beds started to sing -- shrill notes resting on the gravelly counterpoints of their huskier companions.

Another rolling growl, closer this time, and a breeze roused the expectation within the forest. The trees stirred themselves, and whispered, with leaves fluttering in the wind, "It's coming! It's coming!"

Now, bright flashes preceded the rumbling, the wind grew stronger; the trees entered a wild, carefree dance. The forest burst into a song of expectation. The rain bird called out joyously peet-may-fro, peet-may-fro, the frogs turned up the volume of their orchestra, a blesbok gave a delighted hrrmph, small animals darted through the undergrowth, seeking shelter, a hedgehog curled into a spiky ball.

Lowering purple-black clouds obscured the light. Brilliant flashes and deafening bursts, like the crash of a thousand drumbeats announced the awesome majesty of God's provision.

The wind ceased. For ten minutes there was an ominous silence.

Then the miracle came --- water falling from the sky in torrents. Tons and tons of water, bursting from its celestial vaults, pouring upon the earth. Trees groaned under the weight of the deluge, branches broke, the weaker plants and some small animals were washed away. God was fiercely and powerfully providing.

The earth drank thirstily and gratefully, till it could hold no more. Now the water rushed through the forest. Dry river beds became frolicking streams, then hasty, swirling waters hurrying to the sea. On and on the waters came, driven by fierce winds that hurled them to the earth.

Then suddenly, it was over. The storm was spent. The forest was hushed with the ferocity of it all. Tentatively, a dove began to coo. A woodpecker joined in, the rain birds sang their joyful chorus, frogs, crickets and cicadas, barking baboons and snorting zebra set the woods alive with song. Life had been poured out from heaven and the earth rejoiced.

\---------- o -----------

Life loses its meaning in the parched world of spiritual drought. Anger, deceit and compromise, like the unrelenting heat of a brassy sky, cause joy and optimism to wilt. Tragedy, loneliness and sorrow silence our souls, robbing them of song. Prayers become subdued and dry. Like the deer that pants for water, we long for spiritual rain

Then, like the distant rumbling of thunder, Spirit to spirit, the Word of God assures us of His promises.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (Ps 30:5)

Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.(Ps 27:14)

Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor has the mind conceived what the Lord has in store for those who love Him (1Cor 2:9,10)

Something stirs within, in anticipation. We sniff the spiritual air and sense a change.

Then He comes. It could be with gentle blessing, like soft, falling rain. Yet sometimes His provision is fierce, coming in a storm of trial. We cringe and wait as it washes over us, grateful for the change in our circumstance --- for a new awareness of God --- yet holding desperately on as the trial passes.

Then it is over. The storm has brought with it, a new faith in the promises of God, a new awareness of His glory and love, a new sense of being His son or daughter. New life in the Spirit springs forth. The garden bursts into bloom and we start to sing.

Winter, Cold and Bare

In a frozen field stands a tree, bleak and bare. Naked and defenceless against winter's icy blast, its branches stretch imploring, to heaven, apparently lifeless.

Yet this is not death, but preparation time --- a gathering of inner resources in readiness for the next season. Soon the frosty tentacles of winter will lose their grip. New leaves, fresh and fragile at first, will peer tentatively from their protective buds and grow, clothing the tree once more with its summer garment.

I, too, like the tree have been laid bare, my sin exposed to the stark holiness of God; the cold winter of self-awareness and self-doubt stripping me naked....

I'm impulsive by nature and, I realise now, arrogant. I disregard all too readily, the opinions of others, forcing my point of view, insisting I am right. And leading me into winter.

My closest friend is dead. He sensed God calling him to walk into a ministry that would probably lead to this. He knew that, and told us so. I was afraid for him. In my selfishness I tried to dissuade him, though he knew it was God's will. My impulsive words made it even harder for him to obey, but he insisted, rebuking me, exposing my selfishness.

Then came the time that has led me into this winter. People opposed to his message came for him. They bayed for his blood, beating him, accusing him and mocking him. My heart was pounding and my knees shaking. I didn't want to die. I disowned him. Panic rose in my chest like some vile thing clutching at my heart. I cursed and swore, insisting he was a stranger. I managed to escape, but not before his eyes met mine. As they murdered him, I died inside.

Now I walk a lonely road, my real heart exposed. I had assured him I would always be beside him yet, when the test came I ran away. I want to hide, but how do you hide from yourself? Or from God? Cold winter blows eddies of accusation across my soul. Like the tree in winter, I cannot move forward. I'm going fishing.

Yet, perhaps, like that tree, it is preparation time; a time to discover who I really am and in doing so, discover who God really is. My proud heart is broken. I can no longer trust it. I know now, as never before that in me on my own, dwells no good thing. How I now realise my need for him to be the strength in me --- now that he is gone.

But wait! Who is that on the shore? It's Him! He's alive! I hasten ashore and stand beside Him in trepidation, waiting for His rebuke at my cowardice. But what is this I hear? It is the sunshine of God, "Peter, do you love Me?'

Oh yes, give me the chance to say it again, to recant my denial. "Yes, Lord. I love you." The tender shoots are forming. Spring is coming. Now that I know who I am, the grace of God can do its work in me.

"Peter, do you love me?"

Oh, my Saviour, You are the God of second chances. "Yes, Lord, more and more as I discover your grace, You know that I love you. Ask me again. Let me say it again."

"Peter, do you love me?"

"My God, I stand exposed before You and yet You still love me. How could I not love You in return? Summer is here. My pride is crushed and now You can use me. I am ready to feed your sheep"

To Mary And Mary

What were you dreaming of, Mary of Nazareth, when you nursed your new babe in the shelter of the cave, feeling the softness of a pristine cheek against your breast? When you gazed lovingly at his tiny feet and kissed the toes now stretching, now curling in a brand new experience of the wonder of life, did you dream for your miracle child? Were the words of Isaiah burning in your heart as you pondered those little feet? Did you see the beautiful feet he spoke of traversing the dusty mountain passes of Israel and beyond, bringing good news of God's Kingdom, salvation and a peace beyond measure? (Isaiah 2:7)

But no, God keeps His plans hidden, even from His chosen, lest we be overwhelmed by the enormity of them. In that tender moment when you, with Joseph, as young first-time parents, looked adoringly at your new son, the cloak of love around you was embroidered, like any new mother's, with wonder and fascination at the miracle of a child come forth from your body. It would be another thirty years before His sandaled feet would leave the wood shavings and sawdust as He became the One of whom Isaiah spoke. And then it would be another Mary who would kiss His feet.

Mary of Magdala, how you loved Jesus! Your heart and eyes were a fountain, cleansing the dusty feet of your Saviour as it flowed from a woman washed with Living Water. Your hair, once part of your seductive beauty appealing to lustful men, became an instrument of love, drying His feet in preparation for their extravagant, fragrant anointing. (Luke 7:38)

Yet, how were you to know, Mary, that the One whose feet you kissed stood astride all creation as the Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6); that He whom you loved commands the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds are the dust of those very feet that felt your lips (Nahum 1:3)?

Did you know that the object of your kisses would be torn with cruel nails? Or that the blood that spurted from the wounds would buy your forgiveness?

How appropriate that you should express your love through His feet, for it is His feet that crushed the head of Satan as foretold in Eden's garden (Gen. 3:15), forever breaking the stronghold of the Great Deceiver. And it is as those feet touch the Mount of Olives from heaven on His return that His glory will burst over all men in a terrifying display of His white-hot holiness (Zech. 14:4) that will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea.(Hab. 2:14).

Today I Will be in Paradise

"Today I will be in Paradise!" Ali spoke quietly as the men strapped the explosives to his body. His father watched, with pride, this prelude to martyrdom. Ali knew his mother was in her room weeping quietly at the harshness of Allah, but his father wanted this. And Ali honoured his father. With the explosive belt fastened in place, in a room filled with turbaned men, he spoke with a firmness that belied his inner turmoil, "Allah al Akbar" "God is Greater" and, rifles raised in triumphant salute, the shout reverberated round the room, "Allah al Akbar! Allah al Akbar!"

He walked down the hill toward the crowded square where men, women and children hurried about unaware of the destruction Ali carried toward them. A young boy greeted him with a bright smile and Ali suddenly had a flashback to his childhood in Lebanon. His best friend, Mikhail belonged to a Christian family, and sometimes Ali slept over at their house. Love and kindness permeated that home. What happy times those were, before his father became obsessed with Jihad. On leaving, the family gave him the Injeel (New Testament) which he read to this day. Of course, he knew about Isa (Jesus) from the Quran, but what Isa said in the Injeel captivated him.

He hastily looked away from the young boy, pushing from his mind a vision of his dismembered body flying through the air at Ali's hand. "Allah al Akbar!" he muttered to himself.

"Strange" he thought, "how the chant was 'Allah is greater!' and not 'Allah is Greatest', as though He was being compared to someone else. Greater than whom? Greater than Isa, than Jesus?" Ali was sweating with fear and the words of the Injeel came to him "Perfect love drives out fear." Isa had an antidote for fear. Allah instilled fear. Did that make Isa greater? He walked closer to the people whose lives would be taken, and with them, his own. The Injeel whispered Isa's words, "I have come that you might have life, and have it abundantly." Which was greater? To take life, as Allah demanded or to give it, as Isa promised?

"Who are you Isa?" "Who are you, Allah?" The questions pounded in his mind as he walked toward the crowded square.

Missionaries had stayed, sometimes, with the Christian family in Lebanon. He knew they were Americans by their accent. Now a crazy thought came to him. Could you distinguish God by His accent? In the confusing language of the Quran and Injeel, could one look behind the words to the tone and inflections? Which accent was God's, that of Allah or Isa?

He remembered his father, unapproachable, filled with hate, drawn into radical Islam and Jihad. Then memories came of tumbling about with Mikhail and his dad on the living room carpet, laughter ringing through the house. Which accent was God's? That of hatred or of love?

"Allah al Akbar!" he muttered again. Or was he? His mother had come last night and wept on his bed. Submitting herself to the will of Allah brought her pain for the rest of her days. Was this the voice of God? Was His accent one of harsh ruthlessness? Isa's words from the Injeel whispered, "Come to Me all who are burdened and I will give you rest .... I am gentle and humble and you will find rest for your soul." How he would prefer that accent of gentleness and approachability for his mother.

Suddenly a rumble came from behind. Turning, he saw a driverless, runaway truck tearing down the hill toward the crowded square. Soon it would plough into the people, crushing, crumpling, destroying as it went. He had seconds to decide. "Who are you God? With what accent do You speak?" He knew the answer before he asked the question. Murmuring, "Isa, You are the truth. I give You my life," he ran towards the truck.

\------------ o ------------

Those recounting the story told it with shocked admiration.

"A huge truck came down the hill straight for us. People were scattering everywhere but it was coming too fast. Suddenly a young man ran towards it shouting "Isa al Akbar! Isa al Akbar!" He leapt in front of it. A tremendous explosion all but demolished the truck leaving a huge hole in the ground and stopping it in its tracks. Who was that man? And why did he die to save us? Whoever he was I am sure he is now in Paradise."

Head Before Heart

I'm a natural cynic. I question everything. I like to see and feel and touch and don't trust what others say. I could see through all the false messiahs that have plagued our nation since Isaiah's predictions. When Judas of Gamala, led a revolt, some called him the Messiah, but I doubted. My doubts were vindicated when his uprising was brutally suppressed and he ended up in a field, impaled on a Roman cross for all to see an insurrectionist's fate.

But Jesus of Nazareth was different. His obvious love, especially for the underdog, the miracles he performed and his intolerance of anything hypocritical made me a follower.

Yet, my critical spirit was still alive, making me doubt.

I recoiled when he spoke about our eating his flesh and drinking his blood. Was he a madman, taking us on a path away from our faith? Didn't he know the rules about drinking blood? And human blood at that? The questions bombarded me like the sparks that fly from a grinding wheel. I nearly joined the crowd that turned away. Then I heard him ask, "What about you? Do you also want to turn away?" and I couldn't help but agree with Peter. "To whom shall we go?". Despite his words, Jesus was the closest to the real Messiah I'd ever encountered.

Yet I wasn't sure. Those words jarred so! My materialist mind missed his explanation. "My words are spirit and they are life." ... But I followed. What else could I do? I loved him and how he changed the lives around him.

The more time I spent with him, the more my cynicism dissolved. I began to believe in him. I joined the others in the joyful dance of life with Jesus. He had such power; he could deal with any opposition. Or so I thought --- until my world imploded. Though never violent like the other so-called messiahs, I watched in despair as he suffered the same fate as Judas of Gamala. The Romans snuffed him out like a fragile candle sputtering in the dark. Where was my Messiah now?

We were all devastated. The cynical voice at my shoulder said, "What did you expect? You see what happens when you don't analyse everything? Remember his incomprehensible words? His mumbo jumbo about only living if you die? About a person having nothing, yet having what he has, taken away?" It continued. "See what happens when you put your heart before your head?"

Seeking solitude, I wandered into Gethsemane, reliving that fateful night. Even the old olives seemed contorted with grief. I walked to the place where Jesus had left us and gone ahead. I knelt where I had slept that night. This time I prayed.

"God in heaven, I thought Jesus was the One. Now I see he's just like the others. I miss him so. I cannot forget the deep love in his eyes. I truly thought he was Messiah. I'm confused and sorrowful."

Gethsemane became my mourning place. Day after day I knelt among the bent old trees.

One day, as I re-entered the room where the other disciples gathered, hubbub filled the air. "Jesus is alive!" buffeted me from every side, in voices clear and strident in their excitement.

My scepticism rose like a rock-solid wall resisting what I was hearing. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't face another disappointment. I'd listened to my heart when I'd trusted him as Messiah. That was dashed at Golgotha. This time I'd listen to my head.

"Impossible. I saw him die."

"But he's risen from the dead."

"Impossible."

"We've seen Him."

"It can't happen."

"Thomas --- dear Thomas. Always questioning. Just believe. Have faith in Jesus."

"I can't trust. I have to see for myself. I must know it's him." I left again to mourn at Gethsemane.

A week later, I was with them again. Suddenly, he was there. There was no doubting it was him. Those loving eyes on me belonged to no-one else. He lifted his hands to show me his wounds. "Come, Thomas, feel them. It's me."

Something like the song of a thousand angels came bursting from within me. Gone was my critical spirit, drowned in the love that poured from me to my Saviour. I knelt before Him in gratitude and praise. My heart was not wrong after all. With all my being I could exclaim, "My Lord and my God!"

The Test

I don't remember a time when my dad didn't look old. To a young boy growing up, he looked ANCIENT. His large hook nose emerged from between the bushiest eyebrows I've ever seen and drooped over a shaggy moustache that blended seamlessly with his flowing beard. The only time you knew he had a mouth was when it was open. What you could see of his face, looked to me like furrows on a leathery landscape to take his sweat and lead it away from his eyes and down into his beard.

But his eyes fascinated me most. Although toffee brown, they shone with an inner light-- as if he saw something in his mind and projected that vision through them. Even when he looked at me, he seemed to be looking both at me and to something far beyond.

Papa was a wanderer. He went where his fancy took him. Or rather, he said he went where God told him to go, although God didn't seem to take him to any place in particular. We just wandered around from here to there, staying for a while then moving on.

The older I grew, the more I respected my eccentric old man. He strode among his herd, with his clothes flapping about him, thrusting his staff deep into the sand, as if to impale some furtive creature lying beneath the surface. Yet his appearance belied an astuteness that, over the years, earned him enormous wealth.

Above all, though, he was a visionary. He genuinely heard God and lived with purpose. Though all we did was wander through the country, he only moved when he was sure he heard from God, and he seemed sure there was a far higher purpose in his doing so. Often, of a night, I'd catch him gazing upward at the Milky Way and the teeming pinpricks of light sprinkled so liberally in the blackness. And he'd mutter "So many. So many." Though I didn't know what he meant, I knew he saw something that I couldn't -- something in his mind that he projected through those glowing eyes into the heavens.

At other times, he'd sit me down to talk. His voice was deep and gruff, like a man used to giving orders, but as he spoke, was modulated by a gentleness that betrayed a deep love of his subject.

"You can always trust God, m'boy. No matter how things seem, you can always trust Him. Sometimes, you haf t' trust Him beyond you years here on earth." His eyes looked at me and beyond. "Yeah, sometimes beyond yer years, but you can always trust Him."

I loved Papa. As he trusted God, I grew to trust Him too, little thinking what a test I would have of my trust of them both.

It happened one day when he said, in a voice more gruff than usual, "Come, boy. God's told me somethin' and we gotta obey."

I was a young man -- in my twenties -- but he still called me "boy".

Taking just one servant, a pile of wood and a firebrand we set off. He was much quieter than usual and talked to himself -- or to God. Every now and again, he'd turn to me, his fiery eyes now watered over, and repeat what he'd said so often. "No matter how things seem, you can always trust Him." Then, sighing, "Sometimes beyond your years, but you can always trust Him."

It was when we got to the foot of the mountain, that I grasped what he was saying. I realized, with foreboding, his agenda. We were going to make a sacrifice, but there was no animal. I knew, from his words and from the way he looked at me, what God had told him to do.

This was my trial, as much as his. I was stronger than my ancient father. I could overpower him and run.

Or trust Papa as I always had done, and trust God as I'd often said I would.

"Sometimes yer haf t' trust him beyond yer years on earth." Could I do that? Could I die trusting him? Or should I run away?

I chose to stay.

Memories

Come, sit with me. Indulge an old man as I reminisce about my youth with these faded photographs. See how strong and confident I look as I hold the Athlete of the Year cup in hard, sculpted arms.With those self-assured, clear eyes gazing straight into the camera, a body firm and lean beneath the shirt, I had the world at my feet.

Now my stomach obscures those feet, the skin drapes over my outstretched arms and hangs in a fold, and my eyes peer mistily from overhanging lids in a lined, weathered face.

Look, here's me beside -- what was her name? --- Julie, at the final year dance; hair slicked with Brylcreem, tuxedo complete with cummerbund, and a face aglow with love. Oh, the soaring heights and plummeting depths of teenage love. I carved Julie's name on my desk, we cuddled at the back of the movies, shared a milkshake and walked hand in hand on the clouds to the moon, Julie's beauty outshining the stars. Then came the misunderstandings, the gloomy aftermath of a quarrel that left me wanting to die, before the lightning trip back to the stars as we made up. Finally, the break-up. The end of the world... until, within a short time, it was Betty, eclipsing all I'd ever known with Julie.

Ah, youth! A time where feelings blaze in technicolour and issues are starkly black or white, with no room for grey. A pivotal time that can set a destiny. A fragile time when the deep questions of life come under scrutiny and demand answers; where, with youth's uncanny spiritual penetration, hypocrisy and superficiality in their elders are perceived for what they are and rejected, and the pressure of peers to conform is all-pervasive.

Look at this picture. See the guy in the middle with long hair, a diamond in his nose and a flambouyant shirt? That's me, wanting to be different. I joined the hippie movement --- a youth movement protesting societal norms. Conventional society was proper in dress code, sexuality and social behaviour, but at the same time perpetuated a war in distant Viet Nam, destroyed nature with industrialisation, and oppressed the poor with greed-motivated capitalism. I didn't stay with the hippies long, though. I didn't go along with free sex (make love, not war --- remember?) or the psychedelic drugs they used.

Now this one --- this is what I moved onto. The long hair is still there, the diamond in the nose has gone and I have a cross tattooed on my forearm (I still proudly have it). I am in the Jesus movement. In a sense, that was still anti-establishment, because it arose from the hippie culture, but it was God-orchestrated. It was where I was born again. Suddenly I knew the truth and, like so many young people, I wanted to change the world.

The Jesus movement started when hippieTed Wise, after nearly overdosing on LSD, went to church with his girlfriend Liz and responded to an altar call. Radically converted, he and Liz, now his wife, reached out to the hippies by starting a Christian commune, called The Living Room. I was one of the more than twenty conversions that took place there every week.

Meanwhile, other revival fires were kindled. Dave Hoyt was a disillusioned Hare Krishna follower who came to Christ. His preaching, with his mentor, Kent Philpott brought hundreds of hippies into the Kingdom. In Pirate's Cove on the Pacific coast, Chuck Smith was baptizing 500 people a month. Many were disheartened hippies.

At the same time God was pouring out His Spirit in the Charismatic Renewal, He was moving among the hippies, bringing to the church a culture of freedom of dress, freedom of movement in worship and the use of contemporary music in praise.

This picture is later. That's me and Jean. I met Jean in the Jesus movement. We settled down and started a family. We lived through sunshine and rain, fire and ice, calm and storm, with Jesus by our side always seeing us through, till He called her home. Look at her sweet face...... How I miss her.

And now my tired old heart is failing, my breath is weak, my joints ache, I struggle to see, to hear and to remember and my hands tremble. The gates of splendour are opening for me. My Saviour awaits to transform this lowly disintegrating body into the likeness of His glorious body (Phil. 3:21).

And I'll be young again. Forever.

Jesus, Calm the Wildness of my Mind

Wind-swept fury, clattering, battering

When will it stop?

Huge tornado, swirling, churning

Twisting me, sucking me in

I can't breathe

Tossed about, flung, hurled ,

Thrown to the ground

Picked up

And thrown again

Doubt and fear

Make me cringe

I'm far away

Yet the terrors are close

Jesus, calm the wildness of my mind

Past voices

Whisper hideously

"You're no good!"

"You'll never make it!"

"Idiot child!"

I hear the screaming

Fists on flesh

Blows on blood

Crouching in the corner

Too afraid to move

I'm only a child...

Now a ghost-man

Haunted by my past

Jesus, calm the wildness of my mind

In darkened back streets

I wander

Hold on, hold on

Don't let the tornado

Sweep you away

Still the accuser!

Yet as I search the trash cans

The madness continues

I feel it in the wideness of my eyes

I hear it in my muttering

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

It's safer in the park

And yet I can't escape

Where I go

My mind comes too

Swirling, unseeing

Through the pristine paths,

Countering the whispering fountains

With its own whisper

"No good"

"Failure"

Bottles and booze,

And then the screams

My mother's lips,

Her eyes and cheeks

Bruised and bloodied

Now the hiss,

"And you did nothing"

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

Who's this coming?

What does he want?

I've nothing to give

His voice is gentle

Breathing peace

He has a place of healing,

Of rest

He speaks of Love

In a Man

Torn, by the wild fury of men,

Yet loving

Breathing forgiveness,

Offering it to me

Urging me to pass it on

To my step-dad

And all who hurt me

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

We kneel before the One

Who stayed the storm

The tornado retreats

Accusations hush

A river pours through me

Washing

Living water

Cleansing my soul

Deep stillness

Comes...

Peace

From the Prince of Peace

He calmed the stormy sea

And now He's calmed the wildness in my mind

No Other Gods but Me

I walked into His presence as in an incandescent dream. The terrifying smoke and fire I'd seen from below dissipated and wave upon surging wave of love enveloped me. Overwhelmed, I sank to my knees. He took my hand and drew me to my feet.

Words of worship poured from my lips in response to the mantle of light and peace that encompassed me. In the timelessness of pure love, I had no sense of the passage of day or night, as intricate details of how a tabernacle was to be built to God imprinted themselves on my mind; who was to serve in it, the sacrifices to be made, the names of the people gifted to construct it... I neither ate nor drank during this time -- which seemed no time at all, though later they told me I'd been up the mountain for forty days.

As God finished speaking into my mind, a mist, like a wraith, passed before me. I saw two stone tablets at my feet. I heard God say, "Take these to the people that they may remember to keep My law. Hurry, now. I hear them. Those stubborn people are corrupting themselves with a foreign god. "

I came to myself as I sensed God's anger. He continued. "I've a mind to destroy them, and start again with you, Moses. I'll make you father of a new nation."

"Lord," I protested with a boldness that sprang from alarm. "Surely not. What will the Egyptians say? That You brought Your people out here merely to slay them? Do You want them to think that of You?" I trembled as I continued, "And what of Your promise to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob?"

I picked up the tablets and started down the mountainside, wondering if I had imagined that last unlikely conversation. Still filled with His radiance, I soon forgot the disturbing dialogue.

Joshua was some way up the mountain, waiting for me. He greeted me warmly. "I was worried. You were gone so long, with no food or drink. Some elders were convinced you'd died up there."

"Was I there so long? I had no idea!" I said, as I embraced him. "It was unforgettable, Joshua. I'll tell you about it when we get to camp."

My joy was infectious. Soon the two of us were humming and laughing. Hunger pangs anticipated my first meal in over a month, and I longed to see Aaron and the people.

At a clearing, Joshua stopped humming and stood still, listening. "What's that noise?"

Then I too, heard it. Joshua tilted his head. "It sounds like a war in the camp."

"No... it's not a victory shout," I said, straining my ears. "Nor is it wailing in defeat." My spirits lifted. "They're singing and dancing. They're happy, Joshua. Let's hurry down and see what the party's about."

Then, as they came into sight, the glow from my time with God burst into red hot fury spewing from my soul like molten lava. I rushed down the mountain, hurling the tablets of stone against a rock.

They shattered.

The music stopped.

And the dancing.

All the people looked at me.

A calf of gold stood at the centre of the gathering. The singing had been worship songs to the calf, the dancing was before the golden idol. Now I knew. I did hear God when said He wanted to destroy these people. He'd heard their noise long before I had and knew what it meant. I felt the anger He had expressed. In righteous fury, I ground the calf to dust and scattered it on the water. "Drink it, you rebellious people. Drink the god you worshipped. Taste the bitterness of disobedience and wait for the judgement of God!"

...Yet I knew my God. He is gracious and merciful -- a God of second chances. Sure enough, in what followed, only those who refused to repent faced His wrath. The repentant ones once again joined me on our journey to His Promised Land.

Will you leave your idol and join me with them?

An Unexpected Privilege

I'd always dreamed of visiting Jerusalem at Passover. As a little boy, playing in the sands of Africa, I'd look at the dawn sun and picture it rising over the Holy City. At night, when Pappa tucked me in, I'd question him.

"Pappa, What was Jerusalem like before you had to flee from the Romans?"

He'd get a faraway look in his eyes and say, "My son, Jerusalem is the centre of the world. It's God's Holy City, but sadly, it is desecrated by Roman soldiers. Our people are terribly oppressed."

He'd continue. "You should see it at Passover. The whole world is there. The excitement, the dust, the crowds, the babble of a hundred languages. It's the most exciting thing!" I never tired of hearing the stories, and I knew one day I'd be there.

When Pappa died, I set out on a pilgrimage with my own two boys, across the Mediterranean and into the Holy Land. I arrived in Jerusalem just in time for Passover. From the road, I could hear the hubbub and my heart raced to join them. "Come, lads. Alexander, Rufus, this way." There was something happening along the road and I wanted to see.

Suddenly, I didn't want to see. I'd heard of the harshness of the Roman occupation; of fields of dead men hanging from crosses --- insurrectionists, paying the ultimate price in a ghastly way for their patriotism. It was what my father had fled from. Was this man another of them? But why had they tortured him so, before his execution? He tottered under the weight of his cross as I stood, hypnotised.

He was almost level with me, when he reeled, his eyes turned upward and he and his cross crashed to the ground. A Roman soldier lashed at him with a whip, but he did not respond. Fear gripped me as the soldier's gaze fell on me. I looked away, but it was too late.

"You! Hey, strong man. Come here!" There was no escape. "Come here! Take his cross."

I could have walked faster, but I let him rest on the upright and stumble along beside me.

"Okay, leave him." We weren't quite there yet, but the whip came hard on my back. "I said leave him." They wanted him to carry it at least to the site of crucifixion.

I had to stay, now I was involved. Rebel or not, I had to watch to the end.

I'm so glad I did. I had never seen a crucifixion before but, --- heaven forbid --- should I see another, I'm sure it will be nothing like this one. He breathed words of forgiveness, words of encouragement to a victim beside him. Loving words came from his lips for his mother and his best friend. I turned to the man beside me. "Who is this man?"

He looked at me. "You just arrived?" I nodded.

"That's Jesus. Powerful prophet. He claimed to be God."

"And is he?"

The man laughed derisively. "God? They're killing God? Is that possible? Come on! Use your head."

But I preferred to use my heart. How could a mere man die like that? Who was he?

Suddenly he gave a cry that seemed to echo through all creation. At that cry, the earth shook violently and the sun grew dark.

And I knew.

I thought I had been helping a man, saving him from a vain lashing as he lay, unable to continue. Yet, he was the one drawing me into his world, giving me the unique privilege of walking alongside Him, saving me from a life of futility. He was inviting me to bear the Cross with Him --- to take part in His redemptive work.

Some time later, to my astonished delight, he appeared to me alive and well. It confirmed what my heart said at Calvary. That lacerated, tortured man was my Saviour.

Blessed

The raging South Easter hurled gusts of rain against the study's panes. The air crackled with bursts of a thousand watery pellets against the glass, as the wind howled. The turmoil and fury outside echoed that in Peter's heart as he sat at his desk, his fists clenched and his eyes narrow and moist with fury.

They rested on Barbara's Bible on the corner of the desk. He grabbed it and opened it at random.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

You must be kidding. After he's beaten me to thousands of dollars? I'm taking him to the cleaners. How can Barbara believe all this God stuff?

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

No, God. Blessed are the strong, who fight back and get what they can.

The room lit with dazzling brilliance and a crackling boom exploded, rattling the windows.

"That's it, God. That's me inside. You show your power. I'll show mine." He opened a drawer and took out a .38 revolver. I'll show him what it means to cross me.

\------------ o ------------

Barbara watched him back the car from the garage and drive into the swirling rain. She fell on her knees and called out to God. "Do something radical, Lord. Save him from himself. He's such an angry man. He's reckless and impulsive. Save him, Lord. Save him." Her heart writhed within her as she threw herself on the carpet in an agony of prayer for her husband.

\------------ o -------------

Peter had no idea what he was going to do, except that he would confront George. The wind buffeted the car. Sheets of water crashed relentlessly against the windscreen, blurring his vision. He didn't see the truck sliding towards him until it was too late.

\------------ o ------------

From far away he heard voices --- snatches of conversation intruding through the mist and the throbbing headache.

"....critical... yes, very... unlikely he'll make it... yes, by all means... prayers.... yes, any time.... God intervene."

His eyes fluttered open to a blur of faces. Barbara's image came and went. Behind her.... George? George?

He felt Barbara's lips brush his forehead, her hand in his, George's hand on his shoulder. He heard the murmur of their prayers and a mantle of peace descended. Words floated through his mind and into his heart like petals falling from a rose.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.

"I've been stubborn and hard-headed, God. Money has been everything -- going after it my way. What does it matter now that I am dying?"

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.

"I've trodden others mercilessly underfoot to get what I want. How can I expect mercy from you now? Where will I go if I die?" A deep sorrow for his behaviour plunged him into a valley of despair. "But if I live, I'll be different. Forgive me. Give me another chance."

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

"God, let me live Your way. Barbara was right about You. And I was wrong about George. He's not a crook. He's just a better businessman. Come into my life, Jesus, so I can see Your truth."

Through the covering murmur of prayers, crystal water flooded his soul, washing him clean, drawing him up to its source. He was pure and whole. A brilliant light shone around him and more brilliant still, a man stood in the light, with eyes like the sun, yet filled with compassion.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Oh, Jesus, I'm coming home. You're taking me home and everything is pure and lovely.

I'm sending you back, Peter. Barbara has been praying for you. Take care of her out of your love for Me. She is my gift to you.

\------------ o ------------

Barbara listened to the whistling coming from the dining room as Peter waited for George to come around to discuss a partnership. It had been three weeks since Peter's miraculous recovery and this Sunday he'd be giving his testimony. She had never felt so cherished and fulfilled as each night and morning she and Peter pored over the Word and knelt together in prayer.

She opened her Bible and read Psalm 133 once more:

Behold how good and pleasant it is for brethren to dwell in unity... for there the Lord commands a blessing --- even life forever more.

Finishing Well

Elizabeth glanced at the clock. He was late home again. No doubt he would say he had been working late.

Things had not been easy since Jason's death, each of them cocooned in their own private grief. Though they had suffered the shock together, slowly the walls had grown; walls of unspoken pain and guilt.

Robert took a detour past the hospital. Jenny would be coming off duty in 10 minutes. She understood. She had been on duty when Jason was rushed in wet and limp.Robert blamed himself for leaving that box in the yard; a box Jason used to climb the swimming pool fence. Elizabeth urged him to forgive himself, but she did not understand his torment.Jenny's soft brown eyes showed that she knew. When he wept she held him close; her slow smile somehow made everything right. He felt more alive with her than he had in months. The drive past the hospital and the cups of coffee at the diner became the highlight of his day. He was apologetic as he came home, avoiding her gaze as he spoke, "Sorry I'm late again, darling. I think there must have been an accident on the road. The traffic was unbelievable."

"Unbelievable alright," thought Elizabeth, but she managed a bright smile and gave him a big kiss. "Well, I'm glad you're home. Supper is waiting. I've cooked your favourite."

"Lamb chops? You are a darling! You spoil me and I don't deserve it." The conversation was loving, but the underlying tension was palpable.Week after week, as the same scenario played out, Elizabeth was praying. "Lord, he is hurting and I sense I am losing him. Guard my heart. I don't know how much longer I can go on. How do I respond to these lame excuses? I desperately need you to intervene."

On the anniversary of Jason's death Elizabeth heard the words she half welcomed, half dreaded. "Lizzy, we have to talk. There is something you need to know."

"Lord, does it have to be now? Just when I have discovered I am pregnant? Should I tell him? No. Not now. He must be free to make his choice."

He sat at the table and she sat opposite. "Lord, keep me calm," she breathed. "Give me the courage to face whatever is coming."

He steeled himself and looked directly at her."Liz, honey, things have been difficult between us since Jason died."

She nodded and he continued. "I want to tell you that I have been looking for some kind of comfort elsewhere, and found it."

"This is it, Lord. Give me strength." She nodded. "I suspected as much.

"But last week on the way to work I heard a pastor on the radio. He spoke about finishing well. He said God is not interested in how we start, He wants to know how we will finish. Our behaviour along the way should be governed by a determination to finish well.

I have been studying the Scriptures and it's true. The Bible is full of exhortations to trust God in difficult times, to persevere in every situation. Why, in the book of Revelation Jesus tells EVERY church to overcome to the end. I know that applies to our marriage too. The world tells me it is about MY happiness and what makes ME feel good; but the Bible says my reward comes from faithfulness and trust. From now on it's you alone. I want to make this work. Please forgive my stupidity."

He pulled two dolls from his pocket, a boy and a girl, and laid them on the table. Taking out a blue ribbon he passed it around them both. As he tied them together he recited his vows, "I take thee, Elizabeth ............... to have and to hold till death us do part."

He handed her a pink ribbon. "I am giving you the opportunity to do the same."

Sobbing she exclaimed, "Oh yes, Robert." And tied the dolls once more. "Till death us do part."

He took a third ribbon gold, this time and prayed as he tied, "Lord, You have tied us together as one. Those whom God has joined, let no man -- or woman--put asunder."

\------------ o ------------

Thirty years later, Jason looked up at Robert, "Grandpa, what are those dolls on the mantelpiece all tied together for?"

"That's your grandma and me, my boy, tied together by our love and held there by God's faithfulness."

Jason smiled. "Cool!"

The Plague

Dr Valentine Seaman straightened up from Helen's bed. Patrick was beside him. Two little boys stood in the doorway, their faces flickering in the light of the candle they held. Soon they will be without their mother. From his demeanor, Valentine saw that Patrick already knew. With his face contorted and his eyes glistening in the gaslight, he said in a voice like a strangled cry, "She's going, isn't she, Doc?"

Valentine laid a hand on Patrick's shoulder. He couldn't look him in the eye. With the slightest nod, he muttered, "Third one this week."

The doctor could never get used to the futility he felt each time as, each time he watched his patient, jaundiced and unconscious, slipping into eternity. Patrick' faltering words drove the barb home. "I know you did all you could, Doc." But it was not enough \-- and the gasping, "Thank you", left a despairing cry in his heart. Thank me? For what? I couldn't save her.

As the distraught husband took the hand of his unconscious wife and pressed it desperately to his lips, Valentine went to the door, easing past the little boys. "Stay with her, Patrick. I'll find my way out."

The year was 1795 and yellow fever's deadly scythe was reaping its pallid harvest through New York City in an epidemic that left a trail of grieving parents, lonely spouses and orphaned children.

In the pubs the beery boffins asserted their theories:

"It's rats. I've seen 'em nibbling the food. Then someone comes along an' eats that same food."

"Naw, it's in the foul air. Comes across from the piles o' rubbish dumped near the houses."

"Mark my words, it's from the holds of ships. Comes from foreign lands with all that foreign cargo."

But no one really knew. The disease stalked, like a deadly wraith and seemed to strike at random.

\------------ o ------------

All the way home, the rattle of the coach on the cobbled streets was drowned, for the doctor, by the echoes of Patrick's heaving chest and muffled sobs. His lips were set and his mind determined. He would fight this... And a strategy was forming.

The next day, he hired his team, with instructions to map the location of every case of yellow fever in New York. As the results arrived, a pattern emerged. The cases were clustered in certain areas. He visited the locations. What was the common factor? There were cases near unkempt streets, water reservoirs, messy gardens, but most particularly near local waste sites. Suddenly, he saw it. Excitedly, he overlaid the yellow fever map with one that showed the local waste dumps. They correlated.

Trudging through the sites, he saw pools of stagnant water, their surfaces blurred with a million animated mosquitoes. It is interesting that in his subsequent paper, he did not incriminate the mosquitoes, though we know now they are the carriers. However, he identified their habitat as the culprit. It was stagnant water that caused the cries of anguish over New York.

At his recommendation, all sites that accumulated water were dealt with. Sewers were covered, streets were cleaned and paved, areas beneath granaries were enclosed and the stagnant water on waste sites identified and filled in.

Within a short time, the mosquitoes could not breed; and yellow fever disappeared from New York.

Yet a deadly plague continues to stalk our cities, towns and villages. The cries of its victims are sometimes silent screams of the soul, sometimes uncontrolled sobs that would tear at the heart of a listener --- but there's no-one there. At its most obvious, its deadly tentacles leave pallid, passive half-beings with staggering gait and glazed minds. Many times, though, it spreads more subtly, its noxious blows only emerging when the wife and children leave or the business collapses. More toxic even than the waste dumps of New York, these are the waste dumps and cesspools of our lives --- the greed, the resentments and unforgiveness, licentiousness deceit and self-indulgence. It's here that the enemy of God exploits the sin-sickness of our fallen world.

Yet, as Valentine grieved for his dying patients, so the Great Physician grieves for His dying children. It is here, through these toxic garbage dumps that Jesus trudged, fraternising with tax collectors and sinners, challenging the proud and self-righteous, covering their cesspools with grace and truth and love. Finally, He covered every work of Satan with a rugged cross and His scarlet blood. Though the sickness still stalks, we can become immune. The Great Physician has become the cure.

Bless the Lord O my soul and forget not all His benefits. Who forgives my iniquities and heals all my diseases. Who redeems my life from the pit. (Ps103:2-4)

Listen to the Music

Listen, do you hear it -- the discordant music of people without hope? Belligerent, accusing voices mingling with cries of despair. Hear the clashing cymbals of triumphalism all but drowning the simpering violins of those crushed underfoot; drumbeats of war, deep throated tubas of groaning, synthesized screams of pain and low organ resonances of mourning; strident saxophones of blame and smooth flutes of self-righteousness. It's the music of the age, with no score and no conductor. And it's getting louder and more cacophonous each day.

As militant atheists rail against the notion of God, and children are stolen and raped; as babies are burned and dismembered in the womb and heads roll in an orgy of hatred and misplaced religious zeal, the jarring music is reaching a crescendo of untold agony and misery.

Yet, turn your ears to heaven and you'll hear a different sound. Through the noise and the railing and mockery you'll hear the warm cello strains of the Son of Man "Come to Me, all who are burdened and heavy laden and I will give you rest." Cutting through the weeping dirge of a bereft mother with her dead child, is the song of the Saviour "The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit". Woven through the drumbeats of war is a tambourine dance of promise, "They will beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks."

The chaotic noise gets louder, but the Song of the Saviour is becoming more insistent. Everywhere people are starting to hear it. Mothers, weeping for their aborted children are tuning in to the life-giving strains of Amazing Grace and finding forgiveness. Muslims, tortured and bereaved by their own brothers are finding the cleansing blood of Jesus more persuasive than the spattered blood of Jihad. Mockers, suddenly finding they are the mocked, are hearing the God-Man who resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble.

Though the noise is loud, the rumbles frightening and the screeching makes you quake, the Saviour's song will prevail. When the final curtain falls, He will get the standing ovation. Stand up, stand up for Jesus. Listen now, to His song, for if you do, one day you will sing it with all of creation. His is the song that will triumph, with a thousand thousand angels joining the chorus, linking voices with the saints who heard His music in the midst of their suffering and called on His Name. Turn your ear to heaven and your heart to the Saviour.

He waits, your unique score in His hand, for you to join for eternity, the harmony of heaven.

A Perfect Place for Jesus

There's tangible despair – if despair is the opposite of hope – as one enters the premises.

As we drive up the narrow road past the women's dormitories, Mary and Hazel are sunning themselves in white plastic chairs placed in the narrow space between the driveway and the building. Their faces brighten as I stop and Margie, a co-worker from our church, alights. Further along, on the steps of a steel shed, Fiona sits motionless, her head bowed.

I drive on alone, up the road to the men's quarters. I pass Nicholas on the way, but he ignores me. Marcus, further on, gives a curt nod.

I park my car and, armed with some packets of biscuits and a Bible, walk up to greet the men sitting on a broken sofa, a sun-bleached kitchen chair and dilapidated plastic ones. Andrew ducks inside as I approach, but others greet me with enthusiasm.

This is Happy Valley, named by an anonymous humorist with a taste for irony. Situated on the side of a mountain, it is not a valley; neither, to many of its inhabitants, is it particularly happy. Yet this shelter for the homeless is my delight. God has given me the privilege of working with these people, many of whom would describe their lives as an omnishambles.

It's a place of deep pain and destructive shame; of outbursts of anger and sullen retreat. A place of desperate cries for help, yet, often, refusal to accept it when offered. Many have made bad choices in life, which have left them alienated from their families, robbed of their livelihood and filled with crippling guilt. It is a place of beautiful people whose treasure is buried deep.

What better place for Jesus? What better place to share His love and allow one's heart to be broken along with His?

Behind each face, eloquent in its suffering, or impassive behind an unyielding wall, is a story of how Satan comes to steal, kill and destroy.

Bruce found his best friend in bed with his wife. In a rage, he beat him up, not knowing that he had a medical condition that flared under the beating and killed him. Eighteen months later, acquitted of murder, Bruce emerged from prison with no wife, no business and a silent, raging heart.

Neil's paintings hang in Europe's galleries, but with the 2009 depression, financial difficulties wrecked his marriage. He found solace in the wrong places and lost everything.

Sharon left great work prospects in Johannesburg to follow the man of her dreams -- he'd invited her to leave her work and join him in Cape Town. Two weeks later, he tried to murder her. She escaped with her life and the clothes on her back.

The stories vary, but the need is the same. It's the overarching need of all mankind ripped open and laid bare through unbearable circumstances. It's the need to forgive and be forgiven. It's the need to be valued -- to count in the greater scheme of things. It's the need for Jesus.

It's easy to be discouraged when entering an open war zone in which the Enemy's inflicted casualties abound. Hurting people hurt people. Yet God is at work always. Even at Happy Valley, there are people who love Jesus when they arrive, or who learn to love Him while they're there.

Derek was chased from place to place as he slept on the streets. He started reading a Bible when a priest allowed him to sleep against the churchyard wall and brought him sandwiches and tea in the morning.

Andrew cannot stop talking about Jesus since finding him in a Christian rehab centre.

Paul met Jesus on an Alpha Course we ran at Happy Valley. Jesus set him free from the bondage of an unhealthy relationship with a deranged girl who had dragged him, after his wife divorced him, from an executive post into the gutter.

Shelton is a Zimbabwean, promised a job in Cape Town that did not materialize. He also met Jesus on the Alpha Course. He's now employed and has left Happy Valley, but comes to support those still there and tell them about Jesus.

It's my joy to visit there, for here I dig for buried treasure. Lives may be in omnishambles, but Jesus is the omnifixer. There's no life He cannot mend.

There's no greater joy than looking for the gold buried in the dirt and seeing Jesus wash it clean and make it shine.

Death by Execution

Surging and seething like some grotesque animal, the crowd milled around the guillotine baying for blood.

The king, his head held high climbed up the scaffold. Suddenly, with a look from him, there was silence. The roll of drums which had heralded a thousand drops of the bloody blade of death were silent. The king's voice, steady and majestic carried across the masses. 'I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge; I pardon those who have occasioned my death, and I pray to God that the blood you are going to shed may never be visited on France.'

The silence was tangible. Then a ruffian in uniform shouted, "The drums! The drums" Others joined in. "He must die! The king must die!" The drumrolls thundered, the king lay prostrate and the blade dropped. Hideous cheers erupted as the monarch's head was held high by his hair.

Maximilian Robespierre looked on from his vantage point. The Reign of Terror had begun. As a politician who had sided with the revolution, he had the adoration of the masses. Now, with the king eliminated, he became a virtual dictator and set about eliminating anyone deemed to be an enemy of the people. He was a man possessed, and The Terror knew no bounds. Nobles, foreigners, ordinary citizens suspected of disagreeing with the revolution --- all were thrown into the Bastille or summarily executed without trial. In the frenzy of killing, a pall of fear enveloped France as the thirst for blood gripped the masses swirling each day around Madame Guillotine. It is estimated in the 10 months the Reign of Terror lasted, more than 10,000 souls died in prison and over 17,000 heads toppled into the baskets.

But Satan kills and destroys even those who serve him most loyally. Robespierre's megalomania was fuel for his enemies. Less than a year after the start of his Reign of Terror, he was arrested. Within a day, without recourse to a trial, and amid the jeers of a bloodthirsty mob, his head joined the thousands he had caused to topple from the guillotine. He reaped what he had sown so abundantly.

\------------- o -------------

1700 years earlier another execution had taken place. A restless mob had crowded a courtyard crying for blood. The ruler tried to intervene, but the mob would have none of it. "We want him dead," they shouted. The cry rang through the courtyard and into the streets, "Crucify him! Crucify him!"

When Jesus staggered through the streets of Jerusalem, the crowds had seen it all before. The Roman roads were lined with the victims of crucifixion as reminders of their oppressor's cruel sovereignty.

Now, He hung upon a cross, breathing His last. There was no cheering mob, merely a mocking, supercilious one. As in France, the air was thick with evil. Yet, when He died, there was no rejoicing --- no raucous jeers, but hushed awe as the sun grew dark and the earth shook. History was tilting upwards.

The Man on the Cross was reaping what others sowed. Into the field of His life, he took all the seeds of sin and destruction sown by man since his creation and reaped their fruit --- the wrath of God. It came physically in the form of flesh ripped raw on His back, thorns plunged into His forehead, nails thrust through the nerves and sinews of His hands and feet, a sword in His side and an excruciating death. Spiritually, it manifested in the utter loneliness of abandonment by His Father.

As Jesus bore the fruit of our sin, He cleared the fields of sown sin for whoever believes in Him, making them fertile with divine love, ready for the seeds He gives us to sow. As we plant the seeds of His Spirit, we reap love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, kindness and self-control.

And because He chose to reap what He did not sow, we can sow His seeds into the lives of those around us. And how rich is that harvest.

Murmurs of a Guilty Conscience

I think I made a mistake. It's not easy being a governor in a foreign land -- especially one with such crazy bigots.

I had the whole pack baying for his life, because he didn't toe their theological line! How do you keep the balance between order and what you know in your heart is right? Things were heading for a riot as they yapped at my heels like hunting dogs slavering for his blood. I couldn't let it go on.

So I killed an innocent man.

I don't usually care. I've done it before. Even enjoyed it, watching them writhe and seeing the people cower at the power I can wield -- or grow angry, depending on their mood. It's never affected me this way before. What's it to me as long as I can keep law and order? That's the priority.

But there's something bothering me about this one. He was different. He wouldn't cower and he wouldn't talk, but his looks were eloquent enough and I didn't like it. He seemed to look into my heart, and that's a private place. I don't even like going there myself, sometimes. For all the pleasure I get from seeing others squirm under my power -- especially those filthy Jews -- sometimes the inner door opens a chink and there are longings........and doubts.......I like to keep that door shut.

There was something else in his eyes, too. What was it? That's part of what's bugging me. I've spotted fear in eyes a hundred times or more and enjoyed the smell of it. I've seen arrogance, too and I like that even more. It spurs me to greater cruelty with no remorse.

His eyes had neither. The closest I can come to describe it is... let me see...pity? No, though there was some of that. Love? Perhaps. Compassion! That's it. It was as though he was looking at ME with compassion. I had the power of life and death in my hands -- his life -- and he's looking at ME with compassion. It was so absurd that it unnerved me.

And that conversation about truth! Everyone knows that truth is relative, changing with our experience. Yet when I looked at him, he seemed so completely integrated, so sure -- as if behind the man was a colossus, solid and unmoving -- eternal, almost. I had the weirdest feeling I was looking at Truth itself. I had to turn away and give a mocking, "What is truth?" But in a sense I was asking myself the question.... and wondering if he could tell me.

That's when I decided to let him go.

I tried my hardest. I tried to flog and release, and when that didn't work, I used the Jewish feast to release one prisoner, trying to persuade the Jews to accept him as the one. Nothing worked with those unbending fanatics. Then the crowd started getting ugly and it was order first, as always. I washed my hands of the case and let them have their way.

But no matter how much I wash my hands, they still feel smeared with his blood.

I heard some of the things he said from the cross -- strange things to come from a dying man, especially one unjustly tortured. When I heard of them, I had a flashback to those eyes. I thought I saw that same compassionate look that unnerved me when I questioned him. How could a dying man plead for the forgiveness of those killing him? And did that include me?

I heard he even had words of encouragement to that scoundrel crucified next to him. He spoke as if that wasn't the end of him -- that they'd meet again.

And the eclipse that lasted so long (why hadn't our astronomers predicted that?) at the same time as an earthquake. Was it coincidence that it all happened round about the time of his death?

Yes, I have a feeling that for once I made a mistake. This was one man I should have let free. Claudia thinks so too. She's not one to nag, but she she told me on the day of the trial, and I've never heard the end of it since!

But why should I worry? No-one can touch me. I'm Pontius Pilate and I have all the power of Rome behind me.

Yet, this one thought keeps bugging me:

"What if he wasn't just a man?"

Born Ugly

There are few who get a worse deal in life than those with severe facial deformities.

As the anaesthesiologist for the Pietermaritzburg Craniofacial Unit, I saw these patients a month before their surgery, when they came for assessment and planning of their operations.

Some, like Peter, had arrested growth of their mid-face. His nose was squashed against his face, and his jawbone, carrying his lower teeth, protruded far beyond his uppers. His eyeballs, bulging like a bullfrog's from shallow undeveloped sockets, seemed about to fall onto his narrow cheeks. His profile -- with a small mid-face wedged between normally developed foreheads and lower jaws -- was C-shaped punctuated by his enormous, protuberant eyes near the top and protruding teeth at the bottom.

Others had eyes as much as eight centimetres apart, giving their faces a peculiar triangular shape, while others had sharp pointed noses, almost no cheekbones and a receding chin, making them look like strange birds.

One child had a huge cleft that extended through his palate, along his nose and beside his eye. His mother, In a wonderful expression of grace and love, had named him Goodenough.

Many of these unfortunate people were kept holed up in a back room out of society's sight.

What do you do when you have a face that makes people recoil when they see you? Characteristically, when I saw them at the Clinic, they looked down, first to the right then to the left, trying vainly to hide their faces, the source of their ugliness, too ashamed to look up or look me in the eye. In spite of my caring, and being there to help, they endeavoured to hide.

How like them we sometimes are with God -- trying in vain to hide because of who we are, unwilling to see that He is loving and caring, looking beyond our ugliness of our sin to what we can become in Him.

For, indeed, in a physical sense, that's what we did in the Clinic. We looked beyond what they were, to what they could become. The Surgeons took photographs, measurements and 3D CT scans, and devised the operations together. Later, they used the CT scans for computer simulations of what they planned to do. I evaluated the patients for the anaesthetic risk, how best to produce optimal operating conditions, and what postoperative ICU management they would need.

Can you imagine what it must be like to spend most of your young life locked up or hidden away? Imagine having people shudder and look away when you walk down the street.

Now, picture looking at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes no longer bulge, but gaze back clear and straight, you smile and your teeth are in line; in fact for the very first time you can feel your upper and lower teeth meet when you chew your food. You walk down the street and no-one stares. You are free. What you were is behind you now. You can dream and plan.

In all my years of practice, I can think of few things that gave me more satisfaction than having one of these patients, now normal in appearance -- sometimes frankly beautiful -- look me in the eyes and smile.

Yet many of the patients had skills to learn and habits to unlearn. Early on, the Craniofacial Unit incorporated psychological counselling as part of the treatment. The stigmata of past rejection lingered; many did not know how to deal wisely with their newfound freedom. In the fresh joy of being accepted, they trusted all and sundry and some -- particularly the women -- were taken advantage of by unscrupulous men.

Again there are parallels with our spiritual walk. As Jesus sets us free from the terrible ugliness of sin, there are bad habits to unlearn, and new wisdom to be gained. We need discipleship and wise counsel.

In a sense, each of us is like a craniofacial patient, though many do not realise it. We have been born into the distortions of God's beautiful plan for us by the ugliness of sin. Deep down, we know we have an ugly side, which we try desperately to hide, though God, of course, sees it all. He has all the means to transform us, but we need to come and ask.

When we do ask, and allow Him to change us, nothing gives Him greater pleasure than to see us smiling confidently, able to look Him in the eyes. Because of what He has done at Calvary, as we come to Him in faith, we're sure of our beauty as His new creation, ready to plan and dream.

Yet, like the craniofacial patients, we must learn to walk in our new life. The stigmata of negative thinking and bad habits need to be broken through mentorship and wise counsel.

As the craniofacial patients, radically changed visibly, need to learn the invisible qualities of wisdom, integrity, self-confidence and trust, so new believers, also radically changed, but on the inside, also need to learn to walk in holiness, allowing the Holy Spirit to mould and fashion them into the likeness of Jesus.

The song

Alistair rubbed his eyes as the faint light brushed the curtains. He blinked, shook the lingering mists from his mind, threw back the duvet and stumbled to the window and the light. The parting curtains revealed fingers of pink and gold that stretched from the eastern horizon across heaven, thinning as they approached him, to reveal the morning star. The scent of jasmine caressed him through the open window. He shrugged it off.

"Morning has broken," he muttered, "yet again."

In spite of himself, however, he could not repress a lift in his spirits, as a half-forgotten song tried to surface, notwithstanding his efforts to squash it.

Morning has broken

Like the first morning

The tune echoed in his head like the soft bells of a distant cathedral.

"But it's not like the first morning, is it, Lord? Everything's changed.

He tried to quell the song to assuage the guilt. He shouldn't feel happy while he was mourning for Jill; yet the song persisted, as though the voices of a thousand saints who had sung it through the ages were urging him to join them.

Almost absent-mindedly, he started humming the tune.

Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning......

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy --- My joy --- comes in the morning."

Where did that come from? So clear was the whisper that Alistair looked behind him. There was only the empty bed.

He'd heard that before. Where was it? Oh yes. At Jill's funeral. The pictures flashed before him yet again. The phone call. The rush to the scene. Ambulance sirens. Intensive Care. Finally, the weight of the doctor's hands on Alistair's shoulders and the look of deep compassion in his eyes. Night closing in. Deep, black, night. Three people in each other's arms, sobbing till their hearts physically ached.

Bill and Susan had been wonderful since then. The young seem more resilient. Though they loved their mum dearly, they were able to pick up their lives and move forward.

But he was stuck in the silence and blackness of night.

Until now.

What was happening? Something was bubbling to the surface --- crystalline champagne laughing through the brooding. Alistair was still in his pyjamas as he tossed his reluctance to the wind and surrendered to the song. His deep-throated voice, made deeper by the early morning huskiness, filled the room, the house, the universe, with praise.

Mine is the sunlight

It was streaming through the window now.

Mine is the morning

"Yes, God. I choose to receive Your mercies, new every morning."

Praise with elation, praise every morning.  Only a Christian knows the paradox Alistair experienced as the joy accompanying his praise did not eliminate the pain, but mingled with it in a divine dance of anguish and delight.

God's re-creation of the new day.

\------------- o -------------

The special ring that told Susan it was her dad seemed to reverberate in a minor key that tore at her heart. She braced herself for yet another dark comforting session. Poor Dad. He's lost without Mom.

Bill looked at her expectantly as she answered. He saw her eyes widen, her jaw drop and then her lips break into a broad smile as animated chatter and laughter filled the room like confetti dancing in sunlight.

When she finally said goodbye, she turned to her brother.

"God's done a miracle with Dad. He's put a new song in his heart. It's no longer a dirge."

Her eyes sparkled as she hugged her brother and swung him around. "Nothing's changed --- in his circumstances, I mean." She bubbled and sparkled. "But everything's changed. He still loves Mom dearly, of course, but he's able to hand her over to God and live with the beautiful memories."

She threw herself onto the sofa. "He's going to sing again. Oh, how I've missed that lovely rich baritone these last two years. He's rejoining the choir. He says he's going to request that the first song they sing when he's there is Morning has Broken."

He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the LORD and put their trust in him. (Ps 40:3)

The Face

His face was hard and battle-scarred  
His narrowed eyes were filled with hate  
He looked at me, then looked away  
The man behind the grate.

I smiled at him and said hello  
The cold eyes didn't hesitate  
He faced my stare, then gave a scowl  
The man behind the grate.

I wondered what had put him there  
What evil did he perpetrate  
To send him into solit'ry  
Alone behind the grate.

It's usual when we go to pray  
And walk the prison floors till late  
To see the faces and the hands  
Pressed hard against the grate.

They want the touch they want to see  
Who's come -- who doesn't hesitate  
To show His love and Christ-like care  
To those behind the grate.

But in that solitary cell  
A man who roared against his fate  
Sat eaten up with bitterness  
And glowered through the grate.

It seemed to me that as I looked  
I saw like a precipitate  
The smut of evil clinging to  
The crossbars of the grate.

Then ... in the face behind the bars  
I thought I saw a child of eight  
Being bruised and beaten, kicked and cursed   
Brought up on fear and hate.

And then I saw another face  
The Man who sealed my fate  
He too was beaten mocked and scorned  
Like that behind the grate.

Lord Jesus You have been with him  
His sin -- You bore its weight  
You know the pain behind the scowl  
Of him behind the grate.

Be with him now, he needs your love  
To melt his pain so great  
Embrace him with Your nail-pierced hands  
Let love replace his hate.

Imprisoned in that lonely cell  
Let all his fear abate  
Be with him, let him feel you sit  
With him behind the grate.

He can be free, he can rejoice  
He can appreciate  
A Lord, a Savour and a Friend  
Who's with him by the grate.

For everything that he's endured  
You can ameliorate  
Though he's restrained by prison bars  
You are the way, the Gate.

You melt a raging heart of stone  
That seeks to make men quake  
And take him through the Gate, to heav'n  
Far from the fiery Lake.

You're with him in his prison cell  
You'll set him free and take  
His spirit to a spacious place   
While still behind the grate.

Miracle at Bethesda

In a sense I was resigned to my fate, though I was in a place of healing. When the wall collapsed, trapping me under it, I should have died. For many years I wished I had, for what is life with useless, numb legs and spastic arms?

Martha, bless her, was wonderful the way she carried me, washed me and fed me, putting up with my misery as I cried out against my fate. Slowly, I adjusted to my condition though an anger against God simmered in my soul for allowing this.

One day Martha came from the market with excitement in her eyes. "A group of women were talking about a man who was healed of blindness at a pool called Bethesda. Every now and then the water stirs and the first one into the pool is healed. I'll see you are carried there each day."

"It's no good, Martha. I'm a cripple. Can't you accept me as I am?"

Martha glared. "Don't you want to get healed?"

I struggled with my thoughts. Why was I so reluctant?

"I think I'm scared. What if I get my hopes up and nothing happens? What if I stop accepting the way I am? Can I live with constant dissatisfaction with my lot?" Yet part of it was guilt. I knew what I had been doing when the wall fell on me. I couldn't tell Martha. Perhaps I deserved what I got.

Martha was persuasive.

For three long years someone carried me to the porch surrounding the pool. All around was the pall of sickness and despair. Blind men tap-tapped their way to a place on the porch, others retched and groaned in pain. Occasionally a demented man cried out and an epileptic shook convulsively. I hated it, though every so often someone would give a triumphant shout and emerge from the water healed. But I knew it could never be me. I could hardly move to the water. Nevertheless, I went every day. Sometimes I'd give encouragement to someone close by, or gain some comfort seeing others worse off than me.

Then, one Sabbath afternoon a man strode confidently onto the porch. "What's he doing here?" I thought, "He doesn't look sick at all."

Catching my eye, he walked up to me. "Hello Simon," he said. How did he know my name? " How long have you been coming here?"

"About three years."

"Do you want to be healed?"

What a question! But then I thought about it. Did I really want to be well? Did I deserve it? Was this my penance?.... No, I decided, I would really like to be well.

"I'm too slow getting to the water when it is stirred, Sir, but I'd give anything to walk again and use my arms properly."

His eyes blazed with righteous fury at my condition and compassion for me as they met mine. His voice reverberated with the authority of heaven itself.

"Then get up. Roll up your mattress and walk out of here."

Power pulsed through my body. My legs tingled. I felt the mattress beneath them as sensation surged back . Strength returned. I stood for the first time in thirty eight years and rolled up my mattress with strong, relaxed arms. Yet the strength in my limbs was nothing compared to the soaring song in my spirit. A crowd was gathering. I looked around to thank this miracle worker, but he had slipped away.

Outside, the Pharisees berated me for carrying my bed on the Sabbath.

They glanced at one another, suspicion evident in their narrowed eyes.

"Who was it?"

"I've no idea. He disappeared before I could even thank him."

I only dropped my mattress when I got home and then it was to prance and dance before my beloved Martha, who had so faithfully had me taken to the pool each day. The memory of her tears and sobbing in gratitude and joy are with me to this day.

Eventually she found her voice. "We must go to the temple and give thanks to God."

In the temple, I suddenly nudged Martha, my heart throbbing. "That's him. Over there. That's him." He turned to me, smiled and came over, as Martha whispered, "That's Jesus. Everyone's talking about him."

"You're looking good." He held both of my hands in his. I wanted to kneel and worship him, but he held onto my hands and continued, "Go your way and sin no more or something worse could happen to you."

Memories flooded back from that terrible accident. How did he know I was going to rob the house when the wall fell on me?

Yet that would be unthinkable now. Not after a touch from Jesus. My heart was filled with gratitude and love for God, and my greatest desire was to follow Him.

For that Sabbath did more for me than just heal my body. It set my crippled, guilty spirit free.

Origins

Patrick O'Donaghue, like a shipwrecked sailor drifting amid the ship's flotsam, sat among his belongings that were strewn over the front lawn. Bridget was weeping and he didn't know how to comfort her. Sean and Mira sat solemnly beside their mother, clutching their soft toys.

Patrick cursed his leg, which had been too inflamed for him to work reliably for the last month. Most of all, though, he cursed his landlord. He'd worked twice as hard when he could, but his landlord didn't notice ---- or chose not to.

The other tenants were sympathetic.....yet he'd heard rumours.......nah, they couldn't be true. Rory wouldn't do that --- or would he?!

Down at the pub, Patrick's plight was the main topic. All agreed the system was wrong. To evict a family without notice or a stated reason wasn't right. In fact, the Irish Land League had drawn up what was known as the three 'f's. Fair rent, fixity of tenure and free sale, and were agitating for the implementation of these.

Someone mentioned he'd heard a rumour that as soon as the eviction order was served, Rory Blake made a bid for the house.

Shaun's eyes smouldered. "A man that does that should be killed."

"Aye. And his house burrned t' the ground!"

The place shook with a vociferous "Aye!" "Aye"

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen." Charles Parnell pounded the table for silence. "There's a more Christian way t'do it. If any man dare be so unkind, he should be shunned. The bartender here should refuse to serve him. Dame O'Malley should serve him no groceries, the postman not deliver his letters, nor the milkman his milk. There should be no greeting in the street --- all services denied."

The rumour proved unfounded, but Charles Parnell's words, repeated at the Land League's meeting some time later, were not forgotten.

\------------- o -------------

Captain Boycott was a mean-spirited, selfish man who managed an estate in Claremorris. Times were bleak after a bad season. The tenants asked for leniency in paying their rent. They were granted a ten percent reduction. It was not enough.

They descended on Boycott's stately home. "Ten percent's too little. Can't y' see we're starving? Give us twenty five."

Before Boycott were men in rags, skinny children and gaunt women trying to feed their children on morsels, but all he saw were troublemakers trampling his garden.

"Get off my land, or I'll set my dogs on you!"

He appeared at the door, the snarling dogs at his feet. As the mob shuffled off, he wrote out eviction orders for 11 of the tenants.

News of the pending evictions, like sparks to a thousand fuses, rushed from ear to ear, inflaming hearts and tempering the steel of resolve to resist.

The Land League backed them, and Parnell's tactics were implemented. The grocer refused to serve Boycott, the laundress wouldn't wash his clothes, the postman delivered no mail, nor the milkman his milk. His nephew, trying to retrieve his mail, was intercepted and threatened. No workers appeared to tend the fields or animals, or work in his house. Anyone who dared to arrive for work was manhandled and sent home. The crop could not be harvested.

\------------ o -------------

Lord Sandler called from behind his newspaper. "I say, Sarah, listen to this. Some poor chap in Ireland has written in, saying his crop is about to fail because the Irish peasants are refusing to work for him. Bad show, I'd say. We should help the unfortunate fellow. We can't let the Irish treat an Englishman like that."

His response to a letter by Boycott to the London press was reiterated throughout England and Northern Ireland. A 'Boycott Relief Fund' was spawned to help him and fifty Orangemen, guarded by 1,000 policemen and soldiers, marched to Claremorris and harvested the Captain's crop. It was estimated it cost £10,000 pounds to harvest the £500 crop.

Yet God favours the poor and hates injustice. The enormous publicity the Boycott incident engendered highlighted the plight of the peasants. Within a year sweeping land reforms, including the Land League's three 'f's were written into law.

It wasn't long afterwards that the same tactic was used in New Pallas. New York Times reporter James Redpath was chatting to Father O'Malley about how to report the incident.

"I don't know what to call their action, Father. When the peasants isolate a wicked landlord it's ostracism, but that's not a word peasants understand. We need a more graphic word."

"Hmm." Father O'Malley's nod showed his agreement. "How would it be to say they 'Boycotted' him?"

Thus a new word was born.

I Did it My Way

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I remember lying on my bunk listening as the moaning wind made our trailer tremble and creak like a frightened creature. The plain pasta sat heavily in my stomach and burned into my throat. My thin blanket failed to stop the cold from settling its icy fingers on my skin. My brother dreamed next to me, moaning and thrashing about and my parents laughed and murmured through the thin walls.

Suddenly, I was sick of it; the scraps for supper, the ill-fitting hand-me-downs, the teeth-chattering winters, and baking, airless summers. I didn't want to see my parents' anxious eyes as they trusted God and wondered where their next meal was coming from.

That pivotal night, my life changed. I forsook family, church, God and friends who couldn't help me in my quest. My sights were set on one thing only. I was going to be rich.

My mother saw my fierce restlessness and tried to placate me. "We may be poor, but we've got each other and we've got God."

I inwardly scowled.

"We may have each other, but we're poor," I muttered to myself, "and we may have God, but He's not helping us. If He doesn't then, by God, I'll help myself."

And I did. God wouldn't like my methods, but I didn't ask Him. From then on I did it my way". I'd rather not say how I got the starting capital. Never touch the stuff myself, but if people choose to ruin their lives and are desperate, and I have a supply......... I've made up for it since, with my donations to charity. It's good for business. The Ian Goodrich Foundation for AIDS orphans has an impressive ring.

And here I am, driving on this hellish night with the wind relentlessly hurling liquid bullets at my windscreen, and sending wet twigs and leaves skittering through the air to be beaten to the ground by the rain. But I'm driving a Porsche, and the Playboy pin-up, who is my third wife, waits for me in my New York penthouse.

People say I've a brilliant business mind, (what a night -- is this rain or sleet?) but I know it's more. It's self confidence. "There are just two ways of doing a deal," I'd tell my subordinates "my way and the wrong way. If you don't like my way, tell me. I'll have your office cleaned out in the morning."  
No, no silver spoon in my mouth. A self-made man and I've made myself pretty good, if I may say so.

Someone tried to tell me about Jesus the other day and I remembered my mom (who doesn't approve of my methods). I remembered her say "We're poor but we've got each other and we've got God." So I told him I've got a poor mother praying for me and that's enough. I'm doing things my way. "Hey, look out, your lights are dazzling me. Dim your light! I can't see in this rain. Get on your side of the road. I can't control this slide. ...No!... a truck!"

\------------------- o ---------------

"Where am I? Why's it so dark?"

"You're on the threshold."

"The threshold? What's that? Who are you?"

"I'm Jesus"

"...................Am I dead?"

"Yes."

"The truck? Jesus, thank God you're here. I knew You'd be here for me. You've seen all the good things I've done; the success I've made of my life, the charities I've supported. You're full of love, I know. Can you let me in now? Into the light? It's so dark here."

"Sorry, Ian, I made a way for you to come in, and there's no other way. It's the way of the Cross. I showed you how. It's the path of humility, putting others before yourself. You might have made it in the world -- you did it your way -- but when I came to save the world from their sin .... I did it My way."

"I am the Way, the Truth and the Life. No-one comes to the Father except through Me." Jesus (John 14:6)

"God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble" (James 4:6. 1 Peter 5:5)

New Life for an Old Man

The old man leaned against a crumbling boulder, surveying the valley below. Fine clothes on bent shoulders, smooth hands and a short-sighted squint betrayed an affluent man of learning. Yet today he felt poverty-stricken and dull. The bleakness of the desert before him reflected the state of his heart.   
Beneath an overcast sky, an icy wind blew eddies of dust along the barren spaces. Far below, herdsmen, oblivious to his pain, called to a scattering of sheep, enticing them to a path between the rocky outcrops. They couldn't see the ache, the regrets at not being more firm, more insistent on a different course of action. God forgive me. A gross injustice was perpetrated and he did nothing to stop it. Yet how could he, without facing their derision? Just the mention of the man's name ignited such fury in his colleagues that, like enraged bulls, they lost all reason.   
It was all very civilized, of course. There were no violent outbursts. No snorting, pawing the ground and charging; everything was discussed politely, with political correctness. Yet there was no hiding the raging acrimony that burned in their souls. He was a threat. He must be removed.  
With fearful eyes and growing alarm, the old man had watched a tactic as well-worn as the institution itself: Discredit the person in the eyes of their constituency, tarnish his reputation and persuade the authorities he is a threat. It had never failed.  
It was much harder this time, however. Their "opponent" was quick witted; a man of impeccable integrity. Yet they had won in the end and, though he knew they were making a terrible mistake, he had done nothing. He watched as they had their way, as always, manipulating the people like a merciless juggernaut devouring the masses for its own ends.  
Now that it was over, he realized how much he cared. He felt he'd lost a son -- nay, a father -- though he, himself, was twice his age. As they buried him, his timidity -- his fear of their rage at the mention of his name --seemed so trivial, so petty in light of the enormity of the injustice.  
This was the third day he had come to his place of meditation. He could not bear to be with his grimly gloating colleagues. Here, in the desert, he could think.   
And mourn.   
And, perhaps, still pray.  
God, are You merciful enough to hear me, though I am such a poor servant? Did You hear Your Son's pleas for You to forgive?  
As though the sky mourned with him, dark rainless clouds brooded over the landscape each day, making it an eerie, chilly wasteland.   
Yet even as he watched, the clouds were breaking and shafts of sunlight threw beams from heaven into the valley, highlighting the shepherds, as if showering down favor. Inexplicably, his spirit started lifting. Yet I am still guilty. Why, then, do I feel this release? Not understanding, he sank to his knees, head bowed.   
Then, like an arrow through the air, he heard his name. Someone was calling him; someone who knew where to find him.  
"Nicodemus. Nicodemus. Come down. Come back to Jerusalem."  
It's Joseph! He's running. With shining eyes Joseph grasped Nicodemus by both shoulders. "My friend, I have wonderful news! You must come back at once. Jesus is alive. He has appeared to His disciples. He's alive!"  
Nicodemus shook his head to clear it. "But Joseph, we buried him together. We both know he was dead. There must be some mista..."  
"It's no mistake, Nicodemus." Joseph interrupted excitedly. "He has power over death. It's as you suspected all along. He's more than a man. He's the Lord.   
Hurry. He will want to see you. You see, we were in the right place at the right time. It was all in God's hands."  
Realisation dawned. Everything was orchestrated by God. The self-elevating religious system was not a juggernaut riding roughshod over the Son of God. It was a pawn in God's hands carrying out His perfect will. Even Joseph of Arimethea, his friend, was perfectly placed for his part, providing a grave for Him with the rich as predicted by Isaiah.  
He hurried down the hill, kicking the sand with joy and dancing. The sun broke through the clouds, resting on two elderly men skipping down the mountainside like young calves.  
And God smiled. It is indeed finished. There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

The Day Michael Came

I was content; happily married, fine job, good family, (except for Jonah), nice house.  
Then he came.  
I'd walked past those like him many times, without a second glance. Homeless people embarrass me. I avoid their eye in case they want something. Often they avoid mine, too. Ashamed of their circumstances, I suppose.   
That day, though, I noticed him.  
He wore a tatty old coat two sizes too big. His hair was matted. His moustache and beard straggled across his lower face like an untidy Jesus. He should have looked pathetic -- I'd always regarded the homeless as wretched -- but he stood erect with an air of quiet assurance.   
I looked him in the eye -- and was transfixed. His clear, acorn-brown eyes drew me into a world of hope and beauty. Something stirred, as though a rainbow settled in the reservoir of my soul. I saw the bland emptiness of my existence, the pointlessness of accumulating status symbols. His eyes revealed something beyond my grasp, something lovelier, like the music of the stars.  
I stood, mesmerised.   
He smiled, showing a line of unkempt teeth. "Hello. Thanks for stopping. It's tough when most folk just walk past. If you want to help, I'd be so happy. You see, I badly need a bath. That's the worst of being on the street. You usually get some food but there are few places we can wash. Offering me their bathroom is rather threatening to most."  
I agreed. I wondered what Jane would say about letting him into our pristine bathroom. Yet ... I couldn't leave him. Not after the stirring in my heart.  
He extended a hand half enclosed in a frayed finger mitten. "I'm Mike." I grasped it, wondering what the passers-by were thinking.  
"I'm Bill. Come. Have a hot bath and a meal."  
The brown eyes shone with pleasure, but I somehow felt he was pleased for me, not himself.  
Jane's jaw dropped when I opened the door and ushered Mike into our living room. She shook the tips of two of his fingers gingerly as I introduced him. The boys were fascinated. Jonah stumbled across in his spastic gait, and with a crooked smile, tried to speak. "Huy-y-yo! Moy nay-y-m-s Jo...Jo..Jonnnah!"  
Pete explained. "That's my brother. He nearly died when he was born and now he's got cerebral palsy."  
Jane retreated to the kitchen and called the boys. I left Mike running the bath, hid the silver, opened the bathroom door a fraction and dropped one of my shirts, trousers, socks and shoes inside. Then I joined Jane and the boys. Jane looked at me with puzzlement and fear. "What are you thinking, Bill? These men can be dangerous."  
"I can't explain. Something stirred when I saw him. There's more to life than what we've got, Jay. We must get involved. His eyes.... they touched my soul with music." Her quizzical look and shrug spoke volumes.  
The meal was memorable. Mike, clean shaven and dressed in my shirt and trousers had certainly been around. He said he'd shared meals with Hurricane Katrina's victims and rescued people from the Oklahoma bombing; he'd sat in murky hell-holes with those living dead caught in the merciless grip of King Heroin. Jane looked sceptical. I wasn't sure, but the boys were fascinated.

After the meal, he thanked us profusely. "What you did tonight was life-changing. Now I must go."   
I asked him to excuse us and took Jane to the kitchen. "We can't just leave him back on the street, Jay" I whispered urgently, "What are we to do?"  
"He's a hobo, Bill. All those stories. We don't know they're true. He could rob us tonight."  
"But his eyes. Did you notice his eyes?"  
As Jane hesitated, hysterical shouting burst from the living room. We rushed through expecting trouble. Mike was gone. Pete was jumping up and down. "Look at Jonah. Look at Jonah."  
Jonah walked slowly towards us testing legs that walked perfectly straight. He smiled broadly, a straight, perfect smile. Then he spoke. "Mommy, Daddy, I can walk and I can talk. "Mike did it."  
"Where is he, boys?"  
"He's just left. Said he heard you in the kitchen. Didn't want to cause trouble between you two."  
I ran to the door and peered out. The place was deserted.

\------------ o ------------

Jane and I love our church. We serve in a soup kitchen and realise God's given us our worldly goods to share.  
Now I know what Mike (Michael?) meant when he said what we did was life-changing. He was talking about our lives.   
The music and the rainbow have never left my soul.

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by doing so some people have entertained angels without knowing it. (Heb 13:2)

Provision

It was a cold, blustery day when they buried her husband. Gusts of wind, sweeping past the gravestones blew swirls of dirt from the mound, into the empty grave as if impatient to get it over with. "Michael would approve." Patricia thought. "He was never one for standing on ceremony." Patricia hugged her two daughters as they stood, teary eyed, while the priest intoned. "I am the resurrection and the Life..."

Why, God? Why take him so young? And so suddenly?

The mourners stood silent and still. Some listened attentively. Others, disengaging, stared vacantly ahead. "He who believes in Me, even though he die, yet will he live."

He lives with You, God, but I'm left to live here alone.

"Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes."

It was as the relatives were throwing soil on the coffin that she saw him. At first she thought he'd come to another grave -- but he faced them, his young head bowed. His shoulders sagged and shook slightly and he twisted the edge of his black T-shirt around and around in the fingers of his right hand.

During the final hymn, her eyes travelled to the coffin, to the young man, back to the coffin and again to the young man. Who is he? What does he have to do with Michael?

As soon as the service was over, Patricia moved towards him, but comforting mourners gathered around her, blocking her way. She watched the young man brace himself against the wind and disappear between the tombstones.

Once free, she ran in his direction, but he was gone. Slowly, she returned to her family.

\------------- o -------------

The hole at home was gaping. No cheerful. "Hello, I'm home." Her body ached for his touch. So lonely. So quickly. A gasp, clutching his chest --- and he was gone. How she had enjoyed his deep voice and strong arms. Now there was no man in the house; just a yawning void. Funny how she'd never told him how much she longed for a son. If only....... but it was too late now.

Her thoughts travelled to the graveside and his grieving relatives. She saw the young man, standing at a distance, sobbing, twisting his T-shirt in pain. Who was he?

\------------- o -------------

Patricia didn't realise Michael's popularity until the condolences poured in, giving her new insight into the very private man who had been her husband. Twelve years of marriage, and only now she learned that he climbed mountains, helped at an orphanage, and was a party man at Varsity.

As she tore open another letter, she paled; her hand shook. Michael's handwriting!. It was on an envelope enclosed in another. She read the first letter, which was brief.

"Dear Patricia.

Michael asked me to send this to you, should anything happen to him. I'm so sorry for your loss that necessitates my carrying out his wishes.

Heartfelt condolences.

Barry."

Patricia opened Michael's letter:

"Dearest Patricia

I suppose I've been cowardly in hiding this from you. Please understand, my motive was to spare you pain.

A few years ago, I received a phone call from a girl I dated at Varsity. Imagine my shock when she told me that a few weeks after we broke up, she discovered she was pregnant. She never told me, but brought up her son by herself, in another state. She was back now, sixteen years later and would love her son to meet his dad.

I was shattered and excited, but terribly afraid it would affect our marriage, so I said nothing. I've grown to love Jimmy (yes, that's his name) dearly. If I go, he'll need someone to love him. His mother's moved in with an abusive man, so he's in digs by himself. I've been seeing and supporting him.

Please, darling, don't be angry. For my sake, look after him.

Your loving husband

Michael"

A slip dropped from the envelope with an address.

Patricia's knees buckled. Heart pounding, she prayed. "Why, God, why? Why the secrecy?"

Silence.

"What am I to do?"

Suddenly her mind was filled with Scripture verses she'd learned as a child.

A Father to the fatherless, a defender of widows.(Ps.68:5)

He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow.(Deut.10:18)

He is now fatherless and I am a widow. Are You putting us together? Will You be our defender?

I prayed for this child, and the LORD has granted me what I asked of Him.(1Sam 1:27)

I wanted a son. Is this Your answer?

A deep peace filled her heart.

She called out to her daughters. "Carol, Stephanie! Come. How would you like to meet your brother?"

The Mocking

At the cathedral exit, Jacques paused and looked at his friend. "Wait here. I'm going back to shock the priest out of his cassock!" Turning back to the aisle, he made his way towards the confessional.

Jacques and Mario were touring the world and having a blast. Cathedral tours were not usually included with the beaches, night clubs and extreme sports, but this one was supposed to be famous. Jacques found it ornate, cold and otherworldly. He needed to inject some fun.

Drawing back the curtain of the confessional, he sat down. "Father, I have sinned," he said in a contrite voice.

"Nothing is beyond God's forgiveness, my son. Please confess your sins."

Jacques, his imagination at full sway, recited in lurid detail, stories of every abominable sin he could think of. He had murdered, he said, fornicated, cheated, lied, blasphemed and betrayed. Finally he stopped, waiting for a response.

After a silence the priest spoke up in deep, clear tones. Was there a slight mocking? Had he seen the prank?

"My son, you have much to repent of. This is the penance: At the life-size crucifix overlooking the chapel to your right, look into the face of the statue of Jesus hanging on the cross and repeat ten times, "Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." Then, with the hint of a smile in his voice, he said, "Do not let the game end here. Carry it through to the end."

So he DID know. Oh well, Jacques would accept the dare.

He found the crucifix easily. He never understood this Jesus thing. Why did people make so much fuss about a man on a cross improbably taking our sins? Was the story true? It seemed unlikely. Uncertainly, he started. "Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care. Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." Gaining confidence, he made it part of the fun. Beating his breast in mock despair, in a cracked voice he called, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done," then he straightened himself, looked defiantly at the statue's face and spat out the words, "and I don't care." He tried looking him in the eye, daring him to flinch, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." There, that was four times. Six to go.

On the seventh time, as he looked into that face, he noticed, for the first time, how the thorns of the crown pierced the skin of his forehead, causing blood to trickle down into his eye. Inexplicably, he felt an urge to wipe it away. "This is silly. It's only a statue!"

The next time, his eyes wandered to the hands fiercely impaled with large, rough nails. Again he noticed the blood trickling, this time, from the palms to halfway along his arms before forming drops that hung, about to fall. "Jesus, you're ... you're hanging there ... for all I've done, and ..... and I don't care." He forced the words out. "I am just talking to a statue." Why, then was he feeling so emotional about it? He looked back at the face. Those eyes; they seemed to know what he was saying and yet remained with that same compassionate look. Of course they would. They were the eyes of a statue. And yet.... what if it depicted a real person?

Two to go. He started, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done and.... and... " He felt his knees shaking, then giving way. On his knees he started sobbing, "and I DO care, Jesus. I'm not that callous. Or maybe I am. I am sorry. I am so sorry that you had to do this for us. Why do you love us so much? How could I not care, Jesus, when YOU care so much? Forgive me, please. I don't ever want to willingly do anything that makes me more responsible for your suffering."

As he knelt before the cross, a tangible peace flooded his soul. Through his tear-filled eyes he half-imagined Jesus coming off that cross, laying a forgiving hand on his shoulder. And he felt clean; for the first time he could remember, he felt washed from the inside out. He looked up and saw the man-God behind the statue. He also saw, in every repeat of his own mocking another reason for those brutal nails. And, born again, he wept.

The Meeting on the Shore

They say we're full of energy  
They say we're full of steam  
We get things done no matter what   
We're loud, we're brash, we scream.

We're called the Sons of Thunder  
'Cos we rumble and we roar  
Our tempers flare with every dare  
We're volatile, for sure.

We help Dad with his business  
He's into catching fish  
We mend the nets, repair the boat  
Fulfil his every wish.

For he's the thunder, we're his sons  
We dare not disobey  
Or else he'll shout and stamp and curse  
That's how he gets his way.

And that's the way we've learned from him  
Our nature's fire and steam  
And yet.... at night when all is still  
I sit outside and dream.

I see the moon across the lake  
The myriad stars above  
And deep inside this brawling man  
A small boy longs for love.

I know that there's a God up there   
He's infinite, that's clear  
Yet what's He really like inside  
What is it He holds dear?

Can He love an angry man  
Who pouts and shouts and swears?  
Does He see my longings?   
Does He really care?

Today I'm at my father's nets  
My brother's next to me  
Who is this man approaching   
By the Sea of Galilee?

He's stopped. He's looking in my eyes  
I'm naked in His gaze  
It seems my whole life's clear to him  
He knows my angry ways.

And yet... there's lovelight in His eyes  
He doesn't seem to care  
That I'm a rough and loudmouthed man  
Who'll loudly curse and swear.

He really likes me, cares for me  
I see it in His smile  
The way He talks is strong, yet kind  
Devoid of any guile.

I want this man to stay with me  
I like Him more and more  
Perhaps He'll help me with the nets  
Stand by me on the shore.

He makes as if He wants to go  
"Don't go." I cry, "Not yet.  
I recognise the love I've sought  
Although we've hardly met."

He smiles at me as if He likes  
The anger, fire and steam.  
Or is He looking deep inside  
And sees the boy who dreams?

"You want me to go fishing, John?  
But come with me and then  
Instead of catching ocean fish  
I'll let you fish for men."

I glance behind and see my dad  
He glares impatiently  
The contrast 'twixt the steam and love  
Is plain for me to see.

I choose the love and leave my nets  
I feel a joy so free  
I'll go with Jesus, Lord and Friend  
I'll let Him tutor me.

I feel the anger and the steam  
Melt as I'm by His side  
This son of thunder's yen for love  
Is being satisfied.

The Lord of heav'n has chosen me  
From long before my birth  
To be "The One Whom Jesus Loved"  
To truly know my worth.

It's not in shouting, being rude  
And brash, to get my way  
It is in loving, being loved  
At home, at work, at play.

And just as He has chosen me  
He'll meet you where you are  
He'll take your anger and your hurt  
And show you how to care.

For if the Son of Thunder  
Can become "The One He loves"  
Then surely He can take your heart  
And make it like a dove's.

He's asking you to leave your nets  
And look into His eyes  
And see that He delights in you  
And wants to heal your sighs.

When tempted to ignore His call  
And stay to huff and steam  
Know, as with me, He sees your soul  
With all its secret dreams.

He'll take you from a churning heart  
That kicks and heaves and shoves  
And soon, like me you will declare  
"I am 'The One He Loves'."

Reflecting God

He was a cripple... through his nursemaid's clumsy handling. Even twenty years later, in his mind he still heard the crack, experienced the searing pain course up his legs and felt them crumple under him as she dropped him and he hit the floor. From then, he hobbled on twisted, deformed feet that refused to take his weight.

His nursemaid was in a hurry, acting in fear. Thinking someone was coming to harm him, she grabbed him and hurried away; but she stumbled on the stairs and he slipped from her grip. There were no bannisters to stop his fall.

It was the death of his father and grandfather that caused her panic. His grandfather was king, and she thought the newly appointed king might annihilate all his family members, so no-one could challenge his rule. So, she hid him....But the king sought him out.

He was a young man, when there was a knock on the door. Machir, the man hiding him, opened it to the king's soldiers. "You have a man named Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan here?"

Machir nodded slowly.

"We have orders to bring him to the palace."

His heart pounding with dread, unable to walk, and with no-one helping him, He crawled into the presence of the king and bowed low, expecting to die. The king's voice was strong and commanding. "You are Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan?"

He answered from a dry mouth and a tongue that moved clumsily in it. "Y-e-s, your Majesty."

"Your father was a great man." He felt a stab of pride, in spite of his terror as the king continued. "We made a blood covenant together. Do you understand what that means?"

He barely heard the words, so great was his fear. He could only croak, waiting for the order to kill him, "I am as a dead dog before you." (2Sam 9:8)

Ignoring his stammering, King David continued. "It means what's mine was his and what's his is mine."

He paused to let it penetrate. "It means for Jonathan's sake, you're now as a son to me." His eyes softened. " How, having loved your father so much, can I not love you, who were so dear to him?"

His servants raised Mephibosheth from the floor and seated him beside the king. From then, his life changed.

Yes, he was a cripple, because of someone's clumsiness, yet he was honoured by King David. He had land, with thirty five servants to work it and look after him; He dined sumptuously at the king's table each day and slept in peace between silk sheets.

\------------ o ------------

I was a cripple, through my ancestors' clumsy handling of the commands of God. Though I was yet to be born, in my mind's eye I hear the seductive whispers, <i>"You will not die... You will be like God."</i> I sense the hesitation, then the careless disregard for the truth spoken by a God who walked with them in the cool of the evening. I hear the crunch of that first bite and the searing pain in their spirits as they dropped all mankind into a spiritual void. The peace of God and sense of His presence dissolved. I see their crippled spirits hiding in fear, lest He slay them.

That's my inheritance. I, too, handled the words of God carelessly. At times, I made clumsy, futile stabs at truth, without God or His Word for reference. At others I guessed in a blundering, half-hearted way at the nature of God. And got it wrong. Afraid He would come at me with condemnation and vindictiveness, I hid in fear, a crippled fugitive.

Yet the God of history brought Mephibosheth into King David's grace as a concrete example to us of His dealings with us.   
When the King of Heaven arrested me, I came trembling, till I heard the words of the Father. "I have a Son whom I love. He loves you so much that He died for you. How, loving Him as I do, can I not love you, who are so dear to Him?" He raised me to my feet and seated me in His light.

Now, as His son I feast at His table, seated with Him in heavenly places. There is room there for all Mephibosheths.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil and my cup runs over. (Ps 23:5)

Plundering a Hell on Earth

Amidst the paradise of the tropical Hawaiian Islands, Molokai was the closest thing to hell on earth. The clear blue skies, azure seas and lush vegetation made a mocking backdrop for hovels housing deformed creatures shuffling in putrefying bodies through barren activities of a meaningless life. Everywhere the stench of rotten flesh hung like a pall, while the shouts and cries of angry men brawling, carousing and habitually drunk spoke of a people abandoned by society and left, without hope, to rot.

Though not shouting, like the lepers of the Bible, "Unclean! Unclean!" those words rang out unceasingly in their hearts. This was the leper colony of Hawaii where doctors reportedly examined them by lifting their dressings with a cane and left their medicines on a bare table to be collected when they had left. It is no surprise that the decadence and decay in their bodies was mirrored in their spirits.

Then one day, in the person of Damien de Veuster, a Roman Catholic priest, Jesus came.

The Catholic church was aware of the appalling conditions on Molokai. Reluctant to sentence anyone to a life in such horrendous conditions dealing with a contagious disease, they called for volunteers to go there for three months before being relieved.

Father Damien volunteered.

On arrival in 1873, he immediately set about showing the people their dignity as beloved children of God, made in His image. He honoured those who had died by giving them a proper burial, personally digging graves and making proper coffins. He protected the cemeteries from marauding wild pigs and dogs, enlisting the help of those still capable. When his three months was up he elected to stay.

To restore the dignity of his flock, he made an agonising, Gethsemane decision. He would show them love in every way, casting aside his own fear of leprosy. So he dressed their wounds -- sometimes rushing outside for fresh air before returning to the stench of gangrenous flesh; he hugged them; he shared their meals; he anointed their leprous foreheads with oil and drank the communion cup with them.

He so identified with them that in talking about them, he spoke of 'we lepers', though there was no evidence of the disease in him. He wrote: "...I make myself a leper with the lepers to gain all to Jesus Christ. That is why, in preaching, I say 'we lepers'; not, 'my brethren....'"

In the meantime, he enlisted their help in restoring the settlement. Working tirelessly, the hovels were replaced by neat lines of painted cottages with their own gardens, the church was extended and a hospital and orphanages built.

Slowly the dignity of the people was restored. The church was packed and the gospel fearlessly proclaimed.

Then one day, as he warmed his feet in scalding water, he felt no pain... He had contracted leprosy. Working feverishly to complete his many edifying projects, he now felt the full brunt of prejudice and loneliness of the disease.

Prohibited from seeing his fellow priests and travelling freely, he remained with his beloved flock as the disease progressed. Some people, regarding the disease as the judgement of God, linked it (quite erroneously) to a licentious lifestyle. In many quarters he was despised and rejected.

Finally, in 1889 at the age of 49, he died of the disease.

"This is how we know what love is," says John, "Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for others."(1John 3:16)

John also tells how Jesus, after washing His disciples' feet said to them, "I have set for you an example that you should do as I have done for you."(John 13:15)

How closely Father Damien followed the example of Jesus! Jesus touched a leper. Damien washed their wounds. Jesus humbled Himself, became a man and took on the form of a servant. Father Damien served his flock tirelessly, calling himself 'we lepers' until he became one.

Who can doubt that, in following His example, Damien brought Jesus to the settlement of Molokai.

Physically, he plundered a hell on earth, transforming it into a beautiful settlement.

Spiritually, the wails of a population rejected by man and destined for hell became songs of a loving community destined for a life with God; the God who shone through a man who dared to take radically, Jesus' exhortation to follow His example.

Soliloquy of Moses

You were in it from the start:

As my head was squeezed till I thought it would surely burst and then, with a gush of water and blood, I emerged to gasp and slowly blink my eyes in wonder at this strange new world, You were there supporting me.

Born a boy and considered dangerous, I was decreed to die; but You were there nurturing and supporting. Amidst the carnage, and the moans of mourning mothers, You held me firm. You leaned, unseen, into me. Among the reeds of the Nile, You rescued me.

From the start, You formed Your words in me. Like the writings in a holy book, You wrote my life's story, destined to ring through the ages. And, like a bookend, You propped me up when I leaned and threatened to fall. In all of my mistakes, You were there.

Reared in Pharoah's palace, You kept me as a Jew, so I could bear it no longer as I saw my fellow beaten. I retaliated.

"Murderer!" they shouted -- and I knew they were right. Yet You spared me the ultimate price.

With me as I fled, You supported me, writing, writing, writing into my life; forming the book that was to be me. You took me to palaces, deserts, through thick darkness, plagues and visions of Your flaming light; through defeatist murmurings and victory songs.

So many times I faltered. Stammering, unsure, I would have fallen from the shelf, pages torn, story unfinished, but as I leaned on You, You held me till Your support became my delight; till I knew, deep in my heart, that without You I was nothing but a few scraps of paper with meaningless scribbles. Until I begged You not to leave.

Oh, the stories written in the pages of my life. What a book! Sweltering days and freezing nights; acmes of ecstasy and valleys of dark despair; ferocious fighting, rebellious dissenters and tired, angry mobs, wailing for water or moaning for meat.

You wrote my story from start to finish. I didn't want it, but You ordained it, and how glad I am that You did.

That You should choose me to be Your Deliverer is more than I can fathom.

That You should talk with me face to face, revealing secrets long hidden in You -- secrets of our origins so that I, as part of my story, would write more manuscripts, starting with the Book of Beginnings.

And now You have revealed that it's time to close this book.

I am on the mountain overlooking the Promised Land. Far in the distance, I see what we have been longing for these past 40 years. You told me I shall not enter it -- but I am content with my story, for it is not really mine, but Yours. It is the story of Your sustaining faithfulness, Your sustaining grace in times of failing, Your sustaining purpose for Your people and above all, Your sustaining love. Each man, each family, each tribe is a book of Your writing. Like divine bookends, from Egypt to the Promised Land, You have supported them, holding them together as a nation when they should have fallen apart.

As for me, my story is told. I am satisfied. It is time to remove the bookend, my God. Let me fall to the dust from whence I came, while my spirit breaks free and soars to You without restraint.

(Extra)Ordinary

Shadows dance on the stable wall, leaping and receding with the flickering flame. The man, candle held high, draws his wife close. Together they gaze adoringly at the soft new face, the puzzled eyes blinking slowly, uncomprehendingly, at the first perception of light. Banished are the memories of the frantic, fruitless search; the desperate plea, "Even your stable will do."; the hastily spread blanket to soften the straw; the contractions, the rush of water and blood; the first cry; trembling, unfamiliar masculine fingers tying the cord, severing the afterbirth, wrapping the child. For now, there is wonder. Wonder at the miracle of that first breath, at perfect little fingers and toes bending, straightening, trying out this new world.

Humanity at its most poignant, most vulnerable, most heart-warming.

Yet hardly earth-shattering. Not to the passer-by.

So much to overwhelm, with the census. So much to engage the crowded dusty streets for: Accommodation, provisions, registration. No time for a second glance at the new family. History is made at Caesar's census booths, not in a stable.

Yet heaven holds its breath, angels gaze in awe, the scene reverberates through the cosmos and history tilts upward as He, who once hurled galaxies, lies helpless in a mother's arms. The extraordinary wrapped in the ordinary.

How often God wraps the extraordinary in the ordinary:

The leader of God's nation hidden in a stammering old refugee. (Moses)

A king clothed as a shepherd boy. (David)

The very Word of God enclosed in personal letters from prison. (Paul)

Angels entertained as strangers. (Hebrews 13:2)

A carpenter's son packaging the Creator of all He spoke to; of all that shone upon them from the heavens; of all that nourished and preserved them.

And now, ordinary citizens, the wrapping for recreated beings; Creator's children; God-bearing vessels; channels of His very Spirit. Mingling unnoticed with the ordinary. Yet extraordinary. (2 Cor 5:17, 1Cor 3:16)

God, give me eyes that look beyond the wrapping.

Beyond the cantankerous old woman to the bearer of Your word to me for today.

Beyond the brash young boy to Your sonnet, scripted exclusively at the dawn of time. (Eph. 2:10)

Beyond the criminal, the patient, the hungry beggar to an entrance to Your heart --- treasures hiding in the world's trash. (Matt. 25:37-40)

And beyond the stumbling, imperfect church to a glowing, resplendent Bride treasured and transformed by her majestic Groom of Glory. (Eph.5:25-27)

The Journey of a Lifetime

Here I am again, back to the familiar where nothing's changed. I see I left a shirt on the bed and crockery drip-drying by the sink.

It seems incredible that this place -- this home -- should be just as I left it, when God's light is rampant on earth. And I've been part of it. What a journey! It was a spur of the moment decision, but the best I've ever made. I teamed up with Theo, and we just decided we'd take a road at random and see what village it led to.

The wiry old man sitting outside his house had half a dozen children playing at his feet. That gave us an opening.

"Are those your grandchildren, old man?" I asked.

His face softened and his eyes brightened as they wandered, first to them and then to us.

"All of them," he said.

Theo joined in. "Children are so trusting."

The laughter lines creased around his eyes. "They come to me with anything."

"Did you know that's the way we must enter the Kingdom of Heaven?"

The old man stiffened, his face suddenly hard. "Trust God like the children trust me?" He looked at the ground, frowning. "No. You see, I've had experience, which these children haven't had." His eyes misted over."I know what it's like to pray to God and have a silent heaven."

It was my turn. "Will you tell us about it?"

He stood up. "Come. I'll show you."

He opened the gate and ushered us into his home, leading us to a room at the back. On the way, we heard cries and the pounding of heels on the floor. He opened the door a fraction and bade us look. In the middle of the room tied to a pole that was fixed to the floor was -- what was it --- an animal? No, although like a crazed beast, its eyes burned with fury, the head swayed back and forth and the heels drummed up and down, up and down while it wrenched at the ropes holding it to the post. It was barely recognisable as a young girl, tormented and crazed by a thousand demons.

Closing the door, the old man took us to his sitting room. "That's Lydia. I've prayed to God day and night for my grandchild, but He's not listening." The tears glistened on his lined face. "Can you see why I cannot trust Him as a little child?"

I glanced at Theo and saw his face shine. "Sir, God has heard your prayer. His timing is perfect. He wants you to know about His Messiah. He's come to save us from our sins and deliver us from the oppression of the Evil One."

He told him the good news of Jesus, the Messiah. On finishing, he said, "Now, take us to Lydia."

It was our first taste of the power Jesus gave us. With screeching and a stench that filled the house, the demons fled. Lydia's eyes softened, her face transformed and she spoke to her grandfather in a voice as sweet and clear as a mountain stream. "Thank you, Grandpa for praying so earnestly for me." She smiled as she held the weeping, trembling old man. That evening we preached to a packed house. Lydia, had waltzed around the village in a dance of joy, spreading the good news. The Kingdom of God permeated the whole village as we stayed at the old man's home preaching, teaching, healing the sick and driving out demons in the Name of Jesus.

Then we moved to the next village and the scene was repeated as we used Jesus' strategy, staying in people's homes and ministering from there.(Luke 10:7) We'd never experienced such power.

Finally, after filling village after village with the light of God, we reported back to Jesus. "Even the demons obeyed us!" we exclaimed with excitement. The other seventy disciples had similar stories.(Luke 10:17)

But Jesus warned us, "Don't get carried away with the power I've given you. Remember from whence it came and rejoice that God has chosen you to be with Him."(Luke 10:20) It was a sober lesson. I admit, the power had gone to my head a little.

And now, my little home, it'll be good to sleep in my own bed with familiar things around me, but then I'll have to say goodbye to you. You see, there's a Messiah who has no place to lay His head,(Luke 9:58) and I'll be following Him wherever He goes.

Scorched Earth, Seared Soul

James sifted through the charred ruins, looking for valuables.

His mind raged thinking about the stubborn Afrikaans farmers, turned guerrilla fighters who refused to admit defeat. They harassed and killed the British at every opportunity. Now Lord Kitchener had employed a Scorched Earth policy, capturing the women and children and burning the crops and houses to starve the menfolk into surrender.

James kicked aside a charred doll, a broken mirror, burnt dresses and bonnets. The woman and her children would have been dragged from the house and incarcerated in a concentration camp under appalling conditions of starvation, exposure and disease, such that 26,000 would die in two agonising years. Rummaging through the smouldering remains, he pocketed a necklace and rings, but found little else. He'd heard they hid their silver when the British were close.

He wandered over to the charred stable. Nothing here. Unless their silver's hidden here. What's this? ... A loose stone in the wall. He pulled it from its position, revealing a deep recess. His pulse beat at his temples. He reached inside, extracting --- not silver, but a small book. He felt again and pulled out a violin. Intrigued, he sat and read.

31st Jan 1901

Petrus is no soldier, but what can you do when your livelihood is threatened? The poor, sensitive man. I know he'd prefer to be with me, Sarie and Hannah.

James felt a twinge of conscience. I'd rather think of him as the enemy, not a sensitive man.

He read on:

2nd Feb 1901

Praise God, Petrus came home last night. He looked exhausted. My heart broke for my darling husband. To ease his mind, we reminisced about the happy days of farming, the thrill of my pregnancy; how he played his precious violin to the new baby.

3rd Feb 1901

One all-too-brief day at home to be fed, washed and rested, before returning to fight. Poor, man. How he hates this war. Dear Lord, let it be over soon.

James thrust the book away. I didn't come to read this stuff. Lousy Afrikaners. Where have they hidden their silver? He rummaged through the stable, but his heart was not in it. Images filled his mind of Mary and Jonathan safely in England. He missed them, but at least they were safe, far from this vicious war. Like a magnet, the diary drew him.

9th Feb 2001

I haven't seen Petrus for five days. The British are getting closer --- they're burning all the farmhouses and crops. What'll we do if they come here? Lord Jesus, have mercy on us. Almighty God, protect Petrus.

11th Feb 2001

Still no word. The British are almost on us. We've nowhere to go. I fear for the children. Yet I know God is always with us. Whatever fire or flood we go through, He promises in Psalm 66, He'll bring us to rich fulfillment. Perhaps that will be when we see Him face to face, or perhaps we'll see it here on earth. Only He knows.

James' heart was bursting. In the smoking ruins, he saw the ruins of a devoted, loving family.

He turned the page. It was blank. He realised today was the 13th February. Idly, he turned the blank pages, eager for more. Five pages on, he found more.

Dear British soldier

If you find this, it will mean we've been killed or captured. Please understand. I know you are far from home and from your own family. Perhaps you do not even want to fight this war, like my Petrus. I don't know how many Boers you have killed (perhaps even Petrus), but know that I forgive you. You see, I know what it's like to be forgiven much. I have a Saviour who has forgiven me.

James' knees shook. Memories flooded back of soaring choruses bursting from his village church and entering his heart. He pictured this devout little family kneeling in prayer --- and now ripped asunder. He wiped his eyes to read on.

I urge you to see us, not as the enemy, but children of God, as you are. Ask God for forgiveness and come to Him. Live as the child He'd like you to be.

Sobs burst uncontrolled from James as he read.

If you do that, I'll see you in heaven and introduce you to Petrus.

James knelt in the ashes and, in a stable, like the place where it all began 1900 years earlier, Jesus entered his world and his heart.

The Seeker

Wild-eyed and dishevelled, he roamed the streets and alleys peering in the doorways, tearing at his hair, distraught and distracted.

"I'm looking for Love. I've lost it. Has it left? Is it hiding? Has it gone forever? "

Hedon looked over his tankard and gave a snigger. "Still looking, old man? No luck yet? Try the whore house. There's plenty will love you there, for a fee."

"Oh, help me, help me please. I'm looking for Love. I've lost my love. Has the whole world grown cold?" His hands shook, causing his matted locks to tremble around his face as he staggered on.

"Come in here, wild man, and learn from me." A fat man in a business suit sat at a table. A girl sat on his lap; men hovered, fawning around him. Money bags littered the table. "Make your fortune and the world will love you. Look at you, penniless old beggar. Who will love you like that?"

A haunting wail left the old man's lips. "Oh-oh-oh-oh, the pain. Who will help me? Who can lead me to Love?"

A pretty young lady, barefoot, in a flowing gown and with flowers in her hair, sauntered up to him. She put a flower in his bedraggled mane and kissed him playfully on the nose. "You don't need to look for love. You are love. Love is the god in you. He lives in each of us. Just let it out and you'll find Love.

The old man threw himself on the floor, beating the ground. "Will no-one tell me where to find Love? Love has deserted us. The world is cold."

"Come with me, old hermit." A tall man with a kind face and a long pony tail pulled him to his feet. "I'll show you where to find it." He took him to the country and showed him flowing mountain streams, a pure white lily, snow covered peaks, a soaring eagle. "Look," he said, "at the beauty that surrounds you. In that beauty you'll find Love."

"I see it," the old man cried, his voice sobbing in despair, "but it's remote; it's distant. I don't feel it. I can't find it. I've lost it in the coldness of men's hearts." He hid his face in his hands and his body shook.

For a long time he sat there, shaking. Then a small voice said, "Why are you crying mister?" A little girl stood beside him. As she laid her hand on his shoulder, a glimmer of light touched his soul.

"I've lost Love. It's left this dark world and no-one can find it."

"I'll take you to it." The pure innocence of her voice made him rise. "Come," she said, "We must climb a hill to find Love."

"What is your name?"

She smiled sweetly. "My name is Grace. I'm the one who takes people to Love." She was thoughtful beyond her years as they trudged upward. "I must warn you, love is costly."

"I have no money."

It won't cost you, but it comes at great price."

"Then who will pay?"

At that moment they crested the hill and he stopped in his tracks. At his feet was a man so disfigured he scarcely looked human. Blood oozed and congealed on lacerated flesh; rivulets of scarlet trickled from his brow down a swollen, bruised face.

The girl pointed, her voice trembling. "He will."

The battered man lay on a cross. A bleeding hand was outstretched, a brutal nail of iron poised at its wrist.

"No!' the old man cried, "Stop. Who did this?"

Grace looked at him steadily. "You did...... He's paying the price for your love."

"No. No. Don't do it. I'm not worth this." His eyes were wide, his mouth contorted.

"He thinks you are." The hammer struck the nail. Sinews and nerves split as the man convulsed in pain.

Bewildered, the old man cried out, "This is love? This ugliness? This horror?"

Then realisation struck. He's doing it for me. His face shone with light and a warm peace flooded his soul. "Yes," he said, "this is true love. Love for me. True beauty in the midst of all this gore."

Tenderly, he laid his shaggy head on the torn, bleeding breast, weeping with the love that filled his heart.

"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down His life for us.." 1 John 3:16

Consequences

They walked in light and beauty. The crystal rivers flowed through meadows of sun-tinged green and orchards of trees heavy with fruit. The song of birds filled the pristine air and animals wandered unafraid everywhere. Adam's heart filled with joy as he looked into the eyes of his darling wife; eyes sparkling with life and love.

They rested beside a waterfall. The soft murmur of tumbling water resonated with his deep contentment. Soon the sun's warmth would wane and the evening breeze would stroke the air with coolness.

And God would come.

Not that He was ever absent. He is love and where there's love, He is there. But in the cool of the evening He was manifestly present. They spoke with Him face to face while walking through the garden. Sometimes, He spoke of His love and His plans for them. Sometimes Adam showed Him what he'd been doing that day. Yesterday, he'd told Him the names he'd given the animals that came to him. Always, however, his greatest pleasure was feeling His presence, basking in His glory.

On impulse, Adam jumped up and in one lithe movement of his perfect body, pulled Eve to her feet.

"Come! I'll race you to the centre of the garden."

Eve was up to the challenge and they streaked off --- two splendid athletes running in harmony. Adam slowed as they reached their destination, allowing Eve to arrive first. Laughing, he pulled her to himself as he arrived and felt her lovely body against his. How he adored her! What a beautiful gift God had given him.

Then they looked up at the tree. It looked different today. Its fruit was almost incandescent. Eve put Adam's thoughts into words. "I wonder why God doesn't want us to eat that fruit."

Adam rejoined. "What did He mean when He said we'd die? What is death? Everything here lives forever. How can something cease to exist?"

Suddenly, with a blinding flash a beautiful creature stood before them and spoke in a voice like pure, soothing music. "You won't die. How can you? God forbade this fruit because He doesn't want you to be like Him, who knows good and evil."

Eve looked at Adam. "Do you think God's deceiving us? Holding us back from something He doesn't want us to know? "

Adam shifted his gaze uneasily from the fruit, to Eve and back. "I don't know."

The creature before them shone with light. In his hands the fruit glowed as he spoke. "It's only a little thing. You're not committing some horrific crime. What can happen?"

Adam hesitated. Above them, unseen, the angels watched apprehensively. In the wings, the spectre of wasted victims of the Holocaust, of a billion babies ripped to death in their mothers' wombs, of glazed-eyed living dead languishing in a smoke-laden hell, of battle fields strewn with the bodies of young men waited, ready to be unleashed, pending Adam's decision.

Eve was first. "It's only a bite of fruit. It can't do much damage. God loves us. He won't harm us. He can't mean what He said." She took a bite and gave a murmur of approval. "It's delicious! Have some." She passed it to her husband. He bit into it .......... And all creation convulsed.

For the first time, Adam felt ashamed. "We shouldn't have done that." Suddenly, he was not looking forward to the cool of the day. He looked for the brilliant figure that was before them beside the tree and gasped. Now, a creature dark and hideous, grinned obscenely at his victory.

There was weeping in heaven where there is no time, for there the spectres became reality. And sickness and death invaded. Sickness of bodies and sickness of mind. Sickness of plants and sickness of animals. Sickness of individuals and of societies. Wasted bodies coughing blood, writhing in pain and breaking the hearts of loved ones, entered the world.

Yet, as Adam took that bite and bowed to satan, in heaven --- where there is no time --- God came to the rescue. Nails were plunged into the hands and feet of a Saviour as He hung on a Cross. All the sickness and pain from six thousand years and more was laid on Him.

That bite seemed such a small thing to Adam...... Yet it cost the Son of God His life.

What repercussions might there be to an act of disobedience that we perform that seems so small to us?

The Storm

The parched land opened its face to the heavens, longing for a sweet reviving kiss. The trees bent their leafy canopies to shelter the wilting ferns, though their own foliage had lost its turgor. The birds were silent, save for an occasional call for a companion crying in their mutual thirst. An industrious warthog dug in the dry river bed until a small pool formed in the hollow, providing momentary relief. Giraffe, zebra, impala silently panted in the heat.

From far off it came, like a soft recurring growl. Impala, suddenly alert, raised their heads to sniff the air. A lion rolled onto its stomach and stood up, looking towards the sound. Birds called, hesitatingly at first, but gathering courage from each answering note. Frogs, long dormant in the dank river beds started to sing -- shrill notes resting on the gravelly counterpoints of their huskier companions.

Another rolling growl, closer this time, and a breeze roused the expectation within the forest. The trees stirred themselves, and whispered, with leaves fluttering in the wind, "It's coming! It's coming!"

Now, bright flashes preceded the rumbling, the wind grew stronger; the trees entered a wild, carefree dance. The forest burst into a song of expectation. The rain bird called out joyously peet-may-fro, peet-may-fro, the frogs turned up the volume of their orchestra, a blesbok gave a delighted hrrmph, small animals darted through the undergrowth, seeking shelter, a hedgehog curled into a spiky ball.

Lowering purple-black clouds obscured the light. Brilliant flashes and deafening bursts, like the crash of a thousand drumbeats announced the awesome majesty of God's provision.

The wind ceased. For ten minutes there was an ominous silence.

Then the miracle came --- water falling from the sky in torrents. Tons and tons of water, bursting from its celestial vaults, pouring upon the earth. Trees groaned under the weight of the deluge, branches broke, the weaker plants and some small animals were washed away. God was fiercely and powerfully providing.

The earth drank thirstily and gratefully, till it could hold no more. Now the water rushed through the forest. Dry river beds became frolicking streams, then hasty, swirling waters hurrying to the sea. On and on the waters came, driven by fierce winds that hurled them to the earth.

Then suddenly, it was over. The storm was spent. The forest was hushed with the ferocity of it all. Tentatively, a dove began to coo. A woodpecker joined in, the rain birds sang their joyful chorus, frogs, crickets and cicadas, barking baboons and snorting zebra set the woods alive with song. Life had been poured out from heaven and the earth rejoiced.

\---------- o -----------

Life loses its meaning in the parched world of spiritual drought. Anger, deceit and compromise, like the unrelenting heat of a brassy sky, cause joy and optimism to wilt. Tragedy, loneliness and sorrow silence our souls, robbing them of song. Prayers become subdued and dry. Like the deer that pants for water, we long for spiritual rain

Then, like the distant rumbling of thunder, Spirit to spirit, the Word of God assures us of His promises.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (Ps 30:5)

Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.(Ps 27:14)

Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor has the mind conceived what the Lord has in store for those who love Him (1Cor 2:9,10)

Something stirs within, in anticipation. We sniff the spiritual air and sense a change.

Then He comes. It could be with gentle blessing, like soft, falling rain. Yet sometimes His provision is fierce, coming in a storm of trial. We cringe and wait as it washes over us, grateful for the change in our circumstance --- for a new awareness of God --- yet holding desperately on as the trial passes.

Then it is over. The storm has brought with it, a new faith in the promises of God, a new awareness of His glory and love, a new sense of being His son or daughter. New life in the Spirit springs forth. The garden bursts into bloom and we start to sing.

Winter, Cold and Bare

In a frozen field stands a tree, bleak and bare. Naked and defenceless against winter's icy blast, its branches stretch imploring, to heaven, apparently lifeless.

Yet this is not death, but preparation time --- a gathering of inner resources in readiness for the next season. Soon the frosty tentacles of winter will lose their grip. New leaves, fresh and fragile at first, will peer tentatively from their protective buds and grow, clothing the tree once more with its summer garment.

I, too, like the tree have been laid bare, my sin exposed to the stark holiness of God; the cold winter of self-awareness and self-doubt stripping me naked....

I'm impulsive by nature and, I realise now, arrogant. I disregard all too readily, the opinions of others, forcing my point of view, insisting I am right. And leading me into winter.

My closest friend is dead. He sensed God calling him to walk into a ministry that would probably lead to this. He knew that, and told us so. I was afraid for him. In my selfishness I tried to dissuade him, though he knew it was God's will. My impulsive words made it even harder for him to obey, but he insisted, rebuking me, exposing my selfishness.

Then came the time that has led me into this winter. People opposed to his message came for him. They bayed for his blood, beating him, accusing him and mocking him. My heart was pounding and my knees shaking. I didn't want to die. I disowned him. Panic rose in my chest like some vile thing clutching at my heart. I cursed and swore, insisting he was a stranger. I managed to escape, but not before his eyes met mine. As they murdered him, I died inside.

Now I walk a lonely road, my real heart exposed. I had assured him I would always be beside him yet, when the test came I ran away. I want to hide, but how do you hide from yourself? Or from God? Cold winter blows eddies of accusation across my soul. Like the tree in winter, I cannot move forward. I'm going fishing.

Yet, perhaps, like that tree, it is preparation time; a time to discover who I really am and in doing so, discover who God really is. My proud heart is broken. I can no longer trust it. I know now, as never before that in me on my own, dwells no good thing. How I now realise my need for him to be the strength in me --- now that he is gone.

But wait! Who is that on the shore? It's Him! He's alive! I hasten ashore and stand beside Him in trepidation, waiting for His rebuke at my cowardice. But what is this I hear? It is the sunshine of God, "Peter, do you love Me?'

Oh yes, give me the chance to say it again, to recant my denial. "Yes, Lord. I love you." The tender shoots are forming. Spring is coming. Now that I know who I am, the grace of God can do its work in me.

"Peter, do you love me?"

Oh, my Saviour, You are the God of second chances. "Yes, Lord, more and more as I discover your grace, You know that I love you. Ask me again. Let me say it again."

"Peter, do you love me?"

"My God, I stand exposed before You and yet You still love me. How could I not love You in return? Summer is here. My pride is crushed and now You can use me. I am ready to feed your sheep"

To Mary And Mary

What were you dreaming of, Mary of Nazareth, when you nursed your new babe in the shelter of the cave, feeling the softness of a pristine cheek against your breast? When you gazed lovingly at his tiny feet and kissed the toes now stretching, now curling in a brand new experience of the wonder of life, did you dream for your miracle child? Were the words of Isaiah burning in your heart as you pondered those little feet? Did you see the beautiful feet he spoke of traversing the dusty mountain passes of Israel and beyond, bringing good news of God's Kingdom, salvation and a peace beyond measure? (Isaiah 2:7)

But no, God keeps His plans hidden, even from His chosen, lest we be overwhelmed by the enormity of them. In that tender moment when you, with Joseph, as young first-time parents, looked adoringly at your new son, the cloak of love around you was embroidered, like any new mother's, with wonder and fascination at the miracle of a child come forth from your body. It would be another thirty years before His sandaled feet would leave the wood shavings and sawdust as He became the One of whom Isaiah spoke. And then it would be another Mary who would kiss His feet.

Mary of Magdala, how you loved Jesus! Your heart and eyes were a fountain, cleansing the dusty feet of your Saviour as it flowed from a woman washed with Living Water. Your hair, once part of your seductive beauty appealing to lustful men, became an instrument of love, drying His feet in preparation for their extravagant, fragrant anointing. (Luke 7:38)

Yet, how were you to know, Mary, that the One whose feet you kissed stood astride all creation as the Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6); that He whom you loved commands the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds are the dust of those very feet that felt your lips (Nahum 1:3)?

Did you know that the object of your kisses would be torn with cruel nails? Or that the blood that spurted from the wounds would buy your forgiveness?

How appropriate that you should express your love through His feet, for it is His feet that crushed the head of Satan as foretold in Eden's garden (Gen. 3:15), forever breaking the stronghold of the Great Deceiver. And it is as those feet touch the Mount of Olives from heaven on His return that His glory will burst over all men in a terrifying display of His white-hot holiness (Zech. 14:4) that will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea.(Hab. 2:14).

Today I Will be in Paradise

"Today I will be in Paradise!" Ali spoke quietly as the men strapped the explosives to his body. His father watched, with pride, this prelude to martyrdom. Ali knew his mother was in her room weeping quietly at the harshness of Allah, but his father wanted this. And Ali honoured his father. With the explosive belt fastened in place, in a room filled with turbaned men, he spoke with a firmness that belied his inner turmoil, "Allah al Akbar" "God is Greater" and, rifles raised in triumphant salute, the shout reverberated round the room, "Allah al Akbar! Allah al Akbar!"

He walked down the hill toward the crowded square where men, women and children hurried about unaware of the destruction Ali carried toward them. A young boy greeted him with a bright smile and Ali suddenly had a flashback to his childhood in Lebanon. His best friend, Mikhail belonged to a Christian family, and sometimes Ali slept over at their house. Love and kindness permeated that home. What happy times those were, before his father became obsessed with Jihad. On leaving, the family gave him the Injeel (New Testament) which he read to this day. Of course, he knew about Isa (Jesus) from the Quran, but what Isa said in the Injeel captivated him.

He hastily looked away from the young boy, pushing from his mind a vision of his dismembered body flying through the air at Ali's hand. "Allah al Akbar!" he muttered to himself.

"Strange" he thought, "how the chant was 'Allah is greater!' and not 'Allah is Greatest', as though He was being compared to someone else. Greater than whom? Greater than Isa, than Jesus?" Ali was sweating with fear and the words of the Injeel came to him "Perfect love drives out fear." Isa had an antidote for fear. Allah instilled fear. Did that make Isa greater? He walked closer to the people whose lives would be taken, and with them, his own. The Injeel whispered Isa's words, "I have come that you might have life, and have it abundantly." Which was greater? To take life, as Allah demanded or to give it, as Isa promised?

"Who are you Isa?" "Who are you, Allah?" The questions pounded in his mind as he walked toward the crowded square.

Missionaries had stayed, sometimes, with the Christian family in Lebanon. He knew they were Americans by their accent. Now a crazy thought came to him. Could you distinguish God by His accent? In the confusing language of the Quran and Injeel, could one look behind the words to the tone and inflections? Which accent was God's, that of Allah or Isa?

He remembered his father, unapproachable, filled with hate, drawn into radical Islam and Jihad. Then memories came of tumbling about with Mikhail and his dad on the living room carpet, laughter ringing through the house. Which accent was God's? That of hatred or of love?

"Allah al Akbar!" he muttered again. Or was he? His mother had come last night and wept on his bed. Submitting herself to the will of Allah brought her pain for the rest of her days. Was this the voice of God? Was His accent one of harsh ruthlessness? Isa's words from the Injeel whispered, "Come to Me all who are burdened and I will give you rest .... I am gentle and humble and you will find rest for your soul." How he would prefer that accent of gentleness and approachability for his mother.

Suddenly a rumble came from behind. Turning, he saw a driverless, runaway truck tearing down the hill toward the crowded square. Soon it would plough into the people, crushing, crumpling, destroying as it went. He had seconds to decide. "Who are you God? With what accent do You speak?" He knew the answer before he asked the question. Murmuring, "Isa, You are the truth. I give You my life," he ran towards the truck.

\------------ o ------------

Those recounting the story told it with shocked admiration.

"A huge truck came down the hill straight for us. People were scattering everywhere but it was coming too fast. Suddenly a young man ran towards it shouting "Isa al Akbar! Isa al Akbar!" He leapt in front of it. A tremendous explosion all but demolished the truck leaving a huge hole in the ground and stopping it in its tracks. Who was that man? And why did he die to save us? Whoever he was I am sure he is now in Paradise."

Head Before Heart

I'm a natural cynic. I question everything. I like to see and feel and touch and don't trust what others say. I could see through all the false messiahs that have plagued our nation since Isaiah's predictions. When Judas of Gamala, led a revolt, some called him the Messiah, but I doubted. My doubts were vindicated when his uprising was brutally suppressed and he ended up in a field, impaled on a Roman cross for all to see an insurrectionist's fate.

But Jesus of Nazareth was different. His obvious love, especially for the underdog, the miracles he performed and his intolerance of anything hypocritical made me a follower.

Yet, my critical spirit was still alive, making me doubt.

I recoiled when he spoke about our eating his flesh and drinking his blood. Was he a madman, taking us on a path away from our faith? Didn't he know the rules about drinking blood? And human blood at that? The questions bombarded me like the sparks that fly from a grinding wheel. I nearly joined the crowd that turned away. Then I heard him ask, "What about you? Do you also want to turn away?" and I couldn't help but agree with Peter. "To whom shall we go?". Despite his words, Jesus was the closest to the real Messiah I'd ever encountered.

Yet I wasn't sure. Those words jarred so! My materialist mind missed his explanation. "My words are spirit and they are life." ... But I followed. What else could I do? I loved him and how he changed the lives around him.

The more time I spent with him, the more my cynicism dissolved. I began to believe in him. I joined the others in the joyful dance of life with Jesus. He had such power; he could deal with any opposition. Or so I thought --- until my world imploded. Though never violent like the other so-called messiahs, I watched in despair as he suffered the same fate as Judas of Gamala. The Romans snuffed him out like a fragile candle sputtering in the dark. Where was my Messiah now?

We were all devastated. The cynical voice at my shoulder said, "What did you expect? You see what happens when you don't analyse everything? Remember his incomprehensible words? His mumbo jumbo about only living if you die? About a person having nothing, yet having what he has, taken away?" It continued. "See what happens when you put your heart before your head?"

Seeking solitude, I wandered into Gethsemane, reliving that fateful night. Even the old olives seemed contorted with grief. I walked to the place where Jesus had left us and gone ahead. I knelt where I had slept that night. This time I prayed.

"God in heaven, I thought Jesus was the One. Now I see he's just like the others. I miss him so. I cannot forget the deep love in his eyes. I truly thought he was Messiah. I'm confused and sorrowful."

Gethsemane became my mourning place. Day after day I knelt among the bent old trees.

One day, as I re-entered the room where the other disciples gathered, hubbub filled the air. "Jesus is alive!" buffeted me from every side, in voices clear and strident in their excitement.

My scepticism rose like a rock-solid wall resisting what I was hearing. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't face another disappointment. I'd listened to my heart when I'd trusted him as Messiah. That was dashed at Golgotha. This time I'd listen to my head.

"Impossible. I saw him die."

"But he's risen from the dead."

"Impossible."

"We've seen Him."

"It can't happen."

"Thomas --- dear Thomas. Always questioning. Just believe. Have faith in Jesus."

"I can't trust. I have to see for myself. I must know it's him." I left again to mourn at Gethsemane.

A week later, I was with them again. Suddenly, he was there. There was no doubting it was him. Those loving eyes on me belonged to no-one else. He lifted his hands to show me his wounds. "Come, Thomas, feel them. It's me."

Something like the song of a thousand angels came bursting from within me. Gone was my critical spirit, drowned in the love that poured from me to my Saviour. I knelt before Him in gratitude and praise. My heart was not wrong after all. With all my being I could exclaim, "My Lord and my God!"

The Test

I don't remember a time when my dad didn't look old. To a young boy growing up, he looked ANCIENT. His large hook nose emerged from between the bushiest eyebrows I've ever seen and drooped over a shaggy moustache that blended seamlessly with his flowing beard. The only time you knew he had a mouth was when it was open. What you could see of his face, looked to me like furrows on a leathery landscape to take his sweat and lead it away from his eyes and down into his beard.

But his eyes fascinated me most. Although toffee brown, they shone with an inner light-- as if he saw something in his mind and projected that vision through them. Even when he looked at me, he seemed to be looking both at me and to something far beyond.

Papa was a wanderer. He went where his fancy took him. Or rather, he said he went where God told him to go, although God didn't seem to take him to any place in particular. We just wandered around from here to there, staying for a while then moving on.

The older I grew, the more I respected my eccentric old man. He strode among his herd, with his clothes flapping about him, thrusting his staff deep into the sand, as if to impale some furtive creature lying beneath the surface. Yet his appearance belied an astuteness that, over the years, earned him enormous wealth.

Above all, though, he was a visionary. He genuinely heard God and lived with purpose. Though all we did was wander through the country, he only moved when he was sure he heard from God, and he seemed sure there was a far higher purpose in his doing so. Often, of a night, I'd catch him gazing upward at the Milky Way and the teeming pinpricks of light sprinkled so liberally in the blackness. And he'd mutter "So many. So many." Though I didn't know what he meant, I knew he saw something that I couldn't -- something in his mind that he projected through those glowing eyes into the heavens.

At other times, he'd sit me down to talk. His voice was deep and gruff, like a man used to giving orders, but as he spoke, was modulated by a gentleness that betrayed a deep love of his subject.

"You can always trust God, m'boy. No matter how things seem, you can always trust Him. Sometimes, you haf t' trust Him beyond you years here on earth." His eyes looked at me and beyond. "Yeah, sometimes beyond yer years, but you can always trust Him."

I loved Papa. As he trusted God, I grew to trust Him too, little thinking what a test I would have of my trust of them both.

It happened one day when he said, in a voice more gruff than usual, "Come, boy. God's told me somethin' and we gotta obey."

I was a young man -- in my twenties -- but he still called me "boy".

Taking just one servant, a pile of wood and a firebrand we set off. He was much quieter than usual and talked to himself -- or to God. Every now and again, he'd turn to me, his fiery eyes now watered over, and repeat what he'd said so often. "No matter how things seem, you can always trust Him." Then, sighing, "Sometimes beyond your years, but you can always trust Him."

It was when we got to the foot of the mountain, that I grasped what he was saying. I realized, with foreboding, his agenda. We were going to make a sacrifice, but there was no animal. I knew, from his words and from the way he looked at me, what God had told him to do.

This was my trial, as much as his. I was stronger than my ancient father. I could overpower him and run.

Or trust Papa as I always had done, and trust God as I'd often said I would.

"Sometimes yer haf t' trust him beyond yer years on earth." Could I do that? Could I die trusting him? Or should I run away?

I chose to stay.

Memories

Come, sit with me. Indulge an old man as I reminisce about my youth with these faded photographs. See how strong and confident I look as I hold the Athlete of the Year cup in hard, sculpted arms.With those self-assured, clear eyes gazing straight into the camera, a body firm and lean beneath the shirt, I had the world at my feet.

Now my stomach obscures those feet, the skin drapes over my outstretched arms and hangs in a fold, and my eyes peer mistily from overhanging lids in a lined, weathered face.

Look, here's me beside -- what was her name? --- Julie, at the final year dance; hair slicked with Brylcreem, tuxedo complete with cummerbund, and a face aglow with love. Oh, the soaring heights and plummeting depths of teenage love. I carved Julie's name on my desk, we cuddled at the back of the movies, shared a milkshake and walked hand in hand on the clouds to the moon, Julie's beauty outshining the stars. Then came the misunderstandings, the gloomy aftermath of a quarrel that left me wanting to die, before the lightning trip back to the stars as we made up. Finally, the break-up. The end of the world... until, within a short time, it was Betty, eclipsing all I'd ever known with Julie.

Ah, youth! A time where feelings blaze in technicolour and issues are starkly black or white, with no room for grey. A pivotal time that can set a destiny. A fragile time when the deep questions of life come under scrutiny and demand answers; where, with youth's uncanny spiritual penetration, hypocrisy and superficiality in their elders are perceived for what they are and rejected, and the pressure of peers to conform is all-pervasive.

Look at this picture. See the guy in the middle with long hair, a diamond in his nose and a flambouyant shirt? That's me, wanting to be different. I joined the hippie movement --- a youth movement protesting societal norms. Conventional society was proper in dress code, sexuality and social behaviour, but at the same time perpetuated a war in distant Viet Nam, destroyed nature with industrialisation, and oppressed the poor with greed-motivated capitalism. I didn't stay with the hippies long, though. I didn't go along with free sex (make love, not war --- remember?) or the psychedelic drugs they used.

Now this one --- this is what I moved onto. The long hair is still there, the diamond in the nose has gone and I have a cross tattooed on my forearm (I still proudly have it). I am in the Jesus movement. In a sense, that was still anti-establishment, because it arose from the hippie culture, but it was God-orchestrated. It was where I was born again. Suddenly I knew the truth and, like so many young people, I wanted to change the world.

The Jesus movement started when hippieTed Wise, after nearly overdosing on LSD, went to church with his girlfriend Liz and responded to an altar call. Radically converted, he and Liz, now his wife, reached out to the hippies by starting a Christian commune, called The Living Room. I was one of the more than twenty conversions that took place there every week.

Meanwhile, other revival fires were kindled. Dave Hoyt was a disillusioned Hare Krishna follower who came to Christ. His preaching, with his mentor, Kent Philpott brought hundreds of hippies into the Kingdom. In Pirate's Cove on the Pacific coast, Chuck Smith was baptizing 500 people a month. Many were disheartened hippies.

At the same time God was pouring out His Spirit in the Charismatic Renewal, He was moving among the hippies, bringing to the church a culture of freedom of dress, freedom of movement in worship and the use of contemporary music in praise.

This picture is later. That's me and Jean. I met Jean in the Jesus movement. We settled down and started a family. We lived through sunshine and rain, fire and ice, calm and storm, with Jesus by our side always seeing us through, till He called her home. Look at her sweet face...... How I miss her.

And now my tired old heart is failing, my breath is weak, my joints ache, I struggle to see, to hear and to remember and my hands tremble. The gates of splendour are opening for me. My Saviour awaits to transform this lowly disintegrating body into the likeness of His glorious body (Phil. 3:21).

And I'll be young again. Forever.

Jesus, Calm the Wildness of my Mind

Wind-swept fury, clattering, battering

When will it stop?

Huge tornado, swirling, churning

Twisting me, sucking me in

I can't breathe

Tossed about, flung, hurled ,

Thrown to the ground

Picked up

And thrown again

Doubt and fear

Make me cringe

I'm far away

Yet the terrors are close

Jesus, calm the wildness of my mind

Past voices

Whisper hideously

"You're no good!"

"You'll never make it!"

"Idiot child!"

I hear the screaming

Fists on flesh

Blows on blood

Crouching in the corner

Too afraid to move

I'm only a child...

Now a ghost-man

Haunted by my past

Jesus, calm the wildness of my mind

In darkened back streets

I wander

Hold on, hold on

Don't let the tornado

Sweep you away

Still the accuser!

Yet as I search the trash cans

The madness continues

I feel it in the wideness of my eyes

I hear it in my muttering

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

It's safer in the park

And yet I can't escape

Where I go

My mind comes too

Swirling, unseeing

Through the pristine paths,

Countering the whispering fountains

With its own whisper

"No good"

"Failure"

Bottles and booze,

And then the screams

My mother's lips,

Her eyes and cheeks

Bruised and bloodied

Now the hiss,

"And you did nothing"

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

Who's this coming?

What does he want?

I've nothing to give

His voice is gentle

Breathing peace

He has a place of healing,

Of rest

He speaks of Love

In a Man

Torn, by the wild fury of men,

Yet loving

Breathing forgiveness,

Offering it to me

Urging me to pass it on

To my step-dad

And all who hurt me

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

We kneel before the One

Who stayed the storm

The tornado retreats

Accusations hush

A river pours through me

Washing

Living water

Cleansing my soul

Deep stillness

Comes...

Peace

From the Prince of Peace

He calmed the stormy sea

And now He's calmed the wildness in my mind

No Other Gods but Me

I walked into His presence as in an incandescent dream. The terrifying smoke and fire I'd seen from below dissipated and wave upon surging wave of love enveloped me. Overwhelmed, I sank to my knees. He took my hand and drew me to my feet.

Words of worship poured from my lips in response to the mantle of light and peace that encompassed me. In the timelessness of pure love, I had no sense of the passage of day or night, as intricate details of how a tabernacle was to be built to God imprinted themselves on my mind; who was to serve in it, the sacrifices to be made, the names of the people gifted to construct it... I neither ate nor drank during this time -- which seemed no time at all, though later they told me I'd been up the mountain for forty days.

As God finished speaking into my mind, a mist, like a wraith, passed before me. I saw two stone tablets at my feet. I heard God say, "Take these to the people that they may remember to keep My law. Hurry, now. I hear them. Those stubborn people are corrupting themselves with a foreign god. "

I came to myself as I sensed God's anger. He continued. "I've a mind to destroy them, and start again with you, Moses. I'll make you father of a new nation."

"Lord," I protested with a boldness that sprang from alarm. "Surely not. What will the Egyptians say? That You brought Your people out here merely to slay them? Do You want them to think that of You?" I trembled as I continued, "And what of Your promise to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob?"

I picked up the tablets and started down the mountainside, wondering if I had imagined that last unlikely conversation. Still filled with His radiance, I soon forgot the disturbing dialogue.

Joshua was some way up the mountain, waiting for me. He greeted me warmly. "I was worried. You were gone so long, with no food or drink. Some elders were convinced you'd died up there."

"Was I there so long? I had no idea!" I said, as I embraced him. "It was unforgettable, Joshua. I'll tell you about it when we get to camp."

My joy was infectious. Soon the two of us were humming and laughing. Hunger pangs anticipated my first meal in over a month, and I longed to see Aaron and the people.

At a clearing, Joshua stopped humming and stood still, listening. "What's that noise?"

Then I too, heard it. Joshua tilted his head. "It sounds like a war in the camp."

"No... it's not a victory shout," I said, straining my ears. "Nor is it wailing in defeat." My spirits lifted. "They're singing and dancing. They're happy, Joshua. Let's hurry down and see what the party's about."

Then, as they came into sight, the glow from my time with God burst into red hot fury spewing from my soul like molten lava. I rushed down the mountain, hurling the tablets of stone against a rock.

They shattered.

The music stopped.

And the dancing.

All the people looked at me.

A calf of gold stood at the centre of the gathering. The singing had been worship songs to the calf, the dancing was before the golden idol. Now I knew. I did hear God when said He wanted to destroy these people. He'd heard their noise long before I had and knew what it meant. I felt the anger He had expressed. In righteous fury, I ground the calf to dust and scattered it on the water. "Drink it, you rebellious people. Drink the god you worshipped. Taste the bitterness of disobedience and wait for the judgement of God!"

...Yet I knew my God. He is gracious and merciful -- a God of second chances. Sure enough, in what followed, only those who refused to repent faced His wrath. The repentant ones once again joined me on our journey to His Promised Land.

Will you leave your idol and join me with them?

An Unexpected Privilege

I'd always dreamed of visiting Jerusalem at Passover. As a little boy, playing in the sands of Africa, I'd look at the dawn sun and picture it rising over the Holy City. At night, when Pappa tucked me in, I'd question him.

"Pappa, What was Jerusalem like before you had to flee from the Romans?"

He'd get a faraway look in his eyes and say, "My son, Jerusalem is the centre of the world. It's God's Holy City, but sadly, it is desecrated by Roman soldiers. Our people are terribly oppressed."

He'd continue. "You should see it at Passover. The whole world is there. The excitement, the dust, the crowds, the babble of a hundred languages. It's the most exciting thing!" I never tired of hearing the stories, and I knew one day I'd be there.

When Pappa died, I set out on a pilgrimage with my own two boys, across the Mediterranean and into the Holy Land. I arrived in Jerusalem just in time for Passover. From the road, I could hear the hubbub and my heart raced to join them. "Come, lads. Alexander, Rufus, this way." There was something happening along the road and I wanted to see.

Suddenly, I didn't want to see. I'd heard of the harshness of the Roman occupation; of fields of dead men hanging from crosses --- insurrectionists, paying the ultimate price in a ghastly way for their patriotism. It was what my father had fled from. Was this man another of them? But why had they tortured him so, before his execution? He tottered under the weight of his cross as I stood, hypnotised.

He was almost level with me, when he reeled, his eyes turned upward and he and his cross crashed to the ground. A Roman soldier lashed at him with a whip, but he did not respond. Fear gripped me as the soldier's gaze fell on me. I looked away, but it was too late.

"You! Hey, strong man. Come here!" There was no escape. "Come here! Take his cross."

I could have walked faster, but I let him rest on the upright and stumble along beside me.

"Okay, leave him." We weren't quite there yet, but the whip came hard on my back. "I said leave him." They wanted him to carry it at least to the site of crucifixion.

I had to stay, now I was involved. Rebel or not, I had to watch to the end.

I'm so glad I did. I had never seen a crucifixion before but, --- heaven forbid --- should I see another, I'm sure it will be nothing like this one. He breathed words of forgiveness, words of encouragement to a victim beside him. Loving words came from his lips for his mother and his best friend. I turned to the man beside me. "Who is this man?"

He looked at me. "You just arrived?" I nodded.

"That's Jesus. Powerful prophet. He claimed to be God."

"And is he?"

The man laughed derisively. "God? They're killing God? Is that possible? Come on! Use your head."

But I preferred to use my heart. How could a mere man die like that? Who was he?

Suddenly he gave a cry that seemed to echo through all creation. At that cry, the earth shook violently and the sun grew dark.

And I knew.

I thought I had been helping a man, saving him from a vain lashing as he lay, unable to continue. Yet, he was the one drawing me into his world, giving me the unique privilege of walking alongside Him, saving me from a life of futility. He was inviting me to bear the Cross with Him --- to take part in His redemptive work.

Some time later, to my astonished delight, he appeared to me alive and well. It confirmed what my heart said at Calvary. That lacerated, tortured man was my Saviour.

Blessed

The raging South Easter hurled gusts of rain against the study's panes. The air crackled with bursts of a thousand watery pellets against the glass, as the wind howled. The turmoil and fury outside echoed that in Peter's heart as he sat at his desk, his fists clenched and his eyes narrow and moist with fury.

They rested on Barbara's Bible on the corner of the desk. He grabbed it and opened it at random.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

You must be kidding. After he's beaten me to thousands of dollars? I'm taking him to the cleaners. How can Barbara believe all this God stuff?

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

No, God. Blessed are the strong, who fight back and get what they can.

The room lit with dazzling brilliance and a crackling boom exploded, rattling the windows.

"That's it, God. That's me inside. You show your power. I'll show mine." He opened a drawer and took out a .38 revolver. I'll show him what it means to cross me.

\------------ o ------------

Barbara watched him back the car from the garage and drive into the swirling rain. She fell on her knees and called out to God. "Do something radical, Lord. Save him from himself. He's such an angry man. He's reckless and impulsive. Save him, Lord. Save him." Her heart writhed within her as she threw herself on the carpet in an agony of prayer for her husband.

\------------ o -------------

Peter had no idea what he was going to do, except that he would confront George. The wind buffeted the car. Sheets of water crashed relentlessly against the windscreen, blurring his vision. He didn't see the truck sliding towards him until it was too late.

\------------ o ------------

From far away he heard voices --- snatches of conversation intruding through the mist and the throbbing headache.

"....critical... yes, very... unlikely he'll make it... yes, by all means... prayers.... yes, any time.... God intervene."

His eyes fluttered open to a blur of faces. Barbara's image came and went. Behind her.... George? George?

He felt Barbara's lips brush his forehead, her hand in his, George's hand on his shoulder. He heard the murmur of their prayers and a mantle of peace descended. Words floated through his mind and into his heart like petals falling from a rose.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.

"I've been stubborn and hard-headed, God. Money has been everything -- going after it my way. What does it matter now that I am dying?"

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.

"I've trodden others mercilessly underfoot to get what I want. How can I expect mercy from you now? Where will I go if I die?" A deep sorrow for his behaviour plunged him into a valley of despair. "But if I live, I'll be different. Forgive me. Give me another chance."

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

"God, let me live Your way. Barbara was right about You. And I was wrong about George. He's not a crook. He's just a better businessman. Come into my life, Jesus, so I can see Your truth."

Through the covering murmur of prayers, crystal water flooded his soul, washing him clean, drawing him up to its source. He was pure and whole. A brilliant light shone around him and more brilliant still, a man stood in the light, with eyes like the sun, yet filled with compassion.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Oh, Jesus, I'm coming home. You're taking me home and everything is pure and lovely.

I'm sending you back, Peter. Barbara has been praying for you. Take care of her out of your love for Me. She is my gift to you.

\------------ o ------------

Barbara listened to the whistling coming from the dining room as Peter waited for George to come around to discuss a partnership. It had been three weeks since Peter's miraculous recovery and this Sunday he'd be giving his testimony. She had never felt so cherished and fulfilled as each night and morning she and Peter pored over the Word and knelt together in prayer.

She opened her Bible and read Psalm 133 once more:

Behold how good and pleasant it is for brethren to dwell in unity... for there the Lord commands a blessing --- even life forever more.

Finishing Well

Elizabeth glanced at the clock. He was late home again. No doubt he would say he had been working late.

Things had not been easy since Jason's death, each of them cocooned in their own private grief. Though they had suffered the shock together, slowly the walls had grown; walls of unspoken pain and guilt.

Robert took a detour past the hospital. Jenny would be coming off duty in 10 minutes. She understood. She had been on duty when Jason was rushed in wet and limp.Robert blamed himself for leaving that box in the yard; a box Jason used to climb the swimming pool fence. Elizabeth urged him to forgive himself, but she did not understand his torment.Jenny's soft brown eyes showed that she knew. When he wept she held him close; her slow smile somehow made everything right. He felt more alive with her than he had in months. The drive past the hospital and the cups of coffee at the diner became the highlight of his day. He was apologetic as he came home, avoiding her gaze as he spoke, "Sorry I'm late again, darling. I think there must have been an accident on the road. The traffic was unbelievable."

"Unbelievable alright," thought Elizabeth, but she managed a bright smile and gave him a big kiss. "Well, I'm glad you're home. Supper is waiting. I've cooked your favourite."

"Lamb chops? You are a darling! You spoil me and I don't deserve it." The conversation was loving, but the underlying tension was palpable.Week after week, as the same scenario played out, Elizabeth was praying. "Lord, he is hurting and I sense I am losing him. Guard my heart. I don't know how much longer I can go on. How do I respond to these lame excuses? I desperately need you to intervene."

On the anniversary of Jason's death Elizabeth heard the words she half welcomed, half dreaded. "Lizzy, we have to talk. There is something you need to know."

"Lord, does it have to be now? Just when I have discovered I am pregnant? Should I tell him? No. Not now. He must be free to make his choice."

He sat at the table and she sat opposite. "Lord, keep me calm," she breathed. "Give me the courage to face whatever is coming."

He steeled himself and looked directly at her."Liz, honey, things have been difficult between us since Jason died."

She nodded and he continued. "I want to tell you that I have been looking for some kind of comfort elsewhere, and found it."

"This is it, Lord. Give me strength." She nodded. "I suspected as much.

"But last week on the way to work I heard a pastor on the radio. He spoke about finishing well. He said God is not interested in how we start, He wants to know how we will finish. Our behaviour along the way should be governed by a determination to finish well.

I have been studying the Scriptures and it's true. The Bible is full of exhortations to trust God in difficult times, to persevere in every situation. Why, in the book of Revelation Jesus tells EVERY church to overcome to the end. I know that applies to our marriage too. The world tells me it is about MY happiness and what makes ME feel good; but the Bible says my reward comes from faithfulness and trust. From now on it's you alone. I want to make this work. Please forgive my stupidity."

He pulled two dolls from his pocket, a boy and a girl, and laid them on the table. Taking out a blue ribbon he passed it around them both. As he tied them together he recited his vows, "I take thee, Elizabeth ............... to have and to hold till death us do part."

He handed her a pink ribbon. "I am giving you the opportunity to do the same."

Sobbing she exclaimed, "Oh yes, Robert." And tied the dolls once more. "Till death us do part."

He took a third ribbon gold, this time and prayed as he tied, "Lord, You have tied us together as one. Those whom God has joined, let no man -- or woman--put asunder."

\------------ o ------------

Thirty years later, Jason looked up at Robert, "Grandpa, what are those dolls on the mantelpiece all tied together for?"

"That's your grandma and me, my boy, tied together by our love and held there by God's faithfulness."

Jason smiled. "Cool!"

The Plague

Dr Valentine Seaman straightened up from Helen's bed. Patrick was beside him. Two little boys stood in the doorway, their faces flickering in the light of the candle they held. Soon they will be without their mother. From his demeanor, Valentine saw that Patrick already knew. With his face contorted and his eyes glistening in the gaslight, he said in a voice like a strangled cry, "She's going, isn't she, Doc?"

Valentine laid a hand on Patrick's shoulder. He couldn't look him in the eye. With the slightest nod, he muttered, "Third one this week."

The doctor could never get used to the futility he felt each time as, each time he watched his patient, jaundiced and unconscious, slipping into eternity. Patrick' faltering words drove the barb home. "I know you did all you could, Doc." But it was not enough \-- and the gasping, "Thank you", left a despairing cry in his heart. Thank me? For what? I couldn't save her.

As the distraught husband took the hand of his unconscious wife and pressed it desperately to his lips, Valentine went to the door, easing past the little boys. "Stay with her, Patrick. I'll find my way out."

The year was 1795 and yellow fever's deadly scythe was reaping its pallid harvest through New York City in an epidemic that left a trail of grieving parents, lonely spouses and orphaned children.

In the pubs the beery boffins asserted their theories:

"It's rats. I've seen 'em nibbling the food. Then someone comes along an' eats that same food."

"Naw, it's in the foul air. Comes across from the piles o' rubbish dumped near the houses."

"Mark my words, it's from the holds of ships. Comes from foreign lands with all that foreign cargo."

But no one really knew. The disease stalked, like a deadly wraith and seemed to strike at random.

\------------ o ------------

All the way home, the rattle of the coach on the cobbled streets was drowned, for the doctor, by the echoes of Patrick's heaving chest and muffled sobs. His lips were set and his mind determined. He would fight this... And a strategy was forming.

The next day, he hired his team, with instructions to map the location of every case of yellow fever in New York. As the results arrived, a pattern emerged. The cases were clustered in certain areas. He visited the locations. What was the common factor? There were cases near unkempt streets, water reservoirs, messy gardens, but most particularly near local waste sites. Suddenly, he saw it. Excitedly, he overlaid the yellow fever map with one that showed the local waste dumps. They correlated.

Trudging through the sites, he saw pools of stagnant water, their surfaces blurred with a million animated mosquitoes. It is interesting that in his subsequent paper, he did not incriminate the mosquitoes, though we know now they are the carriers. However, he identified their habitat as the culprit. It was stagnant water that caused the cries of anguish over New York.

At his recommendation, all sites that accumulated water were dealt with. Sewers were covered, streets were cleaned and paved, areas beneath granaries were enclosed and the stagnant water on waste sites identified and filled in.

Within a short time, the mosquitoes could not breed; and yellow fever disappeared from New York.

Yet a deadly plague continues to stalk our cities, towns and villages. The cries of its victims are sometimes silent screams of the soul, sometimes uncontrolled sobs that would tear at the heart of a listener --- but there's no-one there. At its most obvious, its deadly tentacles leave pallid, passive half-beings with staggering gait and glazed minds. Many times, though, it spreads more subtly, its noxious blows only emerging when the wife and children leave or the business collapses. More toxic even than the waste dumps of New York, these are the waste dumps and cesspools of our lives --- the greed, the resentments and unforgiveness, licentiousness deceit and self-indulgence. It's here that the enemy of God exploits the sin-sickness of our fallen world.

Yet, as Valentine grieved for his dying patients, so the Great Physician grieves for His dying children. It is here, through these toxic garbage dumps that Jesus trudged, fraternising with tax collectors and sinners, challenging the proud and self-righteous, covering their cesspools with grace and truth and love. Finally, He covered every work of Satan with a rugged cross and His scarlet blood. Though the sickness still stalks, we can become immune. The Great Physician has become the cure.

Bless the Lord O my soul and forget not all His benefits. Who forgives my iniquities and heals all my diseases. Who redeems my life from the pit. (Ps103:2-4)

Listen to the Music

Listen, do you hear it -- the discordant music of people without hope? Belligerent, accusing voices mingling with cries of despair. Hear the clashing cymbals of triumphalism all but drowning the simpering violins of those crushed underfoot; drumbeats of war, deep throated tubas of groaning, synthesized screams of pain and low organ resonances of mourning; strident saxophones of blame and smooth flutes of self-righteousness. It's the music of the age, with no score and no conductor. And it's getting louder and more cacophonous each day.

As militant atheists rail against the notion of God, and children are stolen and raped; as babies are burned and dismembered in the womb and heads roll in an orgy of hatred and misplaced religious zeal, the jarring music is reaching a crescendo of untold agony and misery.

Yet, turn your ears to heaven and you'll hear a different sound. Through the noise and the railing and mockery you'll hear the warm cello strains of the Son of Man "Come to Me, all who are burdened and heavy laden and I will give you rest." Cutting through the weeping dirge of a bereft mother with her dead child, is the song of the Saviour "The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit". Woven through the drumbeats of war is a tambourine dance of promise, "They will beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks."

The chaotic noise gets louder, but the Song of the Saviour is becoming more insistent. Everywhere people are starting to hear it. Mothers, weeping for their aborted children are tuning in to the life-giving strains of Amazing Grace and finding forgiveness. Muslims, tortured and bereaved by their own brothers are finding the cleansing blood of Jesus more persuasive than the spattered blood of Jihad. Mockers, suddenly finding they are the mocked, are hearing the God-Man who resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble.

Though the noise is loud, the rumbles frightening and the screeching makes you quake, the Saviour's song will prevail. When the final curtain falls, He will get the standing ovation. Stand up, stand up for Jesus. Listen now, to His song, for if you do, one day you will sing it with all of creation. His is the song that will triumph, with a thousand thousand angels joining the chorus, linking voices with the saints who heard His music in the midst of their suffering and called on His Name. Turn your ear to heaven and your heart to the Saviour.

He waits, your unique score in His hand, for you to join for eternity, the harmony of heaven.

A Perfect Place for Jesus

There's tangible despair – if despair is the opposite of hope – as one enters the premises.

As we drive up the narrow road past the women's dormitories, Mary and Hazel are sunning themselves in white plastic chairs placed in the narrow space between the driveway and the building. Their faces brighten as I stop and Margie, a co-worker from our church, alights. Further along, on the steps of a steel shed, Fiona sits motionless, her head bowed.

I drive on alone, up the road to the men's quarters. I pass Nicholas on the way, but he ignores me. Marcus, further on, gives a curt nod.

I park my car and, armed with some packets of biscuits and a Bible, walk up to greet the men sitting on a broken sofa, a sun-bleached kitchen chair and dilapidated plastic ones. Andrew ducks inside as I approach, but others greet me with enthusiasm.

This is Happy Valley, named by an anonymous humorist with a taste for irony. Situated on the side of a mountain, it is not a valley; neither, to many of its inhabitants, is it particularly happy. Yet this shelter for the homeless is my delight. God has given me the privilege of working with these people, many of whom would describe their lives as an omnishambles.

It's a place of deep pain and destructive shame; of outbursts of anger and sullen retreat. A place of desperate cries for help, yet, often, refusal to accept it when offered. Many have made bad choices in life, which have left them alienated from their families, robbed of their livelihood and filled with crippling guilt. It is a place of beautiful people whose treasure is buried deep.

What better place for Jesus? What better place to share His love and allow one's heart to be broken along with His?

Behind each face, eloquent in its suffering, or impassive behind an unyielding wall, is a story of how Satan comes to steal, kill and destroy.

Bruce found his best friend in bed with his wife. In a rage, he beat him up, not knowing that he had a medical condition that flared under the beating and killed him. Eighteen months later, acquitted of murder, Bruce emerged from prison with no wife, no business and a silent, raging heart.

Neil's paintings hang in Europe's galleries, but with the 2009 depression, financial difficulties wrecked his marriage. He found solace in the wrong places and lost everything.

Sharon left great work prospects in Johannesburg to follow the man of her dreams -- he'd invited her to leave her work and join him in Cape Town. Two weeks later, he tried to murder her. She escaped with her life and the clothes on her back.

The stories vary, but the need is the same. It's the overarching need of all mankind ripped open and laid bare through unbearable circumstances. It's the need to forgive and be forgiven. It's the need to be valued -- to count in the greater scheme of things. It's the need for Jesus.

It's easy to be discouraged when entering an open war zone in which the Enemy's inflicted casualties abound. Hurting people hurt people. Yet God is at work always. Even at Happy Valley, there are people who love Jesus when they arrive, or who learn to love Him while they're there.

Derek was chased from place to place as he slept on the streets. He started reading a Bible when a priest allowed him to sleep against the churchyard wall and brought him sandwiches and tea in the morning.

Andrew cannot stop talking about Jesus since finding him in a Christian rehab centre.

Paul met Jesus on an Alpha Course we ran at Happy Valley. Jesus set him free from the bondage of an unhealthy relationship with a deranged girl who had dragged him, after his wife divorced him, from an executive post into the gutter.

Shelton is a Zimbabwean, promised a job in Cape Town that did not materialize. He also met Jesus on the Alpha Course. He's now employed and has left Happy Valley, but comes to support those still there and tell them about Jesus.

It's my joy to visit there, for here I dig for buried treasure. Lives may be in omnishambles, but Jesus is the omnifixer. There's no life He cannot mend.

There's no greater joy than looking for the gold buried in the dirt and seeing Jesus wash it clean and make it shine.

Death by Execution

Surging and seething like some grotesque animal, the crowd milled around the guillotine baying for blood.

The king, his head held high climbed up the scaffold. Suddenly, with a look from him, there was silence. The roll of drums which had heralded a thousand drops of the bloody blade of death were silent. The king's voice, steady and majestic carried across the masses. 'I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge; I pardon those who have occasioned my death, and I pray to God that the blood you are going to shed may never be visited on France.'

The silence was tangible. Then a ruffian in uniform shouted, "The drums! The drums" Others joined in. "He must die! The king must die!" The drumrolls thundered, the king lay prostrate and the blade dropped. Hideous cheers erupted as the monarch's head was held high by his hair.

Maximilian Robespierre looked on from his vantage point. The Reign of Terror had begun. As a politician who had sided with the revolution, he had the adoration of the masses. Now, with the king eliminated, he became a virtual dictator and set about eliminating anyone deemed to be an enemy of the people. He was a man possessed, and The Terror knew no bounds. Nobles, foreigners, ordinary citizens suspected of disagreeing with the revolution --- all were thrown into the Bastille or summarily executed without trial. In the frenzy of killing, a pall of fear enveloped France as the thirst for blood gripped the masses swirling each day around Madame Guillotine. It is estimated in the 10 months the Reign of Terror lasted, more than 10,000 souls died in prison and over 17,000 heads toppled into the baskets.

But Satan kills and destroys even those who serve him most loyally. Robespierre's megalomania was fuel for his enemies. Less than a year after the start of his Reign of Terror, he was arrested. Within a day, without recourse to a trial, and amid the jeers of a bloodthirsty mob, his head joined the thousands he had caused to topple from the guillotine. He reaped what he had sown so abundantly.

\------------- o -------------

1700 years earlier another execution had taken place. A restless mob had crowded a courtyard crying for blood. The ruler tried to intervene, but the mob would have none of it. "We want him dead," they shouted. The cry rang through the courtyard and into the streets, "Crucify him! Crucify him!"

When Jesus staggered through the streets of Jerusalem, the crowds had seen it all before. The Roman roads were lined with the victims of crucifixion as reminders of their oppressor's cruel sovereignty.

Now, He hung upon a cross, breathing His last. There was no cheering mob, merely a mocking, supercilious one. As in France, the air was thick with evil. Yet, when He died, there was no rejoicing --- no raucous jeers, but hushed awe as the sun grew dark and the earth shook. History was tilting upwards.

The Man on the Cross was reaping what others sowed. Into the field of His life, he took all the seeds of sin and destruction sown by man since his creation and reaped their fruit --- the wrath of God. It came physically in the form of flesh ripped raw on His back, thorns plunged into His forehead, nails thrust through the nerves and sinews of His hands and feet, a sword in His side and an excruciating death. Spiritually, it manifested in the utter loneliness of abandonment by His Father.

As Jesus bore the fruit of our sin, He cleared the fields of sown sin for whoever believes in Him, making them fertile with divine love, ready for the seeds He gives us to sow. As we plant the seeds of His Spirit, we reap love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, kindness and self-control.

And because He chose to reap what He did not sow, we can sow His seeds into the lives of those around us. And how rich is that harvest.

Murmurs of a Guilty Conscience

I think I made a mistake. It's not easy being a governor in a foreign land -- especially one with such crazy bigots.

I had the whole pack baying for his life, because he didn't toe their theological line! How do you keep the balance between order and what you know in your heart is right? Things were heading for a riot as they yapped at my heels like hunting dogs slavering for his blood. I couldn't let it go on.

So I killed an innocent man.

I don't usually care. I've done it before. Even enjoyed it, watching them writhe and seeing the people cower at the power I can wield -- or grow angry, depending on their mood. It's never affected me this way before. What's it to me as long as I can keep law and order? That's the priority.

But there's something bothering me about this one. He was different. He wouldn't cower and he wouldn't talk, but his looks were eloquent enough and I didn't like it. He seemed to look into my heart, and that's a private place. I don't even like going there myself, sometimes. For all the pleasure I get from seeing others squirm under my power -- especially those filthy Jews -- sometimes the inner door opens a chink and there are longings........and doubts.......I like to keep that door shut.

There was something else in his eyes, too. What was it? That's part of what's bugging me. I've spotted fear in eyes a hundred times or more and enjoyed the smell of it. I've seen arrogance, too and I like that even more. It spurs me to greater cruelty with no remorse.

His eyes had neither. The closest I can come to describe it is... let me see...pity? No, though there was some of that. Love? Perhaps. Compassion! That's it. It was as though he was looking at ME with compassion. I had the power of life and death in my hands -- his life -- and he's looking at ME with compassion. It was so absurd that it unnerved me.

And that conversation about truth! Everyone knows that truth is relative, changing with our experience. Yet when I looked at him, he seemed so completely integrated, so sure -- as if behind the man was a colossus, solid and unmoving -- eternal, almost. I had the weirdest feeling I was looking at Truth itself. I had to turn away and give a mocking, "What is truth?" But in a sense I was asking myself the question.... and wondering if he could tell me.

That's when I decided to let him go.

I tried my hardest. I tried to flog and release, and when that didn't work, I used the Jewish feast to release one prisoner, trying to persuade the Jews to accept him as the one. Nothing worked with those unbending fanatics. Then the crowd started getting ugly and it was order first, as always. I washed my hands of the case and let them have their way.

But no matter how much I wash my hands, they still feel smeared with his blood.

I heard some of the things he said from the cross -- strange things to come from a dying man, especially one unjustly tortured. When I heard of them, I had a flashback to those eyes. I thought I saw that same compassionate look that unnerved me when I questioned him. How could a dying man plead for the forgiveness of those killing him? And did that include me?

I heard he even had words of encouragement to that scoundrel crucified next to him. He spoke as if that wasn't the end of him -- that they'd meet again.

And the eclipse that lasted so long (why hadn't our astronomers predicted that?) at the same time as an earthquake. Was it coincidence that it all happened round about the time of his death?

Yes, I have a feeling that for once I made a mistake. This was one man I should have let free. Claudia thinks so too. She's not one to nag, but she she told me on the day of the trial, and I've never heard the end of it since!

But why should I worry? No-one can touch me. I'm Pontius Pilate and I have all the power of Rome behind me.

Yet, this one thought keeps bugging me:

"What if he wasn't just a man?"

Born Ugly

There are few who get a worse deal in life than those with severe facial deformities.

As the anaesthesiologist for the Pietermaritzburg Craniofacial Unit, I saw these patients a month before their surgery, when they came for assessment and planning of their operations.

Some, like Peter, had arrested growth of their mid-face. His nose was squashed against his face, and his jawbone, carrying his lower teeth, protruded far beyond his uppers. His eyeballs, bulging like a bullfrog's from shallow undeveloped sockets, seemed about to fall onto his narrow cheeks. His profile -- with a small mid-face wedged between normally developed foreheads and lower jaws -- was C-shaped punctuated by his enormous, protuberant eyes near the top and protruding teeth at the bottom.

Others had eyes as much as eight centimetres apart, giving their faces a peculiar triangular shape, while others had sharp pointed noses, almost no cheekbones and a receding chin, making them look like strange birds.

One child had a huge cleft that extended through his palate, along his nose and beside his eye. His mother, In a wonderful expression of grace and love, had named him Goodenough.

Many of these unfortunate people were kept holed up in a back room out of society's sight.

What do you do when you have a face that makes people recoil when they see you? Characteristically, when I saw them at the Clinic, they looked down, first to the right then to the left, trying vainly to hide their faces, the source of their ugliness, too ashamed to look up or look me in the eye. In spite of my caring, and being there to help, they endeavoured to hide.

How like them we sometimes are with God -- trying in vain to hide because of who we are, unwilling to see that He is loving and caring, looking beyond our ugliness of our sin to what we can become in Him.

For, indeed, in a physical sense, that's what we did in the Clinic. We looked beyond what they were, to what they could become. The Surgeons took photographs, measurements and 3D CT scans, and devised the operations together. Later, they used the CT scans for computer simulations of what they planned to do. I evaluated the patients for the anaesthetic risk, how best to produce optimal operating conditions, and what postoperative ICU management they would need.

Can you imagine what it must be like to spend most of your young life locked up or hidden away? Imagine having people shudder and look away when you walk down the street.

Now, picture looking at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes no longer bulge, but gaze back clear and straight, you smile and your teeth are in line; in fact for the very first time you can feel your upper and lower teeth meet when you chew your food. You walk down the street and no-one stares. You are free. What you were is behind you now. You can dream and plan.

In all my years of practice, I can think of few things that gave me more satisfaction than having one of these patients, now normal in appearance -- sometimes frankly beautiful -- look me in the eyes and smile.

Yet many of the patients had skills to learn and habits to unlearn. Early on, the Craniofacial Unit incorporated psychological counselling as part of the treatment. The stigmata of past rejection lingered; many did not know how to deal wisely with their newfound freedom. In the fresh joy of being accepted, they trusted all and sundry and some -- particularly the women -- were taken advantage of by unscrupulous men.

Again there are parallels with our spiritual walk. As Jesus sets us free from the terrible ugliness of sin, there are bad habits to unlearn, and new wisdom to be gained. We need discipleship and wise counsel.

In a sense, each of us is like a craniofacial patient, though many do not realise it. We have been born into the distortions of God's beautiful plan for us by the ugliness of sin. Deep down, we know we have an ugly side, which we try desperately to hide, though God, of course, sees it all. He has all the means to transform us, but we need to come and ask.

When we do ask, and allow Him to change us, nothing gives Him greater pleasure than to see us smiling confidently, able to look Him in the eyes. Because of what He has done at Calvary, as we come to Him in faith, we're sure of our beauty as His new creation, ready to plan and dream.

Yet, like the craniofacial patients, we must learn to walk in our new life. The stigmata of negative thinking and bad habits need to be broken through mentorship and wise counsel.

As the craniofacial patients, radically changed visibly, need to learn the invisible qualities of wisdom, integrity, self-confidence and trust, so new believers, also radically changed, but on the inside, also need to learn to walk in holiness, allowing the Holy Spirit to mould and fashion them into the likeness of Jesus.

The song

Alistair rubbed his eyes as the faint light brushed the curtains. He blinked, shook the lingering mists from his mind, threw back the duvet and stumbled to the window and the light. The parting curtains revealed fingers of pink and gold that stretched from the eastern horizon across heaven, thinning as they approached him, to reveal the morning star. The scent of jasmine caressed him through the open window. He shrugged it off.

"Morning has broken," he muttered, "yet again."

In spite of himself, however, he could not repress a lift in his spirits, as a half-forgotten song tried to surface, notwithstanding his efforts to squash it.

Morning has broken

Like the first morning

The tune echoed in his head like the soft bells of a distant cathedral.

"But it's not like the first morning, is it, Lord? Everything's changed.

He tried to quell the song to assuage the guilt. He shouldn't feel happy while he was mourning for Jill; yet the song persisted, as though the voices of a thousand saints who had sung it through the ages were urging him to join them.

Almost absent-mindedly, he started humming the tune.

Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning......

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy --- My joy --- comes in the morning."

Where did that come from? So clear was the whisper that Alistair looked behind him. There was only the empty bed.

He'd heard that before. Where was it? Oh yes. At Jill's funeral. The pictures flashed before him yet again. The phone call. The rush to the scene. Ambulance sirens. Intensive Care. Finally, the weight of the doctor's hands on Alistair's shoulders and the look of deep compassion in his eyes. Night closing in. Deep, black, night. Three people in each other's arms, sobbing till their hearts physically ached.

Bill and Susan had been wonderful since then. The young seem more resilient. Though they loved their mum dearly, they were able to pick up their lives and move forward.

But he was stuck in the silence and blackness of night.

Until now.

What was happening? Something was bubbling to the surface --- crystalline champagne laughing through the brooding. Alistair was still in his pyjamas as he tossed his reluctance to the wind and surrendered to the song. His deep-throated voice, made deeper by the early morning huskiness, filled the room, the house, the universe, with praise.

Mine is the sunlight

It was streaming through the window now.

Mine is the morning

"Yes, God. I choose to receive Your mercies, new every morning."

Praise with elation, praise every morning.  Only a Christian knows the paradox Alistair experienced as the joy accompanying his praise did not eliminate the pain, but mingled with it in a divine dance of anguish and delight.

God's re-creation of the new day.

\------------- o -------------

The special ring that told Susan it was her dad seemed to reverberate in a minor key that tore at her heart. She braced herself for yet another dark comforting session. Poor Dad. He's lost without Mom.

Bill looked at her expectantly as she answered. He saw her eyes widen, her jaw drop and then her lips break into a broad smile as animated chatter and laughter filled the room like confetti dancing in sunlight.

When she finally said goodbye, she turned to her brother.

"God's done a miracle with Dad. He's put a new song in his heart. It's no longer a dirge."

Her eyes sparkled as she hugged her brother and swung him around. "Nothing's changed --- in his circumstances, I mean." She bubbled and sparkled. "But everything's changed. He still loves Mom dearly, of course, but he's able to hand her over to God and live with the beautiful memories."

She threw herself onto the sofa. "He's going to sing again. Oh, how I've missed that lovely rich baritone these last two years. He's rejoining the choir. He says he's going to request that the first song they sing when he's there is Morning has Broken."

He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the LORD and put their trust in him. (Ps 40:3)

The Face

His face was hard and battle-scarred  
His narrowed eyes were filled with hate  
He looked at me, then looked away  
The man behind the grate.

I smiled at him and said hello  
The cold eyes didn't hesitate  
He faced my stare, then gave a scowl  
The man behind the grate.

I wondered what had put him there  
What evil did he perpetrate  
To send him into solit'ry  
Alone behind the grate.

It's usual when we go to pray  
And walk the prison floors till late  
To see the faces and the hands  
Pressed hard against the grate.

They want the touch they want to see  
Who's come -- who doesn't hesitate  
To show His love and Christ-like care  
To those behind the grate.

But in that solitary cell  
A man who roared against his fate  
Sat eaten up with bitterness  
And glowered through the grate.

It seemed to me that as I looked  
I saw like a precipitate  
The smut of evil clinging to  
The crossbars of the grate.

Then ... in the face behind the bars  
I thought I saw a child of eight  
Being bruised and beaten, kicked and cursed   
Brought up on fear and hate.

And then I saw another face  
The Man who sealed my fate  
He too was beaten mocked and scorned  
Like that behind the grate.

Lord Jesus You have been with him  
His sin -- You bore its weight  
You know the pain behind the scowl  
Of him behind the grate.

Be with him now, he needs your love  
To melt his pain so great  
Embrace him with Your nail-pierced hands  
Let love replace his hate.

Imprisoned in that lonely cell  
Let all his fear abate  
Be with him, let him feel you sit  
With him behind the grate.

He can be free, he can rejoice  
He can appreciate  
A Lord, a Savour and a Friend  
Who's with him by the grate.

For everything that he's endured  
You can ameliorate  
Though he's restrained by prison bars  
You are the way, the Gate.

You melt a raging heart of stone  
That seeks to make men quake  
And take him through the Gate, to heav'n  
Far from the fiery Lake.

You're with him in his prison cell  
You'll set him free and take  
His spirit to a spacious place   
While still behind the grate.

Miracle at Bethesda

In a sense I was resigned to my fate, though I was in a place of healing. When the wall collapsed, trapping me under it, I should have died. For many years I wished I had, for what is life with useless, numb legs and spastic arms?

Martha, bless her, was wonderful the way she carried me, washed me and fed me, putting up with my misery as I cried out against my fate. Slowly, I adjusted to my condition though an anger against God simmered in my soul for allowing this.

One day Martha came from the market with excitement in her eyes. "A group of women were talking about a man who was healed of blindness at a pool called Bethesda. Every now and then the water stirs and the first one into the pool is healed. I'll see you are carried there each day."

"It's no good, Martha. I'm a cripple. Can't you accept me as I am?"

Martha glared. "Don't you want to get healed?"

I struggled with my thoughts. Why was I so reluctant?

"I think I'm scared. What if I get my hopes up and nothing happens? What if I stop accepting the way I am? Can I live with constant dissatisfaction with my lot?" Yet part of it was guilt. I knew what I had been doing when the wall fell on me. I couldn't tell Martha. Perhaps I deserved what I got.

Martha was persuasive.

For three long years someone carried me to the porch surrounding the pool. All around was the pall of sickness and despair. Blind men tap-tapped their way to a place on the porch, others retched and groaned in pain. Occasionally a demented man cried out and an epileptic shook convulsively. I hated it, though every so often someone would give a triumphant shout and emerge from the water healed. But I knew it could never be me. I could hardly move to the water. Nevertheless, I went every day. Sometimes I'd give encouragement to someone close by, or gain some comfort seeing others worse off than me.

Then, one Sabbath afternoon a man strode confidently onto the porch. "What's he doing here?" I thought, "He doesn't look sick at all."

Catching my eye, he walked up to me. "Hello Simon," he said. How did he know my name? " How long have you been coming here?"

"About three years."

"Do you want to be healed?"

What a question! But then I thought about it. Did I really want to be well? Did I deserve it? Was this my penance?.... No, I decided, I would really like to be well.

"I'm too slow getting to the water when it is stirred, Sir, but I'd give anything to walk again and use my arms properly."

His eyes blazed with righteous fury at my condition and compassion for me as they met mine. His voice reverberated with the authority of heaven itself.

"Then get up. Roll up your mattress and walk out of here."

Power pulsed through my body. My legs tingled. I felt the mattress beneath them as sensation surged back . Strength returned. I stood for the first time in thirty eight years and rolled up my mattress with strong, relaxed arms. Yet the strength in my limbs was nothing compared to the soaring song in my spirit. A crowd was gathering. I looked around to thank this miracle worker, but he had slipped away.

Outside, the Pharisees berated me for carrying my bed on the Sabbath.

They glanced at one another, suspicion evident in their narrowed eyes.

"Who was it?"

"I've no idea. He disappeared before I could even thank him."

I only dropped my mattress when I got home and then it was to prance and dance before my beloved Martha, who had so faithfully had me taken to the pool each day. The memory of her tears and sobbing in gratitude and joy are with me to this day.

Eventually she found her voice. "We must go to the temple and give thanks to God."

In the temple, I suddenly nudged Martha, my heart throbbing. "That's him. Over there. That's him." He turned to me, smiled and came over, as Martha whispered, "That's Jesus. Everyone's talking about him."

"You're looking good." He held both of my hands in his. I wanted to kneel and worship him, but he held onto my hands and continued, "Go your way and sin no more or something worse could happen to you."

Memories flooded back from that terrible accident. How did he know I was going to rob the house when the wall fell on me?

Yet that would be unthinkable now. Not after a touch from Jesus. My heart was filled with gratitude and love for God, and my greatest desire was to follow Him.

For that Sabbath did more for me than just heal my body. It set my crippled, guilty spirit free.

Origins

Patrick O'Donaghue, like a shipwrecked sailor drifting amid the ship's flotsam, sat among his belongings that were strewn over the front lawn. Bridget was weeping and he didn't know how to comfort her. Sean and Mira sat solemnly beside their mother, clutching their soft toys.

Patrick cursed his leg, which had been too inflamed for him to work reliably for the last month. Most of all, though, he cursed his landlord. He'd worked twice as hard when he could, but his landlord didn't notice ---- or chose not to.

The other tenants were sympathetic.....yet he'd heard rumours.......nah, they couldn't be true. Rory wouldn't do that --- or would he?!

Down at the pub, Patrick's plight was the main topic. All agreed the system was wrong. To evict a family without notice or a stated reason wasn't right. In fact, the Irish Land League had drawn up what was known as the three 'f's. Fair rent, fixity of tenure and free sale, and were agitating for the implementation of these.

Someone mentioned he'd heard a rumour that as soon as the eviction order was served, Rory Blake made a bid for the house.

Shaun's eyes smouldered. "A man that does that should be killed."

"Aye. And his house burrned t' the ground!"

The place shook with a vociferous "Aye!" "Aye"

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen." Charles Parnell pounded the table for silence. "There's a more Christian way t'do it. If any man dare be so unkind, he should be shunned. The bartender here should refuse to serve him. Dame O'Malley should serve him no groceries, the postman not deliver his letters, nor the milkman his milk. There should be no greeting in the street --- all services denied."

The rumour proved unfounded, but Charles Parnell's words, repeated at the Land League's meeting some time later, were not forgotten.

\------------- o -------------

Captain Boycott was a mean-spirited, selfish man who managed an estate in Claremorris. Times were bleak after a bad season. The tenants asked for leniency in paying their rent. They were granted a ten percent reduction. It was not enough.

They descended on Boycott's stately home. "Ten percent's too little. Can't y' see we're starving? Give us twenty five."

Before Boycott were men in rags, skinny children and gaunt women trying to feed their children on morsels, but all he saw were troublemakers trampling his garden.

"Get off my land, or I'll set my dogs on you!"

He appeared at the door, the snarling dogs at his feet. As the mob shuffled off, he wrote out eviction orders for 11 of the tenants.

News of the pending evictions, like sparks to a thousand fuses, rushed from ear to ear, inflaming hearts and tempering the steel of resolve to resist.

The Land League backed them, and Parnell's tactics were implemented. The grocer refused to serve Boycott, the laundress wouldn't wash his clothes, the postman delivered no mail, nor the milkman his milk. His nephew, trying to retrieve his mail, was intercepted and threatened. No workers appeared to tend the fields or animals, or work in his house. Anyone who dared to arrive for work was manhandled and sent home. The crop could not be harvested.

\------------ o -------------

Lord Sandler called from behind his newspaper. "I say, Sarah, listen to this. Some poor chap in Ireland has written in, saying his crop is about to fail because the Irish peasants are refusing to work for him. Bad show, I'd say. We should help the unfortunate fellow. We can't let the Irish treat an Englishman like that."

His response to a letter by Boycott to the London press was reiterated throughout England and Northern Ireland. A 'Boycott Relief Fund' was spawned to help him and fifty Orangemen, guarded by 1,000 policemen and soldiers, marched to Claremorris and harvested the Captain's crop. It was estimated it cost £10,000 pounds to harvest the £500 crop.

Yet God favours the poor and hates injustice. The enormous publicity the Boycott incident engendered highlighted the plight of the peasants. Within a year sweeping land reforms, including the Land League's three 'f's were written into law.

It wasn't long afterwards that the same tactic was used in New Pallas. New York Times reporter James Redpath was chatting to Father O'Malley about how to report the incident.

"I don't know what to call their action, Father. When the peasants isolate a wicked landlord it's ostracism, but that's not a word peasants understand. We need a more graphic word."

"Hmm." Father O'Malley's nod showed his agreement. "How would it be to say they 'Boycotted' him?"

Thus a new word was born.

I Did it My Way

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I remember lying on my bunk listening as the moaning wind made our trailer tremble and creak like a frightened creature. The plain pasta sat heavily in my stomach and burned into my throat. My thin blanket failed to stop the cold from settling its icy fingers on my skin. My brother dreamed next to me, moaning and thrashing about and my parents laughed and murmured through the thin walls.

Suddenly, I was sick of it; the scraps for supper, the ill-fitting hand-me-downs, the teeth-chattering winters, and baking, airless summers. I didn't want to see my parents' anxious eyes as they trusted God and wondered where their next meal was coming from.

That pivotal night, my life changed. I forsook family, church, God and friends who couldn't help me in my quest. My sights were set on one thing only. I was going to be rich.

My mother saw my fierce restlessness and tried to placate me. "We may be poor, but we've got each other and we've got God."

I inwardly scowled.

"We may have each other, but we're poor," I muttered to myself, "and we may have God, but He's not helping us. If He doesn't then, by God, I'll help myself."

And I did. God wouldn't like my methods, but I didn't ask Him. From then on I did it my way". I'd rather not say how I got the starting capital. Never touch the stuff myself, but if people choose to ruin their lives and are desperate, and I have a supply......... I've made up for it since, with my donations to charity. It's good for business. The Ian Goodrich Foundation for AIDS orphans has an impressive ring.

And here I am, driving on this hellish night with the wind relentlessly hurling liquid bullets at my windscreen, and sending wet twigs and leaves skittering through the air to be beaten to the ground by the rain. But I'm driving a Porsche, and the Playboy pin-up, who is my third wife, waits for me in my New York penthouse.

People say I've a brilliant business mind, (what a night -- is this rain or sleet?) but I know it's more. It's self confidence. "There are just two ways of doing a deal," I'd tell my subordinates "my way and the wrong way. If you don't like my way, tell me. I'll have your office cleaned out in the morning."  
No, no silver spoon in my mouth. A self-made man and I've made myself pretty good, if I may say so.

Someone tried to tell me about Jesus the other day and I remembered my mom (who doesn't approve of my methods). I remembered her say "We're poor but we've got each other and we've got God." So I told him I've got a poor mother praying for me and that's enough. I'm doing things my way. "Hey, look out, your lights are dazzling me. Dim your light! I can't see in this rain. Get on your side of the road. I can't control this slide. ...No!... a truck!"

\------------------- o ---------------

"Where am I? Why's it so dark?"

"You're on the threshold."

"The threshold? What's that? Who are you?"

"I'm Jesus"

"...................Am I dead?"

"Yes."

"The truck? Jesus, thank God you're here. I knew You'd be here for me. You've seen all the good things I've done; the success I've made of my life, the charities I've supported. You're full of love, I know. Can you let me in now? Into the light? It's so dark here."

"Sorry, Ian, I made a way for you to come in, and there's no other way. It's the way of the Cross. I showed you how. It's the path of humility, putting others before yourself. You might have made it in the world -- you did it your way -- but when I came to save the world from their sin .... I did it My way."

"I am the Way, the Truth and the Life. No-one comes to the Father except through Me." Jesus (John 14:6)

"God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble" (James 4:6. 1 Peter 5:5)

New Life for an Old Man

The old man leaned against a crumbling boulder, surveying the valley below. Fine clothes on bent shoulders, smooth hands and a short-sighted squint betrayed an affluent man of learning. Yet today he felt poverty-stricken and dull. The bleakness of the desert before him reflected the state of his heart.   
Beneath an overcast sky, an icy wind blew eddies of dust along the barren spaces. Far below, herdsmen, oblivious to his pain, called to a scattering of sheep, enticing them to a path between the rocky outcrops. They couldn't see the ache, the regrets at not being more firm, more insistent on a different course of action. God forgive me. A gross injustice was perpetrated and he did nothing to stop it. Yet how could he, without facing their derision? Just the mention of the man's name ignited such fury in his colleagues that, like enraged bulls, they lost all reason.   
It was all very civilized, of course. There were no violent outbursts. No snorting, pawing the ground and charging; everything was discussed politely, with political correctness. Yet there was no hiding the raging acrimony that burned in their souls. He was a threat. He must be removed.  
With fearful eyes and growing alarm, the old man had watched a tactic as well-worn as the institution itself: Discredit the person in the eyes of their constituency, tarnish his reputation and persuade the authorities he is a threat. It had never failed.  
It was much harder this time, however. Their "opponent" was quick witted; a man of impeccable integrity. Yet they had won in the end and, though he knew they were making a terrible mistake, he had done nothing. He watched as they had their way, as always, manipulating the people like a merciless juggernaut devouring the masses for its own ends.  
Now that it was over, he realized how much he cared. He felt he'd lost a son -- nay, a father -- though he, himself, was twice his age. As they buried him, his timidity -- his fear of their rage at the mention of his name --seemed so trivial, so petty in light of the enormity of the injustice.  
This was the third day he had come to his place of meditation. He could not bear to be with his grimly gloating colleagues. Here, in the desert, he could think.   
And mourn.   
And, perhaps, still pray.  
God, are You merciful enough to hear me, though I am such a poor servant? Did You hear Your Son's pleas for You to forgive?  
As though the sky mourned with him, dark rainless clouds brooded over the landscape each day, making it an eerie, chilly wasteland.   
Yet even as he watched, the clouds were breaking and shafts of sunlight threw beams from heaven into the valley, highlighting the shepherds, as if showering down favor. Inexplicably, his spirit started lifting. Yet I am still guilty. Why, then, do I feel this release? Not understanding, he sank to his knees, head bowed.   
Then, like an arrow through the air, he heard his name. Someone was calling him; someone who knew where to find him.  
"Nicodemus. Nicodemus. Come down. Come back to Jerusalem."  
It's Joseph! He's running. With shining eyes Joseph grasped Nicodemus by both shoulders. "My friend, I have wonderful news! You must come back at once. Jesus is alive. He has appeared to His disciples. He's alive!"  
Nicodemus shook his head to clear it. "But Joseph, we buried him together. We both know he was dead. There must be some mista..."  
"It's no mistake, Nicodemus." Joseph interrupted excitedly. "He has power over death. It's as you suspected all along. He's more than a man. He's the Lord.   
Hurry. He will want to see you. You see, we were in the right place at the right time. It was all in God's hands."  
Realisation dawned. Everything was orchestrated by God. The self-elevating religious system was not a juggernaut riding roughshod over the Son of God. It was a pawn in God's hands carrying out His perfect will. Even Joseph of Arimethea, his friend, was perfectly placed for his part, providing a grave for Him with the rich as predicted by Isaiah.  
He hurried down the hill, kicking the sand with joy and dancing. The sun broke through the clouds, resting on two elderly men skipping down the mountainside like young calves.  
And God smiled. It is indeed finished. There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

The Day Michael Came

I was content; happily married, fine job, good family, (except for Jonah), nice house.  
Then he came.  
I'd walked past those like him many times, without a second glance. Homeless people embarrass me. I avoid their eye in case they want something. Often they avoid mine, too. Ashamed of their circumstances, I suppose.   
That day, though, I noticed him.  
He wore a tatty old coat two sizes too big. His hair was matted. His moustache and beard straggled across his lower face like an untidy Jesus. He should have looked pathetic -- I'd always regarded the homeless as wretched -- but he stood erect with an air of quiet assurance.   
I looked him in the eye -- and was transfixed. His clear, acorn-brown eyes drew me into a world of hope and beauty. Something stirred, as though a rainbow settled in the reservoir of my soul. I saw the bland emptiness of my existence, the pointlessness of accumulating status symbols. His eyes revealed something beyond my grasp, something lovelier, like the music of the stars.  
I stood, mesmerised.   
He smiled, showing a line of unkempt teeth. "Hello. Thanks for stopping. It's tough when most folk just walk past. If you want to help, I'd be so happy. You see, I badly need a bath. That's the worst of being on the street. You usually get some food but there are few places we can wash. Offering me their bathroom is rather threatening to most."  
I agreed. I wondered what Jane would say about letting him into our pristine bathroom. Yet ... I couldn't leave him. Not after the stirring in my heart.  
He extended a hand half enclosed in a frayed finger mitten. "I'm Mike." I grasped it, wondering what the passers-by were thinking.  
"I'm Bill. Come. Have a hot bath and a meal."  
The brown eyes shone with pleasure, but I somehow felt he was pleased for me, not himself.  
Jane's jaw dropped when I opened the door and ushered Mike into our living room. She shook the tips of two of his fingers gingerly as I introduced him. The boys were fascinated. Jonah stumbled across in his spastic gait, and with a crooked smile, tried to speak. "Huy-y-yo! Moy nay-y-m-s Jo...Jo..Jonnnah!"  
Pete explained. "That's my brother. He nearly died when he was born and now he's got cerebral palsy."  
Jane retreated to the kitchen and called the boys. I left Mike running the bath, hid the silver, opened the bathroom door a fraction and dropped one of my shirts, trousers, socks and shoes inside. Then I joined Jane and the boys. Jane looked at me with puzzlement and fear. "What are you thinking, Bill? These men can be dangerous."  
"I can't explain. Something stirred when I saw him. There's more to life than what we've got, Jay. We must get involved. His eyes.... they touched my soul with music." Her quizzical look and shrug spoke volumes.  
The meal was memorable. Mike, clean shaven and dressed in my shirt and trousers had certainly been around. He said he'd shared meals with Hurricane Katrina's victims and rescued people from the Oklahoma bombing; he'd sat in murky hell-holes with those living dead caught in the merciless grip of King Heroin. Jane looked sceptical. I wasn't sure, but the boys were fascinated.

After the meal, he thanked us profusely. "What you did tonight was life-changing. Now I must go."   
I asked him to excuse us and took Jane to the kitchen. "We can't just leave him back on the street, Jay" I whispered urgently, "What are we to do?"  
"He's a hobo, Bill. All those stories. We don't know they're true. He could rob us tonight."  
"But his eyes. Did you notice his eyes?"  
As Jane hesitated, hysterical shouting burst from the living room. We rushed through expecting trouble. Mike was gone. Pete was jumping up and down. "Look at Jonah. Look at Jonah."  
Jonah walked slowly towards us testing legs that walked perfectly straight. He smiled broadly, a straight, perfect smile. Then he spoke. "Mommy, Daddy, I can walk and I can talk. "Mike did it."  
"Where is he, boys?"  
"He's just left. Said he heard you in the kitchen. Didn't want to cause trouble between you two."  
I ran to the door and peered out. The place was deserted.

\------------ o ------------

Jane and I love our church. We serve in a soup kitchen and realise God's given us our worldly goods to share.  
Now I know what Mike (Michael?) meant when he said what we did was life-changing. He was talking about our lives.   
The music and the rainbow have never left my soul.

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by doing so some people have entertained angels without knowing it. (Heb 13:2)

Provision

It was a cold, blustery day when they buried her husband. Gusts of wind, sweeping past the gravestones blew swirls of dirt from the mound, into the empty grave as if impatient to get it over with. "Michael would approve." Patricia thought. "He was never one for standing on ceremony." Patricia hugged her two daughters as they stood, teary eyed, while the priest intoned. "I am the resurrection and the Life..."

Why, God? Why take him so young? And so suddenly?

The mourners stood silent and still. Some listened attentively. Others, disengaging, stared vacantly ahead. "He who believes in Me, even though he die, yet will he live."

He lives with You, God, but I'm left to live here alone.

"Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes."

It was as the relatives were throwing soil on the coffin that she saw him. At first she thought he'd come to another grave -- but he faced them, his young head bowed. His shoulders sagged and shook slightly and he twisted the edge of his black T-shirt around and around in the fingers of his right hand.

During the final hymn, her eyes travelled to the coffin, to the young man, back to the coffin and again to the young man. Who is he? What does he have to do with Michael?

As soon as the service was over, Patricia moved towards him, but comforting mourners gathered around her, blocking her way. She watched the young man brace himself against the wind and disappear between the tombstones.

Once free, she ran in his direction, but he was gone. Slowly, she returned to her family.

\------------- o -------------

The hole at home was gaping. No cheerful. "Hello, I'm home." Her body ached for his touch. So lonely. So quickly. A gasp, clutching his chest --- and he was gone. How she had enjoyed his deep voice and strong arms. Now there was no man in the house; just a yawning void. Funny how she'd never told him how much she longed for a son. If only....... but it was too late now.

Her thoughts travelled to the graveside and his grieving relatives. She saw the young man, standing at a distance, sobbing, twisting his T-shirt in pain. Who was he?

\------------- o -------------

Patricia didn't realise Michael's popularity until the condolences poured in, giving her new insight into the very private man who had been her husband. Twelve years of marriage, and only now she learned that he climbed mountains, helped at an orphanage, and was a party man at Varsity.

As she tore open another letter, she paled; her hand shook. Michael's handwriting!. It was on an envelope enclosed in another. She read the first letter, which was brief.

"Dear Patricia.

Michael asked me to send this to you, should anything happen to him. I'm so sorry for your loss that necessitates my carrying out his wishes.

Heartfelt condolences.

Barry."

Patricia opened Michael's letter:

"Dearest Patricia

I suppose I've been cowardly in hiding this from you. Please understand, my motive was to spare you pain.

A few years ago, I received a phone call from a girl I dated at Varsity. Imagine my shock when she told me that a few weeks after we broke up, she discovered she was pregnant. She never told me, but brought up her son by herself, in another state. She was back now, sixteen years later and would love her son to meet his dad.

I was shattered and excited, but terribly afraid it would affect our marriage, so I said nothing. I've grown to love Jimmy (yes, that's his name) dearly. If I go, he'll need someone to love him. His mother's moved in with an abusive man, so he's in digs by himself. I've been seeing and supporting him.

Please, darling, don't be angry. For my sake, look after him.

Your loving husband

Michael"

A slip dropped from the envelope with an address.

Patricia's knees buckled. Heart pounding, she prayed. "Why, God, why? Why the secrecy?"

Silence.

"What am I to do?"

Suddenly her mind was filled with Scripture verses she'd learned as a child.

A Father to the fatherless, a defender of widows.(Ps.68:5)

He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow.(Deut.10:18)

He is now fatherless and I am a widow. Are You putting us together? Will You be our defender?

I prayed for this child, and the LORD has granted me what I asked of Him.(1Sam 1:27)

I wanted a son. Is this Your answer?

A deep peace filled her heart.

She called out to her daughters. "Carol, Stephanie! Come. How would you like to meet your brother?"

The Mocking

At the cathedral exit, Jacques paused and looked at his friend. "Wait here. I'm going back to shock the priest out of his cassock!" Turning back to the aisle, he made his way towards the confessional.

Jacques and Mario were touring the world and having a blast. Cathedral tours were not usually included with the beaches, night clubs and extreme sports, but this one was supposed to be famous. Jacques found it ornate, cold and otherworldly. He needed to inject some fun.

Drawing back the curtain of the confessional, he sat down. "Father, I have sinned," he said in a contrite voice.

"Nothing is beyond God's forgiveness, my son. Please confess your sins."

Jacques, his imagination at full sway, recited in lurid detail, stories of every abominable sin he could think of. He had murdered, he said, fornicated, cheated, lied, blasphemed and betrayed. Finally he stopped, waiting for a response.

After a silence the priest spoke up in deep, clear tones. Was there a slight mocking? Had he seen the prank?

"My son, you have much to repent of. This is the penance: At the life-size crucifix overlooking the chapel to your right, look into the face of the statue of Jesus hanging on the cross and repeat ten times, "Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." Then, with the hint of a smile in his voice, he said, "Do not let the game end here. Carry it through to the end."

So he DID know. Oh well, Jacques would accept the dare.

He found the crucifix easily. He never understood this Jesus thing. Why did people make so much fuss about a man on a cross improbably taking our sins? Was the story true? It seemed unlikely. Uncertainly, he started. "Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care. Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." Gaining confidence, he made it part of the fun. Beating his breast in mock despair, in a cracked voice he called, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done," then he straightened himself, looked defiantly at the statue's face and spat out the words, "and I don't care." He tried looking him in the eye, daring him to flinch, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." There, that was four times. Six to go.

On the seventh time, as he looked into that face, he noticed, for the first time, how the thorns of the crown pierced the skin of his forehead, causing blood to trickle down into his eye. Inexplicably, he felt an urge to wipe it away. "This is silly. It's only a statue!"

The next time, his eyes wandered to the hands fiercely impaled with large, rough nails. Again he noticed the blood trickling, this time, from the palms to halfway along his arms before forming drops that hung, about to fall. "Jesus, you're ... you're hanging there ... for all I've done, and ..... and I don't care." He forced the words out. "I am just talking to a statue." Why, then was he feeling so emotional about it? He looked back at the face. Those eyes; they seemed to know what he was saying and yet remained with that same compassionate look. Of course they would. They were the eyes of a statue. And yet.... what if it depicted a real person?

Two to go. He started, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done and.... and... " He felt his knees shaking, then giving way. On his knees he started sobbing, "and I DO care, Jesus. I'm not that callous. Or maybe I am. I am sorry. I am so sorry that you had to do this for us. Why do you love us so much? How could I not care, Jesus, when YOU care so much? Forgive me, please. I don't ever want to willingly do anything that makes me more responsible for your suffering."

As he knelt before the cross, a tangible peace flooded his soul. Through his tear-filled eyes he half-imagined Jesus coming off that cross, laying a forgiving hand on his shoulder. And he felt clean; for the first time he could remember, he felt washed from the inside out. He looked up and saw the man-God behind the statue. He also saw, in every repeat of his own mocking another reason for those brutal nails. And, born again, he wept.

The Meeting on the Shore

They say we're full of energy  
They say we're full of steam  
We get things done no matter what   
We're loud, we're brash, we scream.

We're called the Sons of Thunder  
'Cos we rumble and we roar  
Our tempers flare with every dare  
We're volatile, for sure.

We help Dad with his business  
He's into catching fish  
We mend the nets, repair the boat  
Fulfil his every wish.

For he's the thunder, we're his sons  
We dare not disobey  
Or else he'll shout and stamp and curse  
That's how he gets his way.

And that's the way we've learned from him  
Our nature's fire and steam  
And yet.... at night when all is still  
I sit outside and dream.

I see the moon across the lake  
The myriad stars above  
And deep inside this brawling man  
A small boy longs for love.

I know that there's a God up there   
He's infinite, that's clear  
Yet what's He really like inside  
What is it He holds dear?

Can He love an angry man  
Who pouts and shouts and swears?  
Does He see my longings?   
Does He really care?

Today I'm at my father's nets  
My brother's next to me  
Who is this man approaching   
By the Sea of Galilee?

He's stopped. He's looking in my eyes  
I'm naked in His gaze  
It seems my whole life's clear to him  
He knows my angry ways.

And yet... there's lovelight in His eyes  
He doesn't seem to care  
That I'm a rough and loudmouthed man  
Who'll loudly curse and swear.

He really likes me, cares for me  
I see it in His smile  
The way He talks is strong, yet kind  
Devoid of any guile.

I want this man to stay with me  
I like Him more and more  
Perhaps He'll help me with the nets  
Stand by me on the shore.

He makes as if He wants to go  
"Don't go." I cry, "Not yet.  
I recognise the love I've sought  
Although we've hardly met."

He smiles at me as if He likes  
The anger, fire and steam.  
Or is He looking deep inside  
And sees the boy who dreams?

"You want me to go fishing, John?  
But come with me and then  
Instead of catching ocean fish  
I'll let you fish for men."

I glance behind and see my dad  
He glares impatiently  
The contrast 'twixt the steam and love  
Is plain for me to see.

I choose the love and leave my nets  
I feel a joy so free  
I'll go with Jesus, Lord and Friend  
I'll let Him tutor me.

I feel the anger and the steam  
Melt as I'm by His side  
This son of thunder's yen for love  
Is being satisfied.

The Lord of heav'n has chosen me  
From long before my birth  
To be "The One Whom Jesus Loved"  
To truly know my worth.

It's not in shouting, being rude  
And brash, to get my way  
It is in loving, being loved  
At home, at work, at play.

And just as He has chosen me  
He'll meet you where you are  
He'll take your anger and your hurt  
And show you how to care.

For if the Son of Thunder  
Can become "The One He loves"  
Then surely He can take your heart  
And make it like a dove's.

He's asking you to leave your nets  
And look into His eyes  
And see that He delights in you  
And wants to heal your sighs.

When tempted to ignore His call  
And stay to huff and steam  
Know, as with me, He sees your soul  
With all its secret dreams.

He'll take you from a churning heart  
That kicks and heaves and shoves  
And soon, like me you will declare  
"I am 'The One He Loves'."

Reflecting God

He was a cripple... through his nursemaid's clumsy handling. Even twenty years later, in his mind he still heard the crack, experienced the searing pain course up his legs and felt them crumple under him as she dropped him and he hit the floor. From then, he hobbled on twisted, deformed feet that refused to take his weight.

His nursemaid was in a hurry, acting in fear. Thinking someone was coming to harm him, she grabbed him and hurried away; but she stumbled on the stairs and he slipped from her grip. There were no bannisters to stop his fall.

It was the death of his father and grandfather that caused her panic. His grandfather was king, and she thought the newly appointed king might annihilate all his family members, so no-one could challenge his rule. So, she hid him....But the king sought him out.

He was a young man, when there was a knock on the door. Machir, the man hiding him, opened it to the king's soldiers. "You have a man named Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan here?"

Machir nodded slowly.

"We have orders to bring him to the palace."

His heart pounding with dread, unable to walk, and with no-one helping him, He crawled into the presence of the king and bowed low, expecting to die. The king's voice was strong and commanding. "You are Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan?"

He answered from a dry mouth and a tongue that moved clumsily in it. "Y-e-s, your Majesty."

"Your father was a great man." He felt a stab of pride, in spite of his terror as the king continued. "We made a blood covenant together. Do you understand what that means?"

He barely heard the words, so great was his fear. He could only croak, waiting for the order to kill him, "I am as a dead dog before you." (2Sam 9:8)

Ignoring his stammering, King David continued. "It means what's mine was his and what's his is mine."

He paused to let it penetrate. "It means for Jonathan's sake, you're now as a son to me." His eyes softened. " How, having loved your father so much, can I not love you, who were so dear to him?"

His servants raised Mephibosheth from the floor and seated him beside the king. From then, his life changed.

Yes, he was a cripple, because of someone's clumsiness, yet he was honoured by King David. He had land, with thirty five servants to work it and look after him; He dined sumptuously at the king's table each day and slept in peace between silk sheets.

\------------ o ------------

I was a cripple, through my ancestors' clumsy handling of the commands of God. Though I was yet to be born, in my mind's eye I hear the seductive whispers, <i>"You will not die... You will be like God."</i> I sense the hesitation, then the careless disregard for the truth spoken by a God who walked with them in the cool of the evening. I hear the crunch of that first bite and the searing pain in their spirits as they dropped all mankind into a spiritual void. The peace of God and sense of His presence dissolved. I see their crippled spirits hiding in fear, lest He slay them.

That's my inheritance. I, too, handled the words of God carelessly. At times, I made clumsy, futile stabs at truth, without God or His Word for reference. At others I guessed in a blundering, half-hearted way at the nature of God. And got it wrong. Afraid He would come at me with condemnation and vindictiveness, I hid in fear, a crippled fugitive.

Yet the God of history brought Mephibosheth into King David's grace as a concrete example to us of His dealings with us.   
When the King of Heaven arrested me, I came trembling, till I heard the words of the Father. "I have a Son whom I love. He loves you so much that He died for you. How, loving Him as I do, can I not love you, who are so dear to Him?" He raised me to my feet and seated me in His light.

Now, as His son I feast at His table, seated with Him in heavenly places. There is room there for all Mephibosheths.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil and my cup runs over. (Ps 23:5)

Plundering a Hell on Earth

Amidst the paradise of the tropical Hawaiian Islands, Molokai was the closest thing to hell on earth. The clear blue skies, azure seas and lush vegetation made a mocking backdrop for hovels housing deformed creatures shuffling in putrefying bodies through barren activities of a meaningless life. Everywhere the stench of rotten flesh hung like a pall, while the shouts and cries of angry men brawling, carousing and habitually drunk spoke of a people abandoned by society and left, without hope, to rot.

Though not shouting, like the lepers of the Bible, "Unclean! Unclean!" those words rang out unceasingly in their hearts. This was the leper colony of Hawaii where doctors reportedly examined them by lifting their dressings with a cane and left their medicines on a bare table to be collected when they had left. It is no surprise that the decadence and decay in their bodies was mirrored in their spirits.

Then one day, in the person of Damien de Veuster, a Roman Catholic priest, Jesus came.

The Catholic church was aware of the appalling conditions on Molokai. Reluctant to sentence anyone to a life in such horrendous conditions dealing with a contagious disease, they called for volunteers to go there for three months before being relieved.

Father Damien volunteered.

On arrival in 1873, he immediately set about showing the people their dignity as beloved children of God, made in His image. He honoured those who had died by giving them a proper burial, personally digging graves and making proper coffins. He protected the cemeteries from marauding wild pigs and dogs, enlisting the help of those still capable. When his three months was up he elected to stay.

To restore the dignity of his flock, he made an agonising, Gethsemane decision. He would show them love in every way, casting aside his own fear of leprosy. So he dressed their wounds -- sometimes rushing outside for fresh air before returning to the stench of gangrenous flesh; he hugged them; he shared their meals; he anointed their leprous foreheads with oil and drank the communion cup with them.

He so identified with them that in talking about them, he spoke of 'we lepers', though there was no evidence of the disease in him. He wrote: "...I make myself a leper with the lepers to gain all to Jesus Christ. That is why, in preaching, I say 'we lepers'; not, 'my brethren....'"

In the meantime, he enlisted their help in restoring the settlement. Working tirelessly, the hovels were replaced by neat lines of painted cottages with their own gardens, the church was extended and a hospital and orphanages built.

Slowly the dignity of the people was restored. The church was packed and the gospel fearlessly proclaimed.

Then one day, as he warmed his feet in scalding water, he felt no pain... He had contracted leprosy. Working feverishly to complete his many edifying projects, he now felt the full brunt of prejudice and loneliness of the disease.

Prohibited from seeing his fellow priests and travelling freely, he remained with his beloved flock as the disease progressed. Some people, regarding the disease as the judgement of God, linked it (quite erroneously) to a licentious lifestyle. In many quarters he was despised and rejected.

Finally, in 1889 at the age of 49, he died of the disease.

"This is how we know what love is," says John, "Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for others."(1John 3:16)

John also tells how Jesus, after washing His disciples' feet said to them, "I have set for you an example that you should do as I have done for you."(John 13:15)

How closely Father Damien followed the example of Jesus! Jesus touched a leper. Damien washed their wounds. Jesus humbled Himself, became a man and took on the form of a servant. Father Damien served his flock tirelessly, calling himself 'we lepers' until he became one.

Who can doubt that, in following His example, Damien brought Jesus to the settlement of Molokai.

Physically, he plundered a hell on earth, transforming it into a beautiful settlement.

Spiritually, the wails of a population rejected by man and destined for hell became songs of a loving community destined for a life with God; the God who shone through a man who dared to take radically, Jesus' exhortation to follow His example.

Soliloquy of Moses

You were in it from the start:

As my head was squeezed till I thought it would surely burst and then, with a gush of water and blood, I emerged to gasp and slowly blink my eyes in wonder at this strange new world, You were there supporting me.

Born a boy and considered dangerous, I was decreed to die; but You were there nurturing and supporting. Amidst the carnage, and the moans of mourning mothers, You held me firm. You leaned, unseen, into me. Among the reeds of the Nile, You rescued me.

From the start, You formed Your words in me. Like the writings in a holy book, You wrote my life's story, destined to ring through the ages. And, like a bookend, You propped me up when I leaned and threatened to fall. In all of my mistakes, You were there.

Reared in Pharoah's palace, You kept me as a Jew, so I could bear it no longer as I saw my fellow beaten. I retaliated.

"Murderer!" they shouted -- and I knew they were right. Yet You spared me the ultimate price.

With me as I fled, You supported me, writing, writing, writing into my life; forming the book that was to be me. You took me to palaces, deserts, through thick darkness, plagues and visions of Your flaming light; through defeatist murmurings and victory songs.

So many times I faltered. Stammering, unsure, I would have fallen from the shelf, pages torn, story unfinished, but as I leaned on You, You held me till Your support became my delight; till I knew, deep in my heart, that without You I was nothing but a few scraps of paper with meaningless scribbles. Until I begged You not to leave.

Oh, the stories written in the pages of my life. What a book! Sweltering days and freezing nights; acmes of ecstasy and valleys of dark despair; ferocious fighting, rebellious dissenters and tired, angry mobs, wailing for water or moaning for meat.

You wrote my story from start to finish. I didn't want it, but You ordained it, and how glad I am that You did.

That You should choose me to be Your Deliverer is more than I can fathom.

That You should talk with me face to face, revealing secrets long hidden in You -- secrets of our origins so that I, as part of my story, would write more manuscripts, starting with the Book of Beginnings.

And now You have revealed that it's time to close this book.

I am on the mountain overlooking the Promised Land. Far in the distance, I see what we have been longing for these past 40 years. You told me I shall not enter it -- but I am content with my story, for it is not really mine, but Yours. It is the story of Your sustaining faithfulness, Your sustaining grace in times of failing, Your sustaining purpose for Your people and above all, Your sustaining love. Each man, each family, each tribe is a book of Your writing. Like divine bookends, from Egypt to the Promised Land, You have supported them, holding them together as a nation when they should have fallen apart.

As for me, my story is told. I am satisfied. It is time to remove the bookend, my God. Let me fall to the dust from whence I came, while my spirit breaks free and soars to You without restraint.

(Extra)Ordinary

Shadows dance on the stable wall, leaping and receding with the flickering flame. The man, candle held high, draws his wife close. Together they gaze adoringly at the soft new face, the puzzled eyes blinking slowly, uncomprehendingly, at the first perception of light. Banished are the memories of the frantic, fruitless search; the desperate plea, "Even your stable will do."; the hastily spread blanket to soften the straw; the contractions, the rush of water and blood; the first cry; trembling, unfamiliar masculine fingers tying the cord, severing the afterbirth, wrapping the child. For now, there is wonder. Wonder at the miracle of that first breath, at perfect little fingers and toes bending, straightening, trying out this new world.

Humanity at its most poignant, most vulnerable, most heart-warming.

Yet hardly earth-shattering. Not to the passer-by.

So much to overwhelm, with the census. So much to engage the crowded dusty streets for: Accommodation, provisions, registration. No time for a second glance at the new family. History is made at Caesar's census booths, not in a stable.

Yet heaven holds its breath, angels gaze in awe, the scene reverberates through the cosmos and history tilts upward as He, who once hurled galaxies, lies helpless in a mother's arms. The extraordinary wrapped in the ordinary.

How often God wraps the extraordinary in the ordinary:

The leader of God's nation hidden in a stammering old refugee. (Moses)

A king clothed as a shepherd boy. (David)

The very Word of God enclosed in personal letters from prison. (Paul)

Angels entertained as strangers. (Hebrews 13:2)

A carpenter's son packaging the Creator of all He spoke to; of all that shone upon them from the heavens; of all that nourished and preserved them.

And now, ordinary citizens, the wrapping for recreated beings; Creator's children; God-bearing vessels; channels of His very Spirit. Mingling unnoticed with the ordinary. Yet extraordinary. (2 Cor 5:17, 1Cor 3:16)

God, give me eyes that look beyond the wrapping.

Beyond the cantankerous old woman to the bearer of Your word to me for today.

Beyond the brash young boy to Your sonnet, scripted exclusively at the dawn of time. (Eph. 2:10)

Beyond the criminal, the patient, the hungry beggar to an entrance to Your heart --- treasures hiding in the world's trash. (Matt. 25:37-40)

And beyond the stumbling, imperfect church to a glowing, resplendent Bride treasured and transformed by her majestic Groom of Glory. (Eph.5:25-27)

The Journey of a Lifetime

Here I am again, back to the familiar where nothing's changed. I see I left a shirt on the bed and crockery drip-drying by the sink.

It seems incredible that this place -- this home -- should be just as I left it, when God's light is rampant on earth. And I've been part of it. What a journey! It was a spur of the moment decision, but the best I've ever made. I teamed up with Theo, and we just decided we'd take a road at random and see what village it led to.

The wiry old man sitting outside his house had half a dozen children playing at his feet. That gave us an opening.

"Are those your grandchildren, old man?" I asked.

His face softened and his eyes brightened as they wandered, first to them and then to us.

"All of them," he said.

Theo joined in. "Children are so trusting."

The laughter lines creased around his eyes. "They come to me with anything."

"Did you know that's the way we must enter the Kingdom of Heaven?"

The old man stiffened, his face suddenly hard. "Trust God like the children trust me?" He looked at the ground, frowning. "No. You see, I've had experience, which these children haven't had." His eyes misted over."I know what it's like to pray to God and have a silent heaven."

It was my turn. "Will you tell us about it?"

He stood up. "Come. I'll show you."

He opened the gate and ushered us into his home, leading us to a room at the back. On the way, we heard cries and the pounding of heels on the floor. He opened the door a fraction and bade us look. In the middle of the room tied to a pole that was fixed to the floor was -- what was it --- an animal? No, although like a crazed beast, its eyes burned with fury, the head swayed back and forth and the heels drummed up and down, up and down while it wrenched at the ropes holding it to the post. It was barely recognisable as a young girl, tormented and crazed by a thousand demons.

Closing the door, the old man took us to his sitting room. "That's Lydia. I've prayed to God day and night for my grandchild, but He's not listening." The tears glistened on his lined face. "Can you see why I cannot trust Him as a little child?"

I glanced at Theo and saw his face shine. "Sir, God has heard your prayer. His timing is perfect. He wants you to know about His Messiah. He's come to save us from our sins and deliver us from the oppression of the Evil One."

He told him the good news of Jesus, the Messiah. On finishing, he said, "Now, take us to Lydia."

It was our first taste of the power Jesus gave us. With screeching and a stench that filled the house, the demons fled. Lydia's eyes softened, her face transformed and she spoke to her grandfather in a voice as sweet and clear as a mountain stream. "Thank you, Grandpa for praying so earnestly for me." She smiled as she held the weeping, trembling old man. That evening we preached to a packed house. Lydia, had waltzed around the village in a dance of joy, spreading the good news. The Kingdom of God permeated the whole village as we stayed at the old man's home preaching, teaching, healing the sick and driving out demons in the Name of Jesus.

Then we moved to the next village and the scene was repeated as we used Jesus' strategy, staying in people's homes and ministering from there.(Luke 10:7) We'd never experienced such power.

Finally, after filling village after village with the light of God, we reported back to Jesus. "Even the demons obeyed us!" we exclaimed with excitement. The other seventy disciples had similar stories.(Luke 10:17)

But Jesus warned us, "Don't get carried away with the power I've given you. Remember from whence it came and rejoice that God has chosen you to be with Him."(Luke 10:20) It was a sober lesson. I admit, the power had gone to my head a little.

And now, my little home, it'll be good to sleep in my own bed with familiar things around me, but then I'll have to say goodbye to you. You see, there's a Messiah who has no place to lay His head,(Luke 9:58) and I'll be following Him wherever He goes.

Scorched Earth, Seared Soul

James sifted through the charred ruins, looking for valuables.

His mind raged thinking about the stubborn Afrikaans farmers, turned guerrilla fighters who refused to admit defeat. They harassed and killed the British at every opportunity. Now Lord Kitchener had employed a Scorched Earth policy, capturing the women and children and burning the crops and houses to starve the menfolk into surrender.

James kicked aside a charred doll, a broken mirror, burnt dresses and bonnets. The woman and her children would have been dragged from the house and incarcerated in a concentration camp under appalling conditions of starvation, exposure and disease, such that 26,000 would die in two agonising years. Rummaging through the smouldering remains, he pocketed a necklace and rings, but found little else. He'd heard they hid their silver when the British were close.

He wandered over to the charred stable. Nothing here. Unless their silver's hidden here. What's this? ... A loose stone in the wall. He pulled it from its position, revealing a deep recess. His pulse beat at his temples. He reached inside, extracting --- not silver, but a small book. He felt again and pulled out a violin. Intrigued, he sat and read.

31st Jan 1901

Petrus is no soldier, but what can you do when your livelihood is threatened? The poor, sensitive man. I know he'd prefer to be with me, Sarie and Hannah.

James felt a twinge of conscience. I'd rather think of him as the enemy, not a sensitive man.

He read on:

2nd Feb 1901

Praise God, Petrus came home last night. He looked exhausted. My heart broke for my darling husband. To ease his mind, we reminisced about the happy days of farming, the thrill of my pregnancy; how he played his precious violin to the new baby.

3rd Feb 1901

One all-too-brief day at home to be fed, washed and rested, before returning to fight. Poor, man. How he hates this war. Dear Lord, let it be over soon.

James thrust the book away. I didn't come to read this stuff. Lousy Afrikaners. Where have they hidden their silver? He rummaged through the stable, but his heart was not in it. Images filled his mind of Mary and Jonathan safely in England. He missed them, but at least they were safe, far from this vicious war. Like a magnet, the diary drew him.

9th Feb 2001

I haven't seen Petrus for five days. The British are getting closer --- they're burning all the farmhouses and crops. What'll we do if they come here? Lord Jesus, have mercy on us. Almighty God, protect Petrus.

11th Feb 2001

Still no word. The British are almost on us. We've nowhere to go. I fear for the children. Yet I know God is always with us. Whatever fire or flood we go through, He promises in Psalm 66, He'll bring us to rich fulfillment. Perhaps that will be when we see Him face to face, or perhaps we'll see it here on earth. Only He knows.

James' heart was bursting. In the smoking ruins, he saw the ruins of a devoted, loving family.

He turned the page. It was blank. He realised today was the 13th February. Idly, he turned the blank pages, eager for more. Five pages on, he found more.

Dear British soldier

If you find this, it will mean we've been killed or captured. Please understand. I know you are far from home and from your own family. Perhaps you do not even want to fight this war, like my Petrus. I don't know how many Boers you have killed (perhaps even Petrus), but know that I forgive you. You see, I know what it's like to be forgiven much. I have a Saviour who has forgiven me.

James' knees shook. Memories flooded back of soaring choruses bursting from his village church and entering his heart. He pictured this devout little family kneeling in prayer --- and now ripped asunder. He wiped his eyes to read on.

I urge you to see us, not as the enemy, but children of God, as you are. Ask God for forgiveness and come to Him. Live as the child He'd like you to be.

Sobs burst uncontrolled from James as he read.

If you do that, I'll see you in heaven and introduce you to Petrus.

James knelt in the ashes and, in a stable, like the place where it all began 1900 years earlier, Jesus entered his world and his heart.

The Seeker

Wild-eyed and dishevelled, he roamed the streets and alleys peering in the doorways, tearing at his hair, distraught and distracted.

"I'm looking for Love. I've lost it. Has it left? Is it hiding? Has it gone forever? "

Hedon looked over his tankard and gave a snigger. "Still looking, old man? No luck yet? Try the whore house. There's plenty will love you there, for a fee."

"Oh, help me, help me please. I'm looking for Love. I've lost my love. Has the whole world grown cold?" His hands shook, causing his matted locks to tremble around his face as he staggered on.

"Come in here, wild man, and learn from me." A fat man in a business suit sat at a table. A girl sat on his lap; men hovered, fawning around him. Money bags littered the table. "Make your fortune and the world will love you. Look at you, penniless old beggar. Who will love you like that?"

A haunting wail left the old man's lips. "Oh-oh-oh-oh, the pain. Who will help me? Who can lead me to Love?"

A pretty young lady, barefoot, in a flowing gown and with flowers in her hair, sauntered up to him. She put a flower in his bedraggled mane and kissed him playfully on the nose. "You don't need to look for love. You are love. Love is the god in you. He lives in each of us. Just let it out and you'll find Love.

The old man threw himself on the floor, beating the ground. "Will no-one tell me where to find Love? Love has deserted us. The world is cold."

"Come with me, old hermit." A tall man with a kind face and a long pony tail pulled him to his feet. "I'll show you where to find it." He took him to the country and showed him flowing mountain streams, a pure white lily, snow covered peaks, a soaring eagle. "Look," he said, "at the beauty that surrounds you. In that beauty you'll find Love."

"I see it," the old man cried, his voice sobbing in despair, "but it's remote; it's distant. I don't feel it. I can't find it. I've lost it in the coldness of men's hearts." He hid his face in his hands and his body shook.

For a long time he sat there, shaking. Then a small voice said, "Why are you crying mister?" A little girl stood beside him. As she laid her hand on his shoulder, a glimmer of light touched his soul.

"I've lost Love. It's left this dark world and no-one can find it."

"I'll take you to it." The pure innocence of her voice made him rise. "Come," she said, "We must climb a hill to find Love."

"What is your name?"

She smiled sweetly. "My name is Grace. I'm the one who takes people to Love." She was thoughtful beyond her years as they trudged upward. "I must warn you, love is costly."

"I have no money."

It won't cost you, but it comes at great price."

"Then who will pay?"

At that moment they crested the hill and he stopped in his tracks. At his feet was a man so disfigured he scarcely looked human. Blood oozed and congealed on lacerated flesh; rivulets of scarlet trickled from his brow down a swollen, bruised face.

The girl pointed, her voice trembling. "He will."

The battered man lay on a cross. A bleeding hand was outstretched, a brutal nail of iron poised at its wrist.

"No!' the old man cried, "Stop. Who did this?"

Grace looked at him steadily. "You did...... He's paying the price for your love."

"No. No. Don't do it. I'm not worth this." His eyes were wide, his mouth contorted.

"He thinks you are." The hammer struck the nail. Sinews and nerves split as the man convulsed in pain.

Bewildered, the old man cried out, "This is love? This ugliness? This horror?"

Then realisation struck. He's doing it for me. His face shone with light and a warm peace flooded his soul. "Yes," he said, "this is true love. Love for me. True beauty in the midst of all this gore."

Tenderly, he laid his shaggy head on the torn, bleeding breast, weeping with the love that filled his heart.

"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down His life for us.." 1 John 3:16

Consequences

They walked in light and beauty. The crystal rivers flowed through meadows of sun-tinged green and orchards of trees heavy with fruit. The song of birds filled the pristine air and animals wandered unafraid everywhere. Adam's heart filled with joy as he looked into the eyes of his darling wife; eyes sparkling with life and love.

They rested beside a waterfall. The soft murmur of tumbling water resonated with his deep contentment. Soon the sun's warmth would wane and the evening breeze would stroke the air with coolness.

And God would come.

Not that He was ever absent. He is love and where there's love, He is there. But in the cool of the evening He was manifestly present. They spoke with Him face to face while walking through the garden. Sometimes, He spoke of His love and His plans for them. Sometimes Adam showed Him what he'd been doing that day. Yesterday, he'd told Him the names he'd given the animals that came to him. Always, however, his greatest pleasure was feeling His presence, basking in His glory.

On impulse, Adam jumped up and in one lithe movement of his perfect body, pulled Eve to her feet.

"Come! I'll race you to the centre of the garden."

Eve was up to the challenge and they streaked off --- two splendid athletes running in harmony. Adam slowed as they reached their destination, allowing Eve to arrive first. Laughing, he pulled her to himself as he arrived and felt her lovely body against his. How he adored her! What a beautiful gift God had given him.

Then they looked up at the tree. It looked different today. Its fruit was almost incandescent. Eve put Adam's thoughts into words. "I wonder why God doesn't want us to eat that fruit."

Adam rejoined. "What did He mean when He said we'd die? What is death? Everything here lives forever. How can something cease to exist?"

Suddenly, with a blinding flash a beautiful creature stood before them and spoke in a voice like pure, soothing music. "You won't die. How can you? God forbade this fruit because He doesn't want you to be like Him, who knows good and evil."

Eve looked at Adam. "Do you think God's deceiving us? Holding us back from something He doesn't want us to know? "

Adam shifted his gaze uneasily from the fruit, to Eve and back. "I don't know."

The creature before them shone with light. In his hands the fruit glowed as he spoke. "It's only a little thing. You're not committing some horrific crime. What can happen?"

Adam hesitated. Above them, unseen, the angels watched apprehensively. In the wings, the spectre of wasted victims of the Holocaust, of a billion babies ripped to death in their mothers' wombs, of glazed-eyed living dead languishing in a smoke-laden hell, of battle fields strewn with the bodies of young men waited, ready to be unleashed, pending Adam's decision.

Eve was first. "It's only a bite of fruit. It can't do much damage. God loves us. He won't harm us. He can't mean what He said." She took a bite and gave a murmur of approval. "It's delicious! Have some." She passed it to her husband. He bit into it .......... And all creation convulsed.

For the first time, Adam felt ashamed. "We shouldn't have done that." Suddenly, he was not looking forward to the cool of the day. He looked for the brilliant figure that was before them beside the tree and gasped. Now, a creature dark and hideous, grinned obscenely at his victory.

There was weeping in heaven where there is no time, for there the spectres became reality. And sickness and death invaded. Sickness of bodies and sickness of mind. Sickness of plants and sickness of animals. Sickness of individuals and of societies. Wasted bodies coughing blood, writhing in pain and breaking the hearts of loved ones, entered the world.

Yet, as Adam took that bite and bowed to satan, in heaven --- where there is no time --- God came to the rescue. Nails were plunged into the hands and feet of a Saviour as He hung on a Cross. All the sickness and pain from six thousand years and more was laid on Him.

That bite seemed such a small thing to Adam...... Yet it cost the Son of God His life.

What repercussions might there be to an act of disobedience that we perform that seems so small to us?

The Storm

The parched land opened its face to the heavens, longing for a sweet reviving kiss. The trees bent their leafy canopies to shelter the wilting ferns, though their own foliage had lost its turgor. The birds were silent, save for an occasional call for a companion crying in their mutual thirst. An industrious warthog dug in the dry river bed until a small pool formed in the hollow, providing momentary relief. Giraffe, zebra, impala silently panted in the heat.

From far off it came, like a soft recurring growl. Impala, suddenly alert, raised their heads to sniff the air. A lion rolled onto its stomach and stood up, looking towards the sound. Birds called, hesitatingly at first, but gathering courage from each answering note. Frogs, long dormant in the dank river beds started to sing -- shrill notes resting on the gravelly counterpoints of their huskier companions.

Another rolling growl, closer this time, and a breeze roused the expectation within the forest. The trees stirred themselves, and whispered, with leaves fluttering in the wind, "It's coming! It's coming!"

Now, bright flashes preceded the rumbling, the wind grew stronger; the trees entered a wild, carefree dance. The forest burst into a song of expectation. The rain bird called out joyously peet-may-fro, peet-may-fro, the frogs turned up the volume of their orchestra, a blesbok gave a delighted hrrmph, small animals darted through the undergrowth, seeking shelter, a hedgehog curled into a spiky ball.

Lowering purple-black clouds obscured the light. Brilliant flashes and deafening bursts, like the crash of a thousand drumbeats announced the awesome majesty of God's provision.

The wind ceased. For ten minutes there was an ominous silence.

Then the miracle came --- water falling from the sky in torrents. Tons and tons of water, bursting from its celestial vaults, pouring upon the earth. Trees groaned under the weight of the deluge, branches broke, the weaker plants and some small animals were washed away. God was fiercely and powerfully providing.

The earth drank thirstily and gratefully, till it could hold no more. Now the water rushed through the forest. Dry river beds became frolicking streams, then hasty, swirling waters hurrying to the sea. On and on the waters came, driven by fierce winds that hurled them to the earth.

Then suddenly, it was over. The storm was spent. The forest was hushed with the ferocity of it all. Tentatively, a dove began to coo. A woodpecker joined in, the rain birds sang their joyful chorus, frogs, crickets and cicadas, barking baboons and snorting zebra set the woods alive with song. Life had been poured out from heaven and the earth rejoiced.

\---------- o -----------

Life loses its meaning in the parched world of spiritual drought. Anger, deceit and compromise, like the unrelenting heat of a brassy sky, cause joy and optimism to wilt. Tragedy, loneliness and sorrow silence our souls, robbing them of song. Prayers become subdued and dry. Like the deer that pants for water, we long for spiritual rain

Then, like the distant rumbling of thunder, Spirit to spirit, the Word of God assures us of His promises.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (Ps 30:5)

Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.(Ps 27:14)

Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor has the mind conceived what the Lord has in store for those who love Him (1Cor 2:9,10)

Something stirs within, in anticipation. We sniff the spiritual air and sense a change.

Then He comes. It could be with gentle blessing, like soft, falling rain. Yet sometimes His provision is fierce, coming in a storm of trial. We cringe and wait as it washes over us, grateful for the change in our circumstance --- for a new awareness of God --- yet holding desperately on as the trial passes.

Then it is over. The storm has brought with it, a new faith in the promises of God, a new awareness of His glory and love, a new sense of being His son or daughter. New life in the Spirit springs forth. The garden bursts into bloom and we start to sing.

Winter, Cold and Bare

In a frozen field stands a tree, bleak and bare. Naked and defenceless against winter's icy blast, its branches stretch imploring, to heaven, apparently lifeless.

Yet this is not death, but preparation time --- a gathering of inner resources in readiness for the next season. Soon the frosty tentacles of winter will lose their grip. New leaves, fresh and fragile at first, will peer tentatively from their protective buds and grow, clothing the tree once more with its summer garment.

I, too, like the tree have been laid bare, my sin exposed to the stark holiness of God; the cold winter of self-awareness and self-doubt stripping me naked....

I'm impulsive by nature and, I realise now, arrogant. I disregard all too readily, the opinions of others, forcing my point of view, insisting I am right. And leading me into winter.

My closest friend is dead. He sensed God calling him to walk into a ministry that would probably lead to this. He knew that, and told us so. I was afraid for him. In my selfishness I tried to dissuade him, though he knew it was God's will. My impulsive words made it even harder for him to obey, but he insisted, rebuking me, exposing my selfishness.

Then came the time that has led me into this winter. People opposed to his message came for him. They bayed for his blood, beating him, accusing him and mocking him. My heart was pounding and my knees shaking. I didn't want to die. I disowned him. Panic rose in my chest like some vile thing clutching at my heart. I cursed and swore, insisting he was a stranger. I managed to escape, but not before his eyes met mine. As they murdered him, I died inside.

Now I walk a lonely road, my real heart exposed. I had assured him I would always be beside him yet, when the test came I ran away. I want to hide, but how do you hide from yourself? Or from God? Cold winter blows eddies of accusation across my soul. Like the tree in winter, I cannot move forward. I'm going fishing.

Yet, perhaps, like that tree, it is preparation time; a time to discover who I really am and in doing so, discover who God really is. My proud heart is broken. I can no longer trust it. I know now, as never before that in me on my own, dwells no good thing. How I now realise my need for him to be the strength in me --- now that he is gone.

But wait! Who is that on the shore? It's Him! He's alive! I hasten ashore and stand beside Him in trepidation, waiting for His rebuke at my cowardice. But what is this I hear? It is the sunshine of God, "Peter, do you love Me?'

Oh yes, give me the chance to say it again, to recant my denial. "Yes, Lord. I love you." The tender shoots are forming. Spring is coming. Now that I know who I am, the grace of God can do its work in me.

"Peter, do you love me?"

Oh, my Saviour, You are the God of second chances. "Yes, Lord, more and more as I discover your grace, You know that I love you. Ask me again. Let me say it again."

"Peter, do you love me?"

"My God, I stand exposed before You and yet You still love me. How could I not love You in return? Summer is here. My pride is crushed and now You can use me. I am ready to feed your sheep"

To Mary And Mary

What were you dreaming of, Mary of Nazareth, when you nursed your new babe in the shelter of the cave, feeling the softness of a pristine cheek against your breast? When you gazed lovingly at his tiny feet and kissed the toes now stretching, now curling in a brand new experience of the wonder of life, did you dream for your miracle child? Were the words of Isaiah burning in your heart as you pondered those little feet? Did you see the beautiful feet he spoke of traversing the dusty mountain passes of Israel and beyond, bringing good news of God's Kingdom, salvation and a peace beyond measure? (Isaiah 2:7)

But no, God keeps His plans hidden, even from His chosen, lest we be overwhelmed by the enormity of them. In that tender moment when you, with Joseph, as young first-time parents, looked adoringly at your new son, the cloak of love around you was embroidered, like any new mother's, with wonder and fascination at the miracle of a child come forth from your body. It would be another thirty years before His sandaled feet would leave the wood shavings and sawdust as He became the One of whom Isaiah spoke. And then it would be another Mary who would kiss His feet.

Mary of Magdala, how you loved Jesus! Your heart and eyes were a fountain, cleansing the dusty feet of your Saviour as it flowed from a woman washed with Living Water. Your hair, once part of your seductive beauty appealing to lustful men, became an instrument of love, drying His feet in preparation for their extravagant, fragrant anointing. (Luke 7:38)

Yet, how were you to know, Mary, that the One whose feet you kissed stood astride all creation as the Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6); that He whom you loved commands the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds are the dust of those very feet that felt your lips (Nahum 1:3)?

Did you know that the object of your kisses would be torn with cruel nails? Or that the blood that spurted from the wounds would buy your forgiveness?

How appropriate that you should express your love through His feet, for it is His feet that crushed the head of Satan as foretold in Eden's garden (Gen. 3:15), forever breaking the stronghold of the Great Deceiver. And it is as those feet touch the Mount of Olives from heaven on His return that His glory will burst over all men in a terrifying display of His white-hot holiness (Zech. 14:4) that will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea.(Hab. 2:14).

Today I Will be in Paradise

"Today I will be in Paradise!" Ali spoke quietly as the men strapped the explosives to his body. His father watched, with pride, this prelude to martyrdom. Ali knew his mother was in her room weeping quietly at the harshness of Allah, but his father wanted this. And Ali honoured his father. With the explosive belt fastened in place, in a room filled with turbaned men, he spoke with a firmness that belied his inner turmoil, "Allah al Akbar" "God is Greater" and, rifles raised in triumphant salute, the shout reverberated round the room, "Allah al Akbar! Allah al Akbar!"

He walked down the hill toward the crowded square where men, women and children hurried about unaware of the destruction Ali carried toward them. A young boy greeted him with a bright smile and Ali suddenly had a flashback to his childhood in Lebanon. His best friend, Mikhail belonged to a Christian family, and sometimes Ali slept over at their house. Love and kindness permeated that home. What happy times those were, before his father became obsessed with Jihad. On leaving, the family gave him the Injeel (New Testament) which he read to this day. Of course, he knew about Isa (Jesus) from the Quran, but what Isa said in the Injeel captivated him.

He hastily looked away from the young boy, pushing from his mind a vision of his dismembered body flying through the air at Ali's hand. "Allah al Akbar!" he muttered to himself.

"Strange" he thought, "how the chant was 'Allah is greater!' and not 'Allah is Greatest', as though He was being compared to someone else. Greater than whom? Greater than Isa, than Jesus?" Ali was sweating with fear and the words of the Injeel came to him "Perfect love drives out fear." Isa had an antidote for fear. Allah instilled fear. Did that make Isa greater? He walked closer to the people whose lives would be taken, and with them, his own. The Injeel whispered Isa's words, "I have come that you might have life, and have it abundantly." Which was greater? To take life, as Allah demanded or to give it, as Isa promised?

"Who are you Isa?" "Who are you, Allah?" The questions pounded in his mind as he walked toward the crowded square.

Missionaries had stayed, sometimes, with the Christian family in Lebanon. He knew they were Americans by their accent. Now a crazy thought came to him. Could you distinguish God by His accent? In the confusing language of the Quran and Injeel, could one look behind the words to the tone and inflections? Which accent was God's, that of Allah or Isa?

He remembered his father, unapproachable, filled with hate, drawn into radical Islam and Jihad. Then memories came of tumbling about with Mikhail and his dad on the living room carpet, laughter ringing through the house. Which accent was God's? That of hatred or of love?

"Allah al Akbar!" he muttered again. Or was he? His mother had come last night and wept on his bed. Submitting herself to the will of Allah brought her pain for the rest of her days. Was this the voice of God? Was His accent one of harsh ruthlessness? Isa's words from the Injeel whispered, "Come to Me all who are burdened and I will give you rest .... I am gentle and humble and you will find rest for your soul." How he would prefer that accent of gentleness and approachability for his mother.

Suddenly a rumble came from behind. Turning, he saw a driverless, runaway truck tearing down the hill toward the crowded square. Soon it would plough into the people, crushing, crumpling, destroying as it went. He had seconds to decide. "Who are you God? With what accent do You speak?" He knew the answer before he asked the question. Murmuring, "Isa, You are the truth. I give You my life," he ran towards the truck.

\------------ o ------------

Those recounting the story told it with shocked admiration.

"A huge truck came down the hill straight for us. People were scattering everywhere but it was coming too fast. Suddenly a young man ran towards it shouting "Isa al Akbar! Isa al Akbar!" He leapt in front of it. A tremendous explosion all but demolished the truck leaving a huge hole in the ground and stopping it in its tracks. Who was that man? And why did he die to save us? Whoever he was I am sure he is now in Paradise."

Head Before Heart

I'm a natural cynic. I question everything. I like to see and feel and touch and don't trust what others say. I could see through all the false messiahs that have plagued our nation since Isaiah's predictions. When Judas of Gamala, led a revolt, some called him the Messiah, but I doubted. My doubts were vindicated when his uprising was brutally suppressed and he ended up in a field, impaled on a Roman cross for all to see an insurrectionist's fate.

But Jesus of Nazareth was different. His obvious love, especially for the underdog, the miracles he performed and his intolerance of anything hypocritical made me a follower.

Yet, my critical spirit was still alive, making me doubt.

I recoiled when he spoke about our eating his flesh and drinking his blood. Was he a madman, taking us on a path away from our faith? Didn't he know the rules about drinking blood? And human blood at that? The questions bombarded me like the sparks that fly from a grinding wheel. I nearly joined the crowd that turned away. Then I heard him ask, "What about you? Do you also want to turn away?" and I couldn't help but agree with Peter. "To whom shall we go?". Despite his words, Jesus was the closest to the real Messiah I'd ever encountered.

Yet I wasn't sure. Those words jarred so! My materialist mind missed his explanation. "My words are spirit and they are life." ... But I followed. What else could I do? I loved him and how he changed the lives around him.

The more time I spent with him, the more my cynicism dissolved. I began to believe in him. I joined the others in the joyful dance of life with Jesus. He had such power; he could deal with any opposition. Or so I thought --- until my world imploded. Though never violent like the other so-called messiahs, I watched in despair as he suffered the same fate as Judas of Gamala. The Romans snuffed him out like a fragile candle sputtering in the dark. Where was my Messiah now?

We were all devastated. The cynical voice at my shoulder said, "What did you expect? You see what happens when you don't analyse everything? Remember his incomprehensible words? His mumbo jumbo about only living if you die? About a person having nothing, yet having what he has, taken away?" It continued. "See what happens when you put your heart before your head?"

Seeking solitude, I wandered into Gethsemane, reliving that fateful night. Even the old olives seemed contorted with grief. I walked to the place where Jesus had left us and gone ahead. I knelt where I had slept that night. This time I prayed.

"God in heaven, I thought Jesus was the One. Now I see he's just like the others. I miss him so. I cannot forget the deep love in his eyes. I truly thought he was Messiah. I'm confused and sorrowful."

Gethsemane became my mourning place. Day after day I knelt among the bent old trees.

One day, as I re-entered the room where the other disciples gathered, hubbub filled the air. "Jesus is alive!" buffeted me from every side, in voices clear and strident in their excitement.

My scepticism rose like a rock-solid wall resisting what I was hearing. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't face another disappointment. I'd listened to my heart when I'd trusted him as Messiah. That was dashed at Golgotha. This time I'd listen to my head.

"Impossible. I saw him die."

"But he's risen from the dead."

"Impossible."

"We've seen Him."

"It can't happen."

"Thomas --- dear Thomas. Always questioning. Just believe. Have faith in Jesus."

"I can't trust. I have to see for myself. I must know it's him." I left again to mourn at Gethsemane.

A week later, I was with them again. Suddenly, he was there. There was no doubting it was him. Those loving eyes on me belonged to no-one else. He lifted his hands to show me his wounds. "Come, Thomas, feel them. It's me."

Something like the song of a thousand angels came bursting from within me. Gone was my critical spirit, drowned in the love that poured from me to my Saviour. I knelt before Him in gratitude and praise. My heart was not wrong after all. With all my being I could exclaim, "My Lord and my God!"

The Test

I don't remember a time when my dad didn't look old. To a young boy growing up, he looked ANCIENT. His large hook nose emerged from between the bushiest eyebrows I've ever seen and drooped over a shaggy moustache that blended seamlessly with his flowing beard. The only time you knew he had a mouth was when it was open. What you could see of his face, looked to me like furrows on a leathery landscape to take his sweat and lead it away from his eyes and down into his beard.

But his eyes fascinated me most. Although toffee brown, they shone with an inner light-- as if he saw something in his mind and projected that vision through them. Even when he looked at me, he seemed to be looking both at me and to something far beyond.

Papa was a wanderer. He went where his fancy took him. Or rather, he said he went where God told him to go, although God didn't seem to take him to any place in particular. We just wandered around from here to there, staying for a while then moving on.

The older I grew, the more I respected my eccentric old man. He strode among his herd, with his clothes flapping about him, thrusting his staff deep into the sand, as if to impale some furtive creature lying beneath the surface. Yet his appearance belied an astuteness that, over the years, earned him enormous wealth.

Above all, though, he was a visionary. He genuinely heard God and lived with purpose. Though all we did was wander through the country, he only moved when he was sure he heard from God, and he seemed sure there was a far higher purpose in his doing so. Often, of a night, I'd catch him gazing upward at the Milky Way and the teeming pinpricks of light sprinkled so liberally in the blackness. And he'd mutter "So many. So many." Though I didn't know what he meant, I knew he saw something that I couldn't -- something in his mind that he projected through those glowing eyes into the heavens.

At other times, he'd sit me down to talk. His voice was deep and gruff, like a man used to giving orders, but as he spoke, was modulated by a gentleness that betrayed a deep love of his subject.

"You can always trust God, m'boy. No matter how things seem, you can always trust Him. Sometimes, you haf t' trust Him beyond you years here on earth." His eyes looked at me and beyond. "Yeah, sometimes beyond yer years, but you can always trust Him."

I loved Papa. As he trusted God, I grew to trust Him too, little thinking what a test I would have of my trust of them both.

It happened one day when he said, in a voice more gruff than usual, "Come, boy. God's told me somethin' and we gotta obey."

I was a young man -- in my twenties -- but he still called me "boy".

Taking just one servant, a pile of wood and a firebrand we set off. He was much quieter than usual and talked to himself -- or to God. Every now and again, he'd turn to me, his fiery eyes now watered over, and repeat what he'd said so often. "No matter how things seem, you can always trust Him." Then, sighing, "Sometimes beyond your years, but you can always trust Him."

It was when we got to the foot of the mountain, that I grasped what he was saying. I realized, with foreboding, his agenda. We were going to make a sacrifice, but there was no animal. I knew, from his words and from the way he looked at me, what God had told him to do.

This was my trial, as much as his. I was stronger than my ancient father. I could overpower him and run.

Or trust Papa as I always had done, and trust God as I'd often said I would.

"Sometimes yer haf t' trust him beyond yer years on earth." Could I do that? Could I die trusting him? Or should I run away?

I chose to stay.

Memories

Come, sit with me. Indulge an old man as I reminisce about my youth with these faded photographs. See how strong and confident I look as I hold the Athlete of the Year cup in hard, sculpted arms.With those self-assured, clear eyes gazing straight into the camera, a body firm and lean beneath the shirt, I had the world at my feet.

Now my stomach obscures those feet, the skin drapes over my outstretched arms and hangs in a fold, and my eyes peer mistily from overhanging lids in a lined, weathered face.

Look, here's me beside -- what was her name? --- Julie, at the final year dance; hair slicked with Brylcreem, tuxedo complete with cummerbund, and a face aglow with love. Oh, the soaring heights and plummeting depths of teenage love. I carved Julie's name on my desk, we cuddled at the back of the movies, shared a milkshake and walked hand in hand on the clouds to the moon, Julie's beauty outshining the stars. Then came the misunderstandings, the gloomy aftermath of a quarrel that left me wanting to die, before the lightning trip back to the stars as we made up. Finally, the break-up. The end of the world... until, within a short time, it was Betty, eclipsing all I'd ever known with Julie.

Ah, youth! A time where feelings blaze in technicolour and issues are starkly black or white, with no room for grey. A pivotal time that can set a destiny. A fragile time when the deep questions of life come under scrutiny and demand answers; where, with youth's uncanny spiritual penetration, hypocrisy and superficiality in their elders are perceived for what they are and rejected, and the pressure of peers to conform is all-pervasive.

Look at this picture. See the guy in the middle with long hair, a diamond in his nose and a flambouyant shirt? That's me, wanting to be different. I joined the hippie movement --- a youth movement protesting societal norms. Conventional society was proper in dress code, sexuality and social behaviour, but at the same time perpetuated a war in distant Viet Nam, destroyed nature with industrialisation, and oppressed the poor with greed-motivated capitalism. I didn't stay with the hippies long, though. I didn't go along with free sex (make love, not war --- remember?) or the psychedelic drugs they used.

Now this one --- this is what I moved onto. The long hair is still there, the diamond in the nose has gone and I have a cross tattooed on my forearm (I still proudly have it). I am in the Jesus movement. In a sense, that was still anti-establishment, because it arose from the hippie culture, but it was God-orchestrated. It was where I was born again. Suddenly I knew the truth and, like so many young people, I wanted to change the world.

The Jesus movement started when hippieTed Wise, after nearly overdosing on LSD, went to church with his girlfriend Liz and responded to an altar call. Radically converted, he and Liz, now his wife, reached out to the hippies by starting a Christian commune, called The Living Room. I was one of the more than twenty conversions that took place there every week.

Meanwhile, other revival fires were kindled. Dave Hoyt was a disillusioned Hare Krishna follower who came to Christ. His preaching, with his mentor, Kent Philpott brought hundreds of hippies into the Kingdom. In Pirate's Cove on the Pacific coast, Chuck Smith was baptizing 500 people a month. Many were disheartened hippies.

At the same time God was pouring out His Spirit in the Charismatic Renewal, He was moving among the hippies, bringing to the church a culture of freedom of dress, freedom of movement in worship and the use of contemporary music in praise.

This picture is later. That's me and Jean. I met Jean in the Jesus movement. We settled down and started a family. We lived through sunshine and rain, fire and ice, calm and storm, with Jesus by our side always seeing us through, till He called her home. Look at her sweet face...... How I miss her.

And now my tired old heart is failing, my breath is weak, my joints ache, I struggle to see, to hear and to remember and my hands tremble. The gates of splendour are opening for me. My Saviour awaits to transform this lowly disintegrating body into the likeness of His glorious body (Phil. 3:21).

And I'll be young again. Forever.

Jesus, Calm the Wildness of my Mind

Wind-swept fury, clattering, battering

When will it stop?

Huge tornado, swirling, churning

Twisting me, sucking me in

I can't breathe

Tossed about, flung, hurled ,

Thrown to the ground

Picked up

And thrown again

Doubt and fear

Make me cringe

I'm far away

Yet the terrors are close

Jesus, calm the wildness of my mind

Past voices

Whisper hideously

"You're no good!"

"You'll never make it!"

"Idiot child!"

I hear the screaming

Fists on flesh

Blows on blood

Crouching in the corner

Too afraid to move

I'm only a child...

Now a ghost-man

Haunted by my past

Jesus, calm the wildness of my mind

In darkened back streets

I wander

Hold on, hold on

Don't let the tornado

Sweep you away

Still the accuser!

Yet as I search the trash cans

The madness continues

I feel it in the wideness of my eyes

I hear it in my muttering

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

It's safer in the park

And yet I can't escape

Where I go

My mind comes too

Swirling, unseeing

Through the pristine paths,

Countering the whispering fountains

With its own whisper

"No good"

"Failure"

Bottles and booze,

And then the screams

My mother's lips,

Her eyes and cheeks

Bruised and bloodied

Now the hiss,

"And you did nothing"

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

Who's this coming?

What does he want?

I've nothing to give

His voice is gentle

Breathing peace

He has a place of healing,

Of rest

He speaks of Love

In a Man

Torn, by the wild fury of men,

Yet loving

Breathing forgiveness,

Offering it to me

Urging me to pass it on

To my step-dad

And all who hurt me

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

We kneel before the One

Who stayed the storm

The tornado retreats

Accusations hush

A river pours through me

Washing

Living water

Cleansing my soul

Deep stillness

Comes...

Peace

From the Prince of Peace

He calmed the stormy sea

And now He's calmed the wildness in my mind

No Other Gods but Me

I walked into His presence as in an incandescent dream. The terrifying smoke and fire I'd seen from below dissipated and wave upon surging wave of love enveloped me. Overwhelmed, I sank to my knees. He took my hand and drew me to my feet.

Words of worship poured from my lips in response to the mantle of light and peace that encompassed me. In the timelessness of pure love, I had no sense of the passage of day or night, as intricate details of how a tabernacle was to be built to God imprinted themselves on my mind; who was to serve in it, the sacrifices to be made, the names of the people gifted to construct it... I neither ate nor drank during this time -- which seemed no time at all, though later they told me I'd been up the mountain for forty days.

As God finished speaking into my mind, a mist, like a wraith, passed before me. I saw two stone tablets at my feet. I heard God say, "Take these to the people that they may remember to keep My law. Hurry, now. I hear them. Those stubborn people are corrupting themselves with a foreign god. "

I came to myself as I sensed God's anger. He continued. "I've a mind to destroy them, and start again with you, Moses. I'll make you father of a new nation."

"Lord," I protested with a boldness that sprang from alarm. "Surely not. What will the Egyptians say? That You brought Your people out here merely to slay them? Do You want them to think that of You?" I trembled as I continued, "And what of Your promise to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob?"

I picked up the tablets and started down the mountainside, wondering if I had imagined that last unlikely conversation. Still filled with His radiance, I soon forgot the disturbing dialogue.

Joshua was some way up the mountain, waiting for me. He greeted me warmly. "I was worried. You were gone so long, with no food or drink. Some elders were convinced you'd died up there."

"Was I there so long? I had no idea!" I said, as I embraced him. "It was unforgettable, Joshua. I'll tell you about it when we get to camp."

My joy was infectious. Soon the two of us were humming and laughing. Hunger pangs anticipated my first meal in over a month, and I longed to see Aaron and the people.

At a clearing, Joshua stopped humming and stood still, listening. "What's that noise?"

Then I too, heard it. Joshua tilted his head. "It sounds like a war in the camp."

"No... it's not a victory shout," I said, straining my ears. "Nor is it wailing in defeat." My spirits lifted. "They're singing and dancing. They're happy, Joshua. Let's hurry down and see what the party's about."

Then, as they came into sight, the glow from my time with God burst into red hot fury spewing from my soul like molten lava. I rushed down the mountain, hurling the tablets of stone against a rock.

They shattered.

The music stopped.

And the dancing.

All the people looked at me.

A calf of gold stood at the centre of the gathering. The singing had been worship songs to the calf, the dancing was before the golden idol. Now I knew. I did hear God when said He wanted to destroy these people. He'd heard their noise long before I had and knew what it meant. I felt the anger He had expressed. In righteous fury, I ground the calf to dust and scattered it on the water. "Drink it, you rebellious people. Drink the god you worshipped. Taste the bitterness of disobedience and wait for the judgement of God!"

...Yet I knew my God. He is gracious and merciful -- a God of second chances. Sure enough, in what followed, only those who refused to repent faced His wrath. The repentant ones once again joined me on our journey to His Promised Land.

Will you leave your idol and join me with them?

An Unexpected Privilege

I'd always dreamed of visiting Jerusalem at Passover. As a little boy, playing in the sands of Africa, I'd look at the dawn sun and picture it rising over the Holy City. At night, when Pappa tucked me in, I'd question him.

"Pappa, What was Jerusalem like before you had to flee from the Romans?"

He'd get a faraway look in his eyes and say, "My son, Jerusalem is the centre of the world. It's God's Holy City, but sadly, it is desecrated by Roman soldiers. Our people are terribly oppressed."

He'd continue. "You should see it at Passover. The whole world is there. The excitement, the dust, the crowds, the babble of a hundred languages. It's the most exciting thing!" I never tired of hearing the stories, and I knew one day I'd be there.

When Pappa died, I set out on a pilgrimage with my own two boys, across the Mediterranean and into the Holy Land. I arrived in Jerusalem just in time for Passover. From the road, I could hear the hubbub and my heart raced to join them. "Come, lads. Alexander, Rufus, this way." There was something happening along the road and I wanted to see.

Suddenly, I didn't want to see. I'd heard of the harshness of the Roman occupation; of fields of dead men hanging from crosses --- insurrectionists, paying the ultimate price in a ghastly way for their patriotism. It was what my father had fled from. Was this man another of them? But why had they tortured him so, before his execution? He tottered under the weight of his cross as I stood, hypnotised.

He was almost level with me, when he reeled, his eyes turned upward and he and his cross crashed to the ground. A Roman soldier lashed at him with a whip, but he did not respond. Fear gripped me as the soldier's gaze fell on me. I looked away, but it was too late.

"You! Hey, strong man. Come here!" There was no escape. "Come here! Take his cross."

I could have walked faster, but I let him rest on the upright and stumble along beside me.

"Okay, leave him." We weren't quite there yet, but the whip came hard on my back. "I said leave him." They wanted him to carry it at least to the site of crucifixion.

I had to stay, now I was involved. Rebel or not, I had to watch to the end.

I'm so glad I did. I had never seen a crucifixion before but, --- heaven forbid --- should I see another, I'm sure it will be nothing like this one. He breathed words of forgiveness, words of encouragement to a victim beside him. Loving words came from his lips for his mother and his best friend. I turned to the man beside me. "Who is this man?"

He looked at me. "You just arrived?" I nodded.

"That's Jesus. Powerful prophet. He claimed to be God."

"And is he?"

The man laughed derisively. "God? They're killing God? Is that possible? Come on! Use your head."

But I preferred to use my heart. How could a mere man die like that? Who was he?

Suddenly he gave a cry that seemed to echo through all creation. At that cry, the earth shook violently and the sun grew dark.

And I knew.

I thought I had been helping a man, saving him from a vain lashing as he lay, unable to continue. Yet, he was the one drawing me into his world, giving me the unique privilege of walking alongside Him, saving me from a life of futility. He was inviting me to bear the Cross with Him --- to take part in His redemptive work.

Some time later, to my astonished delight, he appeared to me alive and well. It confirmed what my heart said at Calvary. That lacerated, tortured man was my Saviour.

Blessed

The raging South Easter hurled gusts of rain against the study's panes. The air crackled with bursts of a thousand watery pellets against the glass, as the wind howled. The turmoil and fury outside echoed that in Peter's heart as he sat at his desk, his fists clenched and his eyes narrow and moist with fury.

They rested on Barbara's Bible on the corner of the desk. He grabbed it and opened it at random.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

You must be kidding. After he's beaten me to thousands of dollars? I'm taking him to the cleaners. How can Barbara believe all this God stuff?

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

No, God. Blessed are the strong, who fight back and get what they can.

The room lit with dazzling brilliance and a crackling boom exploded, rattling the windows.

"That's it, God. That's me inside. You show your power. I'll show mine." He opened a drawer and took out a .38 revolver. I'll show him what it means to cross me.

\------------ o ------------

Barbara watched him back the car from the garage and drive into the swirling rain. She fell on her knees and called out to God. "Do something radical, Lord. Save him from himself. He's such an angry man. He's reckless and impulsive. Save him, Lord. Save him." Her heart writhed within her as she threw herself on the carpet in an agony of prayer for her husband.

\------------ o -------------

Peter had no idea what he was going to do, except that he would confront George. The wind buffeted the car. Sheets of water crashed relentlessly against the windscreen, blurring his vision. He didn't see the truck sliding towards him until it was too late.

\------------ o ------------

From far away he heard voices --- snatches of conversation intruding through the mist and the throbbing headache.

"....critical... yes, very... unlikely he'll make it... yes, by all means... prayers.... yes, any time.... God intervene."

His eyes fluttered open to a blur of faces. Barbara's image came and went. Behind her.... George? George?

He felt Barbara's lips brush his forehead, her hand in his, George's hand on his shoulder. He heard the murmur of their prayers and a mantle of peace descended. Words floated through his mind and into his heart like petals falling from a rose.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.

"I've been stubborn and hard-headed, God. Money has been everything -- going after it my way. What does it matter now that I am dying?"

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.

"I've trodden others mercilessly underfoot to get what I want. How can I expect mercy from you now? Where will I go if I die?" A deep sorrow for his behaviour plunged him into a valley of despair. "But if I live, I'll be different. Forgive me. Give me another chance."

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

"God, let me live Your way. Barbara was right about You. And I was wrong about George. He's not a crook. He's just a better businessman. Come into my life, Jesus, so I can see Your truth."

Through the covering murmur of prayers, crystal water flooded his soul, washing him clean, drawing him up to its source. He was pure and whole. A brilliant light shone around him and more brilliant still, a man stood in the light, with eyes like the sun, yet filled with compassion.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Oh, Jesus, I'm coming home. You're taking me home and everything is pure and lovely.

I'm sending you back, Peter. Barbara has been praying for you. Take care of her out of your love for Me. She is my gift to you.

\------------ o ------------

Barbara listened to the whistling coming from the dining room as Peter waited for George to come around to discuss a partnership. It had been three weeks since Peter's miraculous recovery and this Sunday he'd be giving his testimony. She had never felt so cherished and fulfilled as each night and morning she and Peter pored over the Word and knelt together in prayer.

She opened her Bible and read Psalm 133 once more:

Behold how good and pleasant it is for brethren to dwell in unity... for there the Lord commands a blessing --- even life forever more.

Finishing Well

Elizabeth glanced at the clock. He was late home again. No doubt he would say he had been working late.

Things had not been easy since Jason's death, each of them cocooned in their own private grief. Though they had suffered the shock together, slowly the walls had grown; walls of unspoken pain and guilt.

Robert took a detour past the hospital. Jenny would be coming off duty in 10 minutes. She understood. She had been on duty when Jason was rushed in wet and limp.Robert blamed himself for leaving that box in the yard; a box Jason used to climb the swimming pool fence. Elizabeth urged him to forgive himself, but she did not understand his torment.Jenny's soft brown eyes showed that she knew. When he wept she held him close; her slow smile somehow made everything right. He felt more alive with her than he had in months. The drive past the hospital and the cups of coffee at the diner became the highlight of his day. He was apologetic as he came home, avoiding her gaze as he spoke, "Sorry I'm late again, darling. I think there must have been an accident on the road. The traffic was unbelievable."

"Unbelievable alright," thought Elizabeth, but she managed a bright smile and gave him a big kiss. "Well, I'm glad you're home. Supper is waiting. I've cooked your favourite."

"Lamb chops? You are a darling! You spoil me and I don't deserve it." The conversation was loving, but the underlying tension was palpable.Week after week, as the same scenario played out, Elizabeth was praying. "Lord, he is hurting and I sense I am losing him. Guard my heart. I don't know how much longer I can go on. How do I respond to these lame excuses? I desperately need you to intervene."

On the anniversary of Jason's death Elizabeth heard the words she half welcomed, half dreaded. "Lizzy, we have to talk. There is something you need to know."

"Lord, does it have to be now? Just when I have discovered I am pregnant? Should I tell him? No. Not now. He must be free to make his choice."

He sat at the table and she sat opposite. "Lord, keep me calm," she breathed. "Give me the courage to face whatever is coming."

He steeled himself and looked directly at her."Liz, honey, things have been difficult between us since Jason died."

She nodded and he continued. "I want to tell you that I have been looking for some kind of comfort elsewhere, and found it."

"This is it, Lord. Give me strength." She nodded. "I suspected as much.

"But last week on the way to work I heard a pastor on the radio. He spoke about finishing well. He said God is not interested in how we start, He wants to know how we will finish. Our behaviour along the way should be governed by a determination to finish well.

I have been studying the Scriptures and it's true. The Bible is full of exhortations to trust God in difficult times, to persevere in every situation. Why, in the book of Revelation Jesus tells EVERY church to overcome to the end. I know that applies to our marriage too. The world tells me it is about MY happiness and what makes ME feel good; but the Bible says my reward comes from faithfulness and trust. From now on it's you alone. I want to make this work. Please forgive my stupidity."

He pulled two dolls from his pocket, a boy and a girl, and laid them on the table. Taking out a blue ribbon he passed it around them both. As he tied them together he recited his vows, "I take thee, Elizabeth ............... to have and to hold till death us do part."

He handed her a pink ribbon. "I am giving you the opportunity to do the same."

Sobbing she exclaimed, "Oh yes, Robert." And tied the dolls once more. "Till death us do part."

He took a third ribbon gold, this time and prayed as he tied, "Lord, You have tied us together as one. Those whom God has joined, let no man -- or woman--put asunder."

\------------ o ------------

Thirty years later, Jason looked up at Robert, "Grandpa, what are those dolls on the mantelpiece all tied together for?"

"That's your grandma and me, my boy, tied together by our love and held there by God's faithfulness."

Jason smiled. "Cool!"

The Plague

Dr Valentine Seaman straightened up from Helen's bed. Patrick was beside him. Two little boys stood in the doorway, their faces flickering in the light of the candle they held. Soon they will be without their mother. From his demeanor, Valentine saw that Patrick already knew. With his face contorted and his eyes glistening in the gaslight, he said in a voice like a strangled cry, "She's going, isn't she, Doc?"

Valentine laid a hand on Patrick's shoulder. He couldn't look him in the eye. With the slightest nod, he muttered, "Third one this week."

The doctor could never get used to the futility he felt each time as, each time he watched his patient, jaundiced and unconscious, slipping into eternity. Patrick' faltering words drove the barb home. "I know you did all you could, Doc." But it was not enough \-- and the gasping, "Thank you", left a despairing cry in his heart. Thank me? For what? I couldn't save her.

As the distraught husband took the hand of his unconscious wife and pressed it desperately to his lips, Valentine went to the door, easing past the little boys. "Stay with her, Patrick. I'll find my way out."

The year was 1795 and yellow fever's deadly scythe was reaping its pallid harvest through New York City in an epidemic that left a trail of grieving parents, lonely spouses and orphaned children.

In the pubs the beery boffins asserted their theories:

"It's rats. I've seen 'em nibbling the food. Then someone comes along an' eats that same food."

"Naw, it's in the foul air. Comes across from the piles o' rubbish dumped near the houses."

"Mark my words, it's from the holds of ships. Comes from foreign lands with all that foreign cargo."

But no one really knew. The disease stalked, like a deadly wraith and seemed to strike at random.

\------------ o ------------

All the way home, the rattle of the coach on the cobbled streets was drowned, for the doctor, by the echoes of Patrick's heaving chest and muffled sobs. His lips were set and his mind determined. He would fight this... And a strategy was forming.

The next day, he hired his team, with instructions to map the location of every case of yellow fever in New York. As the results arrived, a pattern emerged. The cases were clustered in certain areas. He visited the locations. What was the common factor? There were cases near unkempt streets, water reservoirs, messy gardens, but most particularly near local waste sites. Suddenly, he saw it. Excitedly, he overlaid the yellow fever map with one that showed the local waste dumps. They correlated.

Trudging through the sites, he saw pools of stagnant water, their surfaces blurred with a million animated mosquitoes. It is interesting that in his subsequent paper, he did not incriminate the mosquitoes, though we know now they are the carriers. However, he identified their habitat as the culprit. It was stagnant water that caused the cries of anguish over New York.

At his recommendation, all sites that accumulated water were dealt with. Sewers were covered, streets were cleaned and paved, areas beneath granaries were enclosed and the stagnant water on waste sites identified and filled in.

Within a short time, the mosquitoes could not breed; and yellow fever disappeared from New York.

Yet a deadly plague continues to stalk our cities, towns and villages. The cries of its victims are sometimes silent screams of the soul, sometimes uncontrolled sobs that would tear at the heart of a listener --- but there's no-one there. At its most obvious, its deadly tentacles leave pallid, passive half-beings with staggering gait and glazed minds. Many times, though, it spreads more subtly, its noxious blows only emerging when the wife and children leave or the business collapses. More toxic even than the waste dumps of New York, these are the waste dumps and cesspools of our lives --- the greed, the resentments and unforgiveness, licentiousness deceit and self-indulgence. It's here that the enemy of God exploits the sin-sickness of our fallen world.

Yet, as Valentine grieved for his dying patients, so the Great Physician grieves for His dying children. It is here, through these toxic garbage dumps that Jesus trudged, fraternising with tax collectors and sinners, challenging the proud and self-righteous, covering their cesspools with grace and truth and love. Finally, He covered every work of Satan with a rugged cross and His scarlet blood. Though the sickness still stalks, we can become immune. The Great Physician has become the cure.

Bless the Lord O my soul and forget not all His benefits. Who forgives my iniquities and heals all my diseases. Who redeems my life from the pit. (Ps103:2-4)

Listen to the Music

Listen, do you hear it -- the discordant music of people without hope? Belligerent, accusing voices mingling with cries of despair. Hear the clashing cymbals of triumphalism all but drowning the simpering violins of those crushed underfoot; drumbeats of war, deep throated tubas of groaning, synthesized screams of pain and low organ resonances of mourning; strident saxophones of blame and smooth flutes of self-righteousness. It's the music of the age, with no score and no conductor. And it's getting louder and more cacophonous each day.

As militant atheists rail against the notion of God, and children are stolen and raped; as babies are burned and dismembered in the womb and heads roll in an orgy of hatred and misplaced religious zeal, the jarring music is reaching a crescendo of untold agony and misery.

Yet, turn your ears to heaven and you'll hear a different sound. Through the noise and the railing and mockery you'll hear the warm cello strains of the Son of Man "Come to Me, all who are burdened and heavy laden and I will give you rest." Cutting through the weeping dirge of a bereft mother with her dead child, is the song of the Saviour "The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit". Woven through the drumbeats of war is a tambourine dance of promise, "They will beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks."

The chaotic noise gets louder, but the Song of the Saviour is becoming more insistent. Everywhere people are starting to hear it. Mothers, weeping for their aborted children are tuning in to the life-giving strains of Amazing Grace and finding forgiveness. Muslims, tortured and bereaved by their own brothers are finding the cleansing blood of Jesus more persuasive than the spattered blood of Jihad. Mockers, suddenly finding they are the mocked, are hearing the God-Man who resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble.

Though the noise is loud, the rumbles frightening and the screeching makes you quake, the Saviour's song will prevail. When the final curtain falls, He will get the standing ovation. Stand up, stand up for Jesus. Listen now, to His song, for if you do, one day you will sing it with all of creation. His is the song that will triumph, with a thousand thousand angels joining the chorus, linking voices with the saints who heard His music in the midst of their suffering and called on His Name. Turn your ear to heaven and your heart to the Saviour.

He waits, your unique score in His hand, for you to join for eternity, the harmony of heaven.

A Perfect Place for Jesus

There's tangible despair – if despair is the opposite of hope – as one enters the premises.

As we drive up the narrow road past the women's dormitories, Mary and Hazel are sunning themselves in white plastic chairs placed in the narrow space between the driveway and the building. Their faces brighten as I stop and Margie, a co-worker from our church, alights. Further along, on the steps of a steel shed, Fiona sits motionless, her head bowed.

I drive on alone, up the road to the men's quarters. I pass Nicholas on the way, but he ignores me. Marcus, further on, gives a curt nod.

I park my car and, armed with some packets of biscuits and a Bible, walk up to greet the men sitting on a broken sofa, a sun-bleached kitchen chair and dilapidated plastic ones. Andrew ducks inside as I approach, but others greet me with enthusiasm.

This is Happy Valley, named by an anonymous humorist with a taste for irony. Situated on the side of a mountain, it is not a valley; neither, to many of its inhabitants, is it particularly happy. Yet this shelter for the homeless is my delight. God has given me the privilege of working with these people, many of whom would describe their lives as an omnishambles.

It's a place of deep pain and destructive shame; of outbursts of anger and sullen retreat. A place of desperate cries for help, yet, often, refusal to accept it when offered. Many have made bad choices in life, which have left them alienated from their families, robbed of their livelihood and filled with crippling guilt. It is a place of beautiful people whose treasure is buried deep.

What better place for Jesus? What better place to share His love and allow one's heart to be broken along with His?

Behind each face, eloquent in its suffering, or impassive behind an unyielding wall, is a story of how Satan comes to steal, kill and destroy.

Bruce found his best friend in bed with his wife. In a rage, he beat him up, not knowing that he had a medical condition that flared under the beating and killed him. Eighteen months later, acquitted of murder, Bruce emerged from prison with no wife, no business and a silent, raging heart.

Neil's paintings hang in Europe's galleries, but with the 2009 depression, financial difficulties wrecked his marriage. He found solace in the wrong places and lost everything.

Sharon left great work prospects in Johannesburg to follow the man of her dreams -- he'd invited her to leave her work and join him in Cape Town. Two weeks later, he tried to murder her. She escaped with her life and the clothes on her back.

The stories vary, but the need is the same. It's the overarching need of all mankind ripped open and laid bare through unbearable circumstances. It's the need to forgive and be forgiven. It's the need to be valued -- to count in the greater scheme of things. It's the need for Jesus.

It's easy to be discouraged when entering an open war zone in which the Enemy's inflicted casualties abound. Hurting people hurt people. Yet God is at work always. Even at Happy Valley, there are people who love Jesus when they arrive, or who learn to love Him while they're there.

Derek was chased from place to place as he slept on the streets. He started reading a Bible when a priest allowed him to sleep against the churchyard wall and brought him sandwiches and tea in the morning.

Andrew cannot stop talking about Jesus since finding him in a Christian rehab centre.

Paul met Jesus on an Alpha Course we ran at Happy Valley. Jesus set him free from the bondage of an unhealthy relationship with a deranged girl who had dragged him, after his wife divorced him, from an executive post into the gutter.

Shelton is a Zimbabwean, promised a job in Cape Town that did not materialize. He also met Jesus on the Alpha Course. He's now employed and has left Happy Valley, but comes to support those still there and tell them about Jesus.

It's my joy to visit there, for here I dig for buried treasure. Lives may be in omnishambles, but Jesus is the omnifixer. There's no life He cannot mend.

There's no greater joy than looking for the gold buried in the dirt and seeing Jesus wash it clean and make it shine.

Death by Execution

Surging and seething like some grotesque animal, the crowd milled around the guillotine baying for blood.

The king, his head held high climbed up the scaffold. Suddenly, with a look from him, there was silence. The roll of drums which had heralded a thousand drops of the bloody blade of death were silent. The king's voice, steady and majestic carried across the masses. 'I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge; I pardon those who have occasioned my death, and I pray to God that the blood you are going to shed may never be visited on France.'

The silence was tangible. Then a ruffian in uniform shouted, "The drums! The drums" Others joined in. "He must die! The king must die!" The drumrolls thundered, the king lay prostrate and the blade dropped. Hideous cheers erupted as the monarch's head was held high by his hair.

Maximilian Robespierre looked on from his vantage point. The Reign of Terror had begun. As a politician who had sided with the revolution, he had the adoration of the masses. Now, with the king eliminated, he became a virtual dictator and set about eliminating anyone deemed to be an enemy of the people. He was a man possessed, and The Terror knew no bounds. Nobles, foreigners, ordinary citizens suspected of disagreeing with the revolution --- all were thrown into the Bastille or summarily executed without trial. In the frenzy of killing, a pall of fear enveloped France as the thirst for blood gripped the masses swirling each day around Madame Guillotine. It is estimated in the 10 months the Reign of Terror lasted, more than 10,000 souls died in prison and over 17,000 heads toppled into the baskets.

But Satan kills and destroys even those who serve him most loyally. Robespierre's megalomania was fuel for his enemies. Less than a year after the start of his Reign of Terror, he was arrested. Within a day, without recourse to a trial, and amid the jeers of a bloodthirsty mob, his head joined the thousands he had caused to topple from the guillotine. He reaped what he had sown so abundantly.

\------------- o -------------

1700 years earlier another execution had taken place. A restless mob had crowded a courtyard crying for blood. The ruler tried to intervene, but the mob would have none of it. "We want him dead," they shouted. The cry rang through the courtyard and into the streets, "Crucify him! Crucify him!"

When Jesus staggered through the streets of Jerusalem, the crowds had seen it all before. The Roman roads were lined with the victims of crucifixion as reminders of their oppressor's cruel sovereignty.

Now, He hung upon a cross, breathing His last. There was no cheering mob, merely a mocking, supercilious one. As in France, the air was thick with evil. Yet, when He died, there was no rejoicing --- no raucous jeers, but hushed awe as the sun grew dark and the earth shook. History was tilting upwards.

The Man on the Cross was reaping what others sowed. Into the field of His life, he took all the seeds of sin and destruction sown by man since his creation and reaped their fruit --- the wrath of God. It came physically in the form of flesh ripped raw on His back, thorns plunged into His forehead, nails thrust through the nerves and sinews of His hands and feet, a sword in His side and an excruciating death. Spiritually, it manifested in the utter loneliness of abandonment by His Father.

As Jesus bore the fruit of our sin, He cleared the fields of sown sin for whoever believes in Him, making them fertile with divine love, ready for the seeds He gives us to sow. As we plant the seeds of His Spirit, we reap love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, kindness and self-control.

And because He chose to reap what He did not sow, we can sow His seeds into the lives of those around us. And how rich is that harvest.

Murmurs of a Guilty Conscience

I think I made a mistake. It's not easy being a governor in a foreign land -- especially one with such crazy bigots.

I had the whole pack baying for his life, because he didn't toe their theological line! How do you keep the balance between order and what you know in your heart is right? Things were heading for a riot as they yapped at my heels like hunting dogs slavering for his blood. I couldn't let it go on.

So I killed an innocent man.

I don't usually care. I've done it before. Even enjoyed it, watching them writhe and seeing the people cower at the power I can wield -- or grow angry, depending on their mood. It's never affected me this way before. What's it to me as long as I can keep law and order? That's the priority.

But there's something bothering me about this one. He was different. He wouldn't cower and he wouldn't talk, but his looks were eloquent enough and I didn't like it. He seemed to look into my heart, and that's a private place. I don't even like going there myself, sometimes. For all the pleasure I get from seeing others squirm under my power -- especially those filthy Jews -- sometimes the inner door opens a chink and there are longings........and doubts.......I like to keep that door shut.

There was something else in his eyes, too. What was it? That's part of what's bugging me. I've spotted fear in eyes a hundred times or more and enjoyed the smell of it. I've seen arrogance, too and I like that even more. It spurs me to greater cruelty with no remorse.

His eyes had neither. The closest I can come to describe it is... let me see...pity? No, though there was some of that. Love? Perhaps. Compassion! That's it. It was as though he was looking at ME with compassion. I had the power of life and death in my hands -- his life -- and he's looking at ME with compassion. It was so absurd that it unnerved me.

And that conversation about truth! Everyone knows that truth is relative, changing with our experience. Yet when I looked at him, he seemed so completely integrated, so sure -- as if behind the man was a colossus, solid and unmoving -- eternal, almost. I had the weirdest feeling I was looking at Truth itself. I had to turn away and give a mocking, "What is truth?" But in a sense I was asking myself the question.... and wondering if he could tell me.

That's when I decided to let him go.

I tried my hardest. I tried to flog and release, and when that didn't work, I used the Jewish feast to release one prisoner, trying to persuade the Jews to accept him as the one. Nothing worked with those unbending fanatics. Then the crowd started getting ugly and it was order first, as always. I washed my hands of the case and let them have their way.

But no matter how much I wash my hands, they still feel smeared with his blood.

I heard some of the things he said from the cross -- strange things to come from a dying man, especially one unjustly tortured. When I heard of them, I had a flashback to those eyes. I thought I saw that same compassionate look that unnerved me when I questioned him. How could a dying man plead for the forgiveness of those killing him? And did that include me?

I heard he even had words of encouragement to that scoundrel crucified next to him. He spoke as if that wasn't the end of him -- that they'd meet again.

And the eclipse that lasted so long (why hadn't our astronomers predicted that?) at the same time as an earthquake. Was it coincidence that it all happened round about the time of his death?

Yes, I have a feeling that for once I made a mistake. This was one man I should have let free. Claudia thinks so too. She's not one to nag, but she she told me on the day of the trial, and I've never heard the end of it since!

But why should I worry? No-one can touch me. I'm Pontius Pilate and I have all the power of Rome behind me.

Yet, this one thought keeps bugging me:

"What if he wasn't just a man?"

Born Ugly

There are few who get a worse deal in life than those with severe facial deformities.

As the anaesthesiologist for the Pietermaritzburg Craniofacial Unit, I saw these patients a month before their surgery, when they came for assessment and planning of their operations.

Some, like Peter, had arrested growth of their mid-face. His nose was squashed against his face, and his jawbone, carrying his lower teeth, protruded far beyond his uppers. His eyeballs, bulging like a bullfrog's from shallow undeveloped sockets, seemed about to fall onto his narrow cheeks. His profile -- with a small mid-face wedged between normally developed foreheads and lower jaws -- was C-shaped punctuated by his enormous, protuberant eyes near the top and protruding teeth at the bottom.

Others had eyes as much as eight centimetres apart, giving their faces a peculiar triangular shape, while others had sharp pointed noses, almost no cheekbones and a receding chin, making them look like strange birds.

One child had a huge cleft that extended through his palate, along his nose and beside his eye. His mother, In a wonderful expression of grace and love, had named him Goodenough.

Many of these unfortunate people were kept holed up in a back room out of society's sight.

What do you do when you have a face that makes people recoil when they see you? Characteristically, when I saw them at the Clinic, they looked down, first to the right then to the left, trying vainly to hide their faces, the source of their ugliness, too ashamed to look up or look me in the eye. In spite of my caring, and being there to help, they endeavoured to hide.

How like them we sometimes are with God -- trying in vain to hide because of who we are, unwilling to see that He is loving and caring, looking beyond our ugliness of our sin to what we can become in Him.

For, indeed, in a physical sense, that's what we did in the Clinic. We looked beyond what they were, to what they could become. The Surgeons took photographs, measurements and 3D CT scans, and devised the operations together. Later, they used the CT scans for computer simulations of what they planned to do. I evaluated the patients for the anaesthetic risk, how best to produce optimal operating conditions, and what postoperative ICU management they would need.

Can you imagine what it must be like to spend most of your young life locked up or hidden away? Imagine having people shudder and look away when you walk down the street.

Now, picture looking at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes no longer bulge, but gaze back clear and straight, you smile and your teeth are in line; in fact for the very first time you can feel your upper and lower teeth meet when you chew your food. You walk down the street and no-one stares. You are free. What you were is behind you now. You can dream and plan.

In all my years of practice, I can think of few things that gave me more satisfaction than having one of these patients, now normal in appearance -- sometimes frankly beautiful -- look me in the eyes and smile.

Yet many of the patients had skills to learn and habits to unlearn. Early on, the Craniofacial Unit incorporated psychological counselling as part of the treatment. The stigmata of past rejection lingered; many did not know how to deal wisely with their newfound freedom. In the fresh joy of being accepted, they trusted all and sundry and some -- particularly the women -- were taken advantage of by unscrupulous men.

Again there are parallels with our spiritual walk. As Jesus sets us free from the terrible ugliness of sin, there are bad habits to unlearn, and new wisdom to be gained. We need discipleship and wise counsel.

In a sense, each of us is like a craniofacial patient, though many do not realise it. We have been born into the distortions of God's beautiful plan for us by the ugliness of sin. Deep down, we know we have an ugly side, which we try desperately to hide, though God, of course, sees it all. He has all the means to transform us, but we need to come and ask.

When we do ask, and allow Him to change us, nothing gives Him greater pleasure than to see us smiling confidently, able to look Him in the eyes. Because of what He has done at Calvary, as we come to Him in faith, we're sure of our beauty as His new creation, ready to plan and dream.

Yet, like the craniofacial patients, we must learn to walk in our new life. The stigmata of negative thinking and bad habits need to be broken through mentorship and wise counsel.

As the craniofacial patients, radically changed visibly, need to learn the invisible qualities of wisdom, integrity, self-confidence and trust, so new believers, also radically changed, but on the inside, also need to learn to walk in holiness, allowing the Holy Spirit to mould and fashion them into the likeness of Jesus.

The song

Alistair rubbed his eyes as the faint light brushed the curtains. He blinked, shook the lingering mists from his mind, threw back the duvet and stumbled to the window and the light. The parting curtains revealed fingers of pink and gold that stretched from the eastern horizon across heaven, thinning as they approached him, to reveal the morning star. The scent of jasmine caressed him through the open window. He shrugged it off.

"Morning has broken," he muttered, "yet again."

In spite of himself, however, he could not repress a lift in his spirits, as a half-forgotten song tried to surface, notwithstanding his efforts to squash it.

Morning has broken

Like the first morning

The tune echoed in his head like the soft bells of a distant cathedral.

"But it's not like the first morning, is it, Lord? Everything's changed.

He tried to quell the song to assuage the guilt. He shouldn't feel happy while he was mourning for Jill; yet the song persisted, as though the voices of a thousand saints who had sung it through the ages were urging him to join them.

Almost absent-mindedly, he started humming the tune.

Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning......

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy --- My joy --- comes in the morning."

Where did that come from? So clear was the whisper that Alistair looked behind him. There was only the empty bed.

He'd heard that before. Where was it? Oh yes. At Jill's funeral. The pictures flashed before him yet again. The phone call. The rush to the scene. Ambulance sirens. Intensive Care. Finally, the weight of the doctor's hands on Alistair's shoulders and the look of deep compassion in his eyes. Night closing in. Deep, black, night. Three people in each other's arms, sobbing till their hearts physically ached.

Bill and Susan had been wonderful since then. The young seem more resilient. Though they loved their mum dearly, they were able to pick up their lives and move forward.

But he was stuck in the silence and blackness of night.

Until now.

What was happening? Something was bubbling to the surface --- crystalline champagne laughing through the brooding. Alistair was still in his pyjamas as he tossed his reluctance to the wind and surrendered to the song. His deep-throated voice, made deeper by the early morning huskiness, filled the room, the house, the universe, with praise.

Mine is the sunlight

It was streaming through the window now.

Mine is the morning

"Yes, God. I choose to receive Your mercies, new every morning."

Praise with elation, praise every morning.  Only a Christian knows the paradox Alistair experienced as the joy accompanying his praise did not eliminate the pain, but mingled with it in a divine dance of anguish and delight.

God's re-creation of the new day.

\------------- o -------------

The special ring that told Susan it was her dad seemed to reverberate in a minor key that tore at her heart. She braced herself for yet another dark comforting session. Poor Dad. He's lost without Mom.

Bill looked at her expectantly as she answered. He saw her eyes widen, her jaw drop and then her lips break into a broad smile as animated chatter and laughter filled the room like confetti dancing in sunlight.

When she finally said goodbye, she turned to her brother.

"God's done a miracle with Dad. He's put a new song in his heart. It's no longer a dirge."

Her eyes sparkled as she hugged her brother and swung him around. "Nothing's changed --- in his circumstances, I mean." She bubbled and sparkled. "But everything's changed. He still loves Mom dearly, of course, but he's able to hand her over to God and live with the beautiful memories."

She threw herself onto the sofa. "He's going to sing again. Oh, how I've missed that lovely rich baritone these last two years. He's rejoining the choir. He says he's going to request that the first song they sing when he's there is Morning has Broken."

He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the LORD and put their trust in him. (Ps 40:3)

The Face

His face was hard and battle-scarred  
His narrowed eyes were filled with hate  
He looked at me, then looked away  
The man behind the grate.

I smiled at him and said hello  
The cold eyes didn't hesitate  
He faced my stare, then gave a scowl  
The man behind the grate.

I wondered what had put him there  
What evil did he perpetrate  
To send him into solit'ry  
Alone behind the grate.

It's usual when we go to pray  
And walk the prison floors till late  
To see the faces and the hands  
Pressed hard against the grate.

They want the touch they want to see  
Who's come -- who doesn't hesitate  
To show His love and Christ-like care  
To those behind the grate.

But in that solitary cell  
A man who roared against his fate  
Sat eaten up with bitterness  
And glowered through the grate.

It seemed to me that as I looked  
I saw like a precipitate  
The smut of evil clinging to  
The crossbars of the grate.

Then ... in the face behind the bars  
I thought I saw a child of eight  
Being bruised and beaten, kicked and cursed   
Brought up on fear and hate.

And then I saw another face  
The Man who sealed my fate  
He too was beaten mocked and scorned  
Like that behind the grate.

Lord Jesus You have been with him  
His sin -- You bore its weight  
You know the pain behind the scowl  
Of him behind the grate.

Be with him now, he needs your love  
To melt his pain so great  
Embrace him with Your nail-pierced hands  
Let love replace his hate.

Imprisoned in that lonely cell  
Let all his fear abate  
Be with him, let him feel you sit  
With him behind the grate.

He can be free, he can rejoice  
He can appreciate  
A Lord, a Savour and a Friend  
Who's with him by the grate.

For everything that he's endured  
You can ameliorate  
Though he's restrained by prison bars  
You are the way, the Gate.

You melt a raging heart of stone  
That seeks to make men quake  
And take him through the Gate, to heav'n  
Far from the fiery Lake.

You're with him in his prison cell  
You'll set him free and take  
His spirit to a spacious place   
While still behind the grate.

Miracle at Bethesda

In a sense I was resigned to my fate, though I was in a place of healing. When the wall collapsed, trapping me under it, I should have died. For many years I wished I had, for what is life with useless, numb legs and spastic arms?

Martha, bless her, was wonderful the way she carried me, washed me and fed me, putting up with my misery as I cried out against my fate. Slowly, I adjusted to my condition though an anger against God simmered in my soul for allowing this.

One day Martha came from the market with excitement in her eyes. "A group of women were talking about a man who was healed of blindness at a pool called Bethesda. Every now and then the water stirs and the first one into the pool is healed. I'll see you are carried there each day."

"It's no good, Martha. I'm a cripple. Can't you accept me as I am?"

Martha glared. "Don't you want to get healed?"

I struggled with my thoughts. Why was I so reluctant?

"I think I'm scared. What if I get my hopes up and nothing happens? What if I stop accepting the way I am? Can I live with constant dissatisfaction with my lot?" Yet part of it was guilt. I knew what I had been doing when the wall fell on me. I couldn't tell Martha. Perhaps I deserved what I got.

Martha was persuasive.

For three long years someone carried me to the porch surrounding the pool. All around was the pall of sickness and despair. Blind men tap-tapped their way to a place on the porch, others retched and groaned in pain. Occasionally a demented man cried out and an epileptic shook convulsively. I hated it, though every so often someone would give a triumphant shout and emerge from the water healed. But I knew it could never be me. I could hardly move to the water. Nevertheless, I went every day. Sometimes I'd give encouragement to someone close by, or gain some comfort seeing others worse off than me.

Then, one Sabbath afternoon a man strode confidently onto the porch. "What's he doing here?" I thought, "He doesn't look sick at all."

Catching my eye, he walked up to me. "Hello Simon," he said. How did he know my name? " How long have you been coming here?"

"About three years."

"Do you want to be healed?"

What a question! But then I thought about it. Did I really want to be well? Did I deserve it? Was this my penance?.... No, I decided, I would really like to be well.

"I'm too slow getting to the water when it is stirred, Sir, but I'd give anything to walk again and use my arms properly."

His eyes blazed with righteous fury at my condition and compassion for me as they met mine. His voice reverberated with the authority of heaven itself.

"Then get up. Roll up your mattress and walk out of here."

Power pulsed through my body. My legs tingled. I felt the mattress beneath them as sensation surged back . Strength returned. I stood for the first time in thirty eight years and rolled up my mattress with strong, relaxed arms. Yet the strength in my limbs was nothing compared to the soaring song in my spirit. A crowd was gathering. I looked around to thank this miracle worker, but he had slipped away.

Outside, the Pharisees berated me for carrying my bed on the Sabbath.

They glanced at one another, suspicion evident in their narrowed eyes.

"Who was it?"

"I've no idea. He disappeared before I could even thank him."

I only dropped my mattress when I got home and then it was to prance and dance before my beloved Martha, who had so faithfully had me taken to the pool each day. The memory of her tears and sobbing in gratitude and joy are with me to this day.

Eventually she found her voice. "We must go to the temple and give thanks to God."

In the temple, I suddenly nudged Martha, my heart throbbing. "That's him. Over there. That's him." He turned to me, smiled and came over, as Martha whispered, "That's Jesus. Everyone's talking about him."

"You're looking good." He held both of my hands in his. I wanted to kneel and worship him, but he held onto my hands and continued, "Go your way and sin no more or something worse could happen to you."

Memories flooded back from that terrible accident. How did he know I was going to rob the house when the wall fell on me?

Yet that would be unthinkable now. Not after a touch from Jesus. My heart was filled with gratitude and love for God, and my greatest desire was to follow Him.

For that Sabbath did more for me than just heal my body. It set my crippled, guilty spirit free.

Origins

Patrick O'Donaghue, like a shipwrecked sailor drifting amid the ship's flotsam, sat among his belongings that were strewn over the front lawn. Bridget was weeping and he didn't know how to comfort her. Sean and Mira sat solemnly beside their mother, clutching their soft toys.

Patrick cursed his leg, which had been too inflamed for him to work reliably for the last month. Most of all, though, he cursed his landlord. He'd worked twice as hard when he could, but his landlord didn't notice ---- or chose not to.

The other tenants were sympathetic.....yet he'd heard rumours.......nah, they couldn't be true. Rory wouldn't do that --- or would he?!

Down at the pub, Patrick's plight was the main topic. All agreed the system was wrong. To evict a family without notice or a stated reason wasn't right. In fact, the Irish Land League had drawn up what was known as the three 'f's. Fair rent, fixity of tenure and free sale, and were agitating for the implementation of these.

Someone mentioned he'd heard a rumour that as soon as the eviction order was served, Rory Blake made a bid for the house.

Shaun's eyes smouldered. "A man that does that should be killed."

"Aye. And his house burrned t' the ground!"

The place shook with a vociferous "Aye!" "Aye"

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen." Charles Parnell pounded the table for silence. "There's a more Christian way t'do it. If any man dare be so unkind, he should be shunned. The bartender here should refuse to serve him. Dame O'Malley should serve him no groceries, the postman not deliver his letters, nor the milkman his milk. There should be no greeting in the street --- all services denied."

The rumour proved unfounded, but Charles Parnell's words, repeated at the Land League's meeting some time later, were not forgotten.

\------------- o -------------

Captain Boycott was a mean-spirited, selfish man who managed an estate in Claremorris. Times were bleak after a bad season. The tenants asked for leniency in paying their rent. They were granted a ten percent reduction. It was not enough.

They descended on Boycott's stately home. "Ten percent's too little. Can't y' see we're starving? Give us twenty five."

Before Boycott were men in rags, skinny children and gaunt women trying to feed their children on morsels, but all he saw were troublemakers trampling his garden.

"Get off my land, or I'll set my dogs on you!"

He appeared at the door, the snarling dogs at his feet. As the mob shuffled off, he wrote out eviction orders for 11 of the tenants.

News of the pending evictions, like sparks to a thousand fuses, rushed from ear to ear, inflaming hearts and tempering the steel of resolve to resist.

The Land League backed them, and Parnell's tactics were implemented. The grocer refused to serve Boycott, the laundress wouldn't wash his clothes, the postman delivered no mail, nor the milkman his milk. His nephew, trying to retrieve his mail, was intercepted and threatened. No workers appeared to tend the fields or animals, or work in his house. Anyone who dared to arrive for work was manhandled and sent home. The crop could not be harvested.

\------------ o -------------

Lord Sandler called from behind his newspaper. "I say, Sarah, listen to this. Some poor chap in Ireland has written in, saying his crop is about to fail because the Irish peasants are refusing to work for him. Bad show, I'd say. We should help the unfortunate fellow. We can't let the Irish treat an Englishman like that."

His response to a letter by Boycott to the London press was reiterated throughout England and Northern Ireland. A 'Boycott Relief Fund' was spawned to help him and fifty Orangemen, guarded by 1,000 policemen and soldiers, marched to Claremorris and harvested the Captain's crop. It was estimated it cost £10,000 pounds to harvest the £500 crop.

Yet God favours the poor and hates injustice. The enormous publicity the Boycott incident engendered highlighted the plight of the peasants. Within a year sweeping land reforms, including the Land League's three 'f's were written into law.

It wasn't long afterwards that the same tactic was used in New Pallas. New York Times reporter James Redpath was chatting to Father O'Malley about how to report the incident.

"I don't know what to call their action, Father. When the peasants isolate a wicked landlord it's ostracism, but that's not a word peasants understand. We need a more graphic word."

"Hmm." Father O'Malley's nod showed his agreement. "How would it be to say they 'Boycotted' him?"

Thus a new word was born.

I Did it My Way

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I remember lying on my bunk listening as the moaning wind made our trailer tremble and creak like a frightened creature. The plain pasta sat heavily in my stomach and burned into my throat. My thin blanket failed to stop the cold from settling its icy fingers on my skin. My brother dreamed next to me, moaning and thrashing about and my parents laughed and murmured through the thin walls.

Suddenly, I was sick of it; the scraps for supper, the ill-fitting hand-me-downs, the teeth-chattering winters, and baking, airless summers. I didn't want to see my parents' anxious eyes as they trusted God and wondered where their next meal was coming from.

That pivotal night, my life changed. I forsook family, church, God and friends who couldn't help me in my quest. My sights were set on one thing only. I was going to be rich.

My mother saw my fierce restlessness and tried to placate me. "We may be poor, but we've got each other and we've got God."

I inwardly scowled.

"We may have each other, but we're poor," I muttered to myself, "and we may have God, but He's not helping us. If He doesn't then, by God, I'll help myself."

And I did. God wouldn't like my methods, but I didn't ask Him. From then on I did it my way". I'd rather not say how I got the starting capital. Never touch the stuff myself, but if people choose to ruin their lives and are desperate, and I have a supply......... I've made up for it since, with my donations to charity. It's good for business. The Ian Goodrich Foundation for AIDS orphans has an impressive ring.

And here I am, driving on this hellish night with the wind relentlessly hurling liquid bullets at my windscreen, and sending wet twigs and leaves skittering through the air to be beaten to the ground by the rain. But I'm driving a Porsche, and the Playboy pin-up, who is my third wife, waits for me in my New York penthouse.

People say I've a brilliant business mind, (what a night -- is this rain or sleet?) but I know it's more. It's self confidence. "There are just two ways of doing a deal," I'd tell my subordinates "my way and the wrong way. If you don't like my way, tell me. I'll have your office cleaned out in the morning."  
No, no silver spoon in my mouth. A self-made man and I've made myself pretty good, if I may say so.

Someone tried to tell me about Jesus the other day and I remembered my mom (who doesn't approve of my methods). I remembered her say "We're poor but we've got each other and we've got God." So I told him I've got a poor mother praying for me and that's enough. I'm doing things my way. "Hey, look out, your lights are dazzling me. Dim your light! I can't see in this rain. Get on your side of the road. I can't control this slide. ...No!... a truck!"

\------------------- o ---------------

"Where am I? Why's it so dark?"

"You're on the threshold."

"The threshold? What's that? Who are you?"

"I'm Jesus"

"...................Am I dead?"

"Yes."

"The truck? Jesus, thank God you're here. I knew You'd be here for me. You've seen all the good things I've done; the success I've made of my life, the charities I've supported. You're full of love, I know. Can you let me in now? Into the light? It's so dark here."

"Sorry, Ian, I made a way for you to come in, and there's no other way. It's the way of the Cross. I showed you how. It's the path of humility, putting others before yourself. You might have made it in the world -- you did it your way -- but when I came to save the world from their sin .... I did it My way."

"I am the Way, the Truth and the Life. No-one comes to the Father except through Me." Jesus (John 14:6)

"God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble" (James 4:6. 1 Peter 5:5)

New Life for an Old Man

The old man leaned against a crumbling boulder, surveying the valley below. Fine clothes on bent shoulders, smooth hands and a short-sighted squint betrayed an affluent man of learning. Yet today he felt poverty-stricken and dull. The bleakness of the desert before him reflected the state of his heart.

Beneath an overcast sky, an icy wind blew eddies of dust along the barren spaces. Far below, herdsmen, oblivious to his pain, called to a scattering of sheep, enticing them to a path between the rocky outcrops. They couldn't see the ache, the regrets at not being more firm, more insistent on a different course of action. God forgive me. A gross injustice was perpetrated and he did nothing to stop it. Yet how could he, without facing their derision? Just the mention of the man's name ignited such fury in his colleagues that, like enraged bulls, they lost all reason.

It was all very civilized, of course. There were no violent outbursts. No snorting, pawing the ground and charging; everything was discussed politely, with political correctness. Yet there was no hiding the raging acrimony that burned in their souls. He was a threat. He must be removed.

With fearful eyes and growing alarm, the old man had watched a tactic as well-worn as the institution itself: Discredit the person in the eyes of their constituency, tarnish his reputation and persuade the authorities he is a threat. It had never failed.

It was much harder this time, however. Their "opponent" was quick witted; a man of impeccable integrity. Yet they had won in the end and, though he knew they were making a terrible mistake, he had done nothing. He watched as they had their way, as always, manipulating the people like a merciless juggernaut devouring the masses for its own ends.

Now that it was over, he realized how much he cared. He felt he'd lost a son -- nay, a father -- though he, himself, was twice his age. As they buried him, his timidity -- his fear of their rage at the mention of his name --seemed so trivial, so petty in light of the enormity of the injustice.

This was the third day he had come to his place of meditation. He could not bear to be with his grimly gloating colleagues. Here, in the desert, he could think.

And mourn.

And, perhaps, still pray.

God, are You merciful enough to hear me, though I am such a poor servant? Did You hear Your Son's pleas for You to forgive?

As though the sky mourned with him, dark rainless clouds brooded over the landscape each day, making it an eerie, chilly wasteland.

Yet even as he watched, the clouds were breaking and shafts of sunlight threw beams from heaven into the valley, highlighting the shepherds, as if showering down favour. Inexplicably, his spirit started lifting. Yet I am still guilty. Why, then, do I feel this release? Not understanding, he sank to his knees, head bowed.

Then, like an arrow through the air, he heard his name. Someone was calling him; someone who knew where to find him.

"Nicodemus. Nicodemus. Come down. Come back to Jerusalem."

It's Joseph! He's running. With shining eyes Joseph grasped Nicodemus by both shoulders. "My friend, I have wonderful news! You must come back at once. Jesus is alive. He has appeared to His disciples. He's alive!"

Nicodemus shook his head to clear it. "But Joseph, we buried him together. We both know he was dead. There must be some mista..."

"It's no mistake, Nicodemus." Joseph interrupted excitedly. "He has power over death. It's as you suspected all along. He's more than a man. He's the Lord.

Hurry. He will want to see you. You see, we were in the right place at the right time. It was all in God's hands."

Realisation dawned. Everything was orchestrated by God. The self-elevating religious system was not a juggernaut riding roughshod over the Son of God. It was a pawn in God's hands carrying out His perfect will. Even Joseph of Arimethea, his friend, was perfectly placed for his part, providing a grave for Him with the rich as predicted by Isaiah.

He hurried down the hill, kicking the sand with joy and dancing. The sun broke through the clouds, resting on two elderly men skipping down the mountainside like young calves.

And God smiled. It is indeed finished. There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.

The Day Michael Came

I was content; happily married, fine job, good family, (except for Jonah), nice house.

Then he came.

I'd walked past those like him many times, without a second glance. Homeless people embarrass me. I avoid their eye in case they want something. Often they avoid mine, too. Ashamed of their circumstances, I suppose.

That day, though, I noticed him.

He wore a tatty old coat two sizes too big. His hair was matted. His moustache and beard straggled across his lower face like an untidy Jesus. He should have looked pathetic -- I'd always regarded the homeless as wretched -- but he stood erect with an air of quiet assurance.

I looked him in the eye -- and was transfixed. His clear, acorn-brown eyes drew me into a world of hope and beauty. Something stirred, as though a rainbow settled in the reservoir of my soul. I saw the bland emptiness of my existence, the pointlessness of accumulating status symbols. His eyes revealed something beyond my grasp, something lovelier, like the music of the stars.  
I stood, mesmerised.

He smiled, showing a line of unkempt teeth. "Hello. Thanks for stopping. It's tough when most folk just walk past. If you want to help, I'd be so happy. You see, I badly need a bath. That's the worst of being on the street. You usually get some food but there are few places we can wash. Offering me their bathroom is rather threatening to most."  
I agreed. I wondered what Jane would say about letting him into our pristine bathroom. Yet ... I couldn't leave him. Not after the stirring in my heart.

He extended a hand half enclosed in a frayed finger mitten. "I'm Mike." I grasped it, wondering what the passers-by were thinking.

"I'm Bill. Come. Have a hot bath and a meal."

The brown eyes shone with pleasure, but I somehow felt he was pleased for me, not himself.

Jane's jaw dropped when I opened the door and ushered Mike into our living room. She shook the tips of two of his fingers gingerly as I introduced him. The boys were fascinated. Jonah stumbled across in his spastic gait, and with a crooked smile, tried to speak.

"Huy-y-yo! Moy nay-y-m-s Jo...Jo..Jonnnah!"

Pete explained. "That's my brother. He nearly died when he was born and now he's got cerebral palsy."

Jane retreated to the kitchen and called the boys. I left Mike running the bath, hid the silver, opened the bathroom door a fraction and dropped one of my shirts, trousers, socks and shoes inside. Then I joined Jane and the boys. Jane looked at me with puzzlement and fear. "What are you thinking, Bill? These men can be dangerous."

"I can't explain. Something stirred when I saw him. There's more to life than what we've got, Jay. We must get involved. His eyes.... they touched my soul with music." Her quizzical look and shrug spoke volumes.

The meal was memorable. Mike, clean shaven and dressed in my shirt and trousers had certainly been around. He said he'd shared meals with Hurricane Katrina's victims and rescued people from the Oklahoma bombing; he'd sat in murky hell-holes with those living dead caught in the merciless grip of King Heroin. Jane looked sceptical. I wasn't sure, but the boys were fascinated.

After the meal, he thanked us profusely. "What you did tonight was life-changing. Now I must go."   
I asked him to excuse us and took Jane to the kitchen. "We can't just leave him back on the street, Jay" I whispered urgently, "What are we to do?"

"He's a hobo, Bill. All those stories. We don't know they're true. He could rob us tonight."

"But his eyes. Did you notice his eyes?"

As Jane hesitated, hysterical shouting burst from the living room. We rushed through expecting trouble. Mike was gone. Pete was jumping up and down. "Look at Jonah. Look at Jonah."

Jonah walked slowly towards us testing legs that walked perfectly straight. He smiled broadly, a straight, perfect smile. Then he spoke. "Mommy, Daddy, I can walk and I can talk." Mike did it."

"Where is he, boys?"

"He's just left. Said he heard you in the kitchen. Didn't want to cause trouble between you two."

I ran to the door and peered out. The place was deserted.

\------------ o ------------

Jane and I love our church. We serve in a soup kitchen and realise God's given us our worldly goods to share.  
Now I know what Mike (Michael?) meant when he said what we did was life-changing. He was talking about our lives.   
The music and the rainbow have never left my soul.

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by doing so some people have entertained angels without knowing it. (Heb 13:2)

Provision

It was a cold, blustery day when they buried her husband. Gusts of wind, sweeping past the gravestones blew swirls of dirt from the mound, into the empty grave as if impatient to get it over with. "Michael would approve." Patricia thought. "He was never one for standing on ceremony." Patricia hugged her two daughters as they stood, teary eyed, while the priest intoned. "I am the resurrection and the Life..."

Why, God? Why take him so young? And so suddenly?

The mourners stood silent and still. Some listened attentively. Others, disengaging, stared vacantly ahead. "He who believes in Me, even though he die, yet will he live."

He lives with You, God, but I'm left to live here alone.

"Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes."

It was as the relatives were throwing soil on the coffin that she saw him. At first she thought he'd come to another grave -- but he faced them, his young head bowed. His shoulders sagged and shook slightly and he twisted the edge of his black T-shirt around and around in the fingers of his right hand.

During the final hymn, her eyes travelled to the coffin, to the young man, back to the coffin and again to the young man. Who is he? What does he have to do with Michael?

As soon as the service was over, Patricia moved towards him, but comforting mourners gathered around her, blocking her way. She watched the young man brace himself against the wind and disappear between the tombstones.

Once free, she ran in his direction, but he was gone. Slowly, she returned to her family.

\------------- o -------------

The hole at home was gaping. No cheerful. "Hello, I'm home." Her body ached for his touch. So lonely. So quickly. A gasp, clutching his chest --- and he was gone. How she had enjoyed his deep voice and strong arms. Now there was no man in the house; just a yawning void. Funny how she'd never told him how much she longed for a son. If only....... but it was too late now.

Her thoughts travelled to the graveside and his grieving relatives. She saw the young man, standing at a distance, sobbing, twisting his T-shirt in pain. Who was he?

\------------- o -------------

Patricia didn't realise Michael's popularity until the condolences poured in, giving her new insight into the very private man who had been her husband. Twelve years of marriage, and only now she learned that he climbed mountains, helped at an orphanage, and was a party man at Varsity.

As she tore open another letter, she paled; her hand shook. Michael's handwriting!. It was on an envelope enclosed in another. She read the first letter, which was brief.

"Dear Patricia.

Michael asked me to send this to you, should anything happen to him. I'm so sorry for your loss that necessitates my carrying out his wishes.

Heartfelt condolences.

Barry."

Patricia opened Michael's letter:

"Dearest Patricia

I suppose I've been cowardly in hiding this from you. Please understand, my motive was to spare you pain.

A few years ago, I received a phone call from a girl I dated at Varsity. Imagine my shock when she told me that a few weeks after we broke up, she discovered she was pregnant. She never told me, but brought up her son by herself, in another state. She was back now, sixteen years later and would love her son to meet his dad.

I was shattered and excited, but terribly afraid it would affect our marriage, so I said nothing. I've grown to love Jimmy (yes, that's his name) dearly. If I go, he'll need someone to love him. His mother's moved in with an abusive man, so he's in digs by himself. I've been seeing and supporting him.

Please, darling, don't be angry. For my sake, look after him.

Your loving husband

Michael"

A slip dropped from the envelope with an address.

Patricia's knees buckled. Heart pounding, she prayed. "Why, God, why? Why the secrecy?"

Silence.

"What am I to do?"

Suddenly her mind was filled with Scripture verses she'd learned as a child.

A Father to the fatherless, a defender of widows.(Ps.68:5)

He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow.(Deut.10:18)

He is now fatherless and I am a widow. Are You putting us together? Will You be our defender?

I prayed for this child, and the LORD has granted me what I asked of Him.(1Sam 1:27)

I wanted a son. Is this Your answer?

A deep peace filled her heart.

She called out to her daughters. "Carol, Stephanie! Come. How would you like to meet your brother?"

The Mocking

At the cathedral exit, Jacques paused and looked at his friend. "Wait here. I'm going back to shock the priest out of his cassock!" Turning back to the aisle, he made his way towards the confessional.

Jacques and Mario were touring the world and having a blast. Cathedral tours were not usually included with the beaches, night clubs and extreme sports, but this one was supposed to be famous. Jacques found it ornate, cold and otherworldly. He needed to inject some fun.

Drawing back the curtain of the confessional, he sat down. "Father, I have sinned," he said in a contrite voice.

"Nothing is beyond God's forgiveness, my son. Please confess your sins."

Jacques, his imagination at full sway, recited in lurid detail, stories of every abominable sin he could think of. He had murdered, he said, fornicated, cheated, lied, blasphemed and betrayed. Finally he stopped, waiting for a response.

After a silence the priest spoke up in deep, clear tones. Was there a slight mocking? Had he seen the prank?

"My son, you have much to repent of. This is the penance: At the life-size crucifix overlooking the chapel to your right, look into the face of the statue of Jesus hanging on the cross and repeat ten times, "Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." Then, with the hint of a smile in his voice, he said, "Do not let the game end here. Carry it through to the end."

So he DID know. Oh well, Jacques would accept the dare.

He found the crucifix easily. He never understood this Jesus thing. Why did people make so much fuss about a man on a cross improbably taking our sins? Was the story true? It seemed unlikely. Uncertainly, he started. "Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care. Jesus, you are hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." Gaining confidence, he made it part of the fun. Beating his breast in mock despair, in a cracked voice he called, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done," then he straightened himself, looked defiantly at the statue's face and spat out the words, "and I don't care." He tried looking him in the eye, daring him to flinch, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done and I don't care." There, that was four times. Six to go.

On the seventh time, as he looked into that face, he noticed, for the first time, how the thorns of the crown pierced the skin of his forehead, causing blood to trickle down into his eye. Inexplicably, he felt an urge to wipe it away. "This is silly. It's only a statue!"

The next time, his eyes wandered to the hands fiercely impaled with large, rough nails. Again he noticed the blood trickling, this time, from the palms to halfway along his arms before forming drops that hung, about to fall. "Jesus, you're ... you're hanging there ... for all I've done, and ..... and I don't care." He forced the words out. "I am just talking to a statue." Why, then was he feeling so emotional about it? He looked back at the face. Those eyes; they seemed to know what he was saying and yet remained with that same compassionate look. Of course they would. They were the eyes of a statue. And yet.... what if it depicted a real person?

Two to go. He started, "Jesus, you're hanging there for all I've done and.... and... " He felt his knees shaking, then giving way. On his knees he started sobbing, "and I DO care, Jesus. I'm not that callous. Or maybe I am. I am sorry. I am so sorry that you had to do this for us. Why do you love us so much? How could I not care, Jesus, when YOU care so much? Forgive me, please. I don't ever want to willingly do anything that makes me more responsible for your suffering."

As he knelt before the cross, a tangible peace flooded his soul. Through his tear-filled eyes he half-imagined Jesus coming off that cross, laying a forgiving hand on his shoulder. And he felt clean; for the first time he could remember, he felt washed from the inside out. He looked up and saw the man-God behind the statue. He also saw, in every repeat of his own mocking another reason for those brutal nails. And, born again, he wept.

The Meeting on the Shore

They say we're full of energy  
They say we're full of steam  
We get things done no matter what   
We're loud, we're brash, we scream.

We're called the Sons of Thunder  
'Cos we rumble and we roar  
Our tempers flare with every dare  
We're volatile, for sure.

We help Dad with his business  
He's into catching fish  
We mend the nets, repair the boat  
Fulfil his every wish.

For he's the thunder, we're his sons  
We dare not disobey  
Or else he'll shout and stamp and curse  
That's how he gets his way.

And that's the way we've learned from him  
Our nature's fire and steam  
And yet.... at night when all is still  
I sit outside and dream.

I see the moon across the lake  
The myriad stars above  
And deep inside this brawling man  
A small boy longs for love.

I know that there's a God up there   
He's infinite, that's clear  
Yet what's He really like inside  
What is it He holds dear?

Can He love an angry man  
Who pouts and shouts and swears?  
Does He see my longings?   
Does He really care?

Today I'm at my father's nets  
My brother's next to me  
Who is this man approaching   
By the Sea of Galilee?

He's stopped. He's looking in my eyes  
I'm naked in His gaze  
It seems my whole life's clear to him  
He knows my angry ways.

And yet... there's lovelight in His eyes  
He doesn't seem to care  
That I'm a rough and loudmouthed man  
Who'll loudly curse and swear.

He really likes me, cares for me  
I see it in His smile  
The way He talks is strong, yet kind  
Devoid of any guile.

I want this man to stay with me  
I like Him more and more  
Perhaps He'll help me with the nets  
Stand by me on the shore.

He makes as if He wants to go  
"Don't go." I cry, "Not yet.  
I recognise the love I've sought  
Although we've hardly met."

He smiles at me as if He likes  
The anger, fire and steam.  
Or is He looking deep inside  
And sees the boy who dreams?

"You want me to go fishing, John?  
But come with me and then  
Instead of catching ocean fish  
I'll let you fish for men."

I glance behind and see my dad  
He glares impatiently  
The contrast 'twixt the steam and love  
Is plain for me to see.

I choose the love and leave my nets  
I feel a joy so free  
I'll go with Jesus, Lord and Friend  
I'll let Him tutor me.

I feel the anger and the steam  
Melt as I'm by His side  
This son of thunder's yen for love  
Is being satisfied.

The Lord of heav'n has chosen me  
From long before my birth  
To be "The One Whom Jesus Loved"  
To truly know my worth.

It's not in shouting, being rude  
And brash, to get my way  
It is in loving, being loved  
At home, at work, at play.

And just as He has chosen me  
He'll meet you where you are  
He'll take your anger and your hurt  
And show you how to care.

For if the Son of Thunder  
Can become "The One He loves"  
Then surely He can take your heart  
And make it like a dove's.

He's asking you to leave your nets  
And look into His eyes  
And see that He delights in you  
And wants to heal your sighs.

When tempted to ignore His call  
And stay to huff and steam  
Know, as with me, He sees your soul  
With all its secret dreams.

He'll take you from a churning heart  
That kicks and heaves and shoves  
And soon, like me you will declare  
"I am 'The One He Loves'."

Reflecting God

He was a cripple... through his nursemaid's clumsy handling. Even twenty years later, in his mind he still heard the crack, experienced the searing pain course up his legs and felt them crumple under him as she dropped him and he hit the floor. From then, he hobbled on twisted, deformed feet that refused to take his weight.

His nursemaid was in a hurry, acting in fear. Thinking someone was coming to harm him, she grabbed him and hurried away; but she stumbled on the stairs and he slipped from her grip. There were no bannisters to stop his fall.

It was the death of his father and grandfather that caused her panic. His grandfather was king, and she thought the newly appointed king might annihilate all his family members, so no-one could challenge his rule. So, she hid him....But the king sought him out.

He was a young man, when there was a knock on the door. Machir, the man hiding him, opened it to the king's soldiers. "You have a man named Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan here?"

Machir nodded slowly.

"We have orders to bring him to the palace."

His heart pounding with dread, unable to walk, and with no-one helping him, He crawled into the presence of the king and bowed low, expecting to die. The king's voice was strong and commanding. "You are Mephibosheth, son of Jonathan?"

He answered from a dry mouth and a tongue that moved clumsily in it. "Y-e-s, your Majesty."

"Your father was a great man." He felt a stab of pride, in spite of his terror as the king continued. "We made a blood covenant together. Do you understand what that means?"

He barely heard the words, so great was his fear. He could only croak, waiting for the order to kill him, "I am as a dead dog before you." (2Sam 9:8)

Ignoring his stammering, King David continued. "It means what's mine was his and what's his is mine."

He paused to let it penetrate. "It means for Jonathan's sake, you're now as a son to me." His eyes softened. " How, having loved your father so much, can I not love you, who were so dear to him?"

His servants raised Mephibosheth from the floor and seated him beside the king. From then, his life changed.

Yes, he was a cripple, because of someone's clumsiness, yet he was honoured by King David. He had land, with thirty five servants to work it and look after him; He dined sumptuously at the king's table each day and slept in peace between silk sheets.

\------------ o ------------

I was a cripple, through my ancestors' clumsy handling of the commands of God. Though I was yet to be born, in my mind's eye I hear the seductive whispers, <i>"You will not die... You will be like God."</i> I sense the hesitation, then the careless disregard for the truth spoken by a God who walked with them in the cool of the evening. I hear the crunch of that first bite and the searing pain in their spirits as they dropped all mankind into a spiritual void. The peace of God and sense of His presence dissolved. I see their crippled spirits hiding in fear, lest He slay them.

That's my inheritance. I, too, handled the words of God carelessly. At times, I made clumsy, futile stabs at truth, without God or His Word for reference. At others I guessed in a blundering, half-hearted way at the nature of God. And got it wrong. Afraid He would come at me with condemnation and vindictiveness, I hid in fear, a crippled fugitive.

Yet the God of history brought Mephibosheth into King David's grace as a concrete example to us of His dealings with us.   
When the King of Heaven arrested me, I came trembling, till I heard the words of the Father. "I have a Son whom I love. He loves you so much that He died for you. How, loving Him as I do, can I not love you, who are so dear to Him?" He raised me to my feet and seated me in His light.

Now, as His son I feast at His table, seated with Him in heavenly places. There is room there for all Mephibosheths.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil and my cup runs over. (Ps 23:5)

Plundering a Hell on Earth

Amidst the paradise of the tropical Hawaiian Islands, Molokai was the closest thing to hell on earth. The clear blue skies, azure seas and lush vegetation made a mocking backdrop for hovels housing deformed creatures shuffling in putrefying bodies through barren activities of a meaningless life. Everywhere the stench of rotten flesh hung like a pall, while the shouts and cries of angry men brawling, carousing and habitually drunk spoke of a people abandoned by society and left, without hope, to rot.

Though not shouting, like the lepers of the Bible, "Unclean! Unclean!" those words rang out unceasingly in their hearts. This was the leper colony of Hawaii where doctors reportedly examined them by lifting their dressings with a cane and left their medicines on a bare table to be collected when they had left. It is no surprise that the decadence and decay in their bodies was mirrored in their spirits.

Then one day, in the person of Damien de Veuster, a Roman Catholic priest, Jesus came.

The Catholic church was aware of the appalling conditions on Molokai. Reluctant to sentence anyone to a life in such horrendous conditions dealing with a contagious disease, they called for volunteers to go there for three months before being relieved.

Father Damien volunteered.

On arrival in 1873, he immediately set about showing the people their dignity as beloved children of God, made in His image. He honoured those who had died by giving them a proper burial, personally digging graves and making proper coffins. He protected the cemeteries from marauding wild pigs and dogs, enlisting the help of those still capable. When his three months was up he elected to stay.

To restore the dignity of his flock, he made an agonising, Gethsemane decision. He would show them love in every way, casting aside his own fear of leprosy. So he dressed their wounds -- sometimes rushing outside for fresh air before returning to the stench of gangrenous flesh; he hugged them; he shared their meals; he anointed their leprous foreheads with oil and drank the communion cup with them.

He so identified with them that in talking about them, he spoke of 'we lepers', though there was no evidence of the disease in him. He wrote: "...I make myself a leper with the lepers to gain all to Jesus Christ. That is why, in preaching, I say 'we lepers'; not, 'my brethren....'"

In the meantime, he enlisted their help in restoring the settlement. Working tirelessly, the hovels were replaced by neat lines of painted cottages with their own gardens, the church was extended and a hospital and orphanages built.

Slowly the dignity of the people was restored. The church was packed and the gospel fearlessly proclaimed.

Then one day, as he warmed his feet in scalding water, he felt no pain... He had contracted leprosy. Working feverishly to complete his many edifying projects, he now felt the full brunt of prejudice and loneliness of the disease.

Prohibited from seeing his fellow priests and travelling freely, he remained with his beloved flock as the disease progressed. Some people, regarding the disease as the judgement of God, linked it (quite erroneously) to a licentious lifestyle. In many quarters he was despised and rejected.

Finally, in 1889 at the age of 49, he died of the disease.

"This is how we know what love is," says John, "Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for others."(1John 3:16)

John also tells how Jesus, after washing His disciples' feet said to them, "I have set for you an example that you should do as I have done for you."(John 13:15)

How closely Father Damien followed the example of Jesus! Jesus touched a leper. Damien washed their wounds. Jesus humbled Himself, became a man and took on the form of a servant. Father Damien served his flock tirelessly, calling himself 'we lepers' until he became one.

Who can doubt that, in following His example, Damien brought Jesus to the settlement of Molokai.

Physically, he plundered a hell on earth, transforming it into a beautiful settlement.

Spiritually, the wails of a population rejected by man and destined for hell became songs of a loving community destined for a life with God; the God who shone through a man who dared to take radically, Jesus' exhortation to follow His example.

Soliloquy of Moses

You were in it from the start:

As my head was squeezed till I thought it would surely burst and then, with a gush of water and blood, I emerged to gasp and slowly blink my eyes in wonder at this strange new world, You were there supporting me.

Born a boy and considered dangerous, I was decreed to die; but You were there nurturing and supporting. Amidst the carnage, and the moans of mourning mothers, You held me firm. You leaned, unseen, into me. Among the reeds of the Nile, You rescued me.

From the start, You formed Your words in me. Like the writings in a holy book, You wrote my life's story, destined to ring through the ages. And, like a bookend, You propped me up when I leaned and threatened to fall. In all of my mistakes, You were there.

Reared in Pharoah's palace, You kept me as a Jew, so I could bear it no longer as I saw my fellow beaten. I retaliated.

"Murderer!" they shouted -- and I knew they were right. Yet You spared me the ultimate price.

With me as I fled, You supported me, writing, writing, writing into my life; forming the book that was to be me. You took me to palaces, deserts, through thick darkness, plagues and visions of Your flaming light; through defeatist murmurings and victory songs.

So many times I faltered. Stammering, unsure, I would have fallen from the shelf, pages torn, story unfinished, but as I leaned on You, You held me till Your support became my delight; till I knew, deep in my heart, that without You I was nothing but a few scraps of paper with meaningless scribbles. Until I begged You not to leave.

Oh, the stories written in the pages of my life. What a book! Sweltering days and freezing nights; acmes of ecstasy and valleys of dark despair; ferocious fighting, rebellious dissenters and tired, angry mobs, wailing for water or moaning for meat.

You wrote my story from start to finish. I didn't want it, but You ordained it, and how glad I am that You did.

That You should choose me to be Your Deliverer is more than I can fathom.

That You should talk with me face to face, revealing secrets long hidden in You -- secrets of our origins so that I, as part of my story, would write more manuscripts, starting with the Book of Beginnings.

And now You have revealed that it's time to close this book.

I am on the mountain overlooking the Promised Land. Far in the distance, I see what we have been longing for these past 40 years. You told me I shall not enter it -- but I am content with my story, for it is not really mine, but Yours. It is the story of Your sustaining faithfulness, Your sustaining grace in times of failing, Your sustaining purpose for Your people and above all, Your sustaining love. Each man, each family, each tribe is a book of Your writing. Like divine bookends, from Egypt to the Promised Land, You have supported them, holding them together as a nation when they should have fallen apart.

As for me, my story is told. I am satisfied. It is time to remove the bookend, my God. Let me fall to the dust from whence I came, while my spirit breaks free and soars to You without restraint.

(Extra)Ordinary

Shadows dance on the stable wall, leaping and receding with the flickering flame. The man, candle held high, draws his wife close. Together they gaze adoringly at the soft new face, the puzzled eyes blinking slowly, uncomprehendingly, at the first perception of light. Banished are the memories of the frantic, fruitless search; the desperate plea, "Even your stable will do."; the hastily spread blanket to soften the straw; the contractions, the rush of water and blood; the first cry; trembling, unfamiliar masculine fingers tying the cord, severing the afterbirth, wrapping the child. For now, there is wonder. Wonder at the miracle of that first breath, at perfect little fingers and toes bending, straightening, trying out this new world.

Humanity at its most poignant, most vulnerable, most heart-warming.

Yet hardly earth-shattering. Not to the passer-by.

So much to overwhelm, with the census. So much to engage the crowded dusty streets for: Accommodation, provisions, registration. No time for a second glance at the new family. History is made at Caesar's census booths, not in a stable.

Yet heaven holds its breath, angels gaze in awe, the scene reverberates through the cosmos and history tilts upward as He, who once hurled galaxies, lies helpless in a mother's arms. The extraordinary wrapped in the ordinary.

How often God wraps the extraordinary in the ordinary:

The leader of God's nation hidden in a stammering old refugee. (Moses)

A king clothed as a shepherd boy. (David)

The very Word of God enclosed in personal letters from prison. (Paul)

Angels entertained as strangers. (Hebrews 13:2)

A carpenter's son packaging the Creator of all He spoke to; of all that shone upon them from the heavens; of all that nourished and preserved them.

And now, ordinary citizens, the wrapping for recreated beings; Creator's children; God-bearing vessels; channels of His very Spirit. Mingling unnoticed with the ordinary. Yet extraordinary. (2 Cor 5:17, 1Cor 3:16)

God, give me eyes that look beyond the wrapping.

Beyond the cantankerous old woman to the bearer of Your word to me for today.

Beyond the brash young boy to Your sonnet, scripted exclusively at the dawn of time. (Eph. 2:10)

Beyond the criminal, the patient, the hungry beggar to an entrance to Your heart --- treasures hiding in the world's trash. (Matt. 25:37-40)

And beyond the stumbling, imperfect church to a glowing, resplendent Bride treasured and transformed by her majestic Groom of Glory. (Eph.5:25-27)

The Journey of a Lifetime

Here I am again, back to the familiar where nothing's changed. I see I left a shirt on the bed and crockery drip-drying by the sink.

It seems incredible that this place -- this home -- should be just as I left it, when God's light is rampant on earth. And I've been part of it. What a journey! It was a spur of the moment decision, but the best I've ever made. I teamed up with Theo, and we just decided we'd take a road at random and see what village it led to.

The wiry old man sitting outside his house had half a dozen children playing at his feet. That gave us an opening.

"Are those your grandchildren, old man?" I asked.

His face softened and his eyes brightened as they wandered, first to them and then to us.

"All of them," he said.

Theo joined in. "Children are so trusting."

The laughter lines creased around his eyes. "They come to me with anything."

"Did you know that's the way we must enter the Kingdom of Heaven?"

The old man stiffened, his face suddenly hard. "Trust God like the children trust me?" He looked at the ground, frowning. "No. You see, I've had experience, which these children haven't had." His eyes misted over."I know what it's like to pray to God and have a silent heaven."

It was my turn. "Will you tell us about it?"

He stood up. "Come. I'll show you."

He opened the gate and ushered us into his home, leading us to a room at the back. On the way, we heard cries and the pounding of heels on the floor. He opened the door a fraction and bade us look. In the middle of the room tied to a pole that was fixed to the floor was -- what was it --- an animal? No, although like a crazed beast, its eyes burned with fury, the head swayed back and forth and the heels drummed up and down, up and down while it wrenched at the ropes holding it to the post. It was barely recognisable as a young girl, tormented and crazed by a thousand demons.

Closing the door, the old man took us to his sitting room. "That's Lydia. I've prayed to God day and night for my grandchild, but He's not listening." The tears glistened on his lined face. "Can you see why I cannot trust Him as a little child?"

I glanced at Theo and saw his face shine. "Sir, God has heard your prayer. His timing is perfect. He wants you to know about His Messiah. He's come to save us from our sins and deliver us from the oppression of the Evil One."

He told him the good news of Jesus, the Messiah. On finishing, he said, "Now, take us to Lydia."

It was our first taste of the power Jesus gave us. With screeching and a stench that filled the house, the demons fled. Lydia's eyes softened, her face transformed and she spoke to her grandfather in a voice as sweet and clear as a mountain stream. "Thank you, Grandpa for praying so earnestly for me." She smiled as she held the weeping, trembling old man. That evening we preached to a packed house. Lydia, had waltzed around the village in a dance of joy, spreading the good news. The Kingdom of God permeated the whole village as we stayed at the old man's home preaching, teaching, healing the sick and driving out demons in the Name of Jesus.

Then we moved to the next village and the scene was repeated as we used Jesus' strategy, staying in people's homes and ministering from there.(Luke 10:7) We'd never experienced such power.

Finally, after filling village after village with the light of God, we reported back to Jesus. "Even the demons obeyed us!" we exclaimed with excitement. The other seventy disciples had similar stories.(Luke 10:17)

But Jesus warned us, "Don't get carried away with the power I've given you. Remember from whence it came and rejoice that God has chosen you to be with Him."(Luke 10:20) It was a sober lesson. I admit, the power had gone to my head a little.

And now, my little home, it'll be good to sleep in my own bed with familiar things around me, but then I'll have to say goodbye to you. You see, there's a Messiah who has no place to lay His head,(Luke 9:58) and I'll be following Him wherever He goes.

Scorched Earth, Seared Soul

James sifted through the charred ruins, looking for valuables.

His mind raged thinking about the stubborn Afrikaans farmers, turned guerrilla fighters who refused to admit defeat. They harassed and killed the British at every opportunity. Now Lord Kitchener had employed a Scorched Earth policy, capturing the women and children and burning the crops and houses to starve the menfolk into surrender.

James kicked aside a charred doll, a broken mirror, burnt dresses and bonnets. The woman and her children would have been dragged from the house and incarcerated in a concentration camp under appalling conditions of starvation, exposure and disease, such that 26,000 would die in two agonising years. Rummaging through the smouldering remains, he pocketed a necklace and rings, but found little else. He'd heard they hid their silver when the British were close.

He wandered over to the charred stable. Nothing here. Unless their silver's hidden here. What's this? ... A loose stone in the wall. He pulled it from its position, revealing a deep recess. His pulse beat at his temples. He reached inside, extracting --- not silver, but a small book. He felt again and pulled out a violin. Intrigued, he sat and read.

31st Jan 1901

Petrus is no soldier, but what can you do when your livelihood is threatened? The poor, sensitive man. I know he'd prefer to be with me, Sarie and Hannah.

James felt a twinge of conscience. I'd rather think of him as the enemy, not a sensitive man.

He read on:

2nd Feb 1901

Praise God, Petrus came home last night. He looked exhausted. My heart broke for my darling husband. To ease his mind, we reminisced about the happy days of farming, the thrill of my pregnancy; how he played his precious violin to the new baby.

3rd Feb 1901

One all-too-brief day at home to be fed, washed and rested, before returning to fight. Poor, man. How he hates this war. Dear Lord, let it be over soon.

James thrust the book away. I didn't come to read this stuff. Lousy Afrikaners. Where have they hidden their silver? He rummaged through the stable, but his heart was not in it. Images filled his mind of Mary and Jonathan safely in England. He missed them, but at least they were safe, far from this vicious war. Like a magnet, the diary drew him.

9th Feb 2001

I haven't seen Petrus for five days. The British are getting closer --- they're burning all the farmhouses and crops. What'll we do if they come here? Lord Jesus, have mercy on us. Almighty God, protect Petrus.

11th Feb 2001

Still no word. The British are almost on us. We've nowhere to go. I fear for the children. Yet I know God is always with us. Whatever fire or flood we go through, He promises in Psalm 66, He'll bring us to rich fulfillment. Perhaps that will be when we see Him face to face, or perhaps we'll see it here on earth. Only He knows.

James' heart was bursting. In the smoking ruins, he saw the ruins of a devoted, loving family.

He turned the page. It was blank. He realised today was the 13th February. Idly, he turned the blank pages, eager for more. Five pages on, he found more.

Dear British soldier

If you find this, it will mean we've been killed or captured. Please understand. I know you are far from home and from your own family. Perhaps you do not even want to fight this war, like my Petrus. I don't know how many Boers you have killed (perhaps even Petrus), but know that I forgive you. You see, I know what it's like to be forgiven much. I have a Saviour who has forgiven me.

James' knees shook. Memories flooded back of soaring choruses bursting from his village church and entering his heart. He pictured this devout little family kneeling in prayer --- and now ripped asunder. He wiped his eyes to read on.

I urge you to see us, not as the enemy, but children of God, as you are. Ask God for forgiveness and come to Him. Live as the child He'd like you to be.

Sobs burst uncontrolled from James as he read.

If you do that, I'll see you in heaven and introduce you to Petrus.

James knelt in the ashes and, in a stable, like the place where it all began 1900 years earlier, Jesus entered his world and his heart.

The Seeker

Wild-eyed and dishevelled, he roamed the streets and alleys peering in the doorways, tearing at his hair, distraught and distracted.

"I'm looking for Love. I've lost it. Has it left? Is it hiding? Has it gone forever? "

Hedon looked over his tankard and gave a snigger. "Still looking, old man? No luck yet? Try the whore house. There's plenty will love you there, for a fee."

"Oh, help me, help me please. I'm looking for Love. I've lost my love. Has the whole world grown cold?" His hands shook, causing his matted locks to tremble around his face as he staggered on.

"Come in here, wild man, and learn from me." A fat man in a business suit sat at a table. A girl sat on his lap; men hovered, fawning around him. Money bags littered the table. "Make your fortune and the world will love you. Look at you, penniless old beggar. Who will love you like that?"

A haunting wail left the old man's lips. "Oh-oh-oh-oh, the pain. Who will help me? Who can lead me to Love?"

A pretty young lady, barefoot, in a flowing gown and with flowers in her hair, sauntered up to him. She put a flower in his bedraggled mane and kissed him playfully on the nose. "You don't need to look for love. You are love. Love is the god in you. He lives in each of us. Just let it out and you'll find Love.

The old man threw himself on the floor, beating the ground. "Will no-one tell me where to find Love? Love has deserted us. The world is cold."

"Come with me, old hermit." A tall man with a kind face and a long pony tail pulled him to his feet. "I'll show you where to find it." He took him to the country and showed him flowing mountain streams, a pure white lily, snow covered peaks, a soaring eagle. "Look," he said, "at the beauty that surrounds you. In that beauty you'll find Love."

"I see it," the old man cried, his voice sobbing in despair, "but it's remote; it's distant. I don't feel it. I can't find it. I've lost it in the coldness of men's hearts." He hid his face in his hands and his body shook.

For a long time he sat there, shaking. Then a small voice said, "Why are you crying mister?" A little girl stood beside him. As she laid her hand on his shoulder, a glimmer of light touched his soul.

"I've lost Love. It's left this dark world and no-one can find it."

"I'll take you to it." The pure innocence of her voice made him rise. "Come," she said, "We must climb a hill to find Love."

"What is your name?"

She smiled sweetly. "My name is Grace. I'm the one who takes people to Love." She was thoughtful beyond her years as they trudged upward. "I must warn you, love is costly."

"I have no money."

It won't cost you, but it comes at great price."

"Then who will pay?"

At that moment they crested the hill and he stopped in his tracks. At his feet was a man so disfigured he scarcely looked human. Blood oozed and congealed on lacerated flesh; rivulets of scarlet trickled from his brow down a swollen, bruised face.

The girl pointed, her voice trembling. "He will."

The battered man lay on a cross. A bleeding hand was outstretched, a brutal nail of iron poised at its wrist.

"No!' the old man cried, "Stop. Who did this?"

Grace looked at him steadily. "You did...... He's paying the price for your love."

"No. No. Don't do it. I'm not worth this." His eyes were wide, his mouth contorted.

"He thinks you are." The hammer struck the nail. Sinews and nerves split as the man convulsed in pain.

Bewildered, the old man cried out, "This is love? This ugliness? This horror?"

Then realisation struck. He's doing it for me. His face shone with light and a warm peace flooded his soul. "Yes," he said, "this is true love. Love for me. True beauty in the midst of all this gore."

Tenderly, he laid his shaggy head on the torn, bleeding breast, weeping with the love that filled his heart.

"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down His life for us.." 1 John 3:16

Consequences

They walked in light and beauty. The crystal rivers flowed through meadows of sun-tinged green and orchards of trees heavy with fruit. The song of birds filled the pristine air and animals wandered unafraid everywhere. Adam's heart filled with joy as he looked into the eyes of his darling wife; eyes sparkling with life and love.

They rested beside a waterfall. The soft murmur of tumbling water resonated with his deep contentment. Soon the sun's warmth would wane and the evening breeze would stroke the air with coolness.

And God would come.

Not that He was ever absent. He is love and where there's love, He is there. But in the cool of the evening He was manifestly present. They spoke with Him face to face while walking through the garden. Sometimes, He spoke of His love and His plans for them. Sometimes Adam showed Him what he'd been doing that day. Yesterday, he'd told Him the names he'd given the animals that came to him. Always, however, his greatest pleasure was feeling His presence, basking in His glory.

On impulse, Adam jumped up and in one lithe movement of his perfect body, pulled Eve to her feet.

"Come! I'll race you to the centre of the garden."

Eve was up to the challenge and they streaked off --- two splendid athletes running in harmony. Adam slowed as they reached their destination, allowing Eve to arrive first. Laughing, he pulled her to himself as he arrived and felt her lovely body against his. How he adored her! What a beautiful gift God had given him.

Then they looked up at the tree. It looked different today. Its fruit was almost incandescent. Eve put Adam's thoughts into words. "I wonder why God doesn't want us to eat that fruit."

Adam rejoined. "What did He mean when He said we'd die? What is death? Everything here lives forever. How can something cease to exist?"

Suddenly, with a blinding flash a beautiful creature stood before them and spoke in a voice like pure, soothing music. "You won't die. How can you? God forbade this fruit because He doesn't want you to be like Him, who knows good and evil."

Eve looked at Adam. "Do you think God's deceiving us? Holding us back from something He doesn't want us to know? "

Adam shifted his gaze uneasily from the fruit, to Eve and back. "I don't know."

The creature before them shone with light. In his hands the fruit glowed as he spoke. "It's only a little thing. You're not committing some horrific crime. What can happen?"

Adam hesitated. Above them, unseen, the angels watched apprehensively. In the wings, the spectre of wasted victims of the Holocaust, of a billion babies ripped to death in their mothers' wombs, of glazed-eyed living dead languishing in a smoke-laden hell, of battle fields strewn with the bodies of young men waited, ready to be unleashed, pending Adam's decision.

Eve was first. "It's only a bite of fruit. It can't do much damage. God loves us. He won't harm us. He can't mean what He said." She took a bite and gave a murmur of approval. "It's delicious! Have some." She passed it to her husband. He bit into it .......... And all creation convulsed.

For the first time, Adam felt ashamed. "We shouldn't have done that." Suddenly, he was not looking forward to the cool of the day. He looked for the brilliant figure that was before them beside the tree and gasped. Now, a creature dark and hideous, grinned obscenely at his victory.

There was weeping in heaven where there is no time, for there the spectres became reality. And sickness and death invaded. Sickness of bodies and sickness of mind. Sickness of plants and sickness of animals. Sickness of individuals and of societies. Wasted bodies coughing blood, writhing in pain and breaking the hearts of loved ones, entered the world.

Yet, as Adam took that bite and bowed to satan, in heaven --- where there is no time --- God came to the rescue. Nails were plunged into the hands and feet of a Saviour as He hung on a Cross. All the sickness and pain from six thousand years and more was laid on Him.

That bite seemed such a small thing to Adam...... Yet it cost the Son of God His life.

What repercussions might there be to an act of disobedience that we perform that seems so small to us?

Winter, Cold and Bare

In a frozen field stands a tree, bleak and bare. Naked and defenceless against winter's icy blast, its branches stretch imploring, to heaven, apparently lifeless.

Yet this is not death, but preparation time --- a gathering of inner resources in readiness for the next season. Soon the frosty tentacles of winter will lose their grip. New leaves, fresh and fragile at first, will peer tentatively from their protective buds and grow, clothing the tree once more with its summer garment.

I, too, like the tree have been laid bare, my sin exposed to the stark holiness of God; the cold winter of self-awareness and self-doubt stripping me naked....

I'm impulsive by nature and, I realise now, arrogant. I disregard all too readily, the opinions of others, forcing my point of view, insisting I am right. And leading me into winter.

My closest friend is dead. He sensed God calling him to walk into a ministry that would probably lead to this. He knew that, and told us so. I was afraid for him. In my selfishness I tried to dissuade him, though he knew it was God's will. My impulsive words made it even harder for him to obey, but he insisted, rebuking me, exposing my selfishness.

Then came the time that has led me into this winter. People opposed to his message came for him. They bayed for his blood, beating him, accusing him and mocking him. My heart was pounding and my knees shaking. I didn't want to die. I disowned him. Panic rose in my chest like some vile thing clutching at my heart. I cursed and swore, insisting he was a stranger. I managed to escape, but not before his eyes met mine. As they murdered him, I died inside.

Now I walk a lonely road, my real heart exposed. I had assured him I would always be beside him yet, when the test came I ran away. I want to hide, but how do you hide from yourself? Or from God? Cold winter blows eddies of accusation across my soul. Like the tree in winter, I cannot move forward. I'm going fishing.

Yet, perhaps, like that tree, it is preparation time; a time to discover who I really am and in doing so, discover who God really is. My proud heart is broken. I can no longer trust it. I know now, as never before that in me on my own, dwells no good thing. How I now realise my need for him to be the strength in me --- now that he is gone.

But wait! Who is that on the shore? It's Him! He's alive! I hasten ashore and stand beside Him in trepidation, waiting for His rebuke at my cowardice. But what is this I hear? It is the sunshine of God, "Peter, do you love Me?'

Oh yes, give me the chance to say it again, to recant my denial. "Yes, Lord. I love you." The tender shoots are forming. Spring is coming. Now that I know who I am, the grace of God can do its work in me.

"Peter, do you love me?"

Oh, my Saviour, You are the God of second chances. "Yes, Lord, more and more as I discover your grace, You know that I love you. Ask me again. Let me say it again."

"Peter, do you love me?"

"My God, I stand exposed before You and yet You still love me. How could I not love You in return? Summer is here. My pride is crushed and now You can use me. I am ready to feed your sheep"

Today I Will be in Paradise

"Today I will be in Paradise!" Ali spoke quietly as the men strapped the explosives to his body. His father watched, with pride, this prelude to martyrdom. Ali knew his mother was in her room weeping quietly at the harshness of Allah, but his father wanted this. And Ali honoured his father. With the explosive belt fastened in place, in a room filled with turbaned men, he spoke with a firmness that belied his inner turmoil, "Allah al Akbar" "God is Greater" and, rifles raised in triumphant salute, the shout reverberated round the room, "Allah al Akbar! Allah al Akbar!"

He walked down the hill toward the crowded square where men, women and children hurried about unaware of the destruction Ali carried toward them. A young boy greeted him with a bright smile and Ali suddenly had a flashback to his childhood in Lebanon. His best friend, Mikhail belonged to a Christian family, and sometimes Ali slept over at their house. Love and kindness permeated that home. What happy times those were, before his father became obsessed with Jihad. On leaving, the family gave him the Injeel (New Testament) which he read to this day. Of course, he knew about Isa (Jesus) from the Quran, but what Isa said in the Injeel captivated him.

He hastily looked away from the young boy, pushing from his mind a vision of his dismembered body flying through the air at Ali's hand. "Allah al Akbar!" he muttered to himself.

"Strange" he thought, "how the chant was 'Allah is greater!' and not 'Allah is Greatest', as though He was being compared to someone else. Greater than whom? Greater than Isa, than Jesus?" Ali was sweating with fear and the words of the Injeel came to him "Perfect love drives out fear." Isa had an antidote for fear. Allah instilled fear. Did that make Isa greater? He walked closer to the people whose lives would be taken, and with them, his own. The Injeel whispered Isa's words, "I have come that you might have life, and have it abundantly." Which was greater? To take life, as Allah demanded or to give it, as Isa promised?

"Who are you Isa?" "Who are you, Allah?" The questions pounded in his mind as he walked toward the crowded square.

Missionaries had stayed, sometimes, with the Christian family in Lebanon. He knew they were Americans by their accent. Now a crazy thought came to him. Could you distinguish God by His accent? In the confusing language of the Quran and Injeel, could one look behind the words to the tone and inflections? Which accent was God's, that of Allah or Isa?

He remembered his father, unapproachable, filled with hate, drawn into radical Islam and Jihad. Then memories came of tumbling about with Mikhail and his dad on the living room carpet, laughter ringing through the house. Which accent was God's? That of hatred or of love?

"Allah al Akbar!" he muttered again. Or was he? His mother had come last night and wept on his bed. Submitting herself to the will of Allah brought her pain for the rest of her days. Was this the voice of God? Was His accent one of harsh ruthlessness? Isa's words from the Injeel whispered, "Come to Me all who are burdened and I will give you rest .... I am gentle and humble and you will find rest for your soul." How he would prefer that accent of gentleness and approachability for his mother.

Suddenly a rumble came from behind. Turning, he saw a driverless, runaway truck tearing down the hill toward the crowded square. Soon it would plough into the people, crushing, crumpling, destroying as it went. He had seconds to decide. "Who are you God? With what accent do You speak?" He knew the answer before he asked the question. Murmuring, "Isa, You are the truth. I give You my life," he ran towards the truck.

\------------ o ------------

Those recounting the story told it with shocked admiration.

"A huge truck came down the hill straight for us. People were scattering everywhere but it was coming too fast. Suddenly a young man ran towards it shouting "Isa al Akbar! Isa al Akbar!" He leapt in front of it. A tremendous explosion all but demolished the truck leaving a huge hole in the ground and stopping it in its tracks. Who was that man? And why did he die to save us? Whoever he was I am sure he is now in Paradise."

Head Before Heart

I'm a natural cynic. I question everything. I like to see and feel and touch and don't trust what others say. I could see through all the false messiahs that have plagued our nation since Isaiah's predictions. When Judas of Gamala, led a revolt, some called him the Messiah, but I doubted. My doubts were vindicated when his uprising was brutally suppressed and he ended up in a field, impaled on a Roman cross for all to see an insurrectionist's fate.

But Jesus of Nazareth was different. His obvious love, especially for the underdog, the miracles he performed and his intolerance of anything hypocritical made me a follower.

Yet, my critical spirit was still alive, making me doubt.

I recoiled when he spoke about our eating his flesh and drinking his blood. Was he a madman, taking us on a path away from our faith? Didn't he know the rules about drinking blood? And human blood at that? The questions bombarded me like the sparks that fly from a grinding wheel. I nearly joined the crowd that turned away. Then I heard him ask, "What about you? Do you also want to turn away?" and I couldn't help but agree with Peter. "To whom shall we go?". Despite his words, Jesus was the closest to the real Messiah I'd ever encountered.

Yet I wasn't sure. Those words jarred so! My materialist mind missed his explanation. "My words are spirit and they are life." ... But I followed. What else could I do? I loved him and how he changed the lives around him.

The more time I spent with him, the more my cynicism dissolved. I began to believe in him. I joined the others in the joyful dance of life with Jesus. He had such power; he could deal with any opposition. Or so I thought --- until my world imploded. Though never violent like the other so-called messiahs, I watched in despair as he suffered the same fate as Judas of Gamala. The Romans snuffed him out like a fragile candle sputtering in the dark. Where was my Messiah now?

We were all devastated. The cynical voice at my shoulder said, "What did you expect? You see what happens when you don't analyse everything? Remember his incomprehensible words? His mumbo jumbo about only living if you die? About a person having nothing, yet having what he has, taken away?" It continued. "See what happens when you put your heart before your head?"

Seeking solitude, I wandered into Gethsemane, reliving that fateful night. Even the old olives seemed contorted with grief. I walked to the place where Jesus had left us and gone ahead. I knelt where I had slept that night. This time I prayed.

"God in heaven, I thought Jesus was the One. Now I see he's just like the others. I miss him so. I cannot forget the deep love in his eyes. I truly thought he was Messiah. I'm confused and sorrowful."

Gethsemane became my mourning place. Day after day I knelt among the bent old trees.

One day, as I re-entered the room where the other disciples gathered, hubbub filled the air. "Jesus is alive!" buffeted me from every side, in voices clear and strident in their excitement.

My scepticism rose like a rock-solid wall resisting what I was hearing. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't face another disappointment. I'd listened to my heart when I'd trusted him as Messiah. That was dashed at Golgotha. This time I'd listen to my head.

"Impossible. I saw him die."

"But he's risen from the dead."

"Impossible."

"We've seen Him."

"It can't happen."

"Thomas --- dear Thomas. Always questioning. Just believe. Have faith in Jesus."

"I can't trust. I have to see for myself. I must know it's him." I left again to mourn at Gethsemane.

A week later, I was with them again. Suddenly, he was there. There was no doubting it was him. Those loving eyes on me belonged to no-one else. He lifted his hands to show me his wounds. "Come, Thomas, feel them. It's me."

Something like the song of a thousand angels came bursting from within me. Gone was my critical spirit, drowned in the love that poured from me to my Saviour. I knelt before Him in gratitude and praise. My heart was not wrong after all. With all my being I could exclaim, "My Lord and my God!"

The Test

I don't remember a time when my dad didn't look old. To a young boy growing up, he looked ANCIENT. His large hook nose emerged from between the bushiest eyebrows I've ever seen and drooped over a shaggy moustache that blended seamlessly with his flowing beard. The only time you knew he had a mouth was when it was open. What you could see of his face, looked to me like furrows on a leathery landscape to take his sweat and lead it away from his eyes and down into his beard.

But his eyes fascinated me most. Although toffee brown, they shone with an inner light-- as if he saw something in his mind and projected that vision through them. Even when he looked at me, he seemed to be looking both at me and to something far beyond.

Papa was a wanderer. He went where his fancy took him. Or rather, he said he went where God told him to go, although God didn't seem to take him to any place in particular. We just wandered around from here to there, staying for a while then moving on.

The older I grew, the more I respected my eccentric old man. He strode among his herd, with his clothes flapping about him, thrusting his staff deep into the sand, as if to impale some furtive creature lying beneath the surface. Yet his appearance belied an astuteness that, over the years, earned him enormous wealth.

Above all, though, he was a visionary. He genuinely heard God and lived with purpose. Though all we did was wander through the country, he only moved when he was sure he heard from God, and he seemed sure there was a far higher purpose in his doing so. Often, of a night, I'd catch him gazing upward at the Milky Way and the teeming pinpricks of light sprinkled so liberally in the blackness. And he'd mutter "So many. So many." Though I didn't know what he meant, I knew he saw something that I couldn't -- something in his mind that he projected through those glowing eyes into the heavens.

At other times, he'd sit me down to talk. His voice was deep and gruff, like a man used to giving orders, but as he spoke, was modulated by a gentleness that betrayed a deep love of his subject.

"You can always trust God, m'boy. No matter how things seem, you can always trust Him. Sometimes, you haf t' trust Him beyond you years here on earth." His eyes looked at me and beyond. "Yeah, sometimes beyond yer years, but you can always trust Him."

I loved Papa. As he trusted God, I grew to trust Him too, little thinking what a test I would have of my trust of them both.

It happened one day when he said, in a voice more gruff than usual, "Come, boy. God's told me somethin' and we gotta obey."

I was a young man -- in my twenties -- but he still called me "boy".

Taking just one servant, a pile of wood and a firebrand we set off. He was much quieter than usual and talked to himself -- or to God. Every now and again, he'd turn to me, his fiery eyes now watered over, and repeat what he'd said so often. "No matter how things seem, you can always trust Him." Then, sighing, "Sometimes beyond your years, but you can always trust Him."

It was when we got to the foot of the mountain, that I grasped what he was saying. I realized, with foreboding, his agenda. We were going to make a sacrifice, but there was no animal. I knew, from his words and from the way he looked at me, what God had told him to do.

This was my trial, as much as his. I was stronger than my ancient father. I could overpower him and run.

Or trust Papa as I always had done, and trust God as I'd often said I would.

"Sometimes yer haf t' trust him beyond yer years on earth." Could I do that? Could I die trusting him? Or should I run away?

I chose to stay.

Memories

Come, sit with me. Indulge an old man as I reminisce about my youth with these faded photographs. See how strong and confident I look as I hold the Athlete of the Year cup in hard, sculpted arms.With those self-assured, clear eyes gazing straight into the camera, a body firm and lean beneath the shirt, I had the world at my feet.

Now my stomach obscures those feet, the skin drapes over my outstretched arms and hangs in a fold, and my eyes peer mistily from overhanging lids in a lined, weathered face.

Look, here's me beside -- what was her name? --- Julie, at the final year dance; hair slicked with Brylcreem, tuxedo complete with cummerbund, and a face aglow with love. Oh, the soaring heights and plummeting depths of teenage love. I carved Julie's name on my desk, we cuddled at the back of the movies, shared a milkshake and walked hand in hand on the clouds to the moon, Julie's beauty outshining the stars. Then came the misunderstandings, the gloomy aftermath of a quarrel that left me wanting to die, before the lightning trip back to the stars as we made up. Finally, the break-up. The end of the world... until, within a short time, it was Betty, eclipsing all I'd ever known with Julie.

Ah, youth! A time where feelings blaze in technicolour and issues are starkly black or white, with no room for grey. A pivotal time that can set a destiny. A fragile time when the deep questions of life come under scrutiny and demand answers; where, with youth's uncanny spiritual penetration, hypocrisy and superficiality in their elders are perceived for what they are and rejected, and the pressure of peers to conform is all-pervasive.

Look at this picture. See the guy in the middle with long hair, a diamond in his nose and a flambouyant shirt? That's me, wanting to be different. I joined the hippie movement --- a youth movement protesting societal norms. Conventional society was proper in dress code, sexuality and social behaviour, but at the same time perpetuated a war in distant Viet Nam, destroyed nature with industrialisation, and oppressed the poor with greed-motivated capitalism. I didn't stay with the hippies long, though. I didn't go along with free sex (make love, not war --- remember?) or the psychedelic drugs they used.

Now this one --- this is what I moved onto. The long hair is still there, the diamond in the nose has gone and I have a cross tattooed on my forearm (I still proudly have it). I am in the Jesus movement. In a sense, that was still anti-establishment, because it arose from the hippie culture, but it was God-orchestrated. It was where I was born again. Suddenly I knew the truth and, like so many young people, I wanted to change the world.

The Jesus movement started when hippieTed Wise, after nearly overdosing on LSD, went to church with his girlfriend Liz and responded to an altar call. Radically converted, he and Liz, now his wife, reached out to the hippies by starting a Christian commune, called The Living Room. I was one of the more than twenty conversions that took place there every week.

Meanwhile, other revival fires were kindled. Dave Hoyt was a disillusioned Hare Krishna follower who came to Christ. His preaching, with his mentor, Kent Philpott brought hundreds of hippies into the Kingdom. In Pirate's Cove on the Pacific coast, Chuck Smith was baptizing 500 people a month. Many were disheartened hippies.

At the same time God was pouring out His Spirit in the Charismatic Renewal, He was moving among the hippies, bringing to the church a culture of freedom of dress, freedom of movement in worship and the use of contemporary music in praise.

This picture is later. That's me and Jean. I met Jean in the Jesus movement. We settled down and started a family. We lived through sunshine and rain, fire and ice, calm and storm, with Jesus by our side always seeing us through, till He called her home. Look at her sweet face...... How I miss her.

And now my tired old heart is failing, my breath is weak, my joints ache, I struggle to see, to hear and to remember and my hands tremble. The gates of splendour are opening for me. My Saviour awaits to transform this lowly disintegrating body into the likeness of His glorious body (Phil. 3:21).

And I'll be young again. Forever.

The Plague

Dr Valentine Seaman straightened up from Helen's bed. Patrick was beside him. Two little boys stood in the doorway, their faces flickering in the light of the candle they held. Soon they will be without their mother. From his demeanor, Valentine saw that Patrick already knew. With his face contorted and his eyes glistening in the gaslight, he said in a voice like a strangled cry, "She's going, isn't she, Doc?"

Valentine laid a hand on Patrick's shoulder. He couldn't look him in the eye. With the slightest nod, he muttered, "Third one this week."

The doctor could never get used to the futility he felt each time as, each time he watched his patient, jaundiced and unconscious, slipping into eternity. Patrick' faltering words drove the barb home. "I know you did all you could, Doc." But it was not enough \-- and the gasping, "Thank you", left a despairing cry in his heart. Thank me? For what? I couldn't save her.

As the distraught husband took the hand of his unconscious wife and pressed it desperately to his lips, Valentine went to the door, easing past the little boys. "Stay with her, Patrick. I'll find my way out."

The year was 1795 and yellow fever's deadly scythe was reaping its pallid harvest through New York City in an epidemic that left a trail of grieving parents, lonely spouses and orphaned children.

In the pubs the beery boffins asserted their theories:

"It's rats. I've seen 'em nibbling the food. Then someone comes along an' eats that same food."

"Naw, it's in the foul air. Comes across from the piles o' rubbish dumped near the houses."

"Mark my words, it's from the holds of ships. Comes from foreign lands with all that foreign cargo."

But no one really knew. The disease stalked, like a deadly wraith and seemed to strike at random.

\------------ o ------------

All the way home, the rattle of the coach on the cobbled streets was drowned, for the doctor, by the echoes of Patrick's heaving chest and muffled sobs. His lips were set and his mind determined. He would fight this... And a strategy was forming.

The next day, he hired his team, with instructions to map the location of every case of yellow fever in New York. As the results arrived, a pattern emerged. The cases were clustered in certain areas. He visited the locations. What was the common factor? There were cases near unkempt streets, water reservoirs, messy gardens, but most particularly near local waste sites. Suddenly, he saw it. Excitedly, he overlaid the yellow fever map with one that showed the local waste dumps. They correlated.

Trudging through the sites, he saw pools of stagnant water, their surfaces blurred with a million animated mosquitoes. It is interesting that in his subsequent paper, he did not incriminate the mosquitoes, though we know now they are the carriers. However, he identified their habitat as the culprit. It was stagnant water that caused the cries of anguish over New York.

At his recommendation, all sites that accumulated water were dealt with. Sewers were covered, streets were cleaned and paved, areas beneath granaries were enclosed and the stagnant water on waste sites identified and filled in.

Within a short time, the mosquitoes could not breed; and yellow fever disappeared from New York.

Yet a deadly plague continues to stalk our cities, towns and villages. The cries of its victims are sometimes silent screams of the soul, sometimes uncontrolled sobs that would tear at the heart of a listener --- but there's no-one there. At its most obvious, its deadly tentacles leave pallid, passive half-beings with staggering gait and glazed minds. Many times, though, it spreads more subtly, its noxious blows only emerging when the wife and children leave or the business collapses. More toxic even than the waste dumps of New York, these are the waste dumps and cesspools of our lives --- the greed, the resentments and unforgiveness, licentiousness deceit and self-indulgence. It's here that the enemy of God exploits the sin-sickness of our fallen world.

Yet, as Valentine grieved for his dying patients, so the Great Physician grieves for His dying children. It is here, through these toxic garbage dumps that Jesus trudged, fraternising with tax collectors and sinners, challenging the proud and self-righteous, covering their cesspools with grace and truth and love. Finally, He covered every work of Satan with a rugged cross and His scarlet blood. Though the sickness still stalks, we can become immune. The Great Physician has become the cure.

Bless the Lord O my soul and forget not all His benefits. Who forgives my iniquities and heals all my diseases. Who redeems my life from the pit. (Ps103:2-4)

Jesus, Calm the Wildness of my Mind

Wind-swept fury, clattering, battering

When will it stop?

Huge tornado, swirling, churning

Twisting me, sucking me in

I can't breathe

Tossed about, flung, hurled ,

Thrown to the ground

Picked up

And thrown again

Doubt and fear

Make me cringe

I'm far away

Yet the terrors are close

Jesus, calm the wildness of my mind

Past voices

Whisper hideously

"You're no good!"

"You'll never make it!"

"Idiot child!"

I hear the screaming

Fists on flesh

Blows on blood

Crouching in the corner

Too afraid to move

I'm only a child...

Now a ghost-man

Haunted by my past

Jesus, calm the wildness of my mind

In darkened back streets

I wander

Hold on, hold on

Don't let the tornado

Sweep you away

Still the accuser!

Yet as I search the trash cans

The madness continues

I feel it in the wideness of my eyes

I hear it in my muttering

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

It's safer in the park

And yet I can't escape

Where I go

My mind comes too

Swirling, unseeing

Through the pristine paths,

Countering the whispering fountains

With its own whisper

"No good"

"Failure"

Bottles and booze,

And then the screams

My mother's lips,

Her eyes and cheeks

Bruised and bloodied

Now the hiss,

"And you did nothing"

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

Who's this coming?

What does he want?

I've nothing to give

His voice is gentle

Breathing peace

He has a place of healing,

Of rest

He speaks of Love

In a Man

Torn, by the wild fury of men,

Yet loving

Breathing forgiveness,

Offering it to me

Urging me to pass it on

To my step-dad

And all who hurt me

Jesus calm the wildness in my mind

We kneel before the One

Who stayed the storm

The tornado retreats

Accusations hush

A river pours through me

Washing

Living water

Cleansing my soul

Deep stillness

Comes...

Peace

From the Prince of Peace

He calmed the stormy sea

And now He's calmed the wildness in my mind

No Other Gods but Me

I walked into His presence as in an incandescent dream. The terrifying smoke and fire I'd seen from below dissipated and wave upon surging wave of love enveloped me. Overwhelmed, I sank to my knees. He took my hand and drew me to my feet.

Words of worship poured from my lips in response to the mantle of light and peace that encompassed me. In the timelessness of pure love, I had no sense of the passage of day or night, as intricate details of how a tabernacle was to be built to God imprinted themselves on my mind; who was to serve in it, the sacrifices to be made, the names of the people gifted to construct it... I neither ate nor drank during this time -- which seemed no time at all, though later they told me I'd been up the mountain for forty days.

As God finished speaking into my mind, a mist, like a wraith, passed before me. I saw two stone tablets at my feet. I heard God say, "Take these to the people that they may remember to keep My law. Hurry, now. I hear them. Those stubborn people are corrupting themselves with a foreign god. "

I came to myself as I sensed God's anger. He continued. "I've a mind to destroy them, and start again with you, Moses. I'll make you father of a new nation."

"Lord," I protested with a boldness that sprang from alarm. "Surely not. What will the Egyptians say? That You brought Your people out here merely to slay them? Do You want them to think that of You?" I trembled as I continued, "And what of Your promise to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob?"

I picked up the tablets and started down the mountainside, wondering if I had imagined that last unlikely conversation. Still filled with His radiance, I soon forgot the disturbing dialogue.

Joshua was some way up the mountain, waiting for me. He greeted me warmly. "I was worried. You were gone so long, with no food or drink. Some elders were convinced you'd died up there."

"Was I there so long? I had no idea!" I said, as I embraced him. "It was unforgettable, Joshua. I'll tell you about it when we get to camp."

My joy was infectious. Soon the two of us were humming and laughing. Hunger pangs anticipated my first meal in over a month, and I longed to see Aaron and the people.

At a clearing, Joshua stopped humming and stood still, listening. "What's that noise?"

Then I too, heard it. Joshua tilted his head. "It sounds like a war in the camp."

"No... it's not a victory shout," I said, straining my ears. "Nor is it wailing in defeat." My spirits lifted. "They're singing and dancing. They're happy, Joshua. Let's hurry down and see what the party's about."

Then, as they came into sight, the glow from my time with God burst into red hot fury spewing from my soul like molten lava. I rushed down the mountain, hurling the tablets of stone against a rock.

They shattered.

The music stopped.

And the dancing.

All the people looked at me.

A calf of gold stood at the centre of the gathering. The singing had been worship songs to the calf, the dancing was before the golden idol. Now I knew. I did hear God when said He wanted to destroy these people. He'd heard their noise long before I had and knew what it meant. I felt the anger He had expressed. In righteous fury, I ground the calf to dust and scattered it on the water. "Drink it, you rebellious people. Drink the god you worshipped. Taste the bitterness of disobedience and wait for the judgement of God!"

...Yet I knew my God. He is gracious and merciful -- a God of second chances. Sure enough, in what followed, only those who refused to repent faced His wrath. The repentant ones once again joined me on our journey to His Promised Land.

Will you leave your idol and join me with them?

An Unexpected Privilege

I'd always dreamed of visiting Jerusalem at Passover. As a little boy, playing in the sands of Africa, I'd look at the dawn sun and picture it rising over the Holy City. At night, when Pappa tucked me in, I'd question him.

"Pappa, What was Jerusalem like before you had to flee from the Romans?"

He'd get a faraway look in his eyes and say, "My son, Jerusalem is the centre of the world. It's God's Holy City, but sadly, it is desecrated by Roman soldiers. Our people are terribly oppressed."

He'd continue. "You should see it at Passover. The whole world is there. The excitement, the dust, the crowds, the babble of a hundred languages. It's the most exciting thing!" I never tired of hearing the stories, and I knew one day I'd be there.

When Pappa died, I set out on a pilgrimage with my own two boys, across the Mediterranean and into the Holy Land. I arrived in Jerusalem just in time for Passover. From the road, I could hear the hubbub and my heart raced to join them. "Come, lads. Alexander, Rufus, this way." There was something happening along the road and I wanted to see.

Suddenly, I didn't want to see. I'd heard of the harshness of the Roman occupation; of fields of dead men hanging from crosses --- insurrectionists, paying the ultimate price in a ghastly way for their patriotism. It was what my father had fled from. Was this man another of them? But why had they tortured him so, before his execution? He tottered under the weight of his cross as I stood, hypnotised.

He was almost level with me, when he reeled, his eyes turned upward and he and his cross crashed to the ground. A Roman soldier lashed at him with a whip, but he did not respond. Fear gripped me as the soldier's gaze fell on me. I looked away, but it was too late.

"You! Hey, strong man. Come here!" There was no escape. "Come here! Take his cross."

I could have walked faster, but I let him rest on the upright and stumble along beside me.

"Okay, leave him." We weren't quite there yet, but the whip came hard on my back. "I said leave him." They wanted him to carry it at least to the site of crucifixion.

I had to stay, now I was involved. Rebel or not, I had to watch to the end.

I'm so glad I did. I had never seen a crucifixion before but, --- heaven forbid --- should I see another, I'm sure it will be nothing like this one. He breathed words of forgiveness, words of encouragement to a victim beside him. Loving words came from his lips for his mother and his best friend. I turned to the man beside me. "Who is this man?"

He looked at me. "You just arrived?" I nodded.

"That's Jesus. Powerful prophet. He claimed to be God."

"And is he?"

The man laughed derisively. "God? They're killing God? Is that possible? Come on! Use your head."

But I preferred to use my heart. How could a mere man die like that? Who was he?

Suddenly he gave a cry that seemed to echo through all creation. At that cry, the earth shook violently and the sun grew dark.

And I knew.

I thought I had been helping a man, saving him from a vain lashing as he lay, unable to continue. Yet, he was the one drawing me into his world, giving me the unique privilege of walking alongside Him, saving me from a life of futility. He was inviting me to bear the Cross with Him --- to take part in His redemptive work.

Some time later, to my astonished delight, he appeared to me alive and well. It confirmed what my heart said at Calvary. That lacerated, tortured man was my Saviour.

Blessed

The raging South Easter hurled gusts of rain against the study's panes. The air crackled with bursts of a thousand watery pellets against the glass, as the wind howled. The turmoil and fury outside echoed that in Peter's heart as he sat at his desk, his fists clenched and his eyes narrow and moist with fury.

They rested on Barbara's Bible on the corner of the desk. He grabbed it and opened it at random.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

You must be kidding. After he's beaten me to thousands of dollars? I'm taking him to the cleaners. How can Barbara believe all this God stuff?

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

No, God. Blessed are the strong, who fight back and get what they can.

The room lit with dazzling brilliance and a crackling boom exploded, rattling the windows.

"That's it, God. That's me inside. You show your power. I'll show mine." He opened a drawer and took out a .38 revolver. I'll show him what it means to cross me.

\------------ o ------------

Barbara watched him back the car from the garage and drive into the swirling rain. She fell on her knees and called out to God. "Do something radical, Lord. Save him from himself. He's such an angry man. He's reckless and impulsive. Save him, Lord. Save him." Her heart writhed within her as she threw herself on the carpet in an agony of prayer for her husband.

\------------ o -------------

Peter had no idea what he was going to do, except that he would confront George. The wind buffeted the car. Sheets of water crashed relentlessly against the windscreen, blurring his vision. He didn't see the truck sliding towards him until it was too late.

\------------ o ------------

From far away he heard voices --- snatches of conversation intruding through the mist and the throbbing headache.

"....critical... yes, very... unlikely he'll make it... yes, by all means... prayers.... yes, any time.... God intervene."

His eyes fluttered open to a blur of faces. Barbara's image came and went. Behind her.... George? George?

He felt Barbara's lips brush his forehead, her hand in his, George's hand on his shoulder. He heard the murmur of their prayers and a mantle of peace descended. Words floated through his mind and into his heart like petals falling from a rose.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.

"I've been stubborn and hard-headed, God. Money has been everything -- going after it my way. What does it matter now that I am dying?"

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.

"I've trodden others mercilessly underfoot to get what I want. How can I expect mercy from you now? Where will I go if I die?" A deep sorrow for his behaviour plunged him into a valley of despair. "But if I live, I'll be different. Forgive me. Give me another chance."

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

"God, let me live Your way. Barbara was right about You. And I was wrong about George. He's not a crook. He's just a better businessman. Come into my life, Jesus, so I can see Your truth."

Through the covering murmur of prayers, crystal water flooded his soul, washing him clean, drawing him up to its source. He was pure and whole. A brilliant light shone around him and more brilliant still, a man stood in the light, with eyes like the sun, yet filled with compassion.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Oh, Jesus, I'm coming home. You're taking me home and everything is pure and lovely.

I'm sending you back, Peter. Barbara has been praying for you. Take care of her out of your love for Me. She is my gift to you.

\------------ o ------------

Barbara listened to the whistling coming from the dining room as Peter waited for George to come around to discuss a partnership. It had been three weeks since Peter's miraculous recovery and this Sunday he'd be giving his testimony. She had never felt so cherished and fulfilled as each night and morning she and Peter pored over the Word and knelt together in prayer.

She opened her Bible and read Psalm 133 once more:

Behold how good and pleasant it is for brethren to dwell in unity... for there the Lord commands a blessing --- even life forever more.

Finishing Well

Elizabeth glanced at the clock. He was late home again. No doubt he would say he had been working late.

Things had not been easy since Jason's death, each of them cocooned in their own private grief. Though they had suffered the shock together, slowly the walls had grown; walls of unspoken pain and guilt.

Robert took a detour past the hospital. Jenny would be coming off duty in 10 minutes. She understood. She had been on duty when Jason was rushed in wet and limp.Robert blamed himself for leaving that box in the yard; a box Jason used to climb the swimming pool fence. Elizabeth urged him to forgive himself, but she did not understand his torment.Jenny's soft brown eyes showed that she knew. When he wept she held him close; her slow smile somehow made everything right. He felt more alive with her than he had in months. The drive past the hospital and the cups of coffee at the diner became the highlight of his day. He was apologetic as he came home, avoiding her gaze as he spoke, "Sorry I'm late again, darling. I think there must have been an accident on the road. The traffic was unbelievable."

"Unbelievable alright," thought Elizabeth, but she managed a bright smile and gave him a big kiss. "Well, I'm glad you're home. Supper is waiting. I've cooked your favourite."

"Lamb chops? You are a darling! You spoil me and I don't deserve it." The conversation was loving, but the underlying tension was palpable.Week after week, as the same scenario played out, Elizabeth was praying. "Lord, he is hurting and I sense I am losing him. Guard my heart. I don't know how much longer I can go on. How do I respond to these lame excuses? I desperately need you to intervene."

On the anniversary of Jason's death Elizabeth heard the words she half welcomed, half dreaded. "Lizzy, we have to talk. There is something you need to know."

"Lord, does it have to be now? Just when I have discovered I am pregnant? Should I tell him? No. Not now. He must be free to make his choice."

He sat at the table and she sat opposite. "Lord, keep me calm," she breathed. "Give me the courage to face whatever is coming."

He steeled himself and looked directly at her."Liz, honey, things have been difficult between us since Jason died."

She nodded and he continued. "I want to tell you that I have been looking for some kind of comfort elsewhere, and found it."

"This is it, Lord. Give me strength." She nodded. "I suspected as much.

"But last week on the way to work I heard a pastor on the radio. He spoke about finishing well. He said God is not interested in how we start, He wants to know how we will finish. Our behaviour along the way should be governed by a determination to finish well.

I have been studying the Scriptures and it's true. The Bible is full of exhortations to trust God in difficult times, to persevere in every situation. Why, in the book of Revelation Jesus tells EVERY church to overcome to the end. I know that applies to our marriage too. The world tells me it is about MY happiness and what makes ME feel good; but the Bible says my reward comes from faithfulness and trust. From now on it's you alone. I want to make this work. Please forgive my stupidity."

He pulled two dolls from his pocket, a boy and a girl, and laid them on the table. Taking out a blue ribbon he passed it around them both. As he tied them together he recited his vows, "I take thee, Elizabeth ............... to have and to hold till death us do part."

He handed her a pink ribbon. "I am giving you the opportunity to do the same."

Sobbing she exclaimed, "Oh yes, Robert." And tied the dolls once more. "Till death us do part."

He took a third ribbon gold, this time and prayed as he tied, "Lord, You have tied us together as one. Those whom God has joined, let no man -- or woman--put asunder."

\------------ o ------------

Thirty years later, Jason looked up at Robert, "Grandpa, what are those dolls on the mantelpiece all tied together for?"

"That's your grandma and me, my boy, tied together by our love and held there by God's faithfulness."

Jason smiled. "Cool!"

The Storm

The parched land opened its face to the heavens, longing for a sweet reviving kiss. The trees bent their leafy canopies to shelter the wilting ferns, though their own foliage had lost its turgor. The birds were silent, save for an occasional call for a companion crying in their mutual thirst. An industrious warthog dug in the dry river bed until a small pool formed in the hollow, providing momentary relief. Giraffe, zebra, impala silently panted in the heat.

From far off it came, like a soft recurring growl. Impala, suddenly alert, raised their heads to sniff the air. A lion rolled onto its stomach and stood up, looking towards the sound. Birds called, hesitatingly at first, but gathering courage from each answering note. Frogs, long dormant in the dank river beds started to sing -- shrill notes resting on the gravelly counterpoints of their huskier companions.

Another rolling growl, closer this time, and a breeze roused the expectation within the forest. The trees stirred themselves, and whispered, with leaves fluttering in the wind, "It's coming! It's coming!"

Now, bright flashes preceded the rumbling, the wind grew stronger; the trees entered a wild, carefree dance. The forest burst into a song of expectation. The rain bird called out joyously peet-may-fro, peet-may-fro, the frogs turned up the volume of their orchestra, a blesbok gave a delighted hrrmph, small animals darted through the undergrowth, seeking shelter, a hedgehog curled into a spiky ball.

Lowering purple-black clouds obscured the light. Brilliant flashes and deafening bursts, like the crash of a thousand drumbeats announced the awesome majesty of God's provision.

The wind ceased. For ten minutes there was an ominous silence.

Then the miracle came --- water falling from the sky in torrents. Tons and tons of water, bursting from its celestial vaults, pouring upon the earth. Trees groaned under the weight of the deluge, branches broke, the weaker plants and some small animals were washed away. God was fiercely and powerfully providing.

The earth drank thirstily and gratefully, till it could hold no more. Now the water rushed through the forest. Dry river beds became frolicking streams, then hasty, swirling waters hurrying to the sea. On and on the waters came, driven by fierce winds that hurled them to the earth.

Then suddenly, it was over. The storm was spent. The forest was hushed with the ferocity of it all. Tentatively, a dove began to coo. A woodpecker joined in, the rain birds sang their joyful chorus, frogs, crickets and cicadas, barking baboons and snorting zebra set the woods alive with song. Life had been poured out from heaven and the earth rejoiced.

\---------- o -----------

Life loses its meaning in the parched world of spiritual drought. Anger, deceit and compromise, like the unrelenting heat of a brassy sky, cause joy and optimism to wilt. Tragedy, loneliness and sorrow silence our souls, robbing them of song. Prayers become subdued and dry. Like the deer that pants for water, we long for spiritual rain

Then, like the distant rumbling of thunder, Spirit to spirit, the Word of God assures us of His promises.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (Ps 30:5)

Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.(Ps 27:14)

Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor has the mind conceived what the Lord has in store for those who love Him (1Cor 2:9,10)

Something stirs within, in anticipation. We sniff the spiritual air and sense a change.

Then He comes. It could be with gentle blessing, like soft, falling rain. Yet sometimes His provision is fierce, coming in a storm of trial. We cringe and wait as it washes over us, grateful for the change in our circumstance --- for a new awareness of God --- yet holding desperately on as the trial passes.

Then it is over. The storm has brought with it, a new faith in the promises of God, a new awareness of His glory and love, a new sense of being His son or daughter. New life in the Spirit springs forth. The garden bursts into bloom and we start to sing.

To Mary And Mary

What were you dreaming of, Mary of Nazareth, when you nursed your new babe in the shelter of the cave, feeling the softness of a pristine cheek against your breast? When you gazed lovingly at his tiny feet and kissed the toes now stretching, now curling in a brand new experience of the wonder of life, did you dream for your miracle child? Were the words of Isaiah burning in your heart as you pondered those little feet? Did you see the beautiful feet he spoke of traversing the dusty mountain passes of Israel and beyond, bringing good news of God's Kingdom, salvation and a peace beyond measure? (Isaiah 2:7)

But no, God keeps His plans hidden, even from His chosen, lest we be overwhelmed by the enormity of them. In that tender moment when you, with Joseph, as young first-time parents, looked adoringly at your new son, the cloak of love around you was embroidered, like any new mother's, with wonder and fascination at the miracle of a child come forth from your body. It would be another thirty years before His sandaled feet would leave the wood shavings and sawdust as He became the One of whom Isaiah spoke. And then it would be another Mary who would kiss His feet.

Mary of Magdala, how you loved Jesus! Your heart and eyes were a fountain, cleansing the dusty feet of your Saviour as it flowed from a woman washed with Living Water. Your hair, once part of your seductive beauty appealing to lustful men, became an instrument of love, drying His feet in preparation for their extravagant, fragrant anointing. (Luke 7:38)

Yet, how were you to know, Mary, that the One whose feet you kissed stood astride all creation as the Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6); that He whom you loved commands the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds are the dust of those very feet that felt your lips (Nahum 1:3)?

Did you know that the object of your kisses would be torn with cruel nails? Or that the blood that spurted from the wounds would buy your forgiveness?

How appropriate that you should express your love through His feet, for it is His feet that crushed the head of Satan as foretold in Eden's garden (Gen. 3:15), forever breaking the stronghold of the Great Deceiver. And it is as those feet touch the Mount of Olives from heaven on His return that His glory will burst over all men in a terrifying display of His white-hot holiness (Zech. 14:4) that will cover the earth as the waters cover the sea.(Hab. 2:14).

