Thank you for the fleas

I am not the most positive person in the world. I would describe myself as a realist but I've heard others saying I am negative. Be that as it may, I don't like to call good evil or evil good. I don't want to delude myself in any way, shape or form. That is both a blessing and a curse. It's a blessing because I avoid disappointment and it's a curse because it blinds me to a reality beyond my reality. It can be quite a struggle to summon up faith or gratitude for someone predisposed to making decisions based on facts alone. By that I don't mean being optimistic. Optimism was never and will never be a goal for me. Having a grateful heart and holding onto faith that's what I am after. Optimism gets you nowhere. 

There is a book, 'Good to great' by Jim Collins. In it, the author is interviewing Admiral James Stockdale, the highest ranking officer in US military to be imprisoned in the Hanoi Hilton (1965-1973). He asks the Admiral, “Who didn't make it out?” “Oh, that's easy,” said Stockdale. “It was the optimists. The optimists were the ones who said, “we're going to be out by Christmas. Christmas came and went. Then they'd say, “we're going to be out by Easter” and Easter would come and it would go. The optimists would pin their dates on Thanksgiving, then Christmas again, and eventually “they died of a broken heart”.....

“You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end. Instead you need to confront the the most brutal facts of your reality, whatever they might be.”

When it comes to this faith I've placed wholeheartedly in Jesus Christ, I am not some blind fool that is being led by wishful thinking. I don't believe in Him and follow Him until it feels like my feet are bleeding from trying to keep up with Him because I am an optimist. That's the last thing I am. I don't deny my present circumstances, I don't rebuke them or proclaim them away. I confront the facts. I see them for what they really are. As harsh, as scary and unmovable as they may be, I don't close my eyes and pretend I'm in a happy place. The last thing I need is for anyone to 'bring me down to earth'.

So no, I am not an optimist. I have faith. Not that things will be good for me. I have faith that He is good. My faith is not in some blissful future that He has for me because I follow Him. My faith is in Him that has crossed the heavens to make me His and come hell or high water will not let go of my hand until He gets me home safely. My hope is that all things work together for the good of those that love Him, even if I fail to recognize that good for what it is.

Corrie Ten Boom and he sister Betsie were two Christian Dutch women who helped harbor Jews from the Nazis in Holland during World War 2. After the sisters were arrested for doing so, they were imprisoned at Ravensbruck, a German concentration camp. The barracks they were assigned to were so awful that it almost broke their spirit. So awful in fact that Betsie died because of the conditions in those barracks. Now, there were no great barracks in any of the camps to be sure, but those that Corrie and Betsie were in had an extra blessing. Fleas. Those drove Corrie crazy. In an attempt to lift her spirit, Betsie tells Corrie to open the Bible they had smuggled in, and turns to 1 Thessalonians 5:14-18, “Comfort the frightened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus …” “That’s it!” Betsie interrupted. “That’s His answer. ‘Give thanks in all circumstances!’ That’s what we can do. We can start right now to thank God for every single thing about these barracks!”

Corrie stared at her incredulously, then around at the dark, foul-smelling room. “Such as?” she inquired.

“Such as being assigned here together.”

Corrie bit her lip. “Oh yes, Lord Jesus!”

“Such as what you’re holding in your hands.”

Corrie looked down at the Bible. “Yes! Thank You, dear Lord, that there was no inspection when we entered here! Thank You for all the women, here in this room, who will meet You in these pages.”

“Yes,” agreed Betsie. “Thank You for the very crowding here. Since we’re packed so close, that many more will hear!” She looked at her sister expectantly and prodded, “Corrie!”

“Oh, all right. Thank You for the jammed, crammed, stuffed, packed, suffocating crowds.”

“Thank you,” Betsie continued on serenely, “for the fleas and for …”

That was too much for Corrie. She cut in on her sister: “Betsie, there’s no way even God can make me grateful for a flea.”

“Give thanks in all circumstances,” Betsie corrected. “It doesn’t say, ‘in pleasant circumstances.’ Fleas are part of this place where God has put us.”

As the weeks passed, Betsie’s health weakened to the point that, rather than needing to go out on work duty each day, she was permitted to remain in the barracks and knit socks together with other seriously-ill prisoners. She was a lightning fast knitter and usually had her daily sock quota completed by noon. As a result, she had hours each day she could spend moving from platform to platform reading the Bible to fellow prisoners. She was able to do this undetected as the guards never seemed to venture far into the barracks.

One evening when Corrie arrived back at the barracks Betsie’s eyes were twinkling. “You’re looking extraordinarily pleased with yourself,” Corrie told her.

“You know we’ve never understood why we had so much freedom in the big room,” Betsie said, referring to the part of the barracks where the sleeping platforms were. “Well—I’ve found out. This afternoon there was confusion in my knitting group about sock sizes, so we asked the supervisor to come and settle it. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t step through the door and neither would the guards. And you know why?” Betsie could not keep the triumph from her voice as she exclaimed, “Because of the fleas! That’s what she said: ‘That place is crawling with fleas!’ ”

You see... this irrational faith God has given us, is not for a happily ever after on earth. It has nothing to do with how good or how bad things work out for me. Even as I write this I have prayers before my King that He will work a miracle. I wish it more than anything I've wished and I have wished for a great many things in my life. But whether He does as I've asked Him or not, it doesn't change the way I see Him, love Him or follow Him. He is worth a tear or two, a broken heart or a missing limb.

There is a Romanian Christian song that my mom used to sing and it says, 'Lord, may I never be able to let go of You, even if I have to leave a buried love every step of the way.'

I hate pain. I hate loss. I hate suffering. I hate the fleas. I don't see their purpose. They are just an extra thing to torment me on top of many other things. But maybe... Just maybe, the fleas are a blessing in disguise.

By Cristina Pop

Real

 “The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”-- The Velveteen Rabbit, Margery Williams Bianco

Thank You Lord, for making me real. Not because there's anything special about me, but because Your love made me Real.

The pit

 The following is a story written by Rabbi Eli Landes. 

 

There’s a story they tell, when the taste for all other stories has run dry. When the tongue tires of weaving tales of sages and singing songs of heroes; when the heart feels cold and afraid, and nothing seems sufficient to chase away the dark. On days like those, when they’ve exhausted all other options, they tell the story of the pit.

And the prince who fell into it.

The pit is dark and deep, and the chances of the prince ever climbing out are slim-to-none. For all intents and purposes, this tale is over.

But not for him. His story doesn’t end when he falls into the pit.

That’s when it begins.

He falls long; falls hard. Bangs his head, scrapes his skin, sprains some bones. To a prince who has only ever known the soft comforts of a palace, the pain is blinding. He comes to a stop eventually, though how far away from the bottom is anyone’s guess. This pit is as wide as it is deep, filled with ledges and alcoves branching off into darkness. It seems endless—an impossible distance to climb and an impossible distance more to fall.

But the prince is indignant. He is a prince, after all. A prince does not belong in a pit. He belongs outside, free and proud and reunited with his father. So he picks himself up, dusts himself off, and sets off to find a way out.

It’s on one of his explorations that he finds the rope. There’s not much to it, really—just a thin, long rope, rising out of the pit into the world beyond. And yet, it’s somehow the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He runs to it, grasps it with both hands. At last, he has a way out.

But, as he soon discovers, leaving this pit is not so simple. He’s a prince, after all—his body isn’t made for rope climbing. His hands bleed, his muscles ache, his grip slips again and again. He forces himself to keep climbing, to fight through the exhaustion and the sweat and the pain, but for every step he gains he seems to fall two more, the excitement that once fueled him long since lost.

Yet still he climbs, compelled by a drive he cannot comprehend. A need to ascend. To return.

Until, one day, his grip fails.

And he falls.

He falls hard, hits a rocky ledge with a groan. He hasn’t fallen in a long time—not since he first fell into the pit. The pain is the first to hit: blinding, flooding his eyes with tears and spasming through his muscles. Then comes the anger. He surges to his feet, bends over and screams. It's not fair! He’s a prince. What business does a prince have in a pit?

So he sulks for a while: kicks at rocks, explores some caves, not accomplishing anything of value. He knows he’s procrastinating. He should be climbing the rope. But he’s afraid. He’s never been afraid before, but now he’s terrified. What if he tries again, and fails? What if he climbs and falls even further?

But in the end, even his fear is not enough to stop him. He needs to climb, more than he needs to breathe or eat or sleep. He walks back to the rope, gazes up, takes a deep breath.

And climbs.

It’s different this time—he's not as enthusiastic as he once was, but he’s not as naïve, either. He remembers the parts where he struggled last time; remembers how he pushed himself too hard and gave up. He tries a more measured approach, taking longer breaks, pausing to eat and drink.

But climbing is hard, especially when you’re a prince. His grip slips one day, and he falls a few feet—catching himself on a nearby ledge at the last minute. He jumps to his feet and dashes for the rope, but in his fervor he forgets his earlier measured approach. He scrambles upwards, desperately trying to regain the ground he lost, but his muscles are sore and his hands slick with sweat.

He falls, and falls hard.

What follows next is as familiar as it is soul-crushing. The anger settles in; the despair, the fear. He rages at his situation—resolves to just give up. And finds that he cannot. He attempts the climb, again and again and again, sometimes climbing further, other times barely making it more than a few feet.

In the end, he always falls.

Until one time, he falls harder and farther than ever before. Far enough that, for a moment, he feels suspended in space, wondering if he’ll finally reach the bottom of this pit.

After he falls, after he recovers, after he gets back to his feet, he’s consumed by a rage he’s never felt before. He lunges for the rope, grabbing a sharp rock on the way. And, with a roar, he starts cutting. He slashes at that rope, again and again and again, until the rope is in shreds around him, as ruined as his chances of ever escaping.

Then he slumps back, satisfaction and pain and grief warring inside him, and, for the first time, accepts his fate.

He may have once been a prince. He may once have lived free. But no longer.

He’s never leaving this pit.

There’s not much to say about the days that follow. The once-prince explores the area he’s fallen to, discovering that there are endless chambers and countless rooms to explore. They’re filled with curiosities, marvels and wonders of their own, but they mean nothing to him. He knew the outside world once—what interest do the secrets of a pit hold for him?

Time passes in a meaningless drudge. Another cave explored, another cavern passed through. And slowly, as he walks, the need he thought he’d buried kindles again.

He is a prince. He doesn’t belong in this pit.

He needs to find a way out.

And so he returns to the place he fell, scans the floor for the tattered remnants of his rope. He finds a piece of the cord, a second, a third, starts tying them together. It’s hard work—searching for the scraps, tying them together, searching again. He tries to stay excited through the process, but there are times he can’t keep the despair at bay.

And, during one of his darker moments, as he scans the cave floor dejectedly for the next scrap of rope, a thought occurs to him:

It’s dark in this pit.

How is he finding the scraps of rope?

He lifts his head up, slowly, his neck and spine creaking in protest—has it been so long, he wonders, since I last looked up? He's not certain himself what he expects to see. It’s night out there, the dark thick and absolute, and for a moment it’s hard to tell where the pit ends and the world outside begins.

And then he sees it: a flicker of motion, so small, so subtle, he could almost believe he’d imagined it.

There’s a flashlight at the lip of the cave, shining all the way down to where he stands.

And though he cannot see anything beyond that flashlight, he knows with absolute certainty Who’s holding it.

He stares up, mouth dry, the pit around him forgotten. His mouth feels suddenly full of questions, and it’s all he can do not to scream them out. “Father!” he yearns to scream, “Why have you abandoned me? When will you take me back?”

But he swallows those screams, because he knows that at this distance any words would get lost long before they reach the end of the pit. And because they’re not the question he really wants to ask. The question that eats at him; the question that keeps his back bent and his head fixed down.

So instead, he stares up at his unseen Father and silently wills Him to hear the question he can’t hold back any longer.

Why? He asks silently, a single tear slipping from his eye. Why haven’t You left? Why do You still hold out hope for me? Whatever it is You want from me, I’ve failed, again and again and again. I turned my back on You. I cut the only rope that still connected us. What do You see in me that I don’t?

And it’s strange, but even though he doesn’t utter a single word, the question seems to hang in the air between them, somehow tangible, somehow real.

There is a moment of silence; two. And then the flashlight moves, very slightly, to the side.

And turning, the prince sees where it’s shining.

On the next scrap of rope.

He studies it for a moment, lets a wry smile quirk his lips.

Then he reaches down, picks up that scrap, and ties.

by Eli Landes

Keep walking

Blast! Or at least I think it was a blast. Maybe it was an explosion, or maybe the sky fell down or the sun melted. I couldn't say for sure. But something hit me. I am flying. Not the flight of a carefree bird, but the flight of an object thrown through the air with all the intent to destroy said object upon impact. I think I've been flying for no more than five seconds, but it could have been years for all I know. Finally landed. More like crashed. I remember hitting the ground or whatever it is I hit whenever I stopped flying/falling. I couldn't pull air into my lungs. My eyes refused to open or maybe I went blind. My ears, Lord, help me my ears ringing or better yet roaring so much so that no coherent thought had time to take root in my brain and make sense of anything. Hours pass. I think I am bleeding. First thought my brain understands. I think I am bleeding. No wait, I am bleeding. My arm is on fire for some reason. I manage to open one eye. It's dark. Wait is that grass? I am at the end of some tunnel, but in the distance I see smoke, funny I can't smell it. Is that my boot I see painted in red and pathetically fighting for balance as if that's what it was made for. I manage to turn my head a little...oh, there's my shield. I think I've dropped it while I was flying. I look at whatever it is I can see of myself. My armor is ripped in so many places that I won't ever be able to use it again. My arm is all cuts and scratches. My sword is still in my hand. Correction. The hilt is still in my hand and a shard of what used to be a blade. I try to move my head and my vision expands. Wait, is my helmet covering my face? I think I recall a battle. Yes. There has been a battle. Of course, I was fighting in a battle. Wait. What? Who am I? I remember a throne and me kneeling before it. I remember loving the One seated on that throne. But I don't remember who He is or what is my relationship to Him for the life of me. I recall having some sort of purpose but I can't be asked to name it right now. I remember fighting. Maybe not just now, but many battles before. Before what? Oh, yeah... the blast. I look up. No sky. Wait, am I facing the ground? Why won't my ears stop hurting? Make it stop... God, please make it stop. God. Wait... there's God... Where is He? Everything hurts, even my hair hurts... Where is He?! Did He leave? Was He ever here? Breathe! It hurts... Make it stop...

I don't know how long I stay there like that. I don't know if it's day or night. I still don't know who I am, just some existence. A moment. Then another. Sound of footsteps. 'Help!' No answer. A pair of feet in my vision. 'Please, help!' No answer. 'Are you here to kill me?' No answer. I begin to cry. 'Say something! Who are you?'

'You know who I am.'

I know that voice. I think I'd recognize it anywhere. It's not a stranger. No, I pledged allegiance to the One speaking.

'Lord, is it you?' I ask because I doubt my senses.

'What are you doing here?' He says that as if I can just jump up and start running. Does He think I lay here to relax?

'I'm hurt...'

'I know.'

'Lord...'

'Get up!'

That voice. It once commanded darkness to retreat and give way to Light. That voice spoke everything there is into being. That voice once told a storm to cease roaring and it did. That voice once said, 'come, follow Me!' and everything in me has obeyed. But I cannot obey Him now, can't He see that I am all broken? He has a better vantage point to spot exactly where pieces of my armor lie useless and defeated.

'Lord, help me stand.'

'You can stand. Get up!'

I don't make a conscious decision to move, but I start to move. It hurts. It feels like a million little splinters are shoved into every nerve ending available. My helmet falls down with my movement. A huge chunk of it is missing. I must have been hit pretty hard. I drop my 'sword' so I can support my weight on my arms. Yeah, that hurts. Deep breaths. Every tiny movement takes ages. I manage to get on my knees. I rest there a bit. I look up. There He is. In all His glory. My beautiful, Lord.

I begin to remember. Everything. I was lost, He found me. He saved me and gave me a purpose. One greater than myself and my well-being in this world. He trained my heart for battle. He armored me and trusted me to fight for the sake of His Kingdom. I've been in countless battles. Some more successful than others. But the point is, I can fight. For no other reason than I love my King. I remember Him smiling many times, but He's not smiling now.

'What happened?'

'Lord, You know all things. You know what happened... I was fighting. I was winning. Then out of nowhere... the blast.'

'Yes, the blast. But you're alive, are you not?'

I smile.

'Barely, Lord. If there's another attack I'll probably die on this field.'

'Yes, you will. Unless you get up.'

I smile again. My lip is bleeding and it hurts, but I smile nonetheless.

'Get up, huh? I think one of my legs is broken, my arm cannot hold a sword. Not to mention I have no sword. My armor is torn to pieces. My helmet is useless. My shield is over there probably broken. I only see one boot. I have no idea where the other one is. My belt? Only You know where that is. Even if I get up... then what?'

'You speak as if this is the end.'

'It is! Look around! Look at me! I have nothing left to give You... Finish me off.'

'This is not that kind of army. Get up!'

Now I am angry... angry at the enemy, angry that I failed... angry that I feel like...

'Did I fail you, child?'

Those eyes of His. I want to lie. To tell Him, 'never, Lord' but I keep silent.

'Look at Me!' When did I look away. 'Did I fail you?'

'Yes!' And it's out there. Finally a smile.

'I know you're hurting', he says and pushes the hair out of my eyes. 'I know it scares you.' He lifts my chin up. 'You can cry all you want, when this is over, but it's time to get up now.' He takes me by the hand and lifts me up. I stand there like one of those lame people He once made stand with a word. He bends and picks up my sword and it's whole in His hand. He hands it over. I want to tell Him I won't be able to hold it, but somehow I do. He picks up my helmet and it's shining in His hand. He places it on my head and it hurts. He goes about three paces to the left and picks up my belt and fastens it in place. I wince. Is that a broken rib? He unties my armor and I just bleed all over Him. He whispers, 'breathe' and somehow I do. He does something to it and puts it back. I whimper in pain. He waits and looks me in the eyes. I nod to let Him know I can take it. He walks away and walks and walks and I feel like I'll faint. He's next to me again, my shield in hand.

'You dropped this', he says as he gives me the shield. I feel like I will drop it if a breeze so much as pushes against me.

He kneels before me and I want to protest the action but I need to breathe. And then I see Him cleaning my bloody feet with the hem of His robe before He puts my boots on and all I can think of is, 'it's useless'.

He stands again and turns His back to me. Is He planning to leave me again?

'It's not by strength or by might, but by my Spirit. You remain in Me. You don't just quit. You don't just ask for an out. That's not how this works. I know it hurts, it's gonna hurt some more before it's over, but you do not quit!' Eyes blazing. I must have made Him angry. He smiles again.

'Did the blast make you forget? You are Mine. Now follow,' He says as He starts walking.

Every step hurts. But I follow. Whenever I can't keep up anymore, He stops and waits. He doesn't turn, He knows I'm right behind Him.

I lift my eyes and look around. There's corpses left and right. Too many to count. I keep walking. Did I do all this? Impossible, I think I must have slashed my sword three times at most. And then I look at His back again.

'Did you do all this, Lord?'

'Yes.'

'When? Why?'

“While you were laying there. I had to make a way to reach you.' So matter of fact that it makes me smile.

'I might fall again.'

'I'll find you again.'

'What if I keep falling?'

'I'll keep finding you.'

He never gives up, my Lord. Never. That's what I love most about Him. That's how I want to be...like Him.

'The effects of this blast will pass. I know it feels like you'll never be whole again, but you will. Scarred, but whole.'

'I don't want her to die.'

'I know.'

'But, she will die...'

'Yes.'

I sob. But I keep walking. 

 

by Cristina Pop

Useful pain

 I have seen this in one of my Facebook friend's feed so I decided to borrow it. I hope it blesses anyone who might read it as it has blessed me.

I would have pulled Joseph out. Out of that pit. Out of that prison. Out of that pain. And I would have cheated nations out of the one God would use to deliver them from famine.

I would have pulled David out. Out of Saul’s spear-throwing presence. Out of the caves he hid away in. Out of the pain of rejection. And I would have cheated Israel out of a God-hearted king.

I would have pulled Esther out. Out of being snatched from her only family. Out of being placed in a position she never asked for. Out of the path of a vicious, power-hungry foe. And I would have cheated a people out of the woman God would use to save their very lives.

And I would have pulled Jesus off. Off of the cross. Off of the road that led to suffering and pain. Off of the path that would mean nakedness and beatings, nails and thorns. And I would have cheated the entire world out of a Savior. Out of salvation. Out of an eternity filled with no more suffering and no more pain.

And oh friend. I want to pull you out. I want to change your path. I want to stop your pain. But right now I know I would be wrong. I would be out of line. I would be cheating you and cheating the world out of so much good. Because God knows. He knows the good this pain will produce.

He knows the beauty this hard will grow. He’s watching over you and keeping you even in the midst of this. And He’s promising you that you can trust Him. Even when it all feels like more than you can bear.

So instead of trying to pull you out, I’m lifting you up. I’m kneeling before the Father and I’m asking Him to give you strength. To give you hope. I’m asking Him to protect you and to move you when the time is right. I’m asking Him to help you stay prayerful and discerning. I’m asking Him how I can best love you and be a help to you. And I’m believing He’s going to use your life in powerful and beautiful ways. Ways that will leave your heart grateful and humbly thankful for this road you’ve been on.

Kimberly D. Henderson, 2017 ©

Will to power

I don't like domineering people. Never have. By domineering I do not mean strong, for strength I admire with a passion. By domineering I mean that which Nietzsche had in mind when he came up with his 'will to power' idea. He argued that there is in all of us an irrational force that wills and it wills for power. More than that, in all living things the same force works and wills for the same end, power. This force is the source of all suffering and pain in the world since it is insatiable and inexhaustible. And since we are essentially slaves to this force, we might as well perfect it, “What is good? Everything that heightens the feeling of power in man, the will to power, power itself. What is bad? Everything that is born of weakness. What is happiness? The feeling that power is growing, that resistance is overcome. Not contentedness but more power; not peace but war; not virtue but fitness (Renaissance virtue, virtù, virtue that is moraline-free).”

Now it might come across as if I disagree with Nietzsche on everything he said. I don't. I agree that this force exists. I agree that it works in every living thing. I need no other witness in this case except for myself. I see that there is something in my human flesh that wills for power, it might not manifest itself Napoleon-like or Hitler-like, but that is only due to my lack of resources. Alas I am limited to wanting to be right in an argument, wanting to be on a higher position than my fellow human being, wanting to have better-you-name-it than my peers, wanting to be first. I don't need to argue against Nietzsche's idea, I am a living proof that it exists. And I would have continued believing that there's no need to fight this will to power inside me, until I've heard a Rabbi saying, “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles domineer over them, and those in high position exercise authority over them. It shall not be so among you. But whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be your slave.” (Matt. 20:25-27)

Nietzsche couldn't recognize the strength in that statement. He believed that the highest will was will to power and one must follow it to its conclusion, but Jesus, Beloved Son of God, has come to break the power of that will in us. He came to set us free from it. Not by talking about a concept like Nietzsche did, but modeling it out for us by His own example. He didn't shout from heaven, 'hey, stop it, that's not the way!' But He took off His crown, He left all glory and took upon Himself a human form. With a word, nay, a thought He could have made us all submit to Him. He could have thought the Roman Empire out of existence, but then Nietzsche would have been right, that will to power is good. That will to power is the way. Instead, this humble King, the only true King broke the will to power in Himself and submitted to The Father until He reached the cross. He willingly allowed specs of dust to stretch His arms and nail them to the cross. He took the will to power and hid it inside Himself like one hides a nuclear bomb. We saw only weakness in His action when in fact He was planning to kill that will to power and the power it had over all of us. He detonated it inside Himself so it would never have to lead us or kill us. More than that, He defeated death on our behalf and rose from the dead. Nietzsche said somewhere that the last Christian died on the cross because he didn't believe we lived up to His example, but he was wrong. Maybe his philosophy would have matured into something deeper than childish delight with power. He was a weak man, despised, outcast and in love with the idea of power. He admired courage above all things, but never had to act on it. He was a timid soul unlike my King whom he despised. My King became a servant to subdue the will to power and loved until the very end so that we would chose to love instead of wanting power. Those who follow Him are known by that sign, they love like they have been loved. They take their will to power and nail it to a cross and wait until it dies within themselves. They don't deny the will to power exists, they just kill it wherever they find it in themselves. 

by Cristina Pop 

Like The Son

 There have been times in my life when I felt disappointed with God. Unmet expectations, unfulfilled dreams, unanswered prayers can break one's spirit and regardless how much I didn't like the idea of being like everybody else, those things broke my spirit too. I used to mope around for weeks mourning the loss of some unfulfilled desire. I used to tell God, 'I don't want to talk to you right now, the best I can do is sit here and be silent. I am angry with you, I feel disappointed and no explanation You might have right now can take that away. So I'll be silent. You don't get to see me pouring out my soul before You when I know that all it would have taken was a thought from You in my direction and things would have changed. So, no. No words.' Miserable soul that I was I thought that I was punishing God with my silent treatment.

It took me about a decade of similar episodes to change the way I thought and by that let it be understood that it hasn't been an immediate thing. I think I've said before and I cannot stress this enough, I am a very slow learner.

One day I was reading in Matthew chapter 4, about Jesus' temptation. It's not that I haven't read it before, in fact I did studies on it, wrote on it, thought I knew it by heart. But for the first time I finally understood something that should have been clear from the very beginning.

Christ's kingdom was not of this world, is not of this world and will never be of this world. That this King I willingly chose to rule over me, didn't have worldly ambitions for Himself or for His beloved children. Before He began acting like the promised Messiah, He has been tested. Tempted in every little thing like a mere mortal and the temptation was always this: look for the easy way out. God cannot want suffering for His beloved. Say the word and make Your discomfort, pain, frustration, go away. Use Your authority for Your own gain. Use Your position as God's Son and command it to be over, command it into existence. It's not like it isn't Your right after all. It's not like it's wrong. Claim it! God wants good things for You, it's insane to endure any discomfort, pray it away! Declare it away! It's Your right.

It would have been so easy. But then all He would have accomplished was to teach us all that that's the way. And that is so not the way. He refused immediate relief over a lasting purpose. He refused immediate comfort over obedience to The Father. “And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.“ (Philippians 2:8)

His kingdom was never, is not and will never be of this world. Whenever I rebel against Him because I didn't get something that was 'rightfully' mine to receive, I miss the whole point of whatever He is doing and what I am supposed to be doing. Am I saying you shouldn't want for things? That you shouldn't pray for things? Absolutely not! Pray, ask and ask again, but “Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus: who, as He already existed in the form of God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but emptied Himself by taking the form of a bond-servant and being born in the likeness of men.” (Philippians 2:5-7)

You are a child of God! But if you think that gives you the right to do as you please and get whatever you want when you want it, look at how a son is to behave by watching how The Son behaved.

If you are in a waiting season, wait with hope. If you are in a 'no' season, then submit to His will and don't be as foolish as I used to be by rebelling. You will not win. Learn from The Son how to approach The Father in submission and humility.

by Cristina Pop

What are you doing here?

There will come a time or maybe you're already in it when you will forget. You will forget or have forgotten everything God has done for you and some real or imagined danger will have you running. You may think I am talking nonsense. After all you're God's beloved, He would never allow you to end up in such a place. He is your shield and your salvation, you are protected and favored. After all, maybe those that end up in such a place have clearly lost their faith or don't know the Scriptures, but that's not you.

Be that as it may, it happens to everybody. It happened to Abraham when he went to Egypt because he was afraid of the famine in the land. It happened to Isaac in the same way. It happened to Jacob when he ran from his brother's wrath. It happened to Joseph, Joshua, Gideon, Samson, David, etc.

My favorite running incident occurs in the life of Elijah. He is God's chosen prophet. He has seen God work more miracles than he can count. He has seen His power and His glory. Yet when Jezebel, aka crazy lady, threatens to have him killed, Elijah takes to heels like a good believer. (1 Kings 19) He runs into the wilderness so distraught that he says, “It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my fathers.” Gone is the memory of everything God has done. He's depressed. He's upset. He is confused and scared. An angel comes and urges him to eat and keep on going. After a second nudging Elijah keeps on going through the wilderness to reach God's mountain, Horeb. He finds a cave, he goes in it and there God finds him and asks him, 'What are you doing here, Elijah?' Elijah informs God about his dire situation because why else would God ask him unless He didn't know. God tells Elijah to go stand on the mountain. Elijah's still in the cave. And a great wind comes and and breaks apart the mountain before the Lord, but God is not in the wind. Elijah's not coming out. After the wind, an earthquake and a fire, but The Lord's not in either. After the fire the sound of a low whisper and Elijah's intrigued. He covers his face with his cloak and goes at the cave's entrance. God whispers again, 'What are you doing here, Elijah?' God's prophet tells his story a second time and God tells him to go back through the wilderness and lays out His plan for the current situation.

What are you doing here? Why are you in this place? Have I suddenly become so small in your eyes that whatever scared you away looms over you? What are you doing in this place of despair? What are you doing in this wilderness? Days before, you called fire out of heaven and it came at your word. It rained at your word and it stopped raining at your word, what are you doing here? Have you allowed Jezebel to grow so large in your mind that her words pierce your heart faster than Mine? Why are you here? A scared child impressed with silly tricks? You want tricks? Look at the wind tearing up a mountain! Look at the ground beneath your feet shaking! Look at the fire! Is it tricks that sway you? --Whisper: What are you doing here?

It happens to everybody. But if there's any truth planted in you, after you run and hide in the cave, you'll remind yourself who God is and return to where you have to be. After all, this is not where you're supposed to be. Get up and go back. 

by Cristina Pop 

Doctor

 In my previous blog post I have mentioned Elie Wiesel's book, Day. I am not in the habit of recommending books, so this is not about that, rather it's about a quote that made me think.

In context a patient, the hero of the book, is having a conversation with his doctor. Here is the quote:

“Do you believe in God, Doctor?” My question took him by surprise. He stopped suddenly, wrinkling his forehead. “Yes,” he answered. “But not in the operating room. There I only count on myself.” His eyes looked deeper. He added, “On myself and on the patient. Or, if you prefer, on the life in the diseased flesh. Life wants to live. Life wants to go on. It is opposed to death. It fights. The patient is my ally. He fights on my side. Together we are stronger than the enemy. Take the boy last night. He didn’t accept death. He helped me to win the battle. He was holding on, clinging. He was asleep, anesthetized, and yet he was taking part in the fight…” Still motionless he again stared at me intensely. There was an awkward silence. (…) “Why don't you care about living”, he asked very softly. (…) “Don't deny it, don't deny it. I know.” (…) “Nobody told me. During the operation you never helped me. Not once. You abandoned me. I had to wage the fight alone. All alone. Worse, you were on the other side. Against me. On the side of the enemy.” His voice became hard. Painfully hard. “Answer me! Why don't you want to live? Why?” (…) I thought, he's angry at me because I left him alone. Because even now, I escape him and have neither gratitude or admiration for him. That's why he's angry. He guessed that I don't care about living. That deep inside me there is no desire left to go on. And that undermines the foundation of his philosophy and his system of values. Man, according to his book must live and fight for his life. He must help doctors and not fight them. I had fought him. He brought me back to life, against my will. I had nearly joined my grandmother. I was actually on the threshold. Paul Russell stood behind me and prevented me from crossing. He was pulling me toward him. Alone against grandmother and the others and yet won. Another victory for him. A human life.“

This passage made me think of Jesus, The blessed Doctor, that fights alone. He is The Life after all... There are times I get wounded on the battle field of all my struggles and I think to myself, 'This is the end, I'll just lie here and wait for death.' Not literal death, but the death of hopes, wishes, prayers which are huge parts of me. Not the kind that need to die because they're whims, but the kind that have been birthed into life by Life. When that happens I need to cling to Life. I need to fight with every cell in me that wishes to live, to aid Him in His process of healing. Because my very bones know, I can't let death win. And if I pretend I don't believe it I'll let Him fight alone for me. In my case, He has fought by Himself for a long time. He has to bring my hopes back to Life almost against my will and face my lack of gratitude when He's done. It's not enough that He has faced death once and for all for my sake, now He has to fight to keep alive everything within me that wants to return to death. And all that without any help from me. Even worse, most times He finds me on the side of death, fighting against Him.

 “You are destroyed, O Israel, because you are against Me—against your helper.” (Hosea 13:9)

Forgive this foolish child, Lord. I'm learning slowly. Forgive me for making You wage war against my hopelessness and fear, time after time. Forgive me for despairing instead of clinging on to Life. I say I am your ally and you find me making deals with your enemy. Forgive me for my fickleness. Forgive me for leaving You alone. I will do better, Lord. Thank You for being strong enough to not give up on me.

“All my bones shall say, “O LORD, who is like you, delivering the poor from him who is too strong for him, the poor and needy from him who robs him?” (Psalm 35:10)

by Cristina Pop