OBSESSING BLESSING

My generation is obsessed with blessings and it doesn’t take a genius to figure this out. All you have to do is take a not-so-critical observation of how we pray and think. It’s in our every proclamation. Pouring out from every pulpit and sucked in with desperation from every pew.

Whoever you are, no matter how terribly blasé, villainous or tightly conservative you may be, you just laave blessings.

Admit it.

I do. A lot. But, at a point in my life, along with figuring out life isn’t a fairy tale after all, I also discovered something else; blessing is a vague thing. I mean I know it’s a good thing but what exactly is it? And the dictionary made this even worse for me by providing not less than four definitions for blessing.

But I also saw how people defined it;

“Look at that fine, young man, he just got a high-paying job, an expensive car and a big house on the island.” Sigh. “He is soo blessed.”

“My cousin is seventy and retired. All her kids are educated, married and have kids of their own. She and her husband recently celebrated their anniversary at the Bahamas.” Insert nod. “God has really blessed her.”

“You know Sarah? Yeah, she graduated with a first class. Such a smart, beautiful girl. Now, she’s getting married to Bill Gates’ son. That girl is so blessed.”

“I just got a scholarship to Harvard. Gosh, I am soo blessed!”

You get the picture? When a person is somehow fortunate to have things that bring physical comfort, we nod our heads and call them blessed. Favored. Happy. 

Prosperous.

Probably, but then it gets more confusing with the whole prosperity gospel going on in our churches today. Immediately the Pastor pronounces a blessing on you, he quickly proceeds with a succession of money, favor, health, connections, marriage, kids, yadda yadda pronunciations to accompany it. You can only make one conclusion.

But, the other day I was studying the Bible and I was shocked.

The people Jesus described were the poor (in spirit), the bereaved, the docile, those who were hungry and thirsty, the generally “too nice” guys who knew nothing, had nothing and sought nothing but God. They were the ones who were constantly spat on, degraded, lied about and generally hated to an unbearable point.

Jesus, after making a very thorough and sincere analysis of these guys, could only nod his head and say, “Blessed!”

Honestly, these people do not seem so blessed to me. They seem…miserable. Wretched. In fact, if they were from my part of the world, my people will call them accursed. “Dem don dey follow am for him village,”(a) they would say while they nod their heads sagely and pretend to throw spittle on the ground.

It just doesn’t make any kind of sense to me. Like:

“I am such a horrible mess. I can’t do anything right. I’m at the end of my rope. All I need is God” Sigh. “I’m so blessed!”

“I’ve lost a lot. I am so grieved right now.” Sniff. “How blessed I am!”

“My boss just laid me off for singing Don Moen. What a blessing!”

“Did you see the new ISIS video with those Syrian Christians getting their heads chopped off?” Sigh. “Such blessed people!”

“My class mates hate me. They keep calling me a witch with a fish brain. In fact, Leah slapped me yesterday for trying to preach to her.” Smile. “I’m crazy blessed!”
 
Am I the only one who thinks this is weird? It makes no sense. At least no common sense. But that is what God tells us. So, what exactly is blessing? I’m not sure I know yet, but going back to the Attitude guys, we find out that there was something about them. During the process of their general misery (from the world’s assessment), they get a huge deal in return. And this makes me think that maybe the blessing is in this.

And it wasn’t just about the fact that they were heaven-bound and had a reward from God. No. there was so much more.

They all got God.

In their moments of woe and desolation; whether as a Missionary in a far out rural area with little money. Or as a young orphan struggling to get by in a hell-hole. A young Christian trying so hard not to fit in…there was that uttermost and high state of bliss, rapture and beatitude. That unfurling peace and joy, that beautiful embrace and joyful assuredness of knowing;

He is here.

I am not alone.

I am His!

He is mine.

When you have the Master of all creation, the God of the Universe, the Love Himself, the Supreme commander of all as your Lord and Saviour, how can you want more?

And this, is the real blessing!

Are you blessed?

Side Note:
Have I disputed the place of material blessings? Nope. It will in fact result from the real blessing...but for a purpose.  It's important we know that it is not the real definition of blessedness from God's perspective. Never forget that.

Stay blessed!

Glossary:
a - "Dem don dey follow am for him village."
Literal meaning: He is being followed by his kindred.
Translation: He is under a spell. 

OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN

 #LatePost

I shouldn’t feel this way. I know. I am a Christian for Christ’s sake. Or at least I like to think I am. I close my eyes, open my mouth and try to express what I feel, or don’t feel. But Nada. Zilch.

Nothing.

I should pray. I know I should, because I am a Christian. I am supposed to pray! Prayer is what we do. But I just don’t feel like it. I’m serious.

I don’t feel like praying.

And that is the problem. Has been for a while. Of course this should not be expected of me. I should be able to roll off my bed with the first thing on my mind being God and talking with him. But now I wake with a certain kind of…trepidation. Like, “Here we go…”

I say ‘trepidation’ because I hate routine. I like doing the right thing but I hate doing it dutifully. It makes me hate myself because I feel…passionless. Then I start feeling sad for hating myself. And then guilt sets in, going on in a vicious cycle.

So, yes, trepidation. Days have gone when I felt that way.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. I still love God. Very much. But it’s more like me saying, “I really, really do love my Mum but I just don’t feel like talking to her. I just prefer we sit side by side in silence.”

It happens in relationships right? You just want to enjoy the person’s presence.

But you see, it doesn’t work that way with God. Because for starters, I can’t even feel his presence, how then can I enjoy it? Secondly, I really need to pray…especially now, with all that’s going on.

Sigh.

The silence is unbearable. I don’t say anything and neither does He and somehow this makes me mad. Why won’t you say something? Why do I have to be the one to initiate the conversation?
 
I’ve always been one of those Christians who believe in prayer and it became really alarming when this went on for a few days. So, after a lot of pep talk, from me (and God?), I finally decided to pray.

“Our Father who art…” I say but slowly drift off. I gave it another shot and this time tried not to pay attention to how dry and frigid my voice sounded even to my own ears. It felt…forced.

I mentally threw my hands up in defeat.

“Lord, this isn’t working and we both know it,” I say.

But what has to be done has to be done, so after several minutes of rambling and carrying on with my routine, I decided I had satisfied my conscience. Or maybe not. And this went on for days.

It’s not like I don’t know I should pray. Like I said, I believe so much in prayer not just because people say so but because, I’m telling you, I have tasted its power and beauty.

I have had times when God showed forth for me at the nick of time or even before time because of prayers. I have received strength and refreshing waters in the place of prayer. I have seen it at work. So, why can’t I just pray?

It’s like every time I close my eyes to pray, my brain starts bustling with things to do yet I know every bustling outside God is just busy nothing. I tried. I promise, I really tried. But it was not a discipline issue this time. No. there was something more, keeping me from reaching that beautiful place of fellowship with God. And I didn’t know what, I just was not feeling it.

And then it hit me.

“We walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7 _ NIV)

I realized then that I was basing my connection with God on how I felt at that moment instead of allowing faith shape my perception of God. And a lot of this goes on in our generation. We are so in touch with the physical, basing everything on what we can see, smell, taste, hear or feel. But that is the problem because God does not dwell in the physical.

We worship and communicate with God in the Spirit because He is Spirit. He is our Father in Heaven who we don’t see and want to communicate with. Our emotions have no place in this.

Pay attention: Prayer is NOT about how you feel. Got it?

Of course it would sometimes come to a point where God rubs on us so much that it overflows to our emotions. But, it does not begin there.

Get this straight. Passion and feeling in prayer does not begin with the emotions. It begins with following God in blind-eyed faith before the manifestation of anything physical. Go and check, those who encountered God in such awesome ways in the Bible began with a step in faith.

So it means that at that point you don’t feel like praying, that is the best time to pray because you pray in the Spirit and not by feeling (sight, emotion, flesh).

Immediately I had this understanding, I ran straight for God. At first it seemed like a repetition of the same ol’, but I pressed for more. I pressed, bearing in my heart that I have a Father in Heaven who is just waiting for me to speak. I pressed till I was so completely immersed I didn’t even realize it.

It was a wonderful feeling. But it didn’t begin with the feeling.

Another tip: When you just don’t feel like praying, go to God’s word. Allow his voice soak you through His word. It spurs you to pray.

Pray God’s word to him.

And yes, you’ll need lots of discipline too.

So, are you ready? Now close your eyes, take a deep breath and say,
“My Father, who art in Heaven…”

Side Note:
I'm sure by now you've noticed this is a favorite topic of mine; prayer. And in all my goodness, I have decided to spare you the pain of having to point out the obvious. So, yeah, it is a topic of particular fascination to me...the ability to communicate with the divine.

And I've read a few books on this. Will probably do a book review on my top 5 books on prayer sometime.

THE RACE II

 
…get set…go!

Clarence wobbled a bit as his weak limbs hit the dusty road. He was tired. He was hungry. He wasn’t even sure why he was running anymore. They were about fifty kilometers out on the trail but he felt like his lungs were going to burst open, spilling his innards on the dusty road.

He winced a little at the thought.

He should stop to eat something. Some of the other runners did. Every few hours they stopped to eat some of the food Papi – for that was what they called the organizer of the race – kept on the track. But, he couldn’t do that. He was too busy.

He had to win this race.

The Papi also helped the runners a lot. Sometimes, he’d just jump in and take some of the weary ones on his shoulder while he ran. Or offer them glucose. Or help them read the map. Or bellow advice from a chopper hovering above them constantly. But Clarence had graciously rejected his offer several times.

All his friends were in the race. He had a lot to prove. He did his exercises well and was a natural at this. He didn’t need the food. But, he felt really doozy. His initial energy and fervor that was present when he began the race was gone. His breaths came in wispy, shallow puffs now. But he kept going.

He would make it.

He didn’t need food.

Or anyone’s help.

                                                  *    *    *    *

The bag was weighing her down. Tina had wondered at a time what it would feel like to carry a thousand ton rock on ones back. Now, she knew. She couldn’t remember where the strange thought had come from at that time. Maybe something she had read somewhere about placing a millstone around someone’s neck and dropping them in the ocean.

She felt so strangled. All her energy and concentration focused fully on carrying the weight hanging on her stooping back. Her steps were slow and labored. But this was hers. She would carry it. So she hopped on with the bag flopping heavily on her back as she did so, her breath shallow and labored.

Several times Papi had hovered in a chopper above her like he usually did, bellowing on a megaphone for her to drop the load. But all the time she would shake her head and ignore him. There was no way she was dropping it.

She had left home with it. It contained all her personal stuff. Things she loved and was comfortable with. Things she wasn’t ready to let go of for any reason.
For any one.

Besides, she was sure she was doing great in the race…for someone with all that load. Never mind most of the energy from her food always went to carrying the bag rather than running the race. But she wasn’t complaining.

She would be fine.

She stopped a bit to catch her breath and watch the other runners and tried not to envy some of them. They were so agile and fast. If only she could be that way. Some who breezed past however, were so pathetic she wanted to laugh. But then she remembered the weight chocking her and changed her mind about expressing her scorn. Their steps were so feeble and Papi had to carry them most of the time or offer them some kind of help.

They were so helpless.

At least she was better than them. Now, if only she could find a way to carry this load without it chocking or hindering her steps too much, she would be fine.
She would be just fine.

                                                  *    *    *    *

Ladi had always loved beautiful things. She remembered as a child, she had had such a keen eye for art that her parents had thought she would end up as an artist. She would usually point excitedly at a daisy or a rose and hop excitedly screeching, “Look! So, so pretty!” Her friends thought she was weird, in a kind of way that was somehow acceptable for only artists.

But she hadn’t grown to be an artist. She was a photographer.

Now, as she ran on the trail, she couldn’t help but notice how the surrounding hills towered and tilted towards each other like they were having a private conversation. She sighed.

It was really beautiful.

Then there were the luscious berries that hung alluringly and beckoned silently by the side of the road. Her mouth watered, never mind the food Papi provided for them. They were not like these ones. These ones were different. She could just take…

She shook her head vigorously and blinked. “Focus, Ladi. Focus!” she chided herself and picked up her slowing steps.

She must have run for about a kilometer when she saw it. It wasn’t different from the others she had been seeing along the way but somehow this one caught her fancy. She halted in her tracks for a bit and watched.

There was a party at some distance to the west. The people were dancing and laughing like they had no care in the world. They looked like they were really having fun. She found herself smiling longingly.

She wanted to go.

All she had to do was stay awhile. Maybe take a few of those berries she had seen on the trees along the way. They had them there, in platters. Ladi squinted and tried to make out the other things lying on the table. She couldn’t really see them from where she was but they seemed really delicious. She would not stay long, she told herself. She would be able to get back on track later, after all she was a fast runner. Very lithe.

She should go.

What harm could there be?

                                                      *    *    *    *

“Do you not know that in a race all runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize.” 1 Corinthians 9:24 _ NIV

                                                       The End?


Side Note: 
No, my question mark is not out of place. I’m not sure that story ever really ends. It’s our story. All of us.

What is the lesson in it, you ask? Well, it should be there somewhere. But here’s a tip: They are all Christians. On a race.

Go figure…

THE RACE

On your marks…

Jade breathed deeply, sucked in her stomach and slowly let out air from her open mouth. Annie had insisted this was wrong aerobics, “Breathe in air to your lungs,” her know-it-all friend had said but Jade was too occupied at the moment to worry about the technicalities of breathing.

She squinted, scanning around briefly for any sign of them. But even after roving the curved sidelines as far as her eyes could see, she still couldn’t spot them. Though the sidelines were brimming with humans, she didn’t bother filtering the bodies around critically. She knew.

They were not here.

And all of a sudden, all her cool confidence was shattered. She could feel her heart sink like an anchor thrown into the sea and this made her feel weak. Weak from the exhaustion of the pain and disappointment. Weak from the strain of making excuses for her family and friends. They just did not care.

“Live with it,” she mumbled to herself and spat ungracefully. She did the breathing again to steady her heart. She didn’t need this now. If there was ever a time she needed all her mind in one place, it was now.

Jade had entered for the “Run for life” marathon a month ago. A friend, Ben, had introduced it to her and she had gotten the ticket; which was weird. The ticket, that is.

They had told them the ticket was free and the only thing they had to do was show an interest. They said the prize was N50 million and a mansion. Seriously, who gives you a chance to enter for a contest with such a huge prize attached to it without expecting anything? Jade thought. And it wasn’t even a company event. It was a one-man organized thing.

Another strange thing. No one saw a picture of the mansion. In all the fliers and banners, they had never shown anyone the prize they were running for nor the man – the organizer. But she gave up understanding it. Her friends had laughed at her. They thought it was a sham and teased her mercilessly when she got up early every morning to train. But all that didn’t matter.

She was running.

Of course her family had disapproved. It was foolishness, they said. But she had hoped that somehow they and her friends would still come to cheer her on.

Apparently not.

She got on her mark. The race was about to begin.

                                                                *    *    *    *

Dave couldn’t get what the man was hollering about. He stood at the sidelines and yelled at him to get himself fixed up. What did that mean anyways? He had entered for the race about a week ago after getting the handbill from some guy on his way to the office and it had said nothing about getting himself “fixed up”. It just sounded like a great deal to him.

Okay, fine it was indeed a race and like his friend had told him, he needed to train hard. But seriously, he didn’t think it was that big a deal. He was very athletic and after doing a sweeping survey of his fellow runners, he decided he was probably the most fit. With or without exercises.

And running shoes.

Agreed, dress shoes were not exactly “track-friendly”. That and his beige slacks together with a clean white shirt and tie. But that was beside the point. Heck, there was no way he was wearing any of those ugly running boots he saw the others sporting. He huffed. 

Some people had style.

All that did not matter. The point was at least he had come. Dave could almost see the dazzling mansion in his mind’s eye. He didn’t know what it looked like but he enjoyed imagining it. He had even told some of his friends to come along. Some had agreed and others laughed at him out rightly. They thought he had lost his mind, running for something he knew almost nothing about.

He would show them.

The sun was coming on them really hard and he thanked God for the strong antiperspirant his wife had made him buy before coming. Although she hadn’t entered for the race yet, she had agreed to join them later. That was possible. The flier had said so. So long as the race was still on, others could join them.

Weird rule, he thought.

He waved off the man – hollering man on the sidetrack – and gently rocked on his feet while placing his hands in his pockets. The old trooper just shook his head and walked off.

Dave briefly surveyed the sidelines again but couldn’t see any familiar face, which was great. He didn’t care one way or the other. He was a one-man team and didn’t need any cheerleader mussing up his focus. 

He rolled up his sleeves and picked the rumpled sheet from his back pocket. It was a map they had been given when they signed up for the race. He stared blankly at the curves and lines that ran over the sheet. He had no idea how to read it.

But once again, it didn’t matter. He didn’t even need the thing. It was a terrain he knew so well. He stuffed it back in his pocket and whistled.

He was waiting for the shot. The race was about to begin.

                                                                                                   ...to be continued

Side note:

What next? Honestly, I'm not sure I know but stay with me on this okay? This might take a while though, but then something to look forward to, right?

And of my absence...that's another piece, trust me. A serious marathon, guaranteed to bore you to tears. Get your shoes and we'll talk. But no, I haven't backslidden.

Thanks for asking ;)

JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL...OH REALLY?

“…In the same way, those of you who do not give up everything you have cannot be my disciples.”

You remember "Jesus take the wheel" by Carrie Underwood? Yeah. It's a really pretty song. But then I started to wonder if I could rewrite it. If I did, it would go along the lines of

"Jesus take the wheeeel!
Take it from my hands
While I give you instructions
I'm not really letting go
Give me hundred more chances
Save me from this road I'm on...
Jesus take the wheel... "

Okay so I admit it will not be a very pretty song. But it'll be pretty accurate. At least for me. I would sing it at the top of my lungs, unmindful of musical murder. Why? Because that is my confession.

Alright, so you were finally able to convince your Mum, after several months of shameless persistence to allow you drive. She gives that exasperated sigh of one who is left with no more choice while she haltingly hands you the keys. So, off you go, taking possession of the wheels with your Mum sitting beside you while she allows you drive.

Yayy!

But you've barely gone several meters before she's twisting in her seat, barking instructions at you:

"Watch that pothole!”
“Swerve to the right"
"Not so fast!"

And naturally you want to remind her you’re not blind. Because, you see, you are at the wheels, but you’re not really driving. She is.

Reminds me of me.

I have been at the wheel of my life for so long that I almost forgot how to relinquish control, but it doesn’t take me too long to realize that I suck as a driver and here is Jesus, offering to take control of the wheels. After a lot of hesitation, I decided that maybe surrender isn’t so bad. It’s even a command. So, I hand him the keys and scoot to the passenger seat.

He is at the wheels and I would like to say I have fully surrendered all. Maybe I have.

Or not.

"Lord, do you think you could umm...hit the gas? You are going a little too slow"
"Lord, this is not the road. It's too rough. We should've followed the highway. "
"Lord, watch that pothole.”
“Lord, I’m not sure I could do that.”

We say we have surrendered. Yet there are still parts of our lives we would like to protect and explain away on grounds of temperament, background and so on. Parts of our lives we would like to own. Control is a human thing. It’s something we never want to lose. We all want to feel some level of control in our lives. We hate being helpless. Yet, God demands this of us. He demands full consecration. He demands full surrender.

He demands ALL of you.

“Simply put, if you’re not willing to take what is dearest to you, whether plans or people, and kiss it good-bye, you can’t be my disciple.” (Jesus, Luke 14:33_The Message).

God doesn’t demand much of us but that we give Him our all. He deserves it because he gave us his all. He desires that we rest back in our seats and allow him drive. Simply put, follow him.

But how can you surrender to someone you do not trust? How can you fully surrender when your surrender stops short of the “I suck as a driver” realization? How can total surrender come when our motives are not fully aimed at God alone? How can we surrender to a God we feel will whip us the minute our hands are up?

How can we surrender when we are not aching to see His glory but ours?

The truth is, we cannot. Total surrender is born, not of a mere realization that God can do it better. But is born of wanting all of God as much as he wants all of us. Trusting. Letting go. Aching for him so much that we let the reins slip easily off our fingers because we realize we cannot hold all of Him – his might, love, power – and still hold on to our control.

It just doesn’t work.

It is harder than it sounds. But why not start where you are? Begin by not giving him instructions then work your way, with every step of grace, to that place of full surrender.

So, I would again have to rewrite the song…then I’ll have something like this;

"Jesus take the wheeeel!
Take it from my hands
And put a tape duct on my mouth
I'm now letting
I’ll give you full control
Save me from this road I'm on...
Jesus take the wheel... "

Sigh. Okay, yes. It will still suck as a song. But it’ll be pretty accurate.

And it will be my confession.

Side note:
I'm recruiting back up singers for my own version of "Jesus take the wheel" (The latter one now).
So, what do you say? You in?

Photo credit: via Lightstock

...WHEN GOD DIED

 "...Nature trembled at this great alteration..."

 
He is the word made flesh
The Son of God of virgin birth
Like a lamb to a slaughter he was led
Not a protest, not a word said
A guiltless man persecuted and trialed
For your wrong and crime that was mine
On him our punishment was laid
Paying a debt we were too desolate to pay
Dragged to Pilate on that fateful day
He was handed over by the ones he came to save
Crucify him! Crucify him! The people roared
Rejected by his own, they had him flogged
Entering the hearts of men who gave him room
Lucifer unwittingly plotted his doom
They stripped and adorned him a scarlet garment
Setting on his head a crown of thorns they taunted
They spat on the king, struck him and hurled insults
While some gathered his clothes and cast lots
They scribbled an ode on his cross for fun
The written charge a veritable one
“This is Jesus, King of the Jews”
They said to scorn but it rang true
Because of my sins he was ill-fated
For cursed is he hung upon a tree
The soldier pierced him with no sensitivities
His pain stretching tautly to the extremities
And when on the Son laid our sins
The Father had to turn away from him
Seeing all had been accomplished
He breathed his last words, “It is finished”
The sun retreated then into its tent
Refusing to show the abomination of men
Nature trembled at this great alteration
A sinless blood, the atrocities of nations
The earth shook and trembled in fear
Throwing up bodies of men long dead
The curtain of the temple ripped apart
A sign of what should have been from the start
Now all who believe can walk in
Through the advocate, our High Priest
Ushering in an epoch of grace
One which welcomed all people, all race
To those captured by death he was the ransom
He paid the price in ways one cannot fathom
With foolishness, He confounded the wise
It was the unthinkable when God died.

Courtesy: lightstock

Side Note
You remember "Passion of the Christ?" Yeah. This is my own tired version. But, I'm telling you, this story is by no means finished. He died and guess what? He rose again. The only "Valentine" who lives to tell the story.

HE IS RISEN