Today (Tuesday) is the 14th of Nisan on the Jewish calendar. Doesn’t mean anything to you? Think back to the time of Moses… and the long, drawn out series of events that led up to Pharaoh’s release of the Hebrew people from bondage in Egypt. It was on the 14th of Nisan when God had instructed them about the Passover meal and about the blood over the doorpost that would signal their faithfulness to His will. Imagine the excitement, fear, and anticipation the Israelites must have felt that night so many centuries ago as they were preparing to leave slavery in Egypt. What strange circumstances they were witnessing (as described in Exodus 12)! Smearing blood above and on the sides of door frames? Packing light for a middle-of-the-night journey? Gifts of gold and silver from their Egyptian masters who had treated them with such contempt and hatred for so long?
One of the names used in the Bible to refer to the LORD is "Jehovah-Jireh" which roughly translates "my Provider." What a fitting reference for the escape from bondage! He provided everything they needed before, during, and after their journey. That night, when the cries and wailing increased exponentially all over the land of Egypt as mothers and fathers began discovering the fulfillment of God's promised plague to kill the firstborn, the Israelites needed one last little detail to help them on their journey. Just a little something that only God could provide: some extra light for their journey until daylight comes. How did God provide for this need? With a full moon!
On Tuesday night - on this year's 14 Nisan - go outside after dark and observe the full moon that God provides. If the sky is clear of clouds, you can just imagine how much that extra amount of light must have helped Moses and the Israelites "get out of town" in an efficient and orderly manner (before Pharaoh changed his mind and took his army to pursue them)! That same Provider also takes care of us today.
What an amazing story of redemption, huh? What a Provider!
(Thanks to Mark Clark for these thoughts!)
Resurrection Sunday!
We have a great opportunity before us this Sunday to celebrate and praise Jehovah-Jireh… God, our Provider! For it was on a cold, Roman cross many years following those days in Egypt when God would completely fulfill the promise of Passover and provide the perfect Lamb… once and for all time… to shed his own blood… the blood that would cleanse His people from their sins. But the story doesn’t end there! If it did, it would be a moving story… but there would be no victory. There would just be death. On the third day after Jesus’ crucifixion, his body went missing. The tomb was found empty. His followers were dumbfounded. They soon came to realize that his body wasn’t stolen… he had risen… just as he had said that he would! We’ll celebrate that resurrection this Sunday as we do every Lord’s day… and we’ll remember the provision God made for sin. In Christ, there is victory because of what God provided! In Christ, there is life! Invite a friend to come and celebrate with us this Sunday!
--Jim
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Dear Friend
This is from MaxLucado.com and I couldn't help but share it...
Dear Friend
by Max Lucado
Dear Friend,
I’m writing to say thanks. I wish I could thank you personally, but I don’t know where you are. I wish I could call you, but I don’t know your name. If I knew your appearance, I’d look for you, but your face is fuzzy in my memory. But I’ll never forget what you did.
There you were, leaning against your pickup in the West Texas oil field. An engineer of some sort. A supervisor on the job. Your khakis and clean shirt set you apart from us roustabouts. In the oil field pecking order, we were at the bottom. You were the boss. We were the workers. You read the blueprints. We dug the ditches. You inspected the pipe. We laid it. You ate with the bosses in the shed. We ate with each other in the shade.
Except that day.
I remember wondering why you did it.
We weren’t much to look at. What wasn’t sweaty was oily. Faces burnt from the sun; skin black from the grease. Didn’t bother me, though. I was there only for the summer. A high-school boy earning good money laying pipe.
We weren’t much to listen to, either. Our language was sandpaper coarse. After lunch, we’d light the cigarettes and begin the jokes. Someone always had a deck of cards with lacy-clad girls on the back. For thirty minutes in the heat of the day, the oil patch became Las Vegas—replete with foul language, dirty stories, blackjack, and barstools that doubled as lunch pails.
In the middle of such a game, you approached us. I thought you had a job for us that couldn’t wait another few minutes. Like the others, I groaned when I saw you coming.
You were nervous. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other as you began to speak.
“Uh, fellows,” you started.
We turned and looked up at you.
“I, uh, I just wanted, uh, to invite … ”
You were way out of your comfort zone. I had no idea what you might be about to say, but I knew that it had nothing to do with work.
“I just wanted to tell you that, uh, our church is having a service tonight and, uh … ”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “He’s talking church? Out here? With us?”
“I wanted to invite any of you to come along.”
Silence. Screaming silence.
Several guys stared at the dirt. A few shot glances at the others. Snickers rose just inches from the surface.
“Well, that’s it. Uh, if any of you want to go … uh, let me know.”
After you turned and left, we turned and laughed. We called you “reverend,” “preacher,” and “the pope.” We poked fun at each other, daring one another to go. You became the butt of the day’s jokes.
I’m sure you knew that. I’m sure you went back to your truck knowing the only good you’d done was to make a good fool out of yourself. If that’s what you thought, then you were wrong.
That’s the reason for this letter.
Some five years later, a college sophomore was struggling with a decision. He had drifted from the faith given to him by his parents. He wanted to come back. He wanted to come home. But the price was high. His friends might laugh. His habits would have to change. His reputation would have to be overcome.
Could he do it? Did he have the courage?
That’s when I thought of you. As I sat in my dorm room late one night, looking for the guts to do what I knew was right, I thought of you.
I thought of how your love for God had been greater than your love for your reputation.
I thought of how your obedience had been greater than your common sense.
I remembered how you had cared more about making disciples than about making a good first impression. And when I thought of you, your memory became my motivation.
So I came home.
I’ve told your story dozens of times to thousands of people. Each time the reaction is the same: The audience becomes a sea of smiles, and heads bob in understanding. Some smile because they think of the “clean-shirted engineers” in their lives. They remember the neighbor who brought the cake, the aunt who wrote the letter, the teacher who listened …
Others smile because they have done what you did. And they, too, wonder if their “lunchtime loyalty” was worth the effort.
You wondered that. What you did that day wasn’t much. And I’m sure you walked away that day thinking that your efforts had been wasted.
They weren’t.
So I’m writing to say thanks. Thanks for the example. Thanks for the courage. Thanks for giving your lunch to God. He did something with it; it became the Bread of Life for me.
Gratefully,
Max
P.S. If by some remarkable coincidence you read this and remember that day, please give me a call. I owe you lunch.
From In the Eye of the Storm
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1997) Max Lucado
Dear Friend
by Max Lucado
Dear Friend,
I’m writing to say thanks. I wish I could thank you personally, but I don’t know where you are. I wish I could call you, but I don’t know your name. If I knew your appearance, I’d look for you, but your face is fuzzy in my memory. But I’ll never forget what you did.
There you were, leaning against your pickup in the West Texas oil field. An engineer of some sort. A supervisor on the job. Your khakis and clean shirt set you apart from us roustabouts. In the oil field pecking order, we were at the bottom. You were the boss. We were the workers. You read the blueprints. We dug the ditches. You inspected the pipe. We laid it. You ate with the bosses in the shed. We ate with each other in the shade.
Except that day.
I remember wondering why you did it.
We weren’t much to look at. What wasn’t sweaty was oily. Faces burnt from the sun; skin black from the grease. Didn’t bother me, though. I was there only for the summer. A high-school boy earning good money laying pipe.
We weren’t much to listen to, either. Our language was sandpaper coarse. After lunch, we’d light the cigarettes and begin the jokes. Someone always had a deck of cards with lacy-clad girls on the back. For thirty minutes in the heat of the day, the oil patch became Las Vegas—replete with foul language, dirty stories, blackjack, and barstools that doubled as lunch pails.
In the middle of such a game, you approached us. I thought you had a job for us that couldn’t wait another few minutes. Like the others, I groaned when I saw you coming.
You were nervous. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other as you began to speak.
“Uh, fellows,” you started.
We turned and looked up at you.
“I, uh, I just wanted, uh, to invite … ”
You were way out of your comfort zone. I had no idea what you might be about to say, but I knew that it had nothing to do with work.
“I just wanted to tell you that, uh, our church is having a service tonight and, uh … ”
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “He’s talking church? Out here? With us?”
“I wanted to invite any of you to come along.”
Silence. Screaming silence.
Several guys stared at the dirt. A few shot glances at the others. Snickers rose just inches from the surface.
“Well, that’s it. Uh, if any of you want to go … uh, let me know.”
After you turned and left, we turned and laughed. We called you “reverend,” “preacher,” and “the pope.” We poked fun at each other, daring one another to go. You became the butt of the day’s jokes.
I’m sure you knew that. I’m sure you went back to your truck knowing the only good you’d done was to make a good fool out of yourself. If that’s what you thought, then you were wrong.
That’s the reason for this letter.
Some five years later, a college sophomore was struggling with a decision. He had drifted from the faith given to him by his parents. He wanted to come back. He wanted to come home. But the price was high. His friends might laugh. His habits would have to change. His reputation would have to be overcome.
Could he do it? Did he have the courage?
That’s when I thought of you. As I sat in my dorm room late one night, looking for the guts to do what I knew was right, I thought of you.
I thought of how your love for God had been greater than your love for your reputation.
I thought of how your obedience had been greater than your common sense.
I remembered how you had cared more about making disciples than about making a good first impression. And when I thought of you, your memory became my motivation.
So I came home.
I’ve told your story dozens of times to thousands of people. Each time the reaction is the same: The audience becomes a sea of smiles, and heads bob in understanding. Some smile because they think of the “clean-shirted engineers” in their lives. They remember the neighbor who brought the cake, the aunt who wrote the letter, the teacher who listened …
Others smile because they have done what you did. And they, too, wonder if their “lunchtime loyalty” was worth the effort.
You wondered that. What you did that day wasn’t much. And I’m sure you walked away that day thinking that your efforts had been wasted.
They weren’t.So I’m writing to say thanks. Thanks for the example. Thanks for the courage. Thanks for giving your lunch to God. He did something with it; it became the Bread of Life for me.
Gratefully,
Max
P.S. If by some remarkable coincidence you read this and remember that day, please give me a call. I owe you lunch.
From In the Eye of the Storm
Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1997) Max Lucado
Monday, March 1, 2010
New Sermon Series Begins Sunday…. “God”
Christian author A. W. Tozer once wrote, “…the gravest question before the Church is always God Himself, and the most portentous fact about any man is not what he at a given time may say or do, but what he in his deep heart conceives God to be like.” In other words, who we think God to be says a lot about who we are. I would go even further and suggest that a lot of the problems we have as fallen creatures stem from an improper or low view of God. We sin because we hold God in the improper regard. We are dysfunctional because God isn’t holy enough in our minds.I wonder if we think of God with the right respect or the right amount of awe? Francis Chan has challenged me on this. I've recently discovered his books, "Crazy Love" and "Forgotten God" and I've become a Chan fan! He suggests that much of our frustration with church and with living the Christian life in general comes from not understanding who God is.
Over the next few weeks we’ll be taking some time to explore God together… who he is… his character and his attributes. And we’ll ask the most important question, “If God is all of this, then how should I respond to him? What difference does it make in my life?” Join us as we ponder together our awesome, eternal and loving God!
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