It was with a twinge of remorse that I realized I can’t relate to her as a little kid any more. For so long our love language has been the language of absurdities: “Mommy says you don’t want birthday presents this year, so mommy and I are going to use the money to go out on a date.” We used to have such fun with these, teasing one another back and forth with increasingly absurd statements. Now all I get is rolled eyes and the one-word exasperated exclamation, “Daddy!” I guess it’s time to stop, time to find something new, time to learn a new language.
Do you know how many prayer are mentioned in the Bible (and how many were answered)? Here’s the answer to that question and other things you should know about the prayer in the Bible.
Kindle deals for Christian readers
In addition to yesterday’s list, here are a few deals for you:
- Girl Talk by Carolyn Mahaney and Nicole Whitacre—99¢
- Feminine Appeal by Carolyn Mahaney—$1.99
- Joy by Lydia Brownback—99¢
- Glimpses of Grace by Gloria Furman—$1.99
- Desperate by Sarah Mae and Sally Clarkson—$2.99
- Everyday Theology—99¢
St. Patrick’s bad analogies
This is pretty fantastic:
With all the opposition we face in ministry, it’s tempting to play it safe. Evasive maneuvers often seem like the best course of action. Mitigate the risk, and live to minister another day.
The irony is that while avoiding church conflict buys you time now, long-term—as I hope to show you—it guarantees failure. And anything that guarantees failure is the opposite of safe. It’s the ultimate risk, because you’re betting you will be the one-in-a-million pastor whose church problems go away all by themselves.
If playing it safe isn’t safe in church anymore, then what is? Risk is. In ministry, risky is the new safe.
It has been a hard few weeks. Death has been stalking this neighborhood. Suicides, both passive and otherwise, have haunted us. I have sat in the apartments of recent widows and had nothing to say but “I’m sorry”. I have listened to people as they told me about all of their possessions going up in a blaze, looked at the floor where they and their 8 children now sleep. I have had people clutch my arms, tell me their stories in snippets, beg for bus money. I have heard so much that I cannot share with anyone. Instead of debating the finer points of Pauline doctrine or sharing the stories of Jesus I find myself sitting in stuffy apartments, listening to sad stories being translated to me.Lately I have taken to chastising myself: what right do you have to be sad? You are just a newcomer, an outsider. Don’t co-opt the grief of others and pretend like it is your own. I have settled into a numb sort of dullness, objectively identifying situations with my lips: yes, yes, this is all very sad. But I am floating far above it all, afraid of being an emotional, slobbering wreck; tired of the increased distance I feel between myself and people who are not living this same life; hesitant to plumb the depths of my feelings towards the person who got me into this mess. Who is, of course, God. Some people feel called to do certain things. “Called by God,” they say, and I listen with envious ears. I imagine a gentle voice, a guiding light, when all I ever feel (as my good friend Jessica says) is a great big shove from the Almighty one. A grim sort of determination is the sheen around everything that I do. Of course, there is joy–I cannot get over the pleasures of living in diversity–but still I think that compulsion fits the bill for me better than calling.