The Holy

Never far from a dominant place in my mind is that of admiration for people who totally give themselves to the work of God: People who may forgo comfort and ease, who may move thousands of miles from their families, and who may assume simple and sacrificial ways of living. Sometimes these people are missionaries to foreign countries, sometimes they pastor or otherwise work in mission churches here in America. Some are called evangelists and they travel in motor homes or in trailers towed behind their cars, and that vehicle is their home, and sometimes they rear their babies in that way. They are the givers. The sacrificers. And there are others. We might never see them or know of them, for they work in the shadows, unseen, unnoticed, but they are there: They of the Holy.

Yesterday on Brother Daniel Scott’s facebook site, I saw this picture.
It struck me in my heart, and I typed in a comment to ask what this picture represented. This was Brother Scott’s response.

Sister Shirley: I am assuming you are speaking about the Album of the construction of the church in Quininde, Ecuador. This was the first church I constructed in Ecuador. The environment was very primitive at that time (today it is modern as anything in the United States). I created a church plan that I could present and solicit money for from my Partners In Missions, and know how much it would cost, what materials to purchase, etc. The previous church building is shown, and Paul Hosch from Dallas, Texas, sent me the money for this church. From there we duplicated the plan. To day those churches are running from many hundreds to such as the church in Quito, seating nearly 2,000, yet having to have three services each Sunday with firm request that no one attend a second time. Nice huh! Brother Battle and I worked very closely togather.

I cried when I looked at that picture for I knew it represented someone’s leaving their home to do God’s work, someone’s massive struggle, someone weeping in the night and working until their strength and their bodies were racked.That image haunts me and is etched in my heart

And then today I learned of Brother Willoughby’s death, and when I thought of the circumstances, I literally grew weak.

I have found a wonderful video, a tribute to the lives of Brother and Sister Willoughby. I post it here to honor not only them but Brother Scott, Brother Battle and their families, and you, and others of The Holy. You who give all.

Essence

In a conversation yesterday, someone noted that the UPCI–the ministerial organization with which my husband is connected–is now bigger than ever before, and “it literally has strengthened its financial position to a degree where we will soon began (begin) financing our efforts through the interest earned on our invested monies…”.

One of my sons is connected with the WPF, a ministerial organization that was founded a few years ago. I have friends in other ministerial organizations, and many friends, and family–also ministers–who choose to belong to no organization, but who are classified independent. Since many of those who formed the WPF came from the UPCI and the UPCI is now bigger than before, it seems to me that within the small circle of church work with which I am acquainted, the dividing and expanding has worked to grow the organism. I choose not to address my personal thoughts about all the ramifications of such a move for a couple of reasons: The primary reason being that I suspect few give a flip about my observations in that regard.

From the mix of the conversation yesterday came to me a reminder of the importance of doing the basic work of God wherever we are, however we can, and with whatever tools have been thrust our way. Humbly. Not as a peacock admiring his own tail feathers.

Within the minutiae of my notes, scribbled on a faded yellow lined scrap of paper in my handwriting is an account I read somewhere–who knows where?–I wish to share with you.

As the doctors were arguing over his care–who would put in the chest tube, the patient pled, “Somebody please save my life.

While the others argued, two other doctors took over and saved his life.”

To Lead a Child

Should one have perused the most exhaustive library known to man, scanned the shelves of each bookstore in existence,or “googled” every computer in the world, no more profound guidelines for rearing children would be found than these ancient, magnificent words God spoke to His own children. A most gripping passage of scripture, and one about which I have written before is in Deuteronomy 6:7.

And thou shalt teach them (God’s word) diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest in the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou riseth up.

A few days ago, we met our 10th great-grandchild, whose name is Robert Frances Beeso, but who will be called Franky. I watched Jerry bend down to look at the tiny little fella. I saw their eyes meet, and their fingers intertwine. and I was stricken with sadness as I thought of all Franky will face during his lifetime. Born into a floundering, imploding society, his only hope is that his parents, his grandparents, and those others about him, will take his hand–his tiny, trusting hand–and lead him into the paths of righteousness. May he ever have the words of God whispered into his ears, and the name of Jesus brushed over his lips.

The Profound Urge of Talent

“But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to each one for the profit of all:”
I Corinthians 12:7 NKJ

Not long after I planted flowers in our wooden barrels in one of our gardens, I noticed a different kind of plant had pushed up through the earth. I couldn’t identify it, but I didn’t think it was a weed, so I left it to grow. A couple of days ago, I was astounded when I saw the plant had put on an enormous yellow blossom, and it was then that I identified the volunteer plant as a squash.

I learned again a profound lesson. Learned again, I say, for I really know this story, but the squash plant in my back yard reminded me of a great truth. It is a story of abilities and of talents and that sometimes, in others, and even in ourselves, we fail to see the gifts that are present.

Unknown to me, in my back yard was an entity so gorged with the juice of life that it pushed its way through the dirt in my flower pot, poked out its little head and said, “I’m here.” It didn’t know it was a squash; I didn’t know it was a squash, but within a seed that somehow had found its way to me, God had placed an urge, a talent, a gift.

Let me encourage you today to see the gifts in those around you, to cultivate them, to water and dig about them. Let me urge you to recognize the talent that is uniquely yours. Offer it up. It will bless us.

Rooted in Sin, We

Someone directed me to a video that was produced during the arraignment of James Holmes, and I am almost sorry I watched it. It upset me, for as I watched the image of that handsome young man with his bulging eyes and that ridiculous red hair, I thought of his mother and of the unspeakable pain she must be suffering.I thought of sin, of hanging by rope, or death by electric chair, or by a needle filled with poison. I thought of the victims in that theater, and evil, and devil possession. . . and sometimes in the night when I wake up, I see those blaring eyes and think of my own sinful self, my children, my friends. I consider mercy.

Today I read an article by Mike Duran in which he brought up the subject of
Jeffrey Dahmer. As you probably will remember,

“By the time he was arrested, Dahmer had already committed 17 murders. But there was more. As the story unfolded, so did a macabre tale of cannibalism and necrophilia. Mummified body parts were found throughout his apartment. There were three human heads in the refrigerator, some hands in a pot of water on the stove and three torsos liquefying in a keg of acid.”

I knew that part, and that in prison, Jeffrey Dahmer had been murdered, but Mr. Duran goes on to note that

“In a glass jar in a Wisconsin hospital, there was a brain. At first glance it looked like any other brain – soft, grey, cauliflower-like. There was no apparent damage or deformity to it, but this brain was special because it belonged to Jeffrey Dahmer.

Jeffrey Dahmer’s body was cremated, according to his wishes; his brain, however, was preserved and kept under lock and key. Serial killers are rare – their brains, more so. Maybe in this moist, messy labyrinth scientists could find the cause of, and cure for, such deviance.

So there was Jeffrey Dahmer’s brain, surrounded by quizzical onlookers, hoping to examine its contents. What would they find inside? A chemical imbalance or a birth defect? Remnants of a cowardly surrender or a great war? These questions had to wait, because not far from the hospital, there was a courtroom where another type of inquiry was beginning. Lawyers argued and lines were drawn until the gavel sounded. Jeffrey’s father had his request and thus, almost a year after his son’s death, the brain was incinerated.

So as far as we know, no one examined the brain of Jeffrey Dahmer. But as Mike Duran has reminded me today, there is within each of us–somewhere –a root of sin. It may not be visible in our brains, but all of us have it. Although we are stunned at these heinous acts, and although we who read here cannot even grasp how a human being can perform such acts, Scripture points to us all being rooted in sin. It is frightening, but honest, to consider the depraved depths to which a human may descend.

Is there derangement in the brain of James Holmes? Likely. Did such evil thoughts and actions spring from sin? Yes.

Such writing as I am doing here today is to remind us of who we actually are. It is to humble us and to cause us anew to fall on Jesus Christ, our advocate. “Me?” you ask. “Is it I?”

The answer is yes, for in Romans 3:10, Paul reminds us: ” . . .There is none righteous, no, not one:”

Does Form Matter?

A few hours ago, I had a provocative talk with a young man who just attended a major youth meeting of an Apostolic group. He was very disturbed to observe that on the platform where sat many ministers, only one person had a bible. They had phones that had bible programs on them, and the scriptures being discussed were projected onto a large screen. So, in one sense they possessed bibles. From the platform, one minister actually read scripture aloud from his phone screen. Anything wrong with that?

Does it matter the form? Is there anything significant about holding in our hands a book that says Holy Bible as opposed to reading the same text on a computer screen, a telephone screen, or a projection screen?

I’m very interested in your opinion.
————–

It greatly pleases me that this photograph I took last year has been viewed more than 6000 times. There are still many people who cherish and value the Holy Bible.

My Tribute to Warriors

I pay tribute today to those loyal and courageous men and women of the military forces who have died in defense of our exceptional country, the United States of America.

I pay tribute today to those loyal and courageous men and women who have given themselves in defense of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. . .

. . . . .such as Pastor Delmon Sansom of Phoenix, AZ. whom I observed last evening as he waged war against satan, a cruel enemy of Brother Sansom’s tiny daughter, Reannah. . . and of his son . . . and of your son . . .and your daughter. With heads bowed, we fight!

Blessings Today

Often, I consider how blessed I am. Today is no exception. This morning here at Christ Alive Worship Center in Lake Havasu, my youngest son, Andrew, will be the preacher. In Chula Vista, California in the church he pastors my eldest son, Stephen, will be the preacher. In our service here my middle son, Michael, will be the worship leader. How very blessed I am. Far beyond anything I at all deserve. I am thankful.

Besides that, merely lifting my eyes, engages me in spectacular scenery, and besides that someone gave me beautiful roses.

Happy Day!

Inland Lighthouse Celebrates

This past weekend Inland Lighthouse Church of Rialto, CA. celebrated several significant mile-markers in the life of that great church. Included was the dedication of their new building, the 76th anniversary of the founding of the church, and some important anniversaries in the lives of Pastor and Mrs. Larry Booker. Sunday night was designated a “home-coming” service and all who had ever attended there under the ministry of any of the pastors were urged to attend. Of course we went, and before the preaching of Rev. Nate Wilson, my husband, as one of the former pastors, made special remarks. It was a delightful weekend of celebration, beautifully organized and splendidly accomplished.

Our grandson Nathaniel stands with Jerry just before we entered the building for the evening service.

The Worst Church in Town

Raging, the man looked at the few persons gathered for prayer.

“This is the worst church in town.” His flaming eyes swept across the stunned group. “Oh, not you.” He flailed his arms toward the leaders. “Not you. You’re good. . . but this church,” he continued. “It’s the worst in town. The scum, the lowdown, can’t trust anybody . . .”

As though a physical punch had knocked out her breath, the pastor’s wife trembled and caught for air. Her first impulse to shout “How could you say that about our dear church?” was repressed. She said nothing; hurt, defensive, shaking, a leaf in gathering storm.

Later, she came to understand. The man was right. It was the worst church in town– filled with lowly people, the pitiful, the addict, the undependable, the poor, the weeping, liars, and thieves. The beat up; the beat down.

She came to regard the man’s remarks as compliment. For had she not asked to be like Jesus, to take on His attributes, to enter into His mind? Had she not? Had not the leaders of the church proclaimed their wanting to be like Jesus? She remembered: Jesus once sat at a well with a prostitute; Jesus mingled with drunks; Jesus taught compassion and bandages for those who lie in bloody gutters; He held sticky messy children on His lap. He lived among the homeless. His group could not claim so much as a storefront, but a hillside must do for the church service some days. A small boat creaking in the water was the church platform more than once. Though He taught there every day, Jesus disdained lofty religiosity and once He went prowling about the elaborate temple where He ministered, and not liking what He saw, he silently plaited leather strips into a whip, then flying into the mess Jesus kicked over the tables, expelled the people and charged that His house should be called one of prayer. Jesus gathered an unlikely ragged group to work with Him and the lunatics followed along and the blind and the wretched.

Ours? The worst church in town? Could be.