APOSTOLIC PASSION.

by Floyd McClung

What is Apostolic Passion?

The term "passion" is used to describe everything from romance to hunger pangs. I don't know what it means to you, but for me passion means whatever a person is willing to suffer for. In fact, that's the root meaning of the word. It comes from the Latin paserre, to suffer. It is what you hunger for so intensely that you will sacrifice anything to have it. The word "apostle" means a sent one, a messenger. "Apostolic Passion," therefore, is a deliberate, intentional choice to live for the worship of Jesus in the nations. It has to do with being committed to the point of death to spreading His glory. It's the quality of those who are on fire for Jesus, who dream of the whole earth being covered with the Glory of the Lord.

I know when apostolic passion has died in my heart. It happens when I don't spend my quiet time dreaming of the time when Jesus will be worshipped in languages that aren't yet heard in heaven. I know it's missing from my life when I sing about heaven, but live as if earth is my home. Apostolic passion is dead in my heart when I dream more about sports, toys, places to go and people to see, than I do about the nations worshipping Jesus. I have lost it, too, when I make decisions based on the danger involved, not the glory God will get.

Those who have apostolic passion are planning to go, but willing to stay. You know you have it when you are deeply disappointed that God has not called you to leave your home and get out among those who have never heard His name. If you will not suffer and sacrifice for something, you are not passionate about it. If you say you will do anything for Jesus, but you don't suffer for Him then you aren't really passionate about Him and His purposes on earth.

If you don't have it, how do you go about getting this thing called apostolic passion? Is it like ordering pizza at the door in 30 minutes or less, guaranteed? Is there an 800 number to call? Or better yet, just send us your special gift of $15 or more, and we'll rush you some passion, express delivery, overnight mail. If you're like me, you need help figuring out how to grow this thing called passion. I am motivated by reading how the apostle Paul got it. He chose it.

Paul says in Romans 15 that it is his ambition - his passion, if you will - to make Christ known. It began for him with a revelation of Jesus that he nurtured all his adult life. Paul not only encountered Christ on the road to Damascus, he kept on meeting Jesus every day. This revelation of Jesus, and his study of God's purposes, gave birth to Paul's apostolic passion. Knowing Jesus and making Him known consumed the rest of Paul's life. He "gloried in Christ Jesus in his service to God" (Rom 15:17). By comparison, everything else was dung, garbage, stinking refuse. Paul's ambition was born from his understanding that God longed for His Son to be glorified in the nations. It was focused so that the "Gentiles might become an offering acceptable to God, sanctified by the Holy Spirit" (Rom 15:16).

Human enthusiasm cannot sustain apostolic passion. When God invests His own passion in you - the desire to see His name glorified among all peoples - you must build and develop what God has given you.

If you have apostolic passion, you are one of the most dangerous people on the planet. The world no longer rules your heart. You are no longer seduced by getting and gaining but devoted to spreading and proclaiming the glory of God in the nations. You live as a pilgrim, unattached to the cares of this world. You are not afraid of loss. You even dare to believe you may be given the privilege of dying to spread His fame on the earth. The Father's passions have become your passions. You find your satisfaction and significance in Him. You believe He is with you always, to the end of life itself. You are sold out to God, and you live for the Lamb. Satan fears you, and the angels applaud you.

Your greatest dream is that His name will be praised in languages never before heard in heaven. Your reward is the look of pure delight you anticipate seeing in His eyes when you lay at His feet the just reward of His suffering: the worship of the redeemed.

You have apostolic passion!

GOOD NEWS.

Today I had an MRI. I was told I had a very large brain. That's all.

LIFE AND DEATH.

I leaned back against the raw wood of the high-backed hand-cut chair upon which I sat, and breathed deeply. The stale air was contrasting to that which lay amidst the mountains just outside the door. That air was crisp. That air was refreshing. Over the week, I had learned to love to be in a place of freedom. A place where the air swept through the wide-open spaces. A place where I was no longer confined or restricted. This place of which I found myself was somehow different. And I wanted to stay.

I took another sip from the glass of local brew that sat upon the table in front of me. Behind me were a group of Germans talking away in a language not understood. To my right were the crazy group of Belgians, probably chatting about their injured knees or sore feet or maybe even the tasty food of which they partook. In front of me a young boy and woman threw darts. Over and over. The goal was to get the numbers, in ascending order, from one to twenty. One by one. They seemed to be stuck on the number 6. Or was it seven? A laugh of excitement could be heard as they would finally hit the digit they were aiming for. Three darts dwindled to two as the feathers came flying off of one of their flying weapons. The laughter continued. Intermixed within these characters were a random assortment of others. All drinking away. Smiles abundant.

The structure of the room was worn. Huge wooden beams pierced through the open space up above. The hole in the surface of the table in front of me showed the age and wear and tear of this place. Two hundred and fifty years after its opening as a welcome to weary travelers, the bustle of activity was probably just as exciting as it was then. A bar man appeared at the counter and called out two orders. While the plates of freshly cooked beef sat there, unclaimed, I nearly darted up to claim them for myself. But, the man returned, only to carry the luke-warm plates off to the posh cocktail bar. He must have read the order ticket wrong, for we were in the ‘Climber’s Bar.’ We were not allowed the privilege to sit amongst the stately who were willing to pull bills from their pockets for a cozy bed and clean shower. Our tent was pitched along the river in the back, and from the shunned black back door we entered into this place. But I didn’t mind. As I peaked across the bar to the other side, I could see that we had received the better end of the deal. The wealthy and affluent had received nothing but a poorly decorated bar that looked as if it had been transplanted from another time period. At least our room had character.

I couldn’t help but be brought back to the same night two thousand years ago. As the people gathered in every corner and crevice of the city to celebrate the Passover, we too had gathered on this night. And we shared in each other’s company. We ate. We drank. And I’m sure that laughter filled the air on that night just as it did now. Yet in the jubilation of it all, they seemed to be missing what was right in front of them. Just as the beams shot through the space above me, so must have the words of Christ pierced their hearts on that night. The table around which we sat was empty. It was the center piece of the room. And yet only my brother and I sat in its oddly appealing chairs. And we talked amongst ourselves. We knew the secret of this night.

As the sun set, we exited that place of indulgence and crawled into the teal-colored rectangular fabric box that we had learned to make our home over the course of the last days. As we drifted off into our dreams, the rain began to fall. The sky that had been blue and without blemish over the past five days was veiled with grey as we awoke. Moisture filled the air. But we ventured off. Past rugged rocks and mounts that stood higher than us. The bitter air blew across the sweat that covered the surface of my forehead. The load on my back weighed me down as I climbed over the mountain. At each turn I would stop to gasp for air. And we continued on.

Children stood by the trail among the trees. Children with bland lost looks smeared across their faces. Had they been trapped in this place for too long? The trail was long in front of me. It stretched forward, as far as I could see, and faded into the horizon. The air was still dreary and cold. The bitterness kept digging into my skin.

The ground was dry. The plants were a mixture of shades of brown. The sheep were abundant. Dirty. Morbidly grazing and feeding on the scraggly death-like vegetation all around. My carefree mood had been changed to one of tiredness, longing for escape. I didn’t like this place. I wanted to be finished.

But it was only Friday.

THAT 'SMASHING' LAND UP THERE.