IT'S A NEW DAY.

So a new season has dawned. For all you faithful blog checkers out there who continue to stalk me through this blog, let me redirect you to the following site:

(drum-roll please...)

http://lifelibertyandthepursuitofwhitepicketfences.wordpress.com/

Enjoy my thoughts. Enjoy my life.

DON'T GO YET!

To all you faithful blog checkers out there from near and far, I say, "Thank you." Hope you've seen just a bit of God through the words that have been splattered across the pages of this blog. This may be the end of one phase, but not the end of the story. So, I will continue to write. No, it won't be on this same blog. Yes, a new one will be coming. Be checking for an update in the near future...

HOME SWEET HOME.

I sit in Tampa Int'l Airport. It's empty. It's quiet. It's nearly 2am. In just over 4 hours I board a flight. I'm going home.

PAINT A PICTURE.

I think it's finally beginning to make sense. As I spoke with someone last night, words spilled out of my mouth without even thinking. The underlying reality of the year seems to be this...

I came to this place to change. It's as simple as that. I wanted to found myself in Christ more than ever before. I thought I came with few expectations. I was careful of that. But, the truth is, I came with expectations. I came and wanted to step into a program. I wanted a program that would mold me. I wanted a modeled lifestyle that would set a pattern for the future. I wanted leaders that would challenge me. I wanted relationships that would transform me. Very vague expectations, yet expectations none the least.

Void.

They didn't happen.

Empty promises.

And yet (and here's the real kicker), I have gained what I wanted most of all. I have been drawn even more into that ultimate relationship. The truth is that I cannot help but to give God the credit for this transformation. He was the one to change. He was the one to mold. He was the one to challenge.

We must realize that when we give God the time and space in our lives, He will work. And He will fulfill our desires and cries of our hearts. This is an incredible truth!

Today I said goodbye to London.

As I walked across the bridge over the River Thames for what will be the last time during this season in my life, an army quickly moved towards me...an army of a couple hundred naked people on what was supposedly their annual bike trek across the city in protest of oil dependence and high petrol prices. Meanwhile, a busker sat on the side of the pavement letting 'Bittersweet Symphony' ring from his lips. As I continued walking, crowds of what seemed to be every ethnicity passed by. Each person, with their creativity expressed through their clothing, faded together into one whole. Individuality stripped away...seemingly more easily the more extreme. Tourists with their maps looking both lost and excited. Oversized Oxfam photographs screaming with messages to end world poverty. Big Ben continued to stand strong and firm in the distance. The clock ticked away. And the London Eye still slowly rotated just as it did on the day of its first sighting nine months ago...

Oh what a place.

UNTITLED 1.

For all you crazy people out there who have somehow managed to stalk my blog over the past 9 months, I raise my glass to you and say, "Cheers!" It's been a crazy shipwreck of a ride. A ride that at times has gone on for far too long and at other points has flown by. A ride that has brought me down and back up again.

But, every ride must come to an end. And for me, that end is quickly approaching. In just over a week, I will board a plane headed for the U S of A. On the 13th of June I will fall from the sky and hopefully land on American soil. Exciting days lie ahead. More on what's next at a later date...

For now, I'm left with a whirl-wind storming through my mind. I'm sure that I will soon wake up in the States and feel as if I've just passed through a dream. In the meantime, though, I look back on this year with such refreshment. I look back and see hours upon hours...days upon days...where I was able to think of nothing but life. I look back and see the lowest lows. I look back and see frustration after frustration. But, mostly, I look back and see God's hand guiding me through it all.

And was it enjoyable? I think back to the 29th of December...the day my family left the UK. I think back to my mom asking me what I pictured the upcoming months to be. I clearly remember saying that I knew it would be "good, but not in the normal sense of the word." I didn't expect or desire fun and games for these past months. So, was it good? As I walked through a field near our house this past week, I was struck with awe. It was a field where I found myself for many-a-nights in the death of winter. It was a place of intimate encounters with the Creator. It was a place of rain and mud and sloshy puddles. Yet peace seemed to always fill that patch of land stuck in the middle of chaos. As I walked through the field just over a week ago, the grass was stretching up to my waist. Wild flowers were splashed across the canvas. During my time away, life had grown out of nothing. Not just the mediocre. Abundant life.

I scan back over the words of this blog and stumble upon the 16th of October. On that day, I find the following words:

"Pray that I would be shaken up during my time here. (Whatever that means.) Pray that I would continue to learn more about myself, and that those things I learn would cause me to be drawn even nearer to Christ. Pray that I would have the desire and drive to pour my entire being into this time…that I would be changed…that I would be molded."

I have indeed been shaken up. Whatever that means. I have learned about myself. As I've stepped out of "normal" life, I've been drawn nearer to Christ than ever before. The desire has been ever so present. I have been changed. I have been molded. And so yes, I can say that this time has been good. Very good.

OUT AND ABOUT.

As I walked out the door of the homeless day centre last week, I glanced down the alley and saw this first photo. It took me on a journey from the low places to the high above...

SURREALITY ON THE SEA.

Jig
Saw.
Pieces of the puzzle
Scattered about and around and underneath.
Back and forth
forth and back.
Eroded
Chiseled
Soft
White
Pieces
Making sense without sense
Transformed and made new.
Freshness and life

TANGY TEARS IN TRANSIT.

As I knotted myself into a ball, murmurs began to pierce through the air of this stale familiar location. Prayers surrounded me from every direction. Cries. As tears poured from eyes, the sound of wailing resonated up to heaven. And I was thrown back to a day many months ago...

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget that day in early January; and to tell the truth, something inside knows that I never want to. It was a typical British winter day close to the first of the year. The clouds in the dreary gray sky had already given way to a chilled darkness despite the fact that it was only mid-afternoon. And there I found myself, sprawled across the floor of my bedroom, head planted into a dirty faded cushion. Next to me a string of fairy lights slithered by. No power surged through them. No soft glimmer. The candles in front of me stood as strong pillars. Unlit. The room was silent. This was not a time to create a peaceful environment. Not here. Not now. For God had come down to meet with me in the mess of life. There, on that floor, our spirits connected and tears poured from my eyes.

And I wept.

With all truthfulness, I’m not quite sure whether it was me weeping or God himself. It was a moment so dark and so real. A moment I wanted to escape and yet one in which I longed to remain. The Spirit had planted a hunger and craving so deep in my heart that nothing of this world could satisfy. The programs. The schedules. The rhythms. The people. All these ‘good things’ were now barriers that needed destroyed so that the cornerstone could once again be laid upon a sturdy foundation. In that moment, words could not express what I felt.

Discipleship is not an easy thing. So often we want to magically be transformed into holiness without first passing through the fire. We run from the burning and the stretching and the molding. But God waits. And waits. He waits until we ask him to show us that this world was not created for us, but for his glory. It’s a dangerous prayer that passed through my lips just days before that fiasco on the floor.

And, I suppose that this is essentially what Transit is all about. It’s not about the communities that can sometimes seem so unsupportive. It’s not about the leaders that can appear to be sinners more often than saints. It’s not about the egotistical teachers who think that God is speaking the secret of life through them. Instead, it is about an army of pilgrims…of nomads…of imperfect individuals who Christ has called to be disciples in this place, at this time. It is a time of learning, truly learning, that knowing God must be the foundation on which we build our lives. It is a time of seeing that only then, when we see our Father’s heart, will we be able to love and spread his love through all the earth. It is a time of drawing us to the conclusion that “no man liveth unto himself.”

GLOBULUS MAXIMUS.

Hmmm. That's interesting. Me and my brain.

RED WINE, HUGH GRANT & CRUSTY PAINT.

As I stepped into the stale old church, I was unsure of what to make of this whole situation. Another week of prayer. Another week in Scotland.

The first couple days seemed normal. Setting up another prayer room. The same old thing. The room had been nicely sectioned off with various focuses. This was a ‘true’ 24-7prayer room. Sense the sarcasm. What began as a creative prayer movement has seemed to form cookie-cutter prayer rooms. But, enough on that. I had become used to this and wasn’t in the least bit surprised.

By Sunday evening, I had once again been thrown into Scottish culture. Maybe a bit different than hiking through the highlands, nibbling on the endless peanut butter ‘sandwiches’ and microwave meals. This time there was a warm bed and shower alongside an endless supply of wine at every meal. The second afternoon I found myself walking onto the lush grass of what appeared to be a movie set. I waited patiently to see if Hugh Grant would walk out the doors of his mansion and into the garden to greet me. Unfortunately, the only excitement was a double baptism in the poolhouse. That was enough for me.

Back to Sunday evening. The preparations were crammed into the last hours before the launch. As usual. And the room was now ready. In walked a couple middle-aged ladies. Doubts once again overtook my mind. But, before I knew it, the room was filled. With the elderly. With young children. With families. This was going to be a place of meeting with God. Holy encounters. Before I knew it, the silence had been sliced and I saw the hearts of these people. This tiny little town in the hills of Scotland was shouting up to God. And they were excited. It was like Christmas morning. A gift had been given to them. They couldn’t wait for their hour that was penciled in on the timetable outside the entrance.

My eyes were opened. As people flowed into the room throughout the week I was constantly encouraged. Challenged. Individuals came with broken hearts. Broken lives. They came with prayers on their lips and tears in their eyes. And they were drawn to their knees. A first experience for many. A call back to prayer. A call back to God their Father.

Soon, nothing much mattered. The format of the room. The paint-filled brushes that had been left to dry overnight. The sand all over the floor. It didn’t matter. God was meeting with people. As they took time out of their days and nights, their Father cradled them in his arms.

And I was refreshed. Over the last months I’ve been bogged-down by prayer. I’ve taken prayer rooms for granted. I’ve lost the excitement. I must constantly return to that place that I did this week. I must talk with God. I must shout to God from the depths of my heart. I must sing with Him. I must enter into that dance with Him. I must be a child again.

PRAYIN' IN SCOTLAND.

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.