40 Day Fast

Gosh, I’m humbled but mystified that my March 4, 2009 post, Why I Need Forgiveness, has had more than 2300 hits, with 200 in just the last week. Thank you to whomever is passing my writing along. I’m glad you’re finding it helpful on your personal journey. And if you are passing it along, uh, can you tell me who you are so I can thank you? Thank you.

Pam

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There are pictures that can break my heart
And songs that make me weep
And stories of my fellow man
That bring me troubled sleep.
There are moments when my aching soul
Could wrench itself and flee
To search in new horizons
For some tranquility.
There are friend I know that give me pain
And make me realize
A price is paid for caring
That’s often sorely high.   —Vas

[My yellowed newspaper clipping that my dad sent me when I was in college.]

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I have a scar on my chin.
I got it when I fell down when I was 12 years old. It runs along the bottom of my chin where you can’t see it. It’s almost flat but I can feel it when I rub my fingers along it, a very slight hump right at my jaw. I don’t look to see if it’s there, but I can feel it, and that’s enough.

I got the scar while walking the dog—a bassett hound, one of those lazy looking dogs with long, draggy ears, hotdog body, short legs, sad eyes. The dog and I were coming home early evening from the park down the street, heading uphill to the house, hurrying to get to a Friday night high school football game.

The dog was on my right. We were running side-by-side straight up the sidewalk, having just crossed the street, the house maybe ten yards away—when out of nowhere a cat dashed across our path. The cat flew left, the dog followed likewise and ran in front of me. But I kept running straight ahead, tripping over the dog and leash and landing smack on my chin.

Pulling myself off the concrete in the dim evening light, I yanked the dog back and stumbled home. My dad met me in the driveway. He had just pulled his car into the garage and heard me walk up. Shook up, shocked, numb, my chin throbbing, I had no idea of how badly I was hurt until he asked what happened to me, took my head into his hands, turned my chin up, and stuck his thumb into a gaping, bloody gash.

He didn’t say much, only that he had to stitch me up. He acted quickly, without hesitation, grabbed something for the blood, and got me into his car. I don’t remember anything about the ride to the hospital, but we went straight to ER, where the nurses let my dad the orthopedic surgeon have an area to work, no questions asked. There, he cleaned the wound, filled a syringe with xylocaine, injected it into the cut with a long, sharp needle, and meticulously sewed up my chin. Then he took me to the football game.

I recall at the time being really mad at my sister (the dog was her dog, but she, being three years older and in high school, had been allowed to go ahead to the football game with her friends…while I walked the dog). I remember being mad at my mom for making we walk the dog, mad at the dog, mad at the cat, mad at the awkward bandage that encased my chin.

But I don’t think on those things anymore. The gash healed, a week later my dad took the sutures out, I stopped being angry at my sister, the dog got old and died. All that’s left is the scar, and now, years later, I realize I’m glad I have it.

The nature of scars
We all have scars – burn scars, surgical scars, disfigurements from sports injuries, motor vehicle accidents, battle scars. We also have scars from emotional wounds, injuries of the deepest kind that often go untended because no one can see them. How well the wounds heal, how well the scars form, depends on…us. It depends on whether we want to be healed, whether we allow others to help us, whether we put ourselves into the hands of a healer—or if we refuse to acknowledge we’re hurt or do things that aggravate the injury.

My dad was a healer. He had a gift for medicine and surgery. His surgical residents used to recount how precisely, neatly, and quickly he could pin a hip: good placement, firm hand, accurate strokes, clean close. Done.

But he was more than a good technician with skilled hands. He was a healer at heart who loved people and to whom God gave a spiritual gift of healing. I cannot count the number of times patients would take leave of his office, tears of gratitude in their eyes, and stop and tell my sister and I at the front desk what a good man our father was. I’ve no idea what he said to them, not being privy to doctor-patient conversations, but seeing the relief on his patients’ faces told me he didn’t just set fractures and repair meniscus tears, but went beyond to touch something deeper than bone and sinew. As a trained physician, he was taught to observe and listen in order to heal; and as a healer with God’s eyes and ears he saw and heard more than physical pain.

Not just what we do but who we are
My dad helped show me that the gift of healing is not just what we do, but who we are. It’s easy to put a Band-Aid on a cut, or throw an icepack on a muscle, or tape a finger to a splint. The human body is made to heal, regenerate blood, grow new tissue. But what is not easy is taking the time to look beyond the obvious presented symptoms, to touch, to care, to listen to those who hurt for what really pains them, to see what lies beneath their eyes, and then to walk alongside and help them invite God The Healer to do the rest.

Healing is God’s ter ritory. It’s what He wants to do, it’s what He does best. He does it because He loves us. He wants to pick us off the ground and mend the gaping holes, rout out the infection, reset our broken bones and restore our crushed spirit. He wants to help us move freely with strength, show us how to use our muscles to their best capacity, run farther, jump higher, sprint faster, and breath His air.

The prophet Isaiah so magnificently writes:

      [28] Have you not known?
      Have you not heard?
      The everlasting God, the LORD,
      The Creator of the ends of the earth,
      Neither faints nor is weary.
      His understanding is unsearchable.
      [29] He gives power to the weak,
      And to those who have no might He increases strength.
      [30] Even the youths shall faint and be weary,
      And the young men shall utterly fall,
      [31] But those who wait on the LORD
      Shall renew their strength;
      They shall mount up with wings like eagles,
      They shall run and not be weary,
      They shall walk and not faint. [Isaiah 40:28-31, New King James version]

This is a picture of healing, a picture of wholeness that becomes our experience when we turn our heads to recognize the Creator God. And we who have experienced His healing and strength are often called, always called, to be the connection points that show how much God desires to give this extraordinary healing to every person that He has created and loves.

That’s what I love about my scar.
My scar reminds me not that I was wounded but that I was healed. It is a tattoo of my father’s love, which now in his absence, shall forever remain a tangible remnant, an indelible mark of his healing touch and imprint on my life.

Scarred for life
It has also become a metaphor for me for what all scars should be – reminders of a healing and not a recollection of a hurt. I believe that God can and wants to do that for all of our hurts, the one’s bleeding and visible, and the ones buried and painfully immobilizing: He wants to see us walk in wholeness. He desires to change us with His healing. He wants to scar us for life with His love.

Pamela A. Chun
©July 5, 2009
Please reprint only with permission.

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Being a Christian for me means having a relationship with Jesus Christ  in which his is the most important voice in my life.

This working definition is a personal statement that attempts to describe how I live my life as a Christian – a  follower of Jesus Christ – devoid of jargon. This is a work in progress, just as I am.

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A friend asked me today what I like. That prompted me to think about what I not just “like,” but what delights me – gives me joy on the inside. I came up with this list:

I delight in sitting around a meal table with my husband and our kids and talking together.
I delight in a good cappuccino.
I delight in a beautiful day on San Francisco Bay: blue skies, bit of wind, Golden Gate Bridge visibility.
I delight in friends who share Jesus’ heart with me.
I delight in hearing God speak to me – whichever way he chooses to speak.
I delight in being used by God.
I delight in having my children’s friends over at the house.
I delight in crafting a well-written piece.
I delight in deep, meaningful conversation.
I delight in the love of my children.
I delight in a good, long swim in a full Olympic-size pool, water temp 72°F, without time constraints.
I delight in spring mornings, particularly in the Bay Area.
I delight in the sight and sound of Hawaii’s oceans and its cool tradewinds.
I delight in farmers markets and Chinatowns.
I delight in fragrant pikake and roses.
I delight in walks with my husband.

It’s kind of like a “Favorite Things” list – I may find myself adding more. Having any one of those things in a day would make me extremely happy. Today I got at least 7 of them.

The apostle Paul writes in Philippians 4:8:
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

What things do you think on that bring you delight?

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Stewardship has long been a buzz word in the church.
We use the word stewardship to talk about how we appropriate our gifts, our resources – all that we have, from our money in the bank to the muscles in our back.

  Wikipedia sums up the term and its history nicely:

Stewardship is personal responsibility for taking care of another person's property or financial affairs or in religious orders taking care of finances. Historically, stewardship was the responsibility given to household servants to bring food and drinks to a castle dining hall. The term was then expanded to indicate a household employee's responsibility for managing household or domestic affairs. Stewardship later became the responsibility for taking care of passengers' domestic needs on a ship, train and airplane, or managing the service provided to diners in a restaurant. The term continues to be used in these specific ways, but it is also used in a more general way to refer to a responsibility to take care of something one does not own. "Every person has a responsibility to look after the planet both for themselves and for the future generations. Acting irresponsibly could cause damage such as pollution, the destruction of cultural herritage, etc."  [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stewardship]

The concept behind stewardship puts us basically in the role of manager and not proprietor.

  For me, it’s honestly a psychological ploy or maybe even sly euphemism to get us to let go of what we’ve got. In other words, if we are stewards, we have the “privilege” of serving it up, opening the gates, regulating the flow, deciding the course with everything in an outward direction.

  Jesus drove in points about stewardship in his teachings. In the Parable of the Talents in Matthew 25:14-28 he addresses how a wise steward ought to invest the master’s wealth with intent of increasing the principle. The man given five talents of money doubles his money, as does the man given two talents – and the master commends them for this. But the man with one talent buries it in the ground, and receives no appreciation on the money, nor any from his master.

  Interestingly, quite the opposite in the Parable of the Shrewd Manager [Luke 16:1-15], Jesus offers up the story of a manager accused of poor stewardship but whom the master in the end commends even though it yields a net financial loss. The short story is that on the eve of potentially losing his job, the manager strips a debt of 800 gallons of olive oil owed the master to 400. He reduces another man’s 1000 bushels of wheat owed to 800. Jesus makes his teaching point this:

The master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly. For the people of this world are more shrewd in dealing with their own kind than are the people of the light. I tell you, use worldly wealth to gain friends for yourselves, so that when it is gone, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings.

With these and other Biblical passages as backdrop, my language for talking about money has always used the “S” word – Stewardship. And the questions revolving around money and resource issues, challenges…okay, procurement, have prodded conversations about use and management philosophies.

  However, I’ve got another problem.
I’ll say it blankly. My struggles with Stewardship—how much, to whom, when, how—are really not so much Stewardship issues but Ownership issues.

  I struggle not because I am a Steward, but because deep down inside I believe I’m the OWNER.
Sure, I say all that I have is yours, Lord—but I say it with an attitude of it’s still mine and I’m giving it back to you. Maybe it was yours in the beginning, but I took ownership of it and, honestly, I kind of liked it, and now in good conscious because I know it’s the proper thing to do, I am giving it back to you. Some of it. The part I don’t need. The portion that makes me feel good when I generously give. But not all of it. Only what I can afford to give away, but I’m saving the rest for Me.

  I am giving. I have control. I have will. I have choice. I have responsibility. I am making the decision. Someday if I’ve done a good job, I’ll be commended for it. I, I, I.

  Why am I so possessive? Why do I want to exact so much control? Is it a lack of trust? Or perhaps my relationship with God isn't what I thought. And maybe I don’t understand my need and my fears.

  Maybe I just need to stop thinking of myself as owner.
What would happen if I signed away all my possessions to God? Everything, the small stuff as well as the big: My car, my clothes, the laundry detergent I use to wash my clothes. The hours in my day, my quiet time with God. My skills and education, my work experience. The food I eat, the parties I attend, the music I listen to. The Internet. The tea I bought in China last year, the pants that I say God bought for me. My diamond engagement ring, the heirloom jade passed down to me from my grandmother. The roads and highways, the traffic signal, everything city, county, state, and federal. My creative work, my words, this writing.

  And if not owner, what? A tenant, renter, user, borrower? A leech? Or how about a different view altogether

  Am I afraid of poverty?
Tonight we had dinner with Rafonzel Fazon, a young woman, 21 years old who came from the poorest of the poor areas in the Philippines. She became a Compassion International sponsored child when she was five, supported, fed, educated, encouraged by a sponsor in the U.S. whom she has never met. She is now working towards her bachelor’s degree in communications and in a special program that pays for her college tuition while continuing to nurture her as a disciple of Jesus Christ.

  She said that when she was little she used to be so hungry and would worry every day what she might get to eat. Every day she worried about a meal. But through the Compassion program that works to “release children from poverty in Jesus’ name,” she worries no more.

  She says this: Poverty is the fear that you will not have enough. But because I know that Jesus is taking care of all my needs, I do not fear anymore. That, she says is being released from poverty.

  I need to reconsider my perspective.
Do I fear that I will not have enough? Do I fear that God will not have enough for me, so I stash some on the side?

  In Jesus’ parables mentioned above, the first one talks about multiplication. It demonstrates an investment of resources that yields way  more than the principle: two- and five-fold. That’s a pretty high return, and because of that master invites the servants to "share in his happiness." The second one speaks of divestment that wins friends and a place in eternity. In both parables, the stewards use their masters’ money, and in both, except for the servant who makes neither money nor friends, they are rewarded handsomely.

  The point? It’s not mine to have, not mine to own and if I try to own things, they will own me. A purchase does not make it mine, only mine to use and pass on.

  Jesus says in Mark 8:35-36: For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake and the gospel’s will save it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul?

+     +     +     
LORD, help me to not make a claim on my own life. Help me to not look for ownership papers that make things “mine.” Help me to see your generosity and your genius and to trust in you. Remake me yet again in your Holy Spirit, and release me from the poverty of fear. In Jesus’ name.

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Let’s put the emphasis right here and now on need—as opposed to ought to consider, or may come in handy, or try it you’ll like it. The statement at hand is Why I Need Forgiveness, and every word counts.

  Growing up Catholic, and if I may say a pretty good little Catholic girl, the Forgiveness lesson/principle wasn’t clear to me. No one quite explained it to me. Maybe I wasn’t bad enough; or maybe I didn’t want to be good enough, or maybe the adults around me felt too guilty themselves.

  Or maybe Confession just took care of all that, thank you very much.
I remember having to go to Confession at least once a year because that’s what you did. We waited outside the triple chamber confession booth for our turns, the middle chamber occupied by the priest and the two flanking ones for us hardened sinners. A little red light above the door lintel of the priest’s chamber served as a high tech signal for “The Priest Is In.”

  We fidgeted in the hard wooden pews amid the solemn cold of the church hearing only whispers and shuffles and the occasional cough-cough-cough. Then someone would escape a confessional box, and my sisters and I would negotiate “You go, no you go!" Once inside, we’d kneel in the dark, unlit interior, and suddenly the small grate to the priest’s side would slide open so you knew: Okay, let’s hear it, spill your guts.

  I didn’t like going to Confession. I really didn’t know what to say: I was mean to my sister? I didn’t have any grave errors or omissions to report. Hadn’t stolen or killed anyone lately. What were those 10 Commandments anyway? I was a pretty good kid, but I had to give up something. The whole reason I was there was to ‘fess up. So I’d mumble something, and the priest would assign me 1 Act of Contrition, 3 Hail Mary’s and a Glory Be. He probably thought I was “cute.” No, I was scared.

  My parents stopped making us go to Confession when we got to be older. It was enough that we made it to Mass in time. But Jesus hung on the cross behind every Catholic altar; he was kind of hard to miss. And I still felt compelled with the raising of the Eucharist and Cup at Communion to pound my chest with my fist three times reciting, “My Lord and my God. My Lord and my God. My Lord and my God.” The question never left: What do I need forgiveness for?
 
As a young adult, my born-again Protestant friend confronted me about what I believed about God, Jesus, and why Jesus had to die—for me. The light went on for the first time. Jesus died so that I who am wholly human can have a relationship with God who is holy divine. The terrestial could mix with the heavenly; sin would not prevent me from approaching the sacred. What was in me that hurt others, hurt myself, hurt God—things I thought, did, felt, said would not permanently mar, but would be erased, forgiven. My years in cold, hard pews now made sense.

  Forgiveness as a Survival Skill
However, in recent days, forgiveness has taken on a different depth, understanding, and even urgency. I am discovering that beyond the theoretical, philosophical, theological, I need to practice forgiveness so I can continue to live in this world.

Relationships fail us. People fail us. And that’s why I need forgiveness. It’s not a question of if something will go wrong, but when. We are just not perfect enough to prevent that from happening, intentionally or not.

  I may not be the chief sinner. On a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the most despicable, I-dare-you-to-forgive sin that includes murder, rape, genocide, torture, I sit pretty low. Not much has changed for this little Catholic girl.

  And yet, if I do not, cannot forgive those whom I feel fail, betray, dishonor, ignore, hurt me, I will slowly shrink away. I will withdraw from relationships, refuse to interact, not have the strength to give relationships another try because I know failure is just around the corner. I will in short turn cold, allow my heart to harden, become less human.

  I can only live amid the imperfectedness of this life through forgiveness.
In an email to my husband the other day as part of their ongoing dialogue about matters of faith, one of our daughter's friends quoted his Northwestern University professor Susanne Sklar as writing this:

  If the Religion of Jesus is "Forgiveness of Sin" as [18th Century writer, poet, painter William] Blake says it is— then what might be called " imperfection" is part of the art form. We all sculpt space and time to create a world in which forgiveness is the animating or structuring principle. Space and time are ingredients with which we CREATE.

Creation is dynamic—it's beautiful and it may be fallible. But that's all right. Because the highest art form is forgiveness.  That creates a space for more love. And love is not merely an emotion.

Nail on the head, or maybe quite vividly—to the cross. Jesus’ whole life spoke, demonstrated, practiced, and taught forgiveness. It’s what he lived by and what he died for. Even as he was dying, Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." [Luke 23:34]

  Did Jesus say this only because the people who crucified him had done wrong? Was it only because they needed forgiveness? Or perhaps is it what I’m discovering: that unforgiveness creates havoc in me. I need to forgive for my sake, not others’. I simply cannot exist, let alone co-exist with others if I am carrying the crushing weight of hurt. And as Susanne  Sklar says, when I do forgive, I create space—space for more love, and love validates my existence. As Paul the apostle wrote, “If I…have not love, I am nothing.” [1 Cor 13:2]

  Creating space for love.
It’s hard to forgive. I’ve spent a lifetime learning how to do it, learning that I must do it, learning that it takes time and process to do it. It can be pretty painful. But it’s far worse to not forgive. However, Jesus can take away the pain when we give over to him the wrongs and injustices. He will carry it away, and in its place, he will create a space for love.

Pamela A. Chun ©2009
Please reprint only with permission.

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I really like this description of coming to a life with Jesus by N.T. Wright in his book Simply Christian. He writes on pp 204-205:

What happens when you wake up in the morning?

              For some people, waking up is a rude and shocking experience. Off goes the alarm, and they jump in fright, dragged out of a deep sleep to face the cold, cruel light of day.

              For others, it’s a quiet, slow process. They can be half-asleep and half-awake, not even sure which is which, until gradually, eventually, without any shock or resentment, they are happy to know that another day has begun.

              Most of us know something of both, and a lot in between.

              Waking up offers one of the most basic pictures of what can happen when God take s a hand in someone’s life.

              There are classic, alarm-clock stories. Saul of Tarsus on the road to Damascus, blinded by a sudden light, stunned an speechless, discovered that the God he had worshipped had revealed himself in the crucified and risen Jesus of Nazareth. John Wesley found his heart becoming strangely warm, and he never looked back. They and a few others are the famous ones, but there are millions more.

              And there are many stories, though they don’t hit the headlines in the same way, of the half-awake and half-asleep variety. Some people take months, years, maybe even decades, during which they aren’t sure whether they’re on the outside of Christian faith looking in, or on the inside looking around to see if it’s real.

              As with ordinary waking up, there are many people who are somewhere in between. But the point is that there’s such a thing as being asleep, and there’s such a thing as being awake. And it’s important to tell the difference, and to be sure you’re awake by the time you have to be up and ready for action, whatever that action may be.

*     *     *     *      *
           I love N.T. Wright’s recognition that everyone’s experience of having God abide in their lives is not prescriptive but full of variety. It’s also personal.

              I look at my life as a gradual, continual waking-up. When I first woke up to the desire of wanting Jesus to be a part of my life for the rest of my life 30 years ago, in one very real sense, everything suddenly became more real than ever.  I saw more, heard more, felt more. And not a day goes by that my senses are not sharpened even more and my mind awakened even more.

              At the same time, that experience was part of a process, a longer experience of being exposed and introduced to God as far back as I could remember. Never was God was an impossibility, a myth or lie.

              The thing, as N.T. Wright points out, is that when I woke up as college-age adult, I could tell the difference. I had crossed a line, switched into a new dimension of consciousness and reality within a world I thought I already knew.

              The current global economic crisis calls for similar: a wake up to a new reality. May it even be a spiritual one.

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Feelings of powerlessness come when we feel empty, when we feel the life has been sucked out of us, when we feel completely unable to effect change, when we feel spent and that no one values our life.

  This is how Elijah the prophet felt after confronting, defeating, and killing the false prophets of Baal in 1 Kings 18. We read in 1 Kings 19.3-5:

  Elijah was afraid and ran for his life. When he came to Beersheba in Judah, he left his servant there, while he himself went a day's journey into the desert. He came to a broom tree, sat down under it and prayed that he might die. "I have had enough, LORD," he said. "Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors." Then he lay down under the tree and fell asleep.

We all have deserts we run to, some place we hide, far away where no one can find us. It can be a physical place, it can be a state of mind, it can be in the stupor of alcohol or durgs. It can even be among people where we put on a façade under whose thick layers the real us lies.

  We know we have reached the place of utter loss when we hear ourselves saying, “I don’t care. I have no strength to care.” As Elijah said, “I have had enough, take my life,” and then lies down lifeless.

  The story of Elijah offers such a good example for when our buckets have drained out. With no power left, having spent it all, Elijah feels like an empty, shriveled vessel. The spirit that drove him lies as flat and listless as worn, uninflated balloon.

  How does one recover except by waiting, resting, and keeping our windows cracked for the light, gentle touch of God.

  Read all of 1 Kings 19 carefully. After Elijah lies down, God sends an angel to awaken him, touching him, and then just feeding him. It’s just food, not a command or vision or expectation, but a little fresh cake and water. After that, Elijah lies down and goes back to sleep.

  He reminds me of my sons who become listless and unresponsive when sick. And that’s it: Elijah is soul and spirit sick. He had stood up to 850 false prophets in a spectacular match where fire came down from the heavens to consume an impossible wet mound of sacrificial offering, and then he had them, in the words of the Bible, “slaughtered.” The episode ends with Jezebel sending death threats to him. How could he not feel sick to his stomach?

  Like a parent who cares for and about us, God knows his servant has nothing left, and He loves Elijah nonetheless. Can we remember that? That God loves us because He just does—and not for what we can do or have done for him? The Lord looks lovingly on us and does not push us on. Sometimes he just lets us rest without saying a word.

  After letting Elijah rest, God feeds him again, this time saying, “Get up and eat for the journey is too much for you.” God sends Elijah on a journey and he provides the strength to do it.

  God provides the means for the way…the way to Him because Elijah’s journey takes him to Mount Horeb, “the mountain of God” (1 Kings 19:8), the place where Moses received from the Ten Commandments from God. Here, Elijah also encounters God, but it is a curious interaction.

  God asks Elijah, “What are you doing here?” He asks Elijah this twice, and I don’t think God poses this as either rhetorical or redundant but truly one that He wants Elisha to answer. And here’s where I find it curious. Elijah answers the question, “What are you doing here” with what he has done, and he gives the same answer both times:

He replied, "I have been very zealous for the LORD God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, broken down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too."  1Kings 19:10 and 14.

I believe Elijah answers in this way the first time because he simply doesn’t know why he is there – so he tells God about what he has done, the condition of his life, and the loneliness of his existence. “I am the only one left.”

  God’s answer is amazing. He answers by showing Elijah his presence – but God’s presence does not look like what Elijah thinks. He is not in powerful winds, earthquakes or fires. God is not in things that look destructive and are overpowering. Instead, God is in a gentle whisper.

  And isn’t that what we all want to hear, a gentle whisper? We want a voice that penetrates our heart and touches the intimate parts of our soul and says, “I hear you, I understand you, I love you. My power does not overpower and destroy you or suck the life out of you. My power, my presence is a voice that validates your existence.”

  What happens when God asks the question again, “What are you doing here?” is that Elijah answers exactly the same as before – this time not because he doesn’t know what to say but because he understands that he has been called to a cause that God will empower. And because of that, Elijah in the end can undertake God’s mission to go to the Desert of Damascus and anoint a king for him as well as Elijah’s successor, Elisha.

  The answer to powerlessness is perhaps not to seek to be refilled with what we were emptied of, but to continually discover where and what true power is. What I am learning is that true power gives life by saying in a gentle whisper, “You count.”

  We rob people and make them powerlessness when we say or indicate to them that they do not count.

  Can we make our challenge this Lent to listen for God’s whisper, and hearing him can we whisper into the hearts of others?

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