It was an offer too good to refuse, a 14-day cruise at an unbelievably low price: Seattle, Ketchikan, Juneau, Sitka, Glacier Bay, Skagway, Anchorage, Homer, Kodiak, Victoria and Seattle, this being the first chapter in a slightly irreverent travelogue to follow.
It was a clear, 90 degree, picture-perfect day as we left our comfortable, comparatively upscale California home in La Quinta, heading west past Palm Springs via Banning, Beaumont, Yucaipa, Redlands, San Bernardino, dipping down into Riverside where we would spend the night courtesy of The Salvation Army. No! It wasn’t a transient shelter for vagabonds, although beggars can’t be choosers, admittedly. It was a nicely appointed guest apartment offered to us by gracious hosts. Thank you, Lord!
What does the Lord have to do with any of this? I hear you thinking. Well, the Lord giveth and taketh, so it saith in an ancient translation of the good Book. In this particular instance, He giveth. Thank you, Lord!
A freebie apartment? For one night? Aren’t there more important things He should be concentrating on, like the starving and homeless orphans in earthquake ravaged Haiti or the garbage heap dwellers in Manila or the abused and neglected right here in affluent America? My God!
I know what you’re doing, trying to place a guilt trip on me, huh? Leave me alone, goin’ on a cruise. Shush! Get thee behind me, conscience. Hey, I’m not the one responsible for all of this evil and poverty in the world anyway. God help us!
As I was saying, the following morning a Super Shuttle picks us up for transport to Ontario Airport, $50 roundtrip fare each plus tip, what? Checking in, Alaska Airlines rousted us for another $15 per checked bag, can you believe it? Upon arrival in Seattle, La Quinta Inn’s shuttle picked us up, another $5 tip expected by the driver, huh? The following morning, another shuttle to the ship, $12 each, can you believe it? The young driver, helpful, friendly, talkative (also a driver for Pizza Hut – 2500 deliveries without a mishap), angling for that $5 tip, what? Do your math, greed and malice everywhere, God help us!
Starving, homeless, jobless, foreclosures, recession everywhere! Shush. Get thee behind me, conscience! Let me enjoy this cruise guilt free please. Hurry up and wait. Lines and more lines, passports and pat downs, finally on board only to discover that our stateroom is at the very bottom of the ship, port side at the very tip of the bow, no porthole, claustrophobics beware!
Comfortable though: king-sized bed, television, DVD player, remote control, his/her robes, hairdryer, ice bucket and CNN. Whew! Two weeks without depressing news and the stock market report, unthinkable. But most importantly, the Room Service Menu available 24/7 FREEEEEE! (Technically speaking, paid for in the price of the cruise, and I’m going to get my money’s worth, arterial plaque buildup be damned!)
Speaking of eating, we hotfoot it up to the Pinnacle Restaurant for dinner: Quail, crab legs, Filet Mignon, lobster, escargot, shrimp, take your pick, or take it all as some obviously do, plates piled high. Looking around, it occurs to me that cruises particularly attract the aged, infirmed and obese, walkers, canes, oxygen tanks and suspenders galore (no corsets, obviously, though). Rarely have I seen this amount of tonnage isolated in one place at the same time. My silent prayer is that we don’t all decide to move to one side of the ship simultaneously. God forbid!
Silent prayer? God forbid? Aren’t there more important things you should be concentrating on and praying for?
Shush!
The rest of the evening is filled with a Broadway style musical extravaganza in the theater, followed by chocolate chip cookies, ice cream and tea. Belly’s fully gorged; contentedly we snuggle into our king-sized bed oblivious to the goings on in the wider world around us, ship rocking gently, sugar-plums dancing in our heads.
What’s the statistic? 3 billion people on this planet living on under $1 a day! Didn’t someone say something about a rich man, heaven, camel and eye of a needle?
Shush!
Showing posts with label Heaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heaven. Show all posts
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Discipline!
When in Hawaii, every morning, after my exercise dance routine, I swim for thirty minutes – four laps across the Kuhio Beach lagoon. Salt water has a healing, life-giving effect, so I’m told. And this old, sagging, septuagenarian body needs all of the healing help it can get.
It’s not easy, though. Aging brings with it a plethora of aches, pains and metabolic changes. Exercising hurts more than it used to and takes far greater effort. Added to this, I’ve been stung twice by jellyfish while swimming. And you know the treatment for jellyfish stings, demeaning to say the least.
It’s the result that keeps me going, cleansing and regenerative, body, soul and spirit, born again every morning. This followed by a tall double-shot latte, Starbucks sanctified, makes me ready to take on the world. Like my good friend, Bill Francis says, “It’s heaven on the way to heaven.”
Here’s the rub, though. Caffeine is not everlasting, despite “power drink” testimonials to the contrary – Monster, Red Bull and Full Throttle, to name a few. Heaven and hell coexist together on this planet, each competing for control. It’s an up and down wrestling match with hell coming out on top ever too frequently, forcing you to cry, “Uncle!” The older I get, the more dependent I become upon savior uncle. To say, “It hurts like hell” is not cursing, my spiritually-minded friend; it is reality! The eternal caffeine fix is a promise yet to come.
It takes discipline to coexist in this world, dear ones. “Discipline: reflexive verb to make yourself act or work in a controlled or systematic way. Make: transitive verb to transform somebody or something into something else or to cause somebody to do something or act in a particular way” (Encarta Dictionary).
Back in the dark ages when the use of a leather strap was not called child abuse, my mother’s form of discipline was to let me have it on the behind while saying simultaneously, “This hurts me more than it hurts you!” Yeah, sure! She might as well have been speaking a foreign language. What did she mean? Why was she crying when I was the one literally getting the Hades beaten out of me? It never occurred to me that my undisciplined behavior hurt her more than that hell-cleansing leather strap hurt me.
I had a preacher once say to me, with great braggadocio, “I get up early on Sunday morning to prepare my sermons,” obviously proud of this accomplishment. I had just suffered through one of those sermons, sitting on a hard other-century pew. Made me want to cry, “Uncle!” and exclaim to that preacher, “This is hurting me more than it hurt you!”
Sounds like I’m picking on preachers, doesn’t it? Suffered through a few Sunday School teachers, likewise. Discipline, lack thereof, is no respecter of persons or situations, devotional life first and foremost, I suspect. “Disciple” and “discipline?” They somehow go together, don’t they?
Then Jesus went with them to a garden called Gethsemane…Stay here and keep vigil with me…Going a little ahead, he fell on his face praying…When he came back to his disciples, he found them sound asleep. He said to Peter, ‘Can’t you stick it out with me a single hour? Stay alert…There is part of you that is eager, ready for anything in God. But there’s another part that’s as lazy and an old dog sleeping by the fire. He left them a second time. Again he prayed…When he came back, he again found them sound asleep…went back a third time to pray…When he came back…he said, ‘Are you going to sleep on…? My time is up…Get up!’ (Matthew 26:36-46 Message)
Too bad there were no 7/11 convenience stores in Jerusalem at the time. A caffeine-laden can of Full Throttle would have been a Godsend right about then. Did I really say Godsend?
Come to think about it, who needs all that hard work and discipline anyway. A double-shot latte is worth about thirty minutes in the pulpit, enough to get a pastor through to retirement, thus ensuring that monthly pension check. Besides, on this continent, all you need is a congregation of fifty to place your church in the majority, attendance wise. What more can one ask? I mean, who’s it hurting?
Hmmm. I guess I am picking on preachers… And then he told them, ‘You are to go into all the world and preach the Good News to everyone, everywhere.’ (Mark 16:15 TLB)
Is He talking to me? I’m retired!... GET UP!
It’s not easy, though. Aging brings with it a plethora of aches, pains and metabolic changes. Exercising hurts more than it used to and takes far greater effort. Added to this, I’ve been stung twice by jellyfish while swimming. And you know the treatment for jellyfish stings, demeaning to say the least.
It’s the result that keeps me going, cleansing and regenerative, body, soul and spirit, born again every morning. This followed by a tall double-shot latte, Starbucks sanctified, makes me ready to take on the world. Like my good friend, Bill Francis says, “It’s heaven on the way to heaven.”
Here’s the rub, though. Caffeine is not everlasting, despite “power drink” testimonials to the contrary – Monster, Red Bull and Full Throttle, to name a few. Heaven and hell coexist together on this planet, each competing for control. It’s an up and down wrestling match with hell coming out on top ever too frequently, forcing you to cry, “Uncle!” The older I get, the more dependent I become upon savior uncle. To say, “It hurts like hell” is not cursing, my spiritually-minded friend; it is reality! The eternal caffeine fix is a promise yet to come.
It takes discipline to coexist in this world, dear ones. “Discipline: reflexive verb to make yourself act or work in a controlled or systematic way. Make: transitive verb to transform somebody or something into something else or to cause somebody to do something or act in a particular way” (Encarta Dictionary).
Back in the dark ages when the use of a leather strap was not called child abuse, my mother’s form of discipline was to let me have it on the behind while saying simultaneously, “This hurts me more than it hurts you!” Yeah, sure! She might as well have been speaking a foreign language. What did she mean? Why was she crying when I was the one literally getting the Hades beaten out of me? It never occurred to me that my undisciplined behavior hurt her more than that hell-cleansing leather strap hurt me.
I had a preacher once say to me, with great braggadocio, “I get up early on Sunday morning to prepare my sermons,” obviously proud of this accomplishment. I had just suffered through one of those sermons, sitting on a hard other-century pew. Made me want to cry, “Uncle!” and exclaim to that preacher, “This is hurting me more than it hurt you!”
Sounds like I’m picking on preachers, doesn’t it? Suffered through a few Sunday School teachers, likewise. Discipline, lack thereof, is no respecter of persons or situations, devotional life first and foremost, I suspect. “Disciple” and “discipline?” They somehow go together, don’t they?
Then Jesus went with them to a garden called Gethsemane…Stay here and keep vigil with me…Going a little ahead, he fell on his face praying…When he came back to his disciples, he found them sound asleep. He said to Peter, ‘Can’t you stick it out with me a single hour? Stay alert…There is part of you that is eager, ready for anything in God. But there’s another part that’s as lazy and an old dog sleeping by the fire. He left them a second time. Again he prayed…When he came back, he again found them sound asleep…went back a third time to pray…When he came back…he said, ‘Are you going to sleep on…? My time is up…Get up!’ (Matthew 26:36-46 Message)
Too bad there were no 7/11 convenience stores in Jerusalem at the time. A caffeine-laden can of Full Throttle would have been a Godsend right about then. Did I really say Godsend?
Come to think about it, who needs all that hard work and discipline anyway. A double-shot latte is worth about thirty minutes in the pulpit, enough to get a pastor through to retirement, thus ensuring that monthly pension check. Besides, on this continent, all you need is a congregation of fifty to place your church in the majority, attendance wise. What more can one ask? I mean, who’s it hurting?
Hmmm. I guess I am picking on preachers… And then he told them, ‘You are to go into all the world and preach the Good News to everyone, everywhere.’ (Mark 16:15 TLB)
Is He talking to me? I’m retired!... GET UP!
Friday, September 28, 2007
Embarrassing!
We’re staying in a little one bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator, 34 steps down and 150 additional steps to Kuhio Beach, of Waikiki surfing fame, count ‘em. This is the center of everything, Hyatt Regency, Moana Surf Rider, Duke’s Canoe Club and, on the beach, the bigger-than-life statue of Duke Kahanamoku, himself – the patron saint of surfing. Surfer wannabe worshipers flock to the shrine endlessly, bedecking it with colorful leis.
Ah yes, a bit of heaven on earth. Or is it? Could this image, perhaps, be an artificially created façade, one purposely designed to cover a darker, seamier side? Is it possible that heaven and hell can coexist together in these islands?
To illustrate the point, we never know what new experience our evening constitutional stroll down Kalakaua Avenue will bring. It may be a pusher peddling “Maui Wowie” (Marijuana) or a prostitute (male/female/who knows?) propositioning a John (a Joe on those occasions when Doris isn’t with me) or someone stoned out of their mind, lying unconscious spread-eagle on the sidewalk, tourists delicately stepping around him or her. Ah yes, a bit of heaven on earth.
Walking past the International Marketplace, street performers are out in force: A clown sculpting balloons; living statues, painted silver or gold from head to toe, standing for hours immobile; cartoon caricaturists, street message therapists and musicians of every color and stripe, all performing with evangelistic fervor. The crowds gather continuously, intrigued by their offerings.
On Sundays, strolling past Duke’s shrine, a hyper, elderly man sits on the grass, frantically striking guitar strings and singing (more like screaming) at the top of his lungs. Listening closely, you can decipher the lyrics – Scripture verses – bellowing forth with wild-like ferocity. The sound is unpleasant and grating to the ear. No crowds gather.
Embarrassing!
My church used to do that kind of thing, “Open-airs” and Street-Corner Meetings” they were called. There were some strange ones for sure, Ah, I remember them well. Early on in one of my congregations, an overzealous worshipper used to shout “Hallelujah” and “Amen” at the most inappropriate times.
Embarrassing!
Every once-in-a-while at special events, you will hear the following words to an old song proudly sung:
How many queer folk in the Army we see, good old Army… though our methods are strange and oft misunderstood, we do it all for the best you know, telling poor sinners wherever we go, they can be made as white as snow in Jesus blood.
It’s cute looking back, but embarrassing now, so we don’t do them anymore. We’ve matured over the years, you see, climbed far up the social ladder, a much more sophisticated church today. We’ve attended Church Growth Conferences and mimicked those who have become popular and more respected, in look and worship style – but not statistically for some strange reason. Go figure? None-the-less, we’re much more sophisticated now, thank God!
Continuing on our walk through Kapiolani Park, we see a gal high-stepping backwards at a fast clip, and all the while balancing a bottle on top of her head. Passer bys fasten on to her with fascination, a sight peculiar to the eye. My first thought is, What a great witness this would be if she were wearing a T-shirt or holding a sign that read, ‘ANYTHING FOR JESUS!’
On second thought, that would be…
Embarrassing!
An open-air cable car on wheels, filled with tourists, drives by. The sign on the side reads, “Waikiki shuttle, Free ride.” My fertile imagination starts to run wild. If I were The Salvation Army’s spiritual guru in Hawaii again, I would buy one of those cable cars, offer free rides wherever, hand out creatively designed tracts saying, “This ride is free, but it will soon end. We can also offer you the ride of your life, one that will last forever. Heaven is a free gift,” or something to that effect, you get the drift. We would have clown balloon sculptors, Christian magicians, cartoon caricaturists, message therapists and musicians on board performing at varying times – and with evangelistic fervor, I might add.
Then again, maybe not…
Embarrassing! (Besides, what would our donors think?)
Other than that strange, elderly man, we have seen no other spiritual outreach expressions during our constitutionals. The need is there, no question about it. Sin and degradation abound. The people are there, coming by the planeloads – “the good, the bad and the ugly.” We’re not there, however, and understandably so. You see, the modern church growth movement has taught us a better way, a more popular way, an unembarrassed way. Mimic its model and the Church will never have to face persecution or ridicule again.
HALLELUJAH!
If anyone is ashamed of me and my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, the Son of Man will be ashamed of him when he comes in his Father's glory with the holy angels (Mark 8:28 NIV).
Ah yes, a bit of heaven on earth. Or is it? Could this image, perhaps, be an artificially created façade, one purposely designed to cover a darker, seamier side? Is it possible that heaven and hell can coexist together in these islands?
To illustrate the point, we never know what new experience our evening constitutional stroll down Kalakaua Avenue will bring. It may be a pusher peddling “Maui Wowie” (Marijuana) or a prostitute (male/female/who knows?) propositioning a John (a Joe on those occasions when Doris isn’t with me) or someone stoned out of their mind, lying unconscious spread-eagle on the sidewalk, tourists delicately stepping around him or her. Ah yes, a bit of heaven on earth.
Walking past the International Marketplace, street performers are out in force: A clown sculpting balloons; living statues, painted silver or gold from head to toe, standing for hours immobile; cartoon caricaturists, street message therapists and musicians of every color and stripe, all performing with evangelistic fervor. The crowds gather continuously, intrigued by their offerings.
On Sundays, strolling past Duke’s shrine, a hyper, elderly man sits on the grass, frantically striking guitar strings and singing (more like screaming) at the top of his lungs. Listening closely, you can decipher the lyrics – Scripture verses – bellowing forth with wild-like ferocity. The sound is unpleasant and grating to the ear. No crowds gather.
Embarrassing!
My church used to do that kind of thing, “Open-airs” and Street-Corner Meetings” they were called. There were some strange ones for sure, Ah, I remember them well. Early on in one of my congregations, an overzealous worshipper used to shout “Hallelujah” and “Amen” at the most inappropriate times.
Embarrassing!
Every once-in-a-while at special events, you will hear the following words to an old song proudly sung:
How many queer folk in the Army we see, good old Army… though our methods are strange and oft misunderstood, we do it all for the best you know, telling poor sinners wherever we go, they can be made as white as snow in Jesus blood.
It’s cute looking back, but embarrassing now, so we don’t do them anymore. We’ve matured over the years, you see, climbed far up the social ladder, a much more sophisticated church today. We’ve attended Church Growth Conferences and mimicked those who have become popular and more respected, in look and worship style – but not statistically for some strange reason. Go figure? None-the-less, we’re much more sophisticated now, thank God!
Continuing on our walk through Kapiolani Park, we see a gal high-stepping backwards at a fast clip, and all the while balancing a bottle on top of her head. Passer bys fasten on to her with fascination, a sight peculiar to the eye. My first thought is, What a great witness this would be if she were wearing a T-shirt or holding a sign that read, ‘ANYTHING FOR JESUS!’
On second thought, that would be…
Embarrassing!
An open-air cable car on wheels, filled with tourists, drives by. The sign on the side reads, “Waikiki shuttle, Free ride.” My fertile imagination starts to run wild. If I were The Salvation Army’s spiritual guru in Hawaii again, I would buy one of those cable cars, offer free rides wherever, hand out creatively designed tracts saying, “This ride is free, but it will soon end. We can also offer you the ride of your life, one that will last forever. Heaven is a free gift,” or something to that effect, you get the drift. We would have clown balloon sculptors, Christian magicians, cartoon caricaturists, message therapists and musicians on board performing at varying times – and with evangelistic fervor, I might add.
Then again, maybe not…
Embarrassing! (Besides, what would our donors think?)
Other than that strange, elderly man, we have seen no other spiritual outreach expressions during our constitutionals. The need is there, no question about it. Sin and degradation abound. The people are there, coming by the planeloads – “the good, the bad and the ugly.” We’re not there, however, and understandably so. You see, the modern church growth movement has taught us a better way, a more popular way, an unembarrassed way. Mimic its model and the Church will never have to face persecution or ridicule again.
HALLELUJAH!
If anyone is ashamed of me and my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, the Son of Man will be ashamed of him when he comes in his Father's glory with the holy angels (Mark 8:28 NIV).
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Heaven Bound!
Well, so much for the routine. Hawaii beckons, so we pull up roots again and suffer our way across the Pacific to “a little bit of heaven on earth.” In fact, Magic Johnson, of Los Angeles Lakers basketball fame, was once quoted as saying, “If you don’t think you’re going to go to heaven when you die, you had better come to Hawaii and experience a little bit of what you will be missing” (or something to that effect).
I agree wholeheartedly. It’s the “getting there” part that really sucks, though. For us, a 120 mile trek across the desert, airport hotel, up early, little sleep, crammed onto an overfilled airporter bus, luggage tossed to and fro, long check-in lines, dodging carts, pushing, shoving, x-ray machines, computers out, shoes off, metal detector sounds, keys disposed, makeup confiscated (hers, not mine), computers in, shoes on, shoes back off, wands waved, shoes on again, curses exchanged. “Phew!” and this is only the beginning of our journey.
The seats are all taken in the waiting area, ah, well, not quite. People hoarding seats filled with luggage and packages, not bodies. Finally spot two vacant seats, rushing over to find out that their “saved.” Sure! Of Course! Muttering indecipherably, you stand impatiently waiting for the flight to be called. Eventually, a voice comes over the PA system with gargled instructions you can’t understand. “Wait a minute!” Is this our flight or another one nearby? Who’s boarding now? What’d she say? Man, this is nerve racking!” Meanwhile, the mob inches forward, elbows ready, each mobster determined to be first on board. Tension fills the air. “On your mark! Get set!”
Family with children first, taking forever, followed by the aged and infirmed, even longer. One old gimpy guy boards with cane in hand, and I swear to God (and Doris, in that order) that he was strutting across the terminal earlier with nary a limp. Why didn’t I think of that? And I can’t stand it when the First-Class passengers begin boarding, that smug, haughty, holier-than-thou look of superiority as they go swaggering by. Want to reach out and smack ‘em across the head, or somewhere.
Father, forgive me!
“Go!” The mob breaks, elbows flailing, shoved through the First-Class cabin, past its passengers sitting there snugly and smugly with a glass of wine or orange juice in hand. “Hope they spill it on themselves,” “old nature” resurfacing again, momentarily.
Father, forgive me!
We’re pushed, frantically, into coach looking for an empty storage bin, eventually cramming our whatever’s, wherever. Then squeeze into the seats, scrunched into a space obviously designed by Lilliputian engineers. And to make matters worse, when the flight takes off, the passenger in front reclines to the max, his head in my lap. Desire the destination, dread the journey.
We always pray and have our devotions when taking off, for all the obvious reasons. Sitting on the plane, Bible in hand, I turn to today’s devotional, “The Gateway to the Kingdom.” The two bookend Beatitude verses are the Biblical references, I kid you not:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (Matt 5:3 NIV).
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (5:10).
The devotional thought concludes with (16:24-25). If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.
I take note of the spiritual parabolic similarities. Jesus doesn’t pull any punches when delivering His “Sermon on the Mount.” He’s instructing us on the Heavenly journey and would never put it crudely like I did to begin with, but, paraphrased, He is saying, “The ‘getting there’ part requires sacrifice.” My apologies dear reader, but the word, “sucks,” really does communicate it so much better, don’t you think?
Father, forgive me!
Devotions completed, we settle in for the long, laborious flight. The food is bad, the movie boring, the ride bumpy and the lavatory lines maddening. After a hard landing, we deplane to balmy breezes, breath-taking panoramas, water clear as crystal, life-giving coconut, papaya and mango trees swaying, yielding its fruit every month, Heaven on earth… I feel born again.
Momentarily, I try not to think of the next journey when we will suffer off to a Church Growth Conference at the Hyatt Regency, “on the beach,” in “Someplace,” Florida or California, room with a view, I hope – king-size bed preferred, upgraded rental car and... Dread the flight!
Oh, and looking forward to the Bible Conference at “Beach/Lake Whatever” this year, see you there. Sure hope I don’t have to share a bathroom with anyone. Wouldn’t that be the pits? Dread the drive!
“Sign me up for the journey, Lord, no sacrifice too great...”
“Go where?!#*@!...”
Father, forgive me!
I agree wholeheartedly. It’s the “getting there” part that really sucks, though. For us, a 120 mile trek across the desert, airport hotel, up early, little sleep, crammed onto an overfilled airporter bus, luggage tossed to and fro, long check-in lines, dodging carts, pushing, shoving, x-ray machines, computers out, shoes off, metal detector sounds, keys disposed, makeup confiscated (hers, not mine), computers in, shoes on, shoes back off, wands waved, shoes on again, curses exchanged. “Phew!” and this is only the beginning of our journey.
The seats are all taken in the waiting area, ah, well, not quite. People hoarding seats filled with luggage and packages, not bodies. Finally spot two vacant seats, rushing over to find out that their “saved.” Sure! Of Course! Muttering indecipherably, you stand impatiently waiting for the flight to be called. Eventually, a voice comes over the PA system with gargled instructions you can’t understand. “Wait a minute!” Is this our flight or another one nearby? Who’s boarding now? What’d she say? Man, this is nerve racking!” Meanwhile, the mob inches forward, elbows ready, each mobster determined to be first on board. Tension fills the air. “On your mark! Get set!”
Family with children first, taking forever, followed by the aged and infirmed, even longer. One old gimpy guy boards with cane in hand, and I swear to God (and Doris, in that order) that he was strutting across the terminal earlier with nary a limp. Why didn’t I think of that? And I can’t stand it when the First-Class passengers begin boarding, that smug, haughty, holier-than-thou look of superiority as they go swaggering by. Want to reach out and smack ‘em across the head, or somewhere.
Father, forgive me!
“Go!” The mob breaks, elbows flailing, shoved through the First-Class cabin, past its passengers sitting there snugly and smugly with a glass of wine or orange juice in hand. “Hope they spill it on themselves,” “old nature” resurfacing again, momentarily.
Father, forgive me!
We’re pushed, frantically, into coach looking for an empty storage bin, eventually cramming our whatever’s, wherever. Then squeeze into the seats, scrunched into a space obviously designed by Lilliputian engineers. And to make matters worse, when the flight takes off, the passenger in front reclines to the max, his head in my lap. Desire the destination, dread the journey.
We always pray and have our devotions when taking off, for all the obvious reasons. Sitting on the plane, Bible in hand, I turn to today’s devotional, “The Gateway to the Kingdom.” The two bookend Beatitude verses are the Biblical references, I kid you not:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (Matt 5:3 NIV).
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (5:10).
The devotional thought concludes with (16:24-25). If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.
I take note of the spiritual parabolic similarities. Jesus doesn’t pull any punches when delivering His “Sermon on the Mount.” He’s instructing us on the Heavenly journey and would never put it crudely like I did to begin with, but, paraphrased, He is saying, “The ‘getting there’ part requires sacrifice.” My apologies dear reader, but the word, “sucks,” really does communicate it so much better, don’t you think?
Father, forgive me!
Devotions completed, we settle in for the long, laborious flight. The food is bad, the movie boring, the ride bumpy and the lavatory lines maddening. After a hard landing, we deplane to balmy breezes, breath-taking panoramas, water clear as crystal, life-giving coconut, papaya and mango trees swaying, yielding its fruit every month, Heaven on earth… I feel born again.
Momentarily, I try not to think of the next journey when we will suffer off to a Church Growth Conference at the Hyatt Regency, “on the beach,” in “Someplace,” Florida or California, room with a view, I hope – king-size bed preferred, upgraded rental car and... Dread the flight!
Oh, and looking forward to the Bible Conference at “Beach/Lake Whatever” this year, see you there. Sure hope I don’t have to share a bathroom with anyone. Wouldn’t that be the pits? Dread the drive!
“Sign me up for the journey, Lord, no sacrifice too great...”
“Go where?!#*@!...”
Father, forgive me!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)