Surrending All by Wil Triggs

The first commandment is a pretty direct imperative from our Lord.

“You shall have no other gods before me.” (Exodus 20:3)

A clear vertical command, no other gods before me. It doesn’t leave a lot of wiggle room.

The thing is, I like a little wiggle room. The competitors for space in my soul, the place where God wants to reside fully and freely, are more welcome there than I care to know or admit. I’ll confess, there are many, and all are horizontal, encroaching on God’s first commandment space. Yet I persist in thinking that they are all good.

And most of them are. Good books. Reading. Good coffee. The best chocolate. Late summer harvest. In terms of time, the creation and consumption of media. These are just off the top of my head.

I started thinking about this in relation to the first amendment of the U.S. Constitution. I'm not sure what brought it to mind, probably all the political reporting. The first commandment and the first amendment. I liked the juxtaposition, the pairing of the phrases and it got me thinking.

A quick civics class refresher of the first amendment: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

This is a good thing. There is much to love about it. For a news junkie and one who is sometimes mistaken as a member of the press, freedom of the press is kind of a thing for me. This is especially true when I monitor the persecution of Christians in countries where the press is not free to report. Free speech is definitely not a universal right, but one that we and our neighbors all enjoy and maybe even take for granted.

And the freedom of religion—I find great hope that our forefathers did not establish an official religion. That means I can freely believe and follow Jesus, as can other people. Seeing majority religion countries enshrine one religion as official leads often to them aiming their ire at minority Christian citizens and churches. Established state religions so often seem to turn faith into history, regular people seem to abandon them in daily lives. These are cautionary reflections when I look in the mirror and see myself and my home.

In the course of our political and social upheaval these days, I wonder if my citizenship in the country where I was born carries more weight in my heart than my citizenship in heaven, where I am a son of the most high (and humble) king. I hope not.

You may have seen the campaign signs “Jesus 2020” on the internet or in social media, maybe even in your neighborhood. This is a strange mixing of the horizontal and vertical. I kind of like it and I kind of don’t, but it’s interesting.

The idea came from some women at the Sampey Memorial Baptist Church outside Montgomery, Alabama, when their community was in COVID-19 quarantine. They wanted to make something that would point people to Jesus.

“We don’t see Jesus' name out there,” said Joyce Hubbard, one of the women in the church who made this happen. “We’re going to put him out there. He’s the one that doesn’t lie to you, who keeps his promises.”

This church gave away more than 7,000 signs and then the website they set up sold 30,000 more across the nation (as of three weeks ago). They don’t mean for us to start a write-in campaign. It’s not literally political. They're trying to point people to Christ.

It's the secular and sacred, the horizontal and vertical, constantly colliding. Life gets messy like that.

Lorraine and I got into the car one Sunday afternoon a few weeks back, and the classical music station WFMT was on. As we drove, I interrupted Lorraine’s talk. “Isn’t that a hymn?” I asked.

We turned up the volume.

“It is,” she said. Sure enough. It was a contemporary setting on piano of “I Surrender All.”

It brought back memories of altar calls and televised Billy Graham Crusades, walking the aisle to give everything to Jesus, to surrender everything over to the loving Savior.

All to Jesus I surrender

All to Him I freely give

I will ever love and trust Him

In His presence daily live

All to Jesus I surrender

Humbly at His feet I bow

Worldly pleasures all forsaken

Take me, Jesus, take me now,

I surrender all

I surrender all

All to Thee my blessed Savior

I surrender all

All to Jesus I surrender

Make me Savior wholly thine

May Thy Holy Spirit fill me

May I know Thy power divine

Surrendering all to Jesus is more than an item on my Saturday to-do list It's a faiithful choice to focus on the Savior of the world instead of the things of the world. In last Sunday’s sermon, Pastor Ben Panner said, “In our hearts there is spiritual adultery against God. …He demands and he deserves full allegiance, full devotion, full loyalty. …God will not share space with anyone.”

Jesus, why do I let so many idols in when you gave everything that I might have your peace, your life, your all-devouring grace. Help me surrender over the spaces of my heart to make more room, actually, to make all the rooms of my life, open and filled with only you, not the cares of this world, the little sins I like, the good and noble causes I fight for, or my favorite coffee in the world.

(It’s Kenya; thank you, Jesus, for making it.)

A Pastor Prays for His People by Wendell C. Hawley

As we scroll through the news, it’s easy to feel that everything is falling apart, until we remember who God is.

A prayer by Wendell Hawley

Majestic God, who extends mercy,

We acknowledge your Son, the Lord Jesus Christ,

as our only Savior, the Preeminent One.

He is the Creator of the earth

and all that lies therein.

He is the governor of the universe,

Judge of the living and the dead,

Head of the church,

Savior of sinners.

Sovereign Lord, your greatness is unsearchable.

Your goodness is infinite.

Your compassion unfailing.

Your mercies, ever new.

You are altogether lovely—superior to all things.

You are our only refuge,

our only foundation,

our only hope,

our only confidence.

Grant us, in our brokenness and fear,

to gather courage from the fact that you hold all things together.

Open our eyes to see the fullness of your excellence.

Remove the lopsided and distorted images of Jesus

that weaken our worship

and hinder our obedience

and prevent our growth.

We try to shoehorn our desires and wishes into circumstances and attitudes

that are ill-fitting to those who claim your sovereignty.

We are afraid to let go of that which we mistakenly think we control for fear

everything will fall apart—

when in reality, you, the Supreme One, hold all things together.

Help us to grow in the knowledge and conviction of your preeminence,

letting you take reign—

in our home,

in our business,

in our plans,

in all our relationships.

We pray, O Lord, that as we confess our sins,

your wonderful forgiveness will wash over us,

cleansing us from all unrighteousness.

Thank you, Lord Jesus.

Suffer the Children by Wil Triggs

Four children are a far cry from the forty we typically welcome the first Sunday of the school year. But we still had Kindergarten Bible school this past Sunday—not play time, not childcare, but real live Bible school, masks and all.

We made a cotton ball sheep craft, searched for lost coins, watched the Gospel Project’s story of the lost sheep, the lost coin and the lost son. We had some help from Fred the sheep in retelling the story, sang a song and and started telling the missions story about a boy in a land with no Bible. The only thing missing was the Goldfish crackers.

On Friday, we came full circle to a different reality.

Glenn Deckert, who serves with his wife, Ann, Lorraine and me in organizing the Friday prayer meeting for the persecuted church, began his prayer sheet this week with some jarring prayer requests.

1. Children in war-torn lands like Syria and Yemen or those of displaced families as in Nigeria and Burkina Faso who have missed years of schooling as they have had to move from place to place.

2. Children in places where they are forbidden to have religious education of any kind as in China and Tajikistan.

3. Children who have lost one or both parents as in Syria and Mali, and those who have lost limbs or eyesight from bombings and devastating Islamic attacks.

4. Those who as early teenage girls have been kidnapped, forcefully converted to Islam, and sexually abused and/or married to much older Islamic men, as in Pakistan, Egypt, and Nigeria.

These requests for children hit hard as I read through them and kept seeing the faces of the children we had the joy of teaching for the first Sunday since March 8.

In the King James Version, Luke 18:16 reads, “Jesus said ‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for such is the kingdom of God.’”

Suffer little children. No, Lord, we don’t want little children to suffer these atrocities. Suffer, no, Lord, we don’t want anyone to hinder these little ones from coming to you.

And then another dimension of this hits me with new force in an email from one of our persecution-focused ministries. They reported:

Boko Haram Is Recruiting Young Children in New Drive

09/15/20 Nigeria (ICC) Boko Haram continues to plague Nigeria and the Lake Chad region with extremism and violence. Recent research has shown that the group is increasing its efforts to recruit children. They recruit younger children to act as suicide bombers, and older children, many of whom are already victims of the group’s violence, as soldiers or suicide bombers.

HOW TO PRAY

• Pray for protection for vulnerable children in this region.

• Pray for Boko Haram leaders to come to know Christ.

• Pray for protection for local Christian communities from attacks.

Horrifying. But the prayer request for Boko Haram leaders to come to know Christ is worth taking seriously. Imagine all those lost sons in Nigeria running into the Father's open arms, repenting and receiving forgiveness. And as we pray for this kind of faith and repentance, why limit our prayers only to Boko Haram?

Let us pray for China and its President Xi Jin Ping and North Korea and Kim Jong-un and his sister Kim You Jong.

Let’s pray, too, for the Christian families in places like China and Tajikistan, who face the dilemma and challenge of teaching their own children about Jesus and being charged with a crime.

As contentious and difficult as our pandemic situation is, our children are free to come to our church and learn about Jesus. We are free as Kids’ Harbor leaders to teach them about Jesus. Parents can point their children toward Jesus. It’s rough going for us with school options this season, but we were free to teach our children the glorious truths of Scripture last Sunday. And with that, there is much joy. (Parents, we're ready for your kids! In eight days, all grades open up.)

As we enjoy the freedom to openly teach our own children at College Church, let us give thanks to God for each one of the little hearts for theirs is the kingdom of God. And not our kids only, but the hearts of children facing so many different challenges across the globe.

Jesus is not far from any of this. He had words of woe for those who do harm to the little ones. KJV "suffer" means allow them, don't forbid them; yes, children, come, come. Good Shepherd love—a harbor, a refuge, a light for every child in every country.

“Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.”

Pray with me. May revival come soon. Yes, Jesus loves them.

The Why of God's Details by Marilyn Papierski

Logistics. Details. I love the planning. I love it when a plan comes together. I know it might be labeled under the category of really weird, but I also know there are others who get what I’m saying and are, right now, mentally raising their hands and saying, “That’s me.”

On my commute to work, I often listen to my audio Bible. I push play as I back out and start to listen as I drive. On one recent commute, I was making my way through the books of Leviticus and Numbers, and even I get bogged down with the details, the numbers, and dare I say, the boring logistics? Most of us might skip past these chronicles of logistical significance. I know I have on several attempts.

The counting of the males over the age of two months for the purpose of numbering Israel by tribe or tallying the number of men over 20 who can fight for Israel. Or the exact measurements of the tabernacle and the tabernacle furnishings, colors, type of fabric or metal, weights. And what about all the commandments and ordinances that Moses passed along to the Israelites? The “do this” and “don’t do that” commands. The many types of offerings (burnt offering, grain offering, sin offering, wave offering, fellowship offering, peace offering and yes, I googled to name just these—too many to remember); the multiple festivals; offerings for the individual, for the family and for the tribe; which parts of the animals were clean versus unclean; how to offer them and under what circumstances. I’m overwhelmed. I could never remember every detail!

About halfway to work, I start to wonder how would you move a crowd this size? The order of the tribes as they marched out of camp to follow the cloud of God by day and the fire by night. The men alone numbered over 600,000, so adding in women and children, it would be like moving, at a minimum, the population of DuPage County (over 922,000 in 2019) at a moment’s notice. Moses, are we staying here for the day or for the next month or the next year? Can you imagine the logistics of providing food and water for a crowd of this size?

So, as I plow through these two books of the Bible, I wonder why do we need these specifics recorded for us? I plan and write out my plans for an event or a project, but I certainly don’t expect them to be passed down through time. Matter of fact, completion of a project heads to the paper shredder. So, why?

Three things come to mind as I ponder.

God is a God of order. The examples I’ve mentioned boggle my mind in terms of keeping order, and yet highlight to me the importance of order to pull off something so massive. Plan your work; work your plan. He is a God of details, right down to the tedious, to the very fiber of each tabernacle curtain. How this gives me comfort as he orders the details of my life.

God is a God of provision. As God laid out the laws, he gave protection through his commands about what foods to eat and not eat, sometimes just to expect obedience, but also to protect the Israelites from illness and death. He provided laws which governed a vertical relationship with him and horizontal relationships among the people as a whole and in the family. He provided them with the land on which to live and assigned them according to the sizes of their tribes and what the land could sustain. He provided his people with leadership to guide them in his ways. He provided sustenance and the clothing on their backs and shoes on their feet. He provided a means by which the Israelites could be spared from their sins—through sacrifices and offerings.

God is a God of grace. It’s this that becomes an overarching theme for me. I am humbled by the staggering requirements placed on God’s people at that time. As much as I enjoy details, I cannot get my head around all that they had to remember to offer sacrifices pleasing to God, to gain his favor, to satisfy the holiness of a jealous God. And I think that’s the point.

The standard is impossible; the burden too great. We can’t do it on our own. I am awed by the gift of a perfect sacrifice who paid it all for me. I don’t have to remember when and how and what, but I do need to remember the who and the why. My sinful nature requires atonement that allows me to stand in the presence of a holy God.

My God has ordered the universe to provide his Son as the ultimate sacrifice that extends incredible and amazing grace that saves me from me and provides for my eternal home.

This is the real answer of why—his immeasurable, overwhelming and awesome love for me, for his redeemed people.

I arrive at work, but stay in the car for a few more minutes awed by God's unbelievable work over the ages, but more specifically, for me as I start this day.

Waiting in Line by Wil Triggs

“Is it true,” the woman said.

She spoke those three words accusingly, not exactly a question.

Falling into the line behind us, socially distanced, but speaking loud enough for all to hear, she asked, “Is it true that they’re giving it away?”

This time it was a question, but no one replied right away. Perhaps the heat or the drought that wasn’t called a drought had gotten to everyone. Maybe it was just easier to stare at the brown dead grass or the too-early-in-the season yellow and orange leaves on the trees.

She was fashionably dressed in a print that looked the way late summer was supposed to look, a pattern inspired by classic Provence prints—olive green, lemon yellow, sky blue and sunset orange. Her mask matched perfectly. Her hair, though, still needed attention.

“I mean, it can’t be.” She went on, missing the cues that no one else in line was talking to each other let alone to her.

In the days leading up to this, there had been a lot of talk about cost. It had to be available for everyone, rich and poor, all races and ethnic groups, every country, but whenever these areas came up, the discussion was shot through with distrust and skepticism, followed often by anger and fear. Would it be like that, or would it become available for one particular group of people—a wealthy group, or one isolated to a particular country or family group.

“I’m sick of this new normal. It’s not that. It’s abnormal. So, this can’t just be free. They must have spent millions or billions on it if it works. Someone has to make money from this.”

She had no idea of the actual cost—more than any of us could afford or imagine. A cure. Finally.

When they announced that the cure was here, like a lot of people, I was both thrilled and disbelieving. Word spread that this was coming, but all I could think of were the lines and how long they would be. And yet. I didn’t want to say anything. Honestly I wasn’t sure if I trusted it. And yet. There I was in line.

“I think it’s a trick of some kind, like they aren’t sure if it works, so they are giving it away as a test. We’re just guinea pigs or mice. Where’s the media? Shouldn’t they be here recording all this?”

The line wasn’t moving yet. I was starting to feel anxious.

“It’s just a rumor anyway,” she went on. “No one is going to give us anything. We’re just waiting. For nothing.”

Was it just me, or was she starting to annoy people with all her talking? The silence around her from the other people suggested a level of impatience was brewing.

“Well,” she continued, “I don’t think that kind of prank is funny. Probably just some kind of behavioral experiment to see how desperate we are.”

And then, at last, the line started moving forward, six feet at a time.

Once it got going, it was really fast. When we got to the front, each of us held out our hands and received the cure. No papers to sign, no money to pay. No fanfare or long speeches about how special we were to be selected for the cure. All of us looked down at what they gave us.

A little red pill. A piece of paper. A bottle of water.

“That’s it?” she asked. I looked down at it myself and realized she had been asking what we all were wondering but not saying out loud.

The red pill was small. So much sacrifice to make pills this small, so there would be enough—more than enough, really—for all. Almost as tiny as the seed of an herb, poppy or mustard, something along those lines. It was so miniscule that I thought it might just blow away.

The paper was the usual instructional piece, each panel in a different language. Time released. Works on anyone. One dose for all of life. Drink with water. There wasn't really a lot to do but take it.

We placed the pills on our tongues, a surprisingly saltiness. We opened our water bottle and drank.

All of us walked away together. This cure, made by father, son, spirit, not manufactured in any lab, but wrought in fifth and failure, shame and death, crossing over all the boundaries and limits of our progress and pride and so much more that adds up to nothing more than soiled rags.

“Well,” she said to no one and everyone, a gentle tone, dare we call it happy, in her new voice, “I think that’s the best water I’ve ever had in my life.”

And some of us said, reflexively, “Amen.”

It was the first time any of us had responded to her, and all of us repeated that one simple word with great joy.

For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes.

(My) History of the Bible by Lorraine Triggs

It was a first edition—the Reach Out Living New Testament, and off it went with me to Bluewater Bible Camp in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. I loved that paperback Bible. I underlined favorite Bible verses in bright pink ink. I drew daisies in the margins. I even blackened out a few teeth of the smiling young people in the photographs.

It was at camp that my Reach Out Bible met its soggy fate. Standing on the dock, my friends and I stared at my Bible slowly floating out of reach. Then to the delight of this giggling gaggle of high school girls, the dashing water ski instructor drove by in his boat and rescued my Bible from the clear blue waters of the Canadian lake.

The rescue effort didn’t come close to my effort to dry out the Bible. Beginning with Matthew’s gospel and ending with Revelation, I worked my way through the New Testament, resting it on a tree stump in the sun trying to get the pages as dry as I possibly could before packing it in my suitcase. Fortunately, a dry Reach Out Living New Testament made it across the Canadian border to Michigan.

But more than a dry New Testament came across the border that summer. God’s Word began its transformative work in my heart as I began to read and re-read (and re-underline in aqua blue ink this time) those favorite verses and more.

Another first edition Bible, this time with both testaments, a hard cover and my full name stamped on it, went with me to Moody Bible Institute. At the time, the preferred version of the Institute was the New American Standard Bible. The discovery of a misspelling in that edition of the Bible, the book of "Galations," more than made up for my disappointment over its lack of photographs. (I like to think that the typo inspired my future vocation in editing and writing.)

While the typo may have inspired my future, it didn’t detract from the school’s then-motto of 2 Timothy 2:15, “Be diligent to present yourself approved to God as a workman who does not need to be ashamed, accurately handling the word of truth.” (NASB, of course) As I was proving to be a somewhat diligent student, I realized that the study of God’s Word wasn’t contained to semesters or syllabi.

There are still a few of my Bible artifacts around the house, including one with a Chiquita Banana sticker on the cover. I’ve never experienced a scarcity of Bibles in my life, unlike believers my husband met in Russia.

“My first time traveling to Russia, it was the foundational country of the Soviet Union,” Wil recalled. He was working for Slavic Gospel Association at the time and spent much of his time reporting on Christians who were arrested, imprisoned or hospitalized in mental wards because they were Christians.

“Many Russian people were desperate for a Bible. They copied portions of it in books that looked to me like bluebooks. People cobbled together makeshift printing presses and hid them in their basements and made duplications of Scripture any way they could. People in prison would scratch Bible verses on bars of soap or on the walls of prison walls.

“So, when I stood in front of the customs agents and they took the New Testaments and Bibles out of my luggage and the pockets of my clothes, I started to argue with them. ‘These are gifts,’ I insisted. ‘I’m not bringing them into your country to make a profit, or to subvert your government. They are to help people.’ I was as insistent as I could be in a situation where I had no real power. I prayed and continued to insist. After a while, they agreed to keep half and give half back to me. People later told me they probably wanted to sell them on the black market. It was a great joy to give those gifts of Scripture to Christians I met in the days afterwards.”

To this day, I remain envious of my husband’s first trip and first friends in Russia. Now that I’ve made my own friends in Russia, I can imagine the genuine and emotional response to holding a real, honest-to-goodness Bible in your hands for the first time.

Those Bibles were more precious to these Russian believers than fine gold, even much fine gold.

Today—as in Saturday, August 29, today—in Benin, West Africa, believers from the Yom people group are celebrating the completion of the Yom Bible, an almost 70-year project in which College Church missionary Dorothy Forsberg has been involved. (A New Testament in the Yom language was completed in 1986.)

Imagine the joy today as a Yom believer reads Psalm 19 in his or her first complete Bible, “More to be desired are they than gold, even much fine gold; sweeter also than honey and drippings of the honeycomb.”

I hope that in a few years, a teenage girl in Benin will be underlining her favorite Bible verses and drawing flowers in the margins of her Bible.

Staying Focused by Pat Cirrincione

I have a confession to make. I think I am slowly losing my brain. No, I don’t have dementia or Alzheimer’s. I have Coviditis. It’s a new condition that began in early March and has been attacking me from all sides. I thought it would go away, disappear, anything but stay attached to my body. In order to keep it at bay I’ve tried various remedies that I would like to share with you.

In our basement I had three tables filled with pictures. These pictures are what I fondly called “my picture project.” Whenever the muse began to talk to me about placing them in order and putting them in photo albums, I would come up with a myriad of reasons to be doing something else, anything but get to work on them before I died and my children would just throw them all out.

Then Coviditis began, and so did the need to complete this project. It has taken six months, but it is just about complete, and I wish I could say that I am doing the happy dance, but instead I am just relieved that my children won’t throw them out.

You may be asking why did it take me that long to finish this project? Well, and here is another confession. I have become addicted to Candy Crush, and so I would find myself sitting at my computer playing this game for hours. I would even get up in the middle of the night and play it! And yes, when I reached my thousandth game, I actually did do the happy dance! I would like to say you should have been with me to celebrate but it wasn’t really a pretty sight, and I won’t go into detail.

The other thing I became addicted to was Solitaire. Again, endless hours spent playing this card game began to make my eyes cross, and I have yet to do a happy dance.

Before you write me off as a hopeless victim of Coviditis, let me give you the good news. I learned how to use ZOOM! I knew you would find that exciting! I knew nothing about ZOOM before March, but soon was attending my Bible study via ZOOM each week, and if that wasn’t exciting enough, before long I was attending church meetings, my Nana Prayer Group, needlepoint group, game day and book discussions via ZOOM! What a delight to be able to connect with people again, I had thought we had all disappeared! We have even been able to attend church each week via our computer. What a blessing that has been.

Not only did my life come back into focus, even my book discussion at the Wade Center went to a blog sight where we could read and answer questions each week, although at one point someone told me I was a curly writer and she was kind enough to explain what I had said to the rest of the group (would that have happened if we had been meeting in person? It just made me smile and I chalked it up to Coviditis.

Wait there’s more. I took a class on Martin Luther offered by Dallas Theological Seminary and found it fascinating, That led to more book buying on Amazon—books by David Jeremiah, Erwin Lutzer, Charles Spurgeon, Amy Carmichael, to name a few.

To help me refocus, I took a three-day class on writing, and realized that I have to let Candy Crush and Solitaire become less important in my daily routine (this might be a problem). Now I have another project to accomplish. I have a file drawer filled with writing ideas that I must peruse and do something about. I must, I repeat, I must stay away from Candy Crush!

Another beautiful thing has been the staff at our church. They have called, sent notes of encouragement and prayed for us. Never underestimate what a phone call or note can do to a victim of Coviditis.

The biggest effect of Coviditis has been on my awareness of God and my daily Bible reading. I’ve gotten through 1 and 2 Kings, 1 and 2 Chronicles, just finished Ezra, read a psalm and a proverb daily. If it weren’t for this book, I do believe that Coviditis would have poured its debilitating effects into my very soul.

It would have left me frightened of what I watch on the news. It would have left me feeling very alone even with my husband in the house. It would have unnerved me in a million ways. However, Coviditis has done none of this, because when I read the Word of God each day I am reminded to “stay strong and courageous,” to rely on God, to turn to him with every thought (small or large, he likes to hear them all), and to know that he is in control and has a plan. I have to say I hope the plan is to rapture his children sometime soon, because the more Coviditis hangs around, the more I long to be in our heavenly home, but I am putting my faith in our Redeemer, and not getting to game 2000 in Candy Crush.

Wounded Peace by Dan Haase

O, wounded heart not healing,

for constant is the sin; 

born of evil wanderings

through the wreckages of war.

The battlements are fallen, 

and strife between your kin, 

cannon fire still sounding

through the wreckages of war.

Though sorrow be your anthem,

and loss your only win, 

in this kingdom of your longings, 

through the wreckages of war.

O, wounded heart not healing,

let the Surgeon in,

whose presence is restoring

the wreckages of war.