Justified Servants

Kingdom reality turns earthly reality inside out and backwards. “To be first, you must be last and serve everyone,” Jesus told his disciples as they argued about who was best (Mark 9:33-35).

Humility. 

Humility is the key to the kingdom. 

So what’s the key to humility? I can tell you, it isn’t powerlessness, as I often find myself thinking. Neither is it enslavement - doing good deeds or good work while receiving nothing of value in return. Those who follow Jesus are heirs to his kingdom. We’re world changers; the most powerful, free people on the planet. Humility doesn’t negate this truth, humility makes this truth reality. 

I was working a morning shift at the coffee shack a couple weeks ago. Mornings are busy enough to require a two man team, so I worked with a co-worker named Ray. Mid-way through our shift, some friends of mine came in. 

A mother (Sue) and daughter (TJ) duo, I’ve never seen my friends together sans laughter. They told me a story about a time they laid hands on Sue’s back with a group of friends. They prayer warriors gathered around Sue in the hot seat, made declarations and spoke in tongues and all was very lovely, though not particularly healing. Until TJ started laughing. Before they knew it, the laughter had spread out of control. 

As the giggle fits subsided, without further ado, Sue stood, said thanks, and walked away healed. 

This day at the coffee shack they were particularly bubbly. They’d been listening to a song from Dispicable Me 2  called “Happy,” they told me. As they walked in, they were still singing raucously. Ray tried without success to focus them on their drink order, shrugged and resigned them to me.  

I barged into their happy parade, took their orders, and they waited in the window across from the espresso machine chatting and giggling merrily. Perhaps 20 minutes after they left, a woman in plaid came in and stood in the same window, waiting to be helped. 

“How are you doing today?” Ray asked, while I busily pulled shots and steamed milk. 

The woman in plaid paused, scrunched up her face in confusion for a moment, then answered, “Literally two seconds ago, until you asked me that, I was feeling really irritated like I was having a terrible day. But suddenly I feel really, really good. Thanks!” 

I want to utilize this post to speak to a specific group of people: Customer Servants. Those of us in the customer service industry often feel abused, demeaned, and pretty pissed off about it. Those of us who makes tips can easily find ourselves measuring our worth by the amount of money people are willing to put in our jars. Some days, despite our best efforts, we feel utterly worthless. 

I’ve written about customer service in the past. It’s a common topic for me to share on The Daily Heretic because I believe in Jesus’s commission to “go out” (Matthew 10:8). So strongly, I’ve shaped my life around it and chosen to make my everyday a mission. Most days, I find myself at work. To recap, I am a barista and my husband works at Trader Joe’s. And so, customer service. 

A day of customer service can leave me feeling a sense of hopelessness unlike any other work I’ve ever done. It’s so easy to notice the flaws in the people I interact with - ingratitude, pride, narcissism, ignorance. By the end of the day, I feel completely justified being fed up and miserable. After all, I’ve spent hours laboring to cater to the whims of wealthy people who don’t deserve it. I could be in Africa, or India, or Haiti serving people starving and dying. They’d be grateful, right? 

My friends Sue and TJ brought a cloud of kingdom joy into my coffee bungalow so thick it stuck around after they left. The woman in plaid stood within it totally unable to access it, until Ray unlocked the door with humility. That very simple “How are you doing today?” - a question we in customer service ask thousands of time in a week - was all it took to unlock the kingdom at hand and instantly change the course of the plaid woman’s day.

A few months ago I had a dream about a sushi feast being served to demons (if I find the dream, I'll link it here). Since that dream, I’ve started to notice that the negative feelings I occasionally have toward customers were feeding the demons they were carrying in with them. Whenever I noticed myself slipping into anger (or annoyance or impatience) I started to simply say “I don’t feed demons,” and that was enough to re-engage my spirit with the Kingdom and end the feast. 

The trick isn’t ending the feast. That’s easy. The moment I engage with Jesus, the feast is over. The trick is recognizing that a feast is happening. 

Following the dream, I realized my mood toward a person often shifted the moment they stepped out of their car. I’d watch them walk in, and a steady stream of reasons justifying my bitterness about serving them coursed through my mind. By the time they came in, I’d force myself to smile knowing full-well they didn’t deserve even common courtesy. 

Until I recognized this, my job was very difficult to enjoy for the entirety of a day. It was thanks to the customers who took care to beam their light and love my direction that I’ve kept my job as long as I have. 

After a period of weeks doing my best to diligently declare “I don’t feed demons,” the practice became second nature. Now when I notice a shift as someone steps out of their car, I begin asking Jesus what he likes about them. Sometimes, asking that question feels like pulling teeth. I seriously don’t want to hear it. 

But even if I want to ignore Him, I declare “I don’t feed demons” and make myself ask them “How are you doing today?” By the time this person I deigned to smile at minutes ago leaves, we’ve had a meaningful and worthwhile interaction and I feel good. Like, joy of Jesus good. It wasn’t until I watched Ray unlock the joy of the kingdom with that same question, that I began to recognize the power I wield as a humble servant. 

If you’re not relating to this, please at least don’t think I’m a rotten person you never want to get your coffee from. I should clarify, I don’t go through this with every person I serve. Gracious that would be tedious. Though I serve about 70 people per shift, it takes only few badly handled or unrecognized demonic encounters to really ruin my day. I’m describing those select few, not the vast majority. 

The problem with an unrecognized demon encounter when you’re serving people, is they’re simultaneously unrecognized Jesus encounters. Jesus said “When you serve the least of these, you serve me” (Matthew 25:31-46).

Hints of Failure Part 1

I’ve been holding back a series of stories from this blog. The response to my last post, Divine Dice, has influenced this reluctance. I’m not proud of this, but it’s true. If you’re reading this post, you are one of not very many. The majority of my posts acquire about 60 views. Two of my most read posts maxed out around 400 views. Divine Dice is at 1020 and counting. 

In part, the conversations surrounding Divine Dice directly questioned my salvation. "She's deceived and deceiving," many cried. At first, the series of failures I've yet to share left me feeling particularly vulnerable - not a feeling I'm familiar with. Part of me didn't want to share anything to validate those who sought to undermine the validity of my life. 

In response to the religious minded who wanted to correct me, people I know and look up to spoke solidarity and life over me. My fear of vulnerability was a flimsy one, and soon I found it couldn't hold up to the sheer force of identity confirming love Dad made sure was heaped upon me from every angle of my life. From friends to teachers to strangers, the encouragement was almost overwhelming. 

One day, after visiting my friend at our mall's M.A.C. counter and walking away sporting new red lipstick, a passing stranger stared until I'd nearly walked past. "Wow! You are so sexy!" She gasped. 

I'm telling you, there was no area of my life and identity flaming arrows of encouragement didn't pierce. 

I write when God speaks. That isn’t to say you should believe everything I write. Or that every word I write was spoken by God. But I’ve found that writing of my own accord is tedious and draining. When I simply write in response to what Dad and I are talking about, the experience is life-giving and invigorating. I’ve started several posts only to find my mind immediately drained of thought and the act of typing like shoving bamboo shoots up my nails. Thus, I’ve only typed a few paragraphs before stopping. 

The stories I’ve been evading pick up right where Divine Dice left off: Halloween. After each experience, I thought to myself - definitely won't be writing that one up on the blog. I've had some time to reflect and distance myself from the stings of failure (at least, what felt like failure). Dad made sure my fear of vulnerability was taken care of, and gave me a desire to write. He isn't done talking about these failures of mine. So, if I want to write, I'll have to write about them. I needed the failures in order to recognize and receive the successes and revelations I'm seeing today. Likewise, anyone reading The Daily Heretic is going to need the same full picture.

This is no quick bandaid removal. Once I started writing, it was immediately clear this is going to take too many words for one post. Stick with me, and by the end of this series, we'll be... 

Somewhere.

---

Part 1: The Leg

Post surgery x-ray. November 27. Photo by: Jen

After work on Halloween, I joined my husband Jeremiah and friend Claire to visit our friends Kendal and Jen. About two weeks before Halloween, Kendal broke his leg. Having a broken leg can be terribly boring and depressing; we hoped the company of friends in costume might help alleviate the monotony. 

Jen’s small living room had one couch, taken over by Kendal and his casted leg. The rest of us gathered around on chairs and the floor, chatting and laughing into the late evening. We enjoyed beer carried in from our favorite pub, and several varieties of chocolate and things covered in chocolate. It was in the midst of this merry, jovial room that I laid hands on Kendal for the third time since the break. 

The first time, I laid hands in the Spirit. Kendal texted me from the hospital, and I was stuck home without a car. I was frantic and frustrated, itching to lay hands but stuck twiddling my thumbs. I began to pray, and Dad reminded me of a post Praying Medic shared on Facebook, along with all the podcasts I’ve listened to Ian Clayton talk about spirit travel. Suddenly, I realized this was an opportunity for experience, and my frustration shifted into determination. 

I sat on my bed cross legged, closed my eyes, and asked Dad to take me to Kendal. It didn’t seem like anything happened, but I decided to lay hands on my own leg and believe it was Kendal’s. I checked the text again. “Hey sis, I broke my leg. At the hospital. Thought you’d want to know.” Surely enough, the text gave me no information about where the leg was broken or where to put my hands. So I closed my eyes again, asked Dad to take me to Kendal and show me where to lay my hands. 

Still, I seemed to be sitting on my bed nowhere near Kendal. But I felt a deep, intensifying longing lay my hands on my right leg. I put one hand just below my knee, the other a few inches above my ankle. After a few minutes of praying in tongues, I paused. “Is this right, Dad?” I tried moving my hands to my left leg, but swiftly felt as though I’d eaten over cooked spinach. I spit it out and moved back to my right leg with visceral relief. 

After a few moments, I wanted to touch my ankle, too. Perhaps craved would be more accurate than wanted. The craving started in my diaphragm and filled me until my fingers were twitchy and I couldn’t ignore it. Much the way I imagine an addict feels when craving cigarettes or coffee. I moved a hand to my ankle, and the craving was again relieved. 

Living The Dream Part 2

Click here for Part 1

When I woke up from the school bus dream it was early and dark out, still a few hours before I needed to be awake. I fell asleep again and had a few sporadic dreams until I re-awoke to my alarm. The school bus and children running along telephone wires were as fresh in my mind as if I’d lived the experience rather than dreamed it. 

It is madness to wear ladies' straw' hats
and velvet hats to church..."

As I pulled my clothes on for the day and tidied my dreads, I asked Dad to interpret the dream for me. As quiet as I could commit my mind to be, I waited for a response. I waited and waited as I drifted through the menial tasks of the morning, until my mind wandered and I forgot I was listening. 

Instead, I started thinking about a conversation I had with my sister, Brittany. One of her teammates was sick with tonsillitis. “Go out and heal the sick,” Jesus says. And I wanted to heal this teammate. But she’d been left at the hotel the day before, in too much pain to watch her team play. I’d yet to see her. 

As I walked downstairs to meet my family, I was determined to find this girl and lay hands. With plenty of time to kill before the day’s games started, we ate slowly and played a story game until Brittany had to join her team for study hall. 

It wasn’t until my parents and I were about to leave the hotel that I recalled my determination to heal Brittany’s teammate. I marched quickly back to the lobby where Brittany was knee deep in Facebook while her gathered teammates worked on homework. “Hey!” I said, loudly enough to prompt Brittany to take off her headphones. “Where’s that girl with tonsillitis? Carmen, right?” I’d go to the room she’d been quarantined in, if I had to. 

“She’s right there,” Brittany replied with a gesture over her shoulder. Carmen sat on a giant beanbag with a blanket and a text book. Though she looked miserable, both she and my sister seemed amused by the interruption of their study session. 

“Do you want healed?” I asked Carmen as I walked toward her. 

“Yes!” She said, completely sick of being sick. Several girls glanced up, curious. But if they continued to watch, I didn’t notice.

“Great.” I sat down next to her, double checked that her throat was the location of her pain, then placed my hand on the right side of her neck. On a scale of 1-10, she said the pain was a 6. After a few minutes of prayer I asked if she felt any change in her pain level, but it remained a stubborn 6. 

I prayed again. “What do you feel?” I asked this time. 

“I feel really calm.”

 Calm. That could only be the Holy Spirit at work, so I prayed one more time. Once again, I asked what she felt and if the pain had changed. “Still a 6,” she said. “But I feel super calm.”

“Are you coming to the gym today?” She was. Certain that she was experiencing the peace of Dad’s presence, I decided to let Dad continue to love on her and leave more prayer for later in the day. Dad is a far better minister than I am. “Let yourself soak in that calm as long as possible,” I suggested. “I’ll check in with you and see how you’re feeling.”

Our team’s first game of the day was at noon. Again, I found myself in the bleachers surrounded by parents. Just as frustrated as yesterday by attitudes and conduct, I wanted to rant. I used to play volleyball until I hurt my knee, I imagined my rant beginning. They do not need your negative energy. The moment this thought crossed my mind, Dad took my back to my dream. 

I used to do this until I hurt my knee, my dream self had claimed. Instantly, Dad interpreted the dream for my spirit. I couldn’t rationally understand all I suddenly knew, but two solid details were sure. First, the school bus dream was portraying this moment. I’m in my dream, I kept thinking. Second, I couldn’t rant at anyone. I’d already seen the results, and they were no good. 

From Corpse to Bride

Spirits of my good friend's imagination.

Part 1: Imagine 

I was finishing a Yoga session, listening to a podcast from Bethel church in Redding. The podcast, which I can no longer recall specifically, mentioned prophetic visions and dreams. At that point, I quit listening so I can’t relay the teaching to you. It had something to do with Kris Vallaton having a vision, and what I took from it (without listening to a word of it) was that Kris gets visions, I don’t. Frankly, I thought that an unfair load of rotten apples. 

Have you ever been through Wenatchee, WA (the self-proclaimed apple capital of the world) after the apple harvests have finished and the leftover fruit is left to fall to the ground and decompose? I have. Kids who grow up there call the town The Snatch, in response to the vulgar aroma. 

Yes, other people receiving visions who aren’t me: the essence of vulgarity. 

I lay there in corpse pose, letting my blood settle back into its routine, and started a conversation with Dad. “I want to have visions,” I told him. Then, boldly indignant, I explained that it wasn’t very fair to give some people visions while skipping me. “That’s like saying, some of my sheep hear my voice. Some do not. Random luck of the draw. Better luck next time, kiddo.” 

The moment I paused to draw breath, Dad responded firm and clear, though not unkind.  

I didn’t clear my mind, close my eyes, or try to listen in any way. I wasn’t done speaking, actually, and wasn’t expecting to be interrupted. Nevertheless, He spoke. The words I heard were so counter to my present train of thought, two things I couldn’t do occurred simultaneously.

First, I couldn’t help but hear Him. 

Second, I couldn’t give myself any credit for coming up with the idea. Thus suggesting, for me at least, that what I’d heard was Dad. 

“You do have visions,” he said. 

“What? Visions my booty,” I would have replied had I any time. But Dad doesn’t need words to speak, and doesn’t have to inhale to give you a moment to interrupt. 

Immediately, several stories I’ve written came to mind. Then one in particular settled into the forefront of my imagination. Dad returned me to my seat in front of my computer screen in my dining room, where I wrote the story. I sat there typing as my imagination played the story like a film behind my eyes. I paused occasionally, allowing my imagination to play, then writing what I saw as quickly and accurately as I could. 

The process felt like I was translating a story from one language to another. From spirit language, which uses no words, to English. At once a limiting and liberating exercise. 

What Dad was showing me is that the thing, the head space, I’ve been told is my imagination, is also the space Dad uses to give me visions. It’s the same space engaged when I read a book, play a board game, listen to music, study a painting, watch a ballet. 

Though these things are rooted in the physical world, they transport me to non-physical realms. That’s why I read, or play games, or any of these activities. On their own, they’re neat but essentially boring. Alongside my imagination, I can engaged with them for hours and not disengage until forcibly separated.

We exercise our imagination by experiencing the creative results of another’s imagination. From there, depending on our life experiences and skills, we can begin to exercise our imaginations apart from any other’s, and create. 

Being a writer, this creative process of receiving visions and translating them occurs most naturally as I write stories. However, I believe this experience can be had in many ways. When my friend Dave carves a pipe, for example, he first imagines it what it will look like. When my husband writes a song on the guitar, he first imagines what it will sound like. When my friend Claire knits a garment, she first imagines wearing it. When my friend Josiah creates a cocktail, he first imagines drinking it. When I heal, I first imagine wholeness. 

Midnight release of, as you may have
guessed, the final Harry Potter.

What I’m saying is when we tap into our creative imagination, we are receiving visions from God. When I read a book, I’m engaging the same imagination as when I write a book. The difference is that one experience creates, the other is created. In one experience, an author provides narrative that shapes my imagination’s path. In the other experience, my imagination provides images that shape the path of my narrative. That ten people can read the same book, and if asked to make a film of that book, would produce ten radically different results, suggests to me that imagination is highly personal, subjective, and vital whether its being used in author or reader capacity. 

I’ve noticed a fear in adults throughout my life, particularly adults who attend churches, that particular stories or games are influenced by evil. I believe this to an extent: when I translate an author’s narrative into my imagination, perhaps there’s some wiggle room for demonic influence. 

Harry Potter was a huge deal for the church attending people in my life as a child. Its a book about witchcraft, clearly anti-Christ, clearly an abomination and should be kept from the hands of our impressionable, vulnerable children. Luckily, none of them were my parents, and I was encouraged to read them. 

Before we can create in meaningful ways, we must learn to imagine. One thing I noticed as a kid reading Harry Potter, was that at first, the story was simply words on a page. I’d read a page, get bored, walk away. Read two pages, get bored, walk away. Eventually, I pushed through a few more pages, and my imagination kicked in. Suddenly, I was enraptured by a world completely unlike any I’d experienced. I couldn’t stop reading. I can tell you from watching the movies, my imagination was completely different and vastly more satisfying than the filmmakers’.

Every time I picked up the book, it took less and less time for my imagination to engage, and I was able to read for ever extending periods. I’m not suggesting that Harry Potter was a vital read, and that I owe my capacity to receive visions from God to reading that series. However, as we practice engaging our imaginations, we gain stamina. We can engage more quickly and for longer periods of time.

Imagination is so vital, I’ll argue that it should be nurtured and encouraged without fail. Whether its books like Harry Potter, or games like Magic the Gathering, no fear of demonic influence should prevent the use of a person’s imagination.

In my own creative work, I’ve found that the more I read and allow other’s to shape an imagination experience, the more stamina I have when it comes to having imagination experiences completely free of influence except from God. 

I’m not sure if you caught what I just insinuated, so let me clarify: every act of creativity starts with an imagination experience influenced directly from God. 

Whether a proclaimed “Christian” or not, God gives people visions. Whether there’s wiggle room for demonic influence is besides the point. If it was created, it was inspired by God. Yes, we are capable of imagining terrible things. Even those begin inspired from God. I’ve never heard it argued that C.S. Lewis wasn’t Christian, yet he had to imagine some gruesome and disturbing war images for The Chronicles of Narnia. He actually imagined being a demon for The Screw tape Letters. 

In the song below, "Clint Eastwood" by The Gorillaz featuring Del Tha Funkee Homosapien (knowing before you do that there are a couple F*bombs ahead), you can hear a splendid example of prophecy spoken outside of a church-approved prophet. Mostly, it's a good song. I think it also compliments the concept I'm trying to explain in this post. Until Part 2, enjoy and be blessed. 

(Oh, yeah. The point of this post, as ever, is to stir conversation and stoke questions. Have at it!)

“Allow me to make this childlike in nature: Rhythm, you have it or you don’t, that’s a fallacy. I’m in them - every sproutin’ tree, every child of peace, every cloud and sea.” 

Through the Open Window

A Dream and a Healing

Recently, I’ve been imagining owning my own coffee shop. I’ve imagined this for years, but lately its been more matter of fact, not if but when. One of the ideas I’ve been getting really excited about is using the shop’s space after hours for creative, community centered events.

"The dream’s images came to mind again.
This time, I couldn’t ignore them..." 

For example, I’d love to shove the tables aside and teach yoga classes. They’d be a perfect environment to get people healed, and I’d call them “Yoga with Jesus.”

While imagining this, Dad reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend, Hannah. “I feel like I’m getting a word from God about yoga instructor certification, but I don’t think it’s for me. Maybe it’s for you,” she said. I smiled at the memory, brushing it aside as unlikely and implausible for a wide array of reasons.  

---------

In the dark hours of Tuesday morning, I had a dream. I remember a few specific images from the dream, nothing more. First, a pair of hands resting on someone’s back. The person wore a heather grey shirt, the dream’s perspective gave me no further detail. 

A moment later, I was given a broader view. I saw a wooden table that looked carved straight from a tree, from which an umbrella loomed. I was also engaged in a heated conversation with my employers that had me feeling heavy and oppressed. (I’ve never had such an interaction, I don’t expect to. I’ll interpret this part in a moment.)

When I woke up, the weight of that conversation stuck around. I felt flustered, unheard. For the most part the dream slipped my mind - had I not been wrestling with this negativity I’d have forgotten it entirely. “What the heck was that about?” I asked Dad. 

He reminded me, “You asked for adventure, correct?”

That was true, I agreed. I smiled, and the negativity I’d carried in from the dream realm dissolved. Eyes still bleary, I rolled over and pulled my computer onto the bed. There was a blog post I’d been putting off for a couple days ("Between the Coaster...") and I was feeling oddly eager to write it. Whenever that happens, I like to take advantage right away. 

I opened my computer, clicked the internet icon, and waited for Blogger to load. An error page popped up, informing me I didn’t have an internet connection. Being that I connect via the router in my apartment complex’s office, which is across the parking lot, this happens frequently. Sometimes closing and opening my computer gives me a fresh connection. 

I closed my computer and opened it back up. Multiple times. At the top of my screen, an exclamation mark blinked over my connection strength indicator. Since I’d never seen an exclamation used in such a way, I took it to indicate I wasn’t going to have any luck connecting to internet from home today. I packed up my things, jammed my helmet over my hair, and rode my moped through the rain to the coffee bungalow I work at. 

Though seating is outdoor, there’s a hefty table that looks as though it was carved from a tree with a wide umbrella that keeps at least a small portion of the table dry. A woman, one of my regulars, was already sitting in one of the dry seats, apparently waiting for a friend. I sat kitty-corner from her, pulled out my computer, and opened up Blogger with ease. 

Unfortunately, I recalled that much of my material for said post was derived from Facebook. I logged in, and was thoroughly distracted from the task at hand. On top of that, my table partner’s friend had arrived and they were chatting up a storm. Huddled around the driest parts of the table as we were, I couldn’t help but overhear most of their conversation. It’s incredibly hard to write anything when you’re listening to other people’s conversations, let me tell you.

I overheard some important details, though. Mainly, that my regular’s name was Alice (I’m terrible about exchanging names), and she’d recently injured her back. Though she didn’t have the means to got to a doctor or chiropractor, she has several friends who are healers and massage therapists she could visit. 

The images from my dream flashed through my mind, but I was busy and mostly ignored them. Except to note that Alice wore a heather gray shirt, just like the one the dream had shown me.  

#AriseAndBringTheHeavensDown

I have a feeling those of you who joined us to pray and hope after reading the last post might be curious how my friends' trip turned out. Here's part of the story. God was at work before they even left their house that day. Before you get to the end, I should warn you: I haven't heard the next part of the story. It is possible it may not be told here. But it was such a mischievous ending, I couldn't part with it! 

Part 2: Hope and Healing

Winter glanced around her, over either shoulder; the gate she'd been waiting at was deserted. She was the only one here. Immediately, she stood and found the flight directory. Her gate had been changed. She ran, got in line, and breathlessly gave the stewardess her pass. Most of the plane had boarded already, her number had been called long ago. 

LAX Internation Airport

She took her seat, relieved to have made it in time. "We're running late folks," the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "We'll take off as soon as your seated and have you at LAX as close to on schedule as possible." 

That's awesome, Winter thought. Esa's plane was probably already there, he'd be waiting. 

Five minutes later, the pilot's voice projected overhead again. This time, his tone flat and hardly masking frustration. "I apologize for the delay, folks. Looks like we have to de-ice."

The woman next to winter began to rant about being on a tight schedule and needing to be at her destination on time. Winter turned to face her. "Have you ever known you were supposed to be somewhere, known that incalculable good would come of it, and that something was trying to stop you?" 

"Sure, I guess."

"I am on my way to an event that I had a vision of two years ago. Two months ago, I finally got an address. Today I have no money, no phone, no clothes, but I've got this plane ticket there. And I believe that has something to do with why we have to sit here and de-ice in Oakland in April. Are you a woman of faith?"

"No."

"Well, I'm going to this event for a miracle. Will you hope for something with me at 8 p.m. tonight?"

"Like what?"

"Anything you want."

"You want to hope for something?" Suddenly the woman came to life. "Hope for water. I'm from Colorado and we don't have any water. Our farmers can't even water their crops enough to get through this harvest. They have no idea what to do. 

"And while we're at it, North Korea! Someone needs to get that man from North Korea in a room and have a good talk with him." Suddenly the woman's demeanor switched. No longer lively, she became cold. Winter smiled, passed her some peanuts, and they didn't speak again the duration of the flight. 

Hush, Listen, Obey

Your personalized health plan Part 2

Ironically, the afternoon I wrote this, my internet got shut off. Don't pay your bills, lose communication with the outside world. That's the "real" world kids. So, I got a ride with my roomy to Panera this morning and can finally post the conclusion to that rotten cliff hanger I left you all with several afternoons ago. I shall not apologize though; the story would have been incomplete prior to today. 


Within days of flipping God my middle finger, He responded by bringing me Jeremiah. After months of friendship he bashfully started telling me about healings he saw and participated in at the Lighthouse. Then he told me to watch Finger of God by Darren Wilson.

If you don't feel like you can hear God clearly just yet, watch listen and read as much testimony as possible. Fortify your faith. Here's the thing, you do hear God. It just takes faith to believe you do. And testimony builds faith like steroids build muscle (without the creepy side effects).

Neti-pot.
Day 4. 

Fast forward to three years ago, I told God I believed he was The Healer. Of both the world and myself. And then I declared, to God and whoever else was listening, that I would under no circumstances take medicine again.

As though my heart and guts had ears I heard (roughly, as it's hard to translate spirit language into English), "Agreed. Now, be ready. You will be tested."

A few months later I laid hands on my mom during a migraine. She was healed.

A couple weeks after that, I got my first migraine. I thought I would die. I spent the morning in a steamy shower and in prayer. And as I toweled my hair dry, God showed me an irony in getting my first migraine after healing my mom. I laughed, and was instantly healed.

Later, I would discover my only food allergy: fresh figs. Four horribly painful experiences and a failed (and expensive) doctors visit later, instantly healed. Twice, because I ate half a fig before I remembered not to.

The day we returned from our honeymoon type thing, Jeremiah and I shared the experience of concession-stand-hotdog-enduced food poisoning. That one, we did not get miraculously healed from. But we didn't die (test passed).

Dozens of ailments have swung bats and fists my way. A few I endured and walked away healthy without a doctor or medicine to speak of. A few were miraculously healed by prayer - either at the hands of others or myself.

I've laid hands on nearly every person I know. Most of them have been healed as well. Every one of them walked away feeling warm and cozy inside.

Despite these awesome confirmations of Dad's love, presence, and desire to heal, I'll admit I have a seriously hard time getting healed myself. I don't even like the words "getting healed" or "hard" in the same sentence. As far as I understand my conversations with Dad, we are already healed. Christ's work is finished.

 Dad is not making us sick or keeping us sick for any reason. Health is part of our Christly identity. Dad gave us the command to heal the sick, and in so doing gave us the power and authority to get it done (Matthew 10:8)

But it doesn't always happen the way we'd like or expect. And sometimes we pray and pray but remain sick. Sometimes, it seems really frackin' hard to step into the wholeness and health that is our eternal identity.

The past week and a half has been dreadful. It started with the most intense migraine I've yet experienced. It lasted a full 24 hours, through my final shift at Mud Bay Coffee. I couldn't think straight enough to wage any "spiritual warfare" or speak any in depth prayer. I spoke in tongues (or muttered gibberish) for a few minutes, and when I stopped Dad said take some aspirin now, and Advil in 4 hours.

Hush, Listen, Obey

Your personalized health plan Part 1

"You believe God heals, right?"
"Yes. Of course. Absolutely."
"Yet you're still sick."

I was imagining having this conversation with someone in a church before laying hands on them a few days ago. In my imagination, I was the one asking the questions. But the moment the conversation ended, I realized that I was sick one.

Despite every effort, I spent my days off this week inconsolably ill and apparently un-healed.

"You're still sick."

"Apparently... What now?"

Appearances aren't always what they seem. Sometimes, when it appears we're not getting healed and God isn't responding, it's because He's inviting us into some good quality alone time with Him.

Now, seek God's voice. Not healing, or a Bible verse, or stuff to do.

Listen. 

Stop what you're doing, tell yourself to hush, stop asking questions, and see what you hear. 

Sometimes our efforts to get healed...

Make better doors than windows.

Keep in mind, our entire being is an antenna designed to tune in to God's frequency. It's not always our ears that do the hearing.

Then, do as directed. Or for you, maybe it's as you imagined. Or as you feel compelled.

God wants you healed. He's already made it so. He's not preventing it. Pray. Keep praying and don't stop. But while you're at it hush, listen, and obey. It's a plan with such potential to be simple.

Simplicity often comes in retrospect, though. Let me tell you, that conversation I nonchalantly posted up top seriously screwed with me.

A lifetime has lead up to that conversation; I'll start a few years back to bring you up to speed.

By age 19, I'd seen one man I prayed for daily pass away. The death he experienced, which took three months of unexplained hospitalization, I would not wish on anyone or any family. I'd spent ten years of daily prayer seeking the healing of that man's wife. She still has Multiple Sclerosis, it's still getting worse.


I tore my ACL and feared I'd lost my opportunity to play volleyball at another college.

So mid-prayer one day, I abruptly told God to fuck off. That I was never praying for anyone's healing again.

---
Part 2 will be posted later this evening. Thanks for lending me your eyes and hearts. Comments welcome!

The Unhinged Servant - Part 3

I'm writing for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), so my fingers and thoughts have been rather tied up. An Associated Press article released today caught my attention, though, and re-sparked some thoughts I was in the process of growing from and sharing here. 

Part 2: Boundless Leaders

November 7 at You Are Never Alone, an Occupy Sandy
outreach center. AP Photo by Craig Ruttle.

Service has been a huge topic of discussion for Papa and I. The impact of those discussions has been to completely reshape and restore my concept of The Church as Christ's bride, not a religious organization. 

In the first of two previous posts, I shared the point from which I entered these conversations with Papa (Part 1). Mostly rant, wholly honest, it was from that level of awareness Papa held my hand and walked with me the path to new awareness. In the second part, I recalled a few key moments in these conversations where the proverbial lightbulb flipped on (Part 2). From these moments, I was launched into territory I'd never been. Suddenly, fresh fruit was growing from conversations with Papa I hadn't even realized we were having. 

One of those conversations revolved around leadership. Communities I was a part of were dying, and I kept thinking, It's because we have no leadership. 

One day, not long after realizing I had been granted my request for new eyes (and so have you), Papa chimed in again. What does leadership look like? After a moment of imagining leaders I choose not to follow, and those I do, he asked What do leaders do? It took me a little more time to imagine this. Do they direct discussion? Tally votes? Disperse tasks? Make decisions? Teach? Prophesy? Guide? Motivate? 

It took more time to realize that a leader does all of these things, in any way they can, in whatever way is needed. It is a leader's role to step in and fill whatever role is needed for the project, group, or community to flourish. 

Leadership is a limitless gift, by which we release the Kingdom of Heaven on earth, by which we directly reflect Papa God. It is not a gift that grants control or authority. We have control and authority over the powers of darkness, the principalities and rulers of the world. Our authority is over satan, demons, and disease, not over our fellow humans. 

Leadership, like service, is a gift directly from Father God (here's that gifts list again). I discussed in Part 2 that my new eyes (and yours) were capable of seeing areas that once appeared as lack or laziness, but were in fact opportunities to co-labor with Papa. Opportunities to step into a need, and transform it into a blessing. I thought these were servants eyes, resultant of walking in the gift of service. 

Then Papa brought me back to the conversation we'd begun about leadership. Why aren't you leading, if it's leadership that is needed? He asked. 

Leadership is not my gift. I've never been a leader. Im not a leader. As I continue to pull the log out of my eyes, I've started to understand that the more I embrace the gift of service and choose to walk in it, the more I will find myself leading. Leadership is not an identity to claim, but a gift to receive and give. What I thought were servant's eyes, were also the eyes of a leader. The two gifts go hand in hand. The gift of leadership provides a willingness to take action, the gift of service provides a willingness to take the needed action, not the action that best suits us. When a need is presented, it doesn't remain a need after a servant leader gets hold of it. 

The Unhinged Servant - Part 2

My understanding and experience with worship over the past week has me firmly convinced that worship is not limited to church buildings. Nor is it limited to musical talent. It is an all the time, everywhere part of life that allows our spirits the freedom they so crave. That said, I've included two songs I've been worshiping Papa with, and I find them very relevant to this post. Let your spirits soar, friends. (Some will be initially repelled by the first video. Please get over it and listen anyway.)

Part 2: Battle For Eye

Several months ago, my friends got together for one of our last Bible studies at The Yellow House. Over hookah and snack food, we opened our Bibles and talked about our lives. We were in the thick of Acts, which led to a conversation about spiritual gifts. I was going through a phase of breaking, inhaling, growing and breaking again and again (Dan Smith, "David De La Hoz," featured above). I shared my experience filling out spiritual gifting questionnaires (From Part 1), and said "I saw Service as a gift, knew I should mark it, and specifically chose not to. And still, though I understand the value of the gift, and I'm pretty sure I have it... I'm fighting it tooth and nail."

My roommate's dad, Dave, was there. He is one of the few adults I trust to share an open, Bible focused discussion with. In response, he said, "There are three lists of gifts in the Bible. Service is on the list of gifts given directly from Father God. If you're fighting that, you're fighting God."

"No wonder," I said. And was silent the rest of the night, pondering the implications of his statement. (Ok, silent is a drastic overstatement. But the pondering has continued ever since."

Service is a gift directly from Father God. If you, like me, are in the service industry, you are in position to move under open heaven. You are in position to commune directly with Papa God, all day long. You are in position to co-labor with the God of all creation, and significantly impact lives.

What's missing from this ministry opportunity? Not a thing my friends. Ready and willing hearts are all Papa needs.

You may feel mad. Used. Overworked, underpaid. Looked down on. Undervalued. Like no matter how friendly you act and how broad you smile, your tips are shit. [If you haven't read Part One, now would be an exceptional time to do so.]

You are ok.

Christ lived to serve, and was spit on, kicked, tortured and scorned in return. You are in good company.
Not all people are in the state of mind or spirit to receive your service gift. Many expect you to serve them; they're paying you after all. Many don't respond when you ask how they're doing, and most certainly don't ask how you're doing.

You are ok.
Your ability to walk in the gift of service, to serve in Christ's image, is not dependent on others' ability to receive that gift.

The Unhinged Servant - Part 1

Part 1: Self Interest 

Service is a gift directly from Papa (see Romans 12). Service is also an industry.

A fucked up, demon ridden industry that I thank Pops daily (now that I've had time to reflect on the situation) for the opportunity to infiltrate and destroy from the inside.

I am uncomfortable being paid to serve. I am uncomfortable being expected to serve. I'd really much rather spend my time doing pretty much anything else.

I write this as a servant of Papa God. A begrudging servant, at best. A cog in the machine that is the service industry. A burnt out cog in need of a spit polish.

I write this for the encouragement of my fellow servants, as well as my own encouragement. And whether you know it or not, if you're reading this you carry the gift of service (so this is for you, too).

I pledge my hands to larger service,
and Heavenly Doughnuts. 

About three years ago, I was discovering that Papa God is not a collection of bullshit fantasy fiction wrapped and bound in the pages of a book called Bible. Rather, as He's continued to reveal Himself to me, He's a loving, nurturing, living badass who heals, raises the dead, multiplies food, teleports people, and otherwise defies the laws of physics we tend to submit ourselves to. And those bullshit stories, well they keep ringing true. I see them happen with my own eyes.

With this new perspective, and after watching the documentary Finger of God several times, I decided I  seriously wanted to go to Africa and learn with Heidi and Roland Baker at Iris Ministries. I diligently perused the Iris Ministries website, found an application for their ministry school, and set to filling it out.

The application included a list of spiritual gifts, with a prompt to check off all that apply. I'd never seen such a list, and had no idea if I was worthy to check off any. Sure, I want the gift of healing, of prophesy, leadership, miracles (here's a useful link if you're unfamiliar with the gifts I'm talking about). Those are awesome. Frack yes.

But can I actually do these things? I asked Papa. And he nudged me to check off a few. Service was one. I chose not to check it.