The Worker is Worth His Keep

Acts 2:42 says this:

They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.

My heart is racing and my palms are sweating as I think of the possibilities, the implications. This was not a people who gathered for a Sabbath Corporate gathering and a small group once a week. This was a people who LIVED together. This was a people who formed a village in the midst of an empire, who formed a counter-culture in the face of oppression, who stood together, daily, with arms linked and hearts connected, exuding the Light of Christ in a very dark place. This was a people who lived their lives focused on the vision of being Jesus’ witness. Period.

And so they cashed everything in, knowing that together, they would take care of each other. Together, they could stand and not be in want. Together, they could demonstrate the compelling nature of our Christ.

All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had. With great power the apostles continued to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and much grace was upon them all. There were no needy persons among them. For from time to time those who owned lands or houses sold them, brought the money from the sales and put it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to anyone as he had need.

The part that speaks a very powerful message is the story of Ananias and Sapphira. They were part of this early faith community, and they too wanted to sell their goods and contribute to the larger vision. So they sold a piece of property and brought the money before the apostles. Except that they held back a portion of the sale for themselves, without disclosing the full amount. They reserved part of the money and did not give it as a whole, but said that they were giving it all. And they were struck dead for the act.

Not a slap on the hand. Not a “well, they’re just not in the right place.” Not an excuse from the community. Not an acknowledgement that it is their money to do with as they please and so the rest is between them and God. Nope.

Struck dead.

I often wonder about Ananias and Sapphira. Did they get scared? Did they have a moment of doubt, or selfishness, and just didn’t see it prudent to give it ALL away? Did they have something in mind that they wanted to buy for themselves alone? Did they doubt the generosity of the community and think that they were going to be short-changed? Did they grow weary of interdependence of the community and wanted freedom to break away? Did they just want more, maybe for their home? Were their needs not being met? What fueled that decision?

Reason and logic of this day and age would say that they were being good stewards, wise to set some aside. After all, it was their money and they can do with it as they please. It is nobody else's business how they decide to use it. You never know when that rainy day may come and you find yourself in need. In fact, I have heard many Christians say, in the midst of discussing this Scripture, that if they were to give everything away, then they would be the ones in need, depending on others.

As radical as it sounds, maybe that is exactly where God wants us to be. Depending on Him, through the generous hearts of each other, knowing that He. Will. Come. Through. Then we boast in nothing but Him.

That was the model that He set for us. Remember, Jesus said, “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

Jesus was homeless.

As He sent out His disciples to teach and heal and love, He told them, “As you go, preach this message, ‘The kingdom of heaven is near.’ Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy, drive out demons. Freely you have received, freely give. Do not take along any gold or silver or copper in your belts; take no bag for the journey, or extra tunic, or sandals or a staff; for the worker is worth his keep.”

The worker is worth his keep.

The Cost is High

Three years ago, when the economy tanked, a husband and wife both lost their jobs. The man in his early 60’s, the wife in her late 50’s, both came home empty handed. The company that she had given years of hard work to laid off all their employees and closed their doors. The nationwide hiring freeze put his recruiting firm out of business. So this hard-working, middle-class couple found themselves with no jobs, and no benefits for their chronic health problems. He was cutting blood-pressure medication in half to make it last longer. She was skipping days of her thyroid medication to stretch it out. They were scrambling to put money together for non-negotiable insulin, and he stopped taking his cholesterol medication because they just couldn’t afford it.

So this couple, in the prime of their lives, found themselves starting over. But they were clever and creative, so they put their heads together and started a small business, making and selling tie-dye clothing and his beautiful artwork. They worked tirelessly throughout the week to get their inventory up, and then traveled every weekend, chasing after arts and crafts fairs to peddle their goods. There was no Sabbath for this couple, but they were growing weary.

They filed for every government benefit available to them at their age, fought against red tape and middlemen, and even still, were just scraping by. Even through all of their toil, though, they were falling further and further behind. So after three years of just trying to keep their heads above water, they made the difficult decision to file for bankruptcy and let their house, their home of 13 years, go to the bank. They had run out of options and energy. They would move to a different state, and share a home with their aging in-laws who were in need of live-in help. Humbled and torn, they began the process of selling off all that they had left.

In late September, my family and I returned to the states from Africa, just in time to help that couple, my parents, neatly arrange all of their possessions on tables in the carport of their home, with paper signs that read “25 cents each.” Family heirlooms, memorabilia from around the world, gifts from family and friends; each item had a story, and piece of our past attached to it. And a person walks up, bargains it down from a dollar and walks away with it in hand, never knowing where it came from, the stories that made us laugh when we talk about it, or the family that we remember when we see it. All of it gone for a couple thousand dollars in two weekends’ worth of yard sales. And then my parents loaded up what was most dear in a small truck, and headed east for Texas, 15 hours away from children and grandchildren, trusting God for guidance and peace.

And I mourn it all.

Probably more for selfish reasons than anything else. And I know it is only a season. But I mourn it nonetheless. To know how hard they have worked throughout their lives, how they have struggled and toiled, I just wonder if we could have, should have, stood together better. The community failed. We failed.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the rich young ruler who approached Jesus, and the early Church community described in Acts, and the modern day Church, and my parents, and countless others just like them, and the lost and broken, and the call to be set apart, be a light, give everything, no poor among them, thousands added daily, addictions and pain, and the power of the Holy Spirit to change it all. And this stirring and this reading and this praying and seeking has left me with a solemn conclusion.

I cannot fully reconcile my life to what Jesus taught because I have spent my life picking and choosing what of it I want to follow. It's just easier that way.

Ugh. I hate putting that out there because it solidifies, confesses, acknowledges the nudging that the Spirit has been doing at my heart.

Yes, I hear you. I just didn’t want to hear you. Because the cost of discipleship so very high, and I. AM. SCARED.

But You, in all of Your unpredictable moves and unreasonable requests, You are good. You do not make sense, as Your ways are not my ways, and You are not safe by the standards I know. But You are good. 

And so when You told the rich young ruler, this master who owned everything he could possible need, that he lacked one thing, You didn’t mean that just for him. And Your early church, full of the Holy Spirit, with Your words still ringing in their ears, they knew that. You told him, “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” There was no payment plan, no easing into it, no baby steps. This rich man, this religious leader, knew all the commands and boasted in keeping them, even approached Jesus in boldness to let Him know that all the commands had been kept. So now the next act of obedience, the next step in discipleship.

GIVE. IT. ALL. AWAY.

And Your bride, in the zeal of her youth, did just that.

The Work of Community

You may not have known it when I darkened your door for the first time. Maybe you knew and just didn't let on. You were always so gracious. When I came to you first, my brokenness was too profound to call even broken. Shattered might be a better word. Tiny shards blown like chaff in all directions. Too small to even pick up with my fingers. Cuts like that usually don't stop bleeding. Disillusioned. Doubtful. Terrified. I had done this before, showing up with the high hopes of being accepted, of belonging. I had tried before, and just never fit.

Early on, I had to talk myself into going, every week. A small pep talk as I drove, willing the steering wheel towards your house. I knew it would be good for my heart in the long run, even if a bit uncomfortable in the present time. I would do my best to sweep up all the remaining pieces of the heart that could be found, dump them into an inconspicuous baggie, and carry them with me into the small gathering of smiles and warm hearts, hoping that you would be the glue. I know you didn't know about the tears as I left your house, feeling useless and spent. I carried with me a fear of being disqualified for service, no longer useful for anything. Too broken. Too damaged. But you, your warmth oozed and my fragments began to come together.

I tried to hide the times that I would excuse myself from the laughter and joy, slip into the bathroom and cry. I felt lonely, alone, even in the midst of you. I tried to hide it, but my red eyes would usually betray me. But you, you were so gracious. You allowed me to just be, to absorb, to sit silent. You allowed the Holy Spirit to use you, and wounds were washed out by the outpouring, and I began to recognize some of the fragments that were being pieced back together. And you, you just loved.

And when selfish jealously, and self pity tried to creep in and destroy what you were pouring in to, you smiled graciously, and mourned with me. And you didn't know, but your silent presence was life-restoring ministry. And you don't know, but you should know, that the Almighty is using you and you are giving me courage and hope. I watch how he esteems his bride and looks to her where he is weak, and he is not scared or proud, but boasts in what God has done and what God has given him. And I heard how he made decisions based on his adoration of the girl to whom he gave forever after, and how he edified her and she will respect him forever for that. And I see how you talk with my little ones, as if they are yours, and I have hope for them, and me. And I see how he pours out his heart in absolute vulnerability and speaks of a desire to lead his family well, and she, well, the stars in her eyes shine even brighter when she gazes at him. And I am proud, and humbled, and honored to sit in the midst of such a gathering of brethren. And those undecipherable pieces that I was sweeping up before can now be carried to and fro.

And you don't know, but I have prayed for an increase in capacity, an earnest desire to be used again by You, for You, that I may be restored enough that You may be poured out of me. Filled, to be emptied. Wash, Rinse, Repeat. And I have cried, wept bitterly. Will You not use me again? And last night, you blessed me to love on your little ones, and God's grace poured out on all of us. A simple act, and weeks prior I would have dreaded it, knowing that I had nothing left to give. I could barely keep up with my own little people, much less 8 others. But I have asked for strength, and increased capacity, and last night, You. Said. Yes.

And no one cried, and we laughed and danced with princesses and silly squirrels and talked about choices and honoring mother and father, and wiped runny noses, and pranced with ponies, and we played and built. Yes, we built. And I was built by the grace of little ones as we, many, cuddled, all lap space and arm reach spoken for. And they leaned in with trust and precious eyes of innocence and heaven. You graced me to love them and showed me that I could.

The warmth of the Holy Spirit has poured out its healing upon my shattered heart, and you are the glue being used to bring jagged edges back together, warm glue allowing pieces to find their way back to rightful places, and a sense of wholeness restores the soul. You are purifying the air that I breathe, and refining my vision for the graces of God, and I am seeing Him everywhere. I no longer carry a baggie with broken pieces because the grace of my Redeemer has placed a restored heart back in its rightful place, beating in my chest, and your fingerprints are all over that glue that has bound it up.

I am eternally grateful.

Mourning will one day be dancing...

Seven years ago tonight, a boy and girl stood in a church before a pastor and a slew of friends and family, and said forever after. There was euphoria and bliss, but there were also doubts from onlookers, wondering how long it would really last. Questioning eyes and slight shoulder shrugs said, "we'll see how it goes and how long it lasts." So I dug my heels in, determined to prove them all wrong, that we would make it. I painted on a smile in hard times, and boasted loud in the good times. I was sure that my love and determination would be enough for both of us.

There was a night when this boy and girl strolled, hands intwined, on a moonlit night through a nearby canyon while conversation flowed of the future, of family ministry across Africa. Statements were made of family priorities, boldly pronounced that the order would always be God first, then family, then ministry/work, then all other demands of life. But lines are blurred when God and ministry/work take on the same face, and family is bumped further down the line. I wished you had loved me as much as you loved her, or them. I wished that the ministry would be poured into the family as well, but all was spent elsewhere, and we got what little was left.

There was a time that someone spoke to you, saying that "Your pride would be your downfall," and you laughed it off and I chuckled nervously, wondering when. But I dug my heels in and repainted the face whenever it began to droop. Maybe if I were thinner, or more spiritual, or prettier, or nicer, or quieter, or more submissive, maybe he would love me more. I was sure it could all be saved.

But alas, it would not be saved. I have struggled to separate God from you, and was told to be quiet and submissive to the man who is the representation of Christ to his family, but if that were so, then I hate you both. I remember through the years, women would say to me how blessed I am to be married to such a spiritual man, and I would bridle my tongue and nod my head with a forced grin. What is that like, really?  Because in my house, it meant abandonment, neglect. Is that what God is like?

I have learned that that is not true. And in God's hate of divorce, His love of mercy is much greater. For the six years prior to this one, this would have been a night of celebration, though hope forced and waning with each passing year. For years I heard pastors talk about the effects of divorce, the ripping of flesh that had been melded into one. Tonight I know that pain. There is no comfort, or balm to soothe the ache, dreams lost and family sacrificed on the altar of ministry.

And so today has become a day of mourning. Mourning for a life that could have been, dreams that could have flown high. But You have said that You turn mourning into dancing, and ashes into beauty, and I am believing and clinging and looking forward to a future, even dreaming again. It is a reclamation of life, and so tonight, amidst the mourning and sadness, I will pour myself a glass of champagne , maybe cry a little, and rest in His Goodness. Even now.

Standing in the Storm

I have learned along this spiritual journey that sometimes I am able to walk, even run, learning and loving in leaps and bounds. But there are other times when all I can do is stand, head swirling in the midst of uncertainty, doubt, and pain. You see, as I walk forward, one foot in front of the other, there are moments with each step when I am slightly off balance, one foot on the ground, one foot mid-air. And in seasons when the air is calm and the wind is but a mellow, gentle breeze, these moments of unbalance are absorbed by the forward momentum of learning and loving. 

But those seasons when the air is not calm and the wind is not gentle, that slight unbalance makes it more challenging to stay upright. There are seasons when torrents of rain pelt the body painfully, and any moment void of a firm hold may just knock me over, and I will fall apart altogether. There are seasons when the air is so thick with pain and the clouds are so heavy with fatigue that the very hand of God is concealed by the darkness swirling around. 

And it is in this season that I live and breathe now. 

And so in this season, where I am unable to walk, unable to move forward in my journey without falling over or falling out, unable to see my own hand before my face, much less the hand of God, I choose to ground my feet, and stand. My feet grow roots, and I stand like a tree planted by streams of water, firm and strong, and as the winds of this storm blow back and forth, I will bend and sway under the weight of it all, but I will not fall down. I will not walk away. I will not retreat. And I will not break.

And as the winds grow stronger, I lean in, and cry out for mercy. 

ARE. YOU. STILL. THERE???

In the midst of it all, I cannot lift my hands. It hurts too much. My heart, full of fear, doubt, anger, and too many questions to process, weeps. It hurts to praise. A whisper of Your name echoes, reverberates off the walls of an empty chamber hall. And so I simply stand, tears mixed with rain and hail. 

On this Rock, I choose to stand. I choose to take my stand.  

I do not fall. I do not crumble. I do not walk away.

And it is in this where I finally am able to see Him again, His hand of mercy and compassion holding me up. By His grace alone, I am still standing.

In the midst of a dark storm, when everything in me says to get out, my feet are grounded, my legs are planted, and I do not fall. 

That's His hand, holding me up. 

And someday, this season will pass. At some point the skies will clear and I will be able to run again. But now, with dark skies and heavy clouds looming overhead, I. Will. Stand. 

I will press in, and I will persevere.

I will rest soundly with Your hand on me, holding me up.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. 
James 1:2-4








*Photo courtesy of FreeFoto.com

The Beating of a Heart

You bruised my heart when you banged it around,
You said it wasn't worth fighting for and took it for granted.
In the discovery of the betrayal of vows, it bled heavy, tears mixed with thick crimson, leaving but a pale remnant of the life that flowed through it previously.
Now it beats strange, lopsided, nursing the wounds left by the sickness of disappointment and the mourning of dreams lost.

But it beats still.

How does one recover from such a blow? From one as such that leaves perfect fingerprint outlines on shaken arms or beaten bottoms?
How does one breathe when the weight of desperation and loneliness crushes down on the chest?
The simple rise and fall of the lungs in a previously simple world is so inadequate now, leaving the body starved, lips blue, the heart beating shallow, dull.

But it beats still.

You tell me that God hates divorce and my heart is hard and my god is small;
I open my mouth to speak of His mercy and grace and release from oppression and falsehoods,
but you wouldn't hear it because God hates divorce.
But He also hates pride and injustice and arrogance and oppression and sin and the planks that blur all of our vision.
And so I cling to Him under the shadow of a mighty wing and listen for the beating of His heart.

And it is beating still.

And someday the purple black spotting of capillaries blown open, now painful to the touch, will ease, turning to shades of unspeakable green and yellow that will once again flow crimson.
The vibrance of life is waiting, refilling, beating low and steady as it pushes through the repair of a life in shambles.

But it beats still.
And I forgive you.


All grace and all peace as I venture through a new and scary season of life.

Today I Rode a Bike...

Today I rode a bike. I can't remember the last time that I rode a bike...maybe my college years, which I won't disclose how long ago that was. But today, I "rented" a free bike from my place of work, and took a lunch-time ride. As my feet hit the pedal and my legs went round and round on a beat-up beach cruiser, my face lit up like a little girl who just learned to ride for the first time.

WHEEEEEEEE!

I was the only one riding through campus with a goof-ball grin on my face, waving and shouting greetings to all the other bike-riders, sure that they were as elated to be riding as I was. My legs pedaled faster as I dodged pedestrians and the old metal frame clanked with each rotation of the wheels. Onward I cruised, until I had arrived at a nearby neighborhood, and the ghost of what once was.

My destination was an old school, used by the city school district for many, many years, now abandoned due to budget cuts. The clanking frame came to a quiet halt as I reached the corner of the fenced off playground, as one approaching hallowed ground quiets the soul to listen for whispers from the past. And I stood at the edge, wind and whispers blowing through my hair, echoes of ghosts and dry bones laughing through the air.

An empty school is an eerie sight. Unnatural and unnerving. If walls could talk...but even they have been silenced and no ear wanders its lane to listen for tales of little people and growing minds and hearts being formed. And so the walls moan and shift and creak in the stillness of absence. Paint peels down that which was once covered with little hands creating masterpieces, and the playground can no longer be called as such, but merely ground held together by fading structures.

And I begin to pedal again, feet pressing in as heart presses on and begins to weep, hoping the wind will wash the tears away, but it full of laughter and echoes and all that once was. It is noontime. Children should be playing here. Youthful chaos should fill the air. Balls should be bouncing and swings dancing high. But there is only the whistle of the trees who are left to wonder where all the people went.

Pedaling still, pushing down as I circle the block that makes up the now-empty school, play yard, and jungle gym. Circling and pedaling, praying for new life, circling and canvasing the area, covering it in prayer, crying that this path around the land will be claimed, a fire of passion set on this trail, blazes go up to mark all that is within it as hallowed, sacred, set apart for the divine.

Holy. Ground.

with endless possibilities.

There is a community of believers who desire to live out this Jesus calling, who desire to preach the Good News of Jesus Christ through loving, merciful acts of devotion to each other and to the city, and the nation, and to the world.

And it starts here.

We are asking to be made uncomfortable, for comforts welcomes rot and spoil. We are asking for lessons in love and mercy and grace beyond what we are able to do, beyond what we are able to handle.

We are asking You, Jesus. Your kingdom come. Your will be done.

You have given the vision of a community center that reaches deep into the lives of the people of Tucson. Open the doors, Father, and make us uncomfortable, that we may find comfort and strength in you alone, that we may operate outside of ourselves. Give us guidance and wisdom, that it may all be for your glory.

Circle the block one more time. My eyes see the silhouettes of children, short and tall, light and dark, running and squealing. Vegetables are growing tall and baskets are being filled to overflowing. Needs are being met, and there is plenty left over. New life has been breathed into these dry bones, and the hollow echo of death has become the hallowed ground of Life.

Today I rode a bike, and I worshipped my Creator, and my heart beat happy all day long.

Will you pray with us, please, as we seek the Father's wisdom for a community center in mid-town Tucson? As proposals are created and grants are being requested, please pray with us, for the gift of Faith in all things? For patience to wait on His plan, and the obedience to act when doors are opened.

Driving by Jesus

I was a little late getting out of work. It was 5:10 by the time I closed my office door, 5:16 by the time I was pulling out of the parking lot. Late start on the drive home usually means getting stuck in the worst of the traffic. It was 5:50 by the time I picked up my girls from school, and far later than I wanted it to be for cooking dinner. So I decided we would grab some dinner at a local market on the way home.

A quick in and out, and then we'd be on our way home and getting the girls in bed.

Hurry up, girls. It's getting late.

Bellies are full, but food was still left on the table.

Wrap it up. There's a mouth out there to feed. 


So I grab a paper bag and drop in 4 pieces of untouched cornbread, and wrap up a couple of pieces of turkey. Load the girls in the van, and we were on our way. The parking lot was crazy busy as we drove past the Starbucks, the beauty supply story, the Dollar store, and the grocery store. While slowing to allow shoppers to cross, I saw him out of the corner of my eye. A few shops ahead, leaning into a trash can, digging. A large, clear trash bag rested on the ground behind, full of crushed cans. The ends of his pants were tattered and sandals were worn. I saw him, and I saw the bag of bread on the seat next to me.

The food is for him. 


Watching the cars turn and pass and park and pull out, watching the shoppers cross the road back and forth, in the midst of little people laughing and shrieking behind me and the news blaring on the radio about war and violence, somehow in the midst of the chaos, I heard that whisper.

That bread will feed him, the least of these. 


And as the tires rolled on slowly in the midst of that busy parking lot, my mind waged war with my heart.

How do I...what do I...what if he's not homeless and I'm judging? what if this insults him? what do i say? where do I park? how do I pull out of the way? what about the children in the backseat? ugh! how do I make this work?!

And in the confusion of my pride and disobedience and desire to do right, my tires kept on rolling, and I drove right on by Jesus, with his dirty, torn up pants and matted beard, and hit my hand against the steering wheel with absolute frustration.

DANGIT!

And my eyes well up with tears, and my heart breaks in shame for my disobedience, my cowardice in not stepping up, and the bag of bread on the seat next to me mocks me. Coward.

And I wonder how many times I have driven past Jesus and never even given it a thought. In my hurry, in my avoidance of inconveniences, in my exhaustion, in my ingratitude, in my disgruntled discontent, how many times have I missed him?

Please give me another chance. Please open my eyes. Please break my stubborn pride. Please, give me another chance.

Then the King will say to those on his right, "Enter, you who are blessed by my Father! Take what's coming to you in this kingdom. It's been ready for you since the world's foundation. And here's why:

I was hungry and you fed me,

I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,

I was homeless and you gave me a room,

I was shivering and you gave me clothes,

I was sick and you stopped to visit,

I was in prison and you came to me."

Then those 'sheep' are going to say, "Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?"

Then the King will say, "I'm tell the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me - you did it to me."

Overlooked or ignored. How many times in a day do I overlook or ignore someone? How many countless faces do I overlook in a day? How many blessings have I neglected to give because I chose to ignore? How many opportunities to love did I overlook today?

Oh Father, open the eyes of my heart, enlighten me to see as You see, that I will not drive by you ever again.

Forgive me.

The Slippery Slope

The year was 1996. I was entering the second trimester of the school year, and money was needed to buy textbooks for classes. But I had none. I had already spent my school money to feed my drug addiction and alcohol cravings. Classes were just starting and assignments were being made. Read these chapters from these textbooks. Write papers and reports. But there were no textbooks, because there was no money, because there was a beast that needed to be fed.

And then a friend told me that I could make some quick cash. Nothing dirty, more artistic. Just a few photographs. Just take off my clothes, do a few decent poses, I could change my name.

At first I laughed, bashful. I could never...

But then another day of class came and went. No books. No assignment to turn in. And the cravings from the beast were becoming painful.

Maybe I could...just a few...it would be quick...and I could call the shots. Nothing dirty.

So I made the phone call, picked the time and place. Took a shower, took a few shots of liquor, grabbed a few changes of clothes, threw back a few more shots, and walked out the door.

I call the shots. Nothing dirty.

The session was a hour long. And he paid me $300. Enough for a few textbooks. And I wanted to just walk away.

Pretend. It. Never. Happened.

I did that a lot back in those days. And I thought I could rationalize my way through it. It paid for my books, and what was the harm, really? It's not like it was porn. Just a few shots of naked poses. Nothing dirty.

Except that it was. It was my body, my precious sexuality, my precious treasure, the temple, put on display for a stranger with a camera. Sold out for a few coins.

And for as much as I thought I could just walk away like it was nothing, I wanted to run and hide, to put on every article of clothing in my closet, just to make sure that everything was covered. There was a sense of shame, and yet I wanted to be tough. So the hard wall that I had built up around my heart got another layer added to it, hardening me even more, protecting an empty shell inside.

So then when a friend told me that I could do that every weekend while dancing, and make about a grand a weekend, I entertained the idea. And every time the beast needed a fix, I entertained the idea. And every time I wrote a hot check to pay for a few groceries (and beer), I entertained the idea. It would be nothing. It might even be a little fun. I could numb myself with some booze and some drugs, and just go dance. Who cares if someone is watching? It would be nothing. I had already put one foot on the slope. What's another?

By God's grace, He loved me before I ever knew Him, and my foot was caught on that slippery slope to not slide down any further. There were some who were crying out on my behalf, long before I ever knew anything about it. He spared me and saved me, and now, His redemptive grace has come full circle.

More women are currently employed in the sex industry than any other time in history. Our culture has glamorized and desensitized the people to that which is sacred and treasured. There are more strip clubs in the US than any other nation in the world, and the sex industry in Tucson, AZ is just downright overwhelming.

There is much shame and secrecy which surrounds this shadowy industry. Many secrets to be kept. Studies that have been done reveal that between 66-90% of women in the sex industry were sexually abused as children. Compared to the general population, women in the sex industry experience higher rates of substance abuse, rape and violent assault, STD's, domestic violence, depression, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Fear and distrust holds them captive to the life they know, rather than reaching for the freedom they do not know. Many need a lifeline, but don't know how or whom to ask.

Tomorrow night a community will gather. They will hit their knees and weep on behalf of our sisters in the sex industry. They will cry out on behalf of our brothers, those who are contributing to the system. They will gather on behalf of their siblings, and then two by two, teams will go out as ambassadors of God's redeeming grace, to tell our sisters that we love them, to tell our brothers that they are cherished. These teams will deliver gifts crafted by the hands of a family in longing, selected and prayed over as beacons of Light, and they will stand in the gap, whispering the Savior's Name.

A Lifeline.

Jesus told us that the Shepherd, upon realizing that one of his sheep has strayed, would leave the 99 to go after the one.

We are asking You, Great Shepherd, Go. We are missing our siblings.

Bring my sisters out of darkness and into Your glorious light. Bring her home to the family, and refine us to be nothing but Christ to her. The world has been harsh and cruel, and the enemy has been shouting lies her whole life. Give us hearts that would not judge, and eyes to remember the height from which we fell. Give us tongues that would speak slowly, gently, compassionately, Love. Give us arms that would hold her till the crying stops. And give us patience to hold her more.

Bring my sisters out of darkness. Tell her that's she's beautiful. Tell her how much she's worth. Overwhelm her with the Truth of Your love. Tell her she's not disposable. Tell her she's not worthless. Tell her she's not stupid. Tell her there is someone who cares what happens to her. Tell her, Father, that there is no flaw within her. Tell her, Lord, because it's been a long time since my sister heard Truth. Tell her she's not worthless. Tell her she's worth the blood of Your Son, of the Shepherd who has gone after her. Oh, speak tenderly, as the Lover she's never had.

Tell her that You have come to redeem her from the slippery slope that is taking her life.

Will you join us? Will you pray for the lost? Will you pray for the hurting? Will you pray for the marginalized? Will you prayers for our sisters and brothers? Will you seek them out to show kindness and love?

Because love covers a multitude of sins. And stops the sliding down a dark and dangerous slope.

Could community be the key to radical?

The thing about community is that it is messy. People have baggage, and issues, and hurts, and pains, and the enemy feeds them lies at every turn they take. And people, in their hurt and brokenness, believe the lies, take them to heart, and live their lives based on them, rather than believing the Truth. You see, the Truth isn't shouted. It is gentle, unassuming, quiet. It removes any pretenses or excuses that we may carry with us. It frees us from all things, coming and going.

And so all of us, in our brokenness and bondage, fear each other. Either we are judging or being judged. Some may lash out to protect, believing that there is no one who will stand up for us. Other may hide away fearing the harshness of others. This is what we bring to relationships with each other, and until we discover the reality of grace, towards ourselves and others, communities remain a very safe arm's length away. We hide behind privacy and space, and personal preference. We gather with for Sunday service, maybe another night in the week for a small group, and then go on about our quiet, broken lives the rest of the week. Community happens on our terms. We choose when we want to engage and when we want to be alone. And many times fear can dictate these terms.

We read the teachings of Jesus to feed the poor, and so we send a check in to United Way.
We read that we are to care for the orphans, and so we send our check to Compassion.
We read that we are to visit the sick care for the widows, so we send our check to the foundation that will do this.

And our hands are clean, untarnished by the filthy reality of this life, not scathed by the broken mess of lives that comprise people in a fragile world so far from its Creator. And we can go on about our pristine lives knowing that we have done our part to make a difference.

But the thing about Jesus, was that He was a man of the people. He was a man of relationships. He was a man who would stand beside the adulteress and speak beautiful truths over her. He was a man who would speak life into the dead man before Him. He was a man who broke bread with the people as He taught of God's love and compassion. He demonstrated the compassion He spoke of. He lived it out. His life was covered in the dirt and filth of those whom He came to save. He walked the road with them.
And it was an outrage to the religious leaders. It was an abomination to be seen with the sinners with whom He dined. It was unspeakable to allow such women to touch Him.

It was completely radical. And those around Him took notice.

He was different and the gospel he taught was different than what the world knew.

He was inconvenienced by their sudden appearances. He was delayed by impromptu conversations. He was held up by the cry of someone's heart. And He was compassionate and ever gracious. He did not judge and held no record of sin.

But instead He scribbled something in the dirt which held the attention of the accusers. His gaze caught theirs as He leveled the field, "Let him without sin cast the first stone."

We are all broken, and we have been called to community, true bleed on each other community.

They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he has need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.

Is this not what we have been called to? Is this not the example that was set for us? What the early Church did was completely radical, completely against the culture of their day, completely set apart. They pooled resources for the sake of living the vision set forth in Acts 1:8, the vision set for them by Christ himself, of being His witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and the ends of the earth. They gave all that they had to ensure that those among them had what they needed to do what God had called them to do. And they broke bread together. This is mentioned more than once. Community was done on the terms of the community, not on the terms of the individual, when and where he felt like engaging.

Oh how my heart longs to see this come to fruition in our day, to see lives being saved from the hurt and brokenness of a world that does not know Truth, to see numbers added daily because the Truth of God's love and the demonstration of His people living it out is that compelling. Are we that compelling?

A group that is able to come together and get along? A group of the Christians that are able to come together and get along? Now that will get some attention.

There has to be more....