The Disaster You Fear by Lorraine Triggs

I have a theory that the natural disaster you fear the most is the one least likely to occur in your natural habitat. My late mother-in-law, Lula, and I proved my theory true. Her natural habitat was California, and she lived in Beaumont, CA, when we were first married—the site of my very first earthquake.

I woke up when the bed shifted. “The bed moved,” I poked my still sleeping spouse. “Wake up. Why did the bed just move?” Now awake, Wil pointed out the swaying chandelier, the askew pictures on the wall and the books sliding off the nightstand. “It’s an earthquake,” he calmly answered my question.

An earthquake? Where do we go for shelter? His mom lived in a prefab mobile home with no basement (emphasis added by this Michigan native). My husband got out of bed to check on his mom, and I followed—taking baby steps across the slightly moving floor while trying to hang onto something that wasn’t moving. The ground is not supposed to move under one’s feet.

According to my mother-in-law and her son this was a minor earthquake—nothing to fear. It bears repeating, however, that ground is not supposed to move under one’s feet.

On the other hand, a Midwest summer thunderstorm was enough to rattle my mother-in-law from 2,000 miles away. She called during one such storm. I put her on speaker phone to chat.

“What was that?” Lula asked at the same time I said, “Wow! That was close.” Lightning flashed outside, followed by a loud thunderclap that she heard over the phone.

“Oh, nothing, just a thunderstorm.”

Earthquake, thunderstorm, you say to-mae-to, I say to-mah-to.

As much as I don’t like natural disasters, at least I have an emergency preparedness plan and obnoxious alerts on every device in the house, warning me to take shelter immediately, or sooner than later.

There are disasters of another sort—the kind that come with no warning and shake me to the core. Disasters that blow in and blow out, leaving fear and uncertainty in their wake. Much like the disaster we’re going through with a dearly loved family member, and if I had it my way, should have been over long ago like minor earthquakes and summer thunderstorms. Instead, each phone call or message from him is another reminder that the disaster hasn’t passed.

And then I read King David’s preparedness plan in Psalm 57:1, “Have mercy on me, my God, have mercy on me, for in you I take refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed.”

Tim Keller, in his book The Songs of Jesus: A Year of Daily Devotions in the Psalms explains David’s plan. He describes David as surrounded by danger as if by roaring beasts (Psalm 57:4) and crying out to God for help—and in the middle of this, Keller writes that David “suddenly simply praises God, ‘Be exalted, O God, above the heavens; let your glory be over all the earth.' Deeper than disaster, danger, and distress is the desire for God to be glorified. If that can be accomplished by saving us from our circumstances, then praise God! If it is better accomplished by our circumstances remaining unchanged while we continue to show our confidence in God before the watching world, praise God as well.”

I continue to shelter in place under the shadow of God’s wing, but I venture out, baby step at a time, to that watching world so it can see that I am holding on to the only sure and steadfast One, whose glory is over all the earth.

What Is Jesus Saying? By Wil Triggs

While walking by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon (who is called Peter) and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea, for they were fishermen. And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Immediately they left their nets and followed him. (Matthew 4:18-20)
 
It seems like Jesus often uses the imperative mood—speaking in commands, not suggestions. “Follow me” is one example, with the striking and immediate obedience of Simon and Andrew. There are plenty of other imperatives Jesus speaks to those around him.
 
Repent.
Beware.
Believe.
Rejoice.
Lay up treasures.
Ask, seek, knock.
Deny yourself.
Forgive.
Serve.
Love.
 
Jesus is really direct when we are not. He has the advantage of being the all-knowing, all-loving God. I’m not always comfortable with being so direct. That is probably a good thing. If I had been talking to the woman at the well, I would not have known about her personal history with husbands. Of course, I probably would not have bothered to speak to her at all.
 
So sometimes I am more subtle than Jesus. When nervous we, or I at least, tend to add words or overthink.
 
This brings to mind when a friend of mine asked to meet. It was urgent. I rearranged some things, and we met that day.
 
“What’s up?” I asked.
 
He explained his dilemma. A ministry project he had been working on was at an impasse. The project was to be finished in another country, but money was needed this very week, or it would mean a delay of months before the project would be complete.

Oh no. I had been praying with him about this project for over a year.
 
“Do you have any ideas of who might be able to help?” He asked me. I used a lot of words to say "I don't know." We parted and I said I’d give the problem some thought. I wracked my brain. I thought of foundations I knew, or friends with what seemed like obvious means to cover the cost. It wasn't as much as I thought it might be, but needed to be covered immediately. The turnaround was so fast.
 
This was complicated. I mentally went over and over the list, something started to happen. Then God brought just the right person to mind to supply this immediate need: me and Lorraine.
 
I know that’s not why he asked me, but we love this man and his family, the project, and we even love the overseas company he was working with. I started to get excited, happy. Lorraine and I talked about it and we both agreed. God’s gentle imperative was “give.” I went online and gave the gift.
 
Wow. Thank you, Jesus, for making this possible in the most obvious and direct way.
 
Sometimes Jesus doesn’t tell a person what to do, but he observes what they have already done.
 
The widow who gave the shekels. Surely, she generally went unnoticed by most everyone but Jesus. The sound of the rattle of the coin falling down the offering box and she went on her way. She probably relied on the help of others just to survive and still she managed to give. 
 
This was not a metaphor or a parable. She was a real woman. Would the financial advisers of her time have told her that this was a good move? Surely not. She lived behind the scenes. No one noticed except Jesus.
 
Jesus praised her.
 
“Truly, I say to you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the offering box. For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” (Mark 12:43b-44)
 
In another moment, Jesus, crushed by the people all around him, singled out the touch of a lone person. Again, behind-the-scenes.
 
And Jesus said, “Who was it that touched me?” When all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the crowds surround you and are pressing in on you!” But Jesus said, “Someone touched me, for I perceive that power has gone out from me.” And when the woman saw that she was not hidden, she came trembling, and falling down before him declared in the presence of all the people why she had touched him, and how she had been immediately healed. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.” (Luke 8:45-48)
 
There is a different kind of economy going on here from what is standard in the modern world. Fishermen leaving behind the livelihood of their nets. A widow giving everything she has to live on. A chronically sick person touching the cloak Jesus wore, believing that just that simple touch would be enough.
 
So, when I look at today, I have to wonder.
 
When I look at my financial accounts, I have to ask.
 
When I think about my calendar and my busy life, I pause.
 
When I consider the words I say, I take a breath.
 
What is Jesus saying? What can I say to him? What can I say to others about him?
 
What is Jesus saying about my nets and my money and my time, my work, my leisure and my day? Why are there so many “my”s in that question? How do I turn “my” into “his”?
 
What nets do I need to leave behind? How can I give more? How can I better touch his cloak?
 
Am I even listening to his voice today?

Jesus, help me hear your simple imperatives for this day.

Alien Love by Wil Triggs

One not-too-long-ago Fourth of July, I binge-watched the History Channel’s documentary series on The American Revolution. It felt right at the time, so this year, I flipped over to the channel only to find a marathon of shows about UFOs and aliens.
 
What happened to regular old history? Did revisionist history disown the documentary I had watched? How did 1776 get swapped out for the 76th annual UFO Festival in Roswell, New Mexico?
 
And now news of a bipartisan congressional investigation into Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena, promising no more government coverups of whatever.
 
I never watched the "X-Files," but I still remember their tagline, “The truth is out there.”
 
A few days more into July, I was at lunch with a couple friends and one of them asked if we thought UFOs could be for real. The discussion brought to mind years back, when I participated in the contemporary book group at the Wheaton Public Library, and we read Mary Dorria Russell’s The Sparrow. We did not usually get into overt theological discussions, but with this book many of the others said that if another species was discovered from another part of the universe that it would shake or destroy their faith in God. If there are aliens, that means that we are not the center of the created world.
 
But why does that matter so much that people said it would destroy their faith?
 
After all, the Bible has angels and fallen angels, sometimes appearing in the sky. Their existence does not threaten my place in the cosmos.
 
What would Congress and the media and modern science make of a sky suddenly filled with multitudes of the heavenly host singing words we understand: Glory to God in the highest and on earth . . .
 
It’s a far cry from greenish beings with oversized eyes who don’t speak our language. Those angels would never be mistaken for weather balloons or spy satellites. They would completely upend these modern out-of-this-world appearances that have wrought conferences and people devoting their lives to collect and study and develop theories about the universe.
 
Yes, there might be alien life out there, but the most alien of all has already come, and his name is Jesus.
 
What could be more alien in a created world than the Creator who made it to somehow become a part of it. How is that even possible? How does the Maker become the made?
 
Even more alien than that is the Creator submitting to his creation as they brutally murder him.
 
What does it say of his creation that killing him is what they would do?
 
Then, for his death to atone for their wrongdoing?
 
And that he should come back to life, bringing redemption to the fallen created beings.
 
I long for this alien being, for his love that is the opposite of what I know apart from him. I long for him to break through the atmosphere and crash land on barren desert lands. And then I realize that he already has. And the emptiness of my desolate soul can be filled with something altogether new that transforms me into his likeness, as alien as that might be.
 
It’s Christmas in July. Wait. It’s Christmas and Easter in July. It’s so otherworldly that if I didn’t know better, I would think it’s science fiction.
 
I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds; God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God; begotten, not made, being of one substance with the Father, by whom all things were made. Who, for us men and for our salvation, came down from heaven and was incarnate by the Holy Spirit of the Virgin Mary, and was made man; and was crucified also for us under Pontius Pilate; he suffered and was buried; and the third day he rose again, according to the Scriptures; and ascended into heaven, and sits on the right hand of the Father; and he shall come again, with glory, to judge the living and the dead; whose kingdom shall have no end.

Home Away by Lorraine Triggs

My husband’s eye doctor had just returned from London, and the two of them chatted a bit before his annual eye exam. When he asked where they had stayed, the doctor replied that she and her husband stayed in a flat they found on HomeAway, which has moveditshome to Vrbo.

Even though Vrbo doesn’t have quite the same ring as HomeAway, my husband and I like the concept, partly because our must-see site in any city we visit is its grocery store. We don’t want the Food Halls of Harrods or the Great Marketplace of Budapest. We want the Jewel equivalent, because a local grocery store provides clues to everyday life in our home away hometown.

On another visit to the Vrbo homepage, I was soon transfixed with the not-so ordinary hometowns where we could live in the moment—Old Venetian Harbor in Chania, Greece, or Catania, Italy, in a villa at the foot of Mt. Etna (okay, maybe not, with that active volcano thing going on) or the Mayan Riviera in Mexico come mid-February. If I believe Vrbo, my magical HomeAway promises me peace, rest, beauty—all conveniently located.

Convenience is a big selling point on Vrbo just as it is in life. We much prefer the neat and tidy over the messy and out-of-hand be it houses, lawns, people. The smallest detours upset my best laid plans. I want uncomplicated problems and straightforward solutions. What me—suffer?

As Christ-followers, we have an eternal HomeAway and its promises of peace, rest and beauty guaranteed by the One who went ahead to prepare our home for us. The gospel writer John begins chapter 14 with Jesus’ graced words to his disciples, “Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me” (v. one) and then comes the better-than-Vrbo promise that “In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (vv. two-three)

The only thing left out of Jesus’ promise is convenience. Rather, just the opposite is guaranteed in John 16:33: “In the world you will have tribulation.” That’s the middle sentence of the verse, not the entire verse, but it’s where I live now—located next to tribulations and trouble and inconvenience—and combined with that is the tug to escape to my idyllic HomeAway, however fleeting a stay might be.

Then I reread all of Jesus’ in John 16;33. “I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world,” and notice that tribulation sits rather incongruously between peace and take heart. Or perhaps not.

We come from a long line of strangers and exiles seeking a HomeAway, a heavenly one whose designer and builder is God. And all that going about in skins of sheep and goats and being destitute, afflicted and mistreated? (See Hebrews 11.) It would be incongruent if these were absent from Jesus’ peace and loving encouragement to take heart as we make our way home, his own little band who love him, seek him and long to be near him.

"The Master Has Come, and He Calls Us” 
The Master has come, and He calls us to follow
The track of the footprints He leaves on our way;
Far over the mountain and through the deep hollow,
The path leads us on to the mansions of day:
The Master has called us, the children who fear Him,
Who march ‘neath Christ’s banner, His own little band:
We love him and seek Him, we long to be near Him,
And rest in the light of His beautiful land.

So, What About the Dog? by Wil Triggs

The godly care for their animals, but the wicked are always cruel.
Proverbs 12:10 (NLT)
 
Tuesdays Together is this Tuesday night and it’s “bring your pet” night. Mine is coming, but I didn’t always have a pet to bring to anything.
 
I did not grow up with a dog in the house. I liked the idea of a dog but my parents did not want animals. The most I could muster was my brother’s fish aquarium (he was the oldest and bought it himself) or one of those little turtles that years later were reported to harbor disease. I also managed to get my own goldfish by landing a ping pong ball into a little bowl of water at the elementary school carnival. They put the fish in a plastic bag, which I walked home carefully, passing by the other winners whose bags had sprung leaks, goldfish flapping away in the puddles that fell with them from the baggie to the hard and unforgiving concrete. I managed to get mine home alive. Every time there was a school carnival, I always won a goldfish. Every time, the fish died. A few times I would wake up in the morning to discover it floating at the top of the water, no gill action, inert eyes open. I would hope against hope that the fish would revive, but after a few days, my mother “took care of it.” I couldn’t watch, but I knew what that meant—flushing it down the toilet.
 
Over time I accepted that I was not an animal person. A dog was for other people, not me. And when I heard about people struggling with a sick pet or finding care for an animal with an upcoming vacation, or when I saw a pet aggressively licking its owner, or its owner picking up poop from the yard, I felt affirmed. Glad I don’t have to do that. Pets and I were not compatible. This was not for me.
 
My wife grew up with multiple pets in her home. She has stories of the cats Stinky, Ringo and Puff, and Randy the perfect dog. This was a world I did not know. As our son came into the picture, we let him have a hamster and a guinea pig. Cats were not an option because of my allergies. So, the dog was always out there, a sort of holy grail of pet-dom, to which Lorraine and Philip always heard one word from me in response to their pleas: “No.” The certainty of my “no” was something both Lorraine and Philip grew to accept.
 
Until I said yes.
 
How did I go from being a no-dog man to a devoted dad to Sandy and Pongo? It wasn’t that hard really. There was always something, some part of me that wanted a dog, but there were reasons to say no—places to go, things to do, plenty of responsibilities to handle without adding that, but once I did, there was no turning back on this little being looking, licking, depending on me, destroying my shoes but delighted to play with me.
 
Yes, there are responsibilities, vet visits, spills to clean, walks morning and night all year long. But life gets bigger and richer and more fun, too.
 
My whole neighborhood is full of dogs and their owners, each of them as devoted to theirs as I am to mine. Our talking about dogs can sometimes wander over into other areas of life—such as my going to church or working at church or going to Bible study or having a small group over or getting to take my dog to church.
 
When those moments happen, it becomes clear which of these dog-owners is a no-God person.
 
I want my dog friends to somehow become my God friends. Because a creature caring for a creature cannot really compare with a creature being cared for by its Creator. I just know that some of the people I meet on the dog walks are as foreign to a life with God as I used to be about life with a dog or two. I can see it in their eyes or sometimes they say it out loud. I’m not into that. They aren’t God people like I wasn’t a pet person. I know what they’re thinking or more honestly, not thinking at all, until I say something. God is a good thing for some people, but not me. Whatever helps you is great—for you.
 
But a no can become a yes. And things can change.
 
When God comes into my house, I want to be like my dog when I come home. I want to wag my tail, even though I don’t have one. Lick his hand, go for a walk with him, let him feed me, brush my coat, and just sit by me for hours. If I make a mess, and I will, he’s not going to talk about it for weeks on end; I sit away from the place of transgression, he cleans it up and we move on. I forget about it. Back to playing with my orange and blue or lime green ball. I love it when God fills my water bowl. My favorite food is the scraps and crumbs that fall from his table. When the fireworks go off, I run and hide, but he finds me; I can relax when he’s around. He can help me not get ticks, or when I get them, he’ll help me get over them and love me anyway. With practice, I can perform little tricks for him, and he will give me a treat and say something nice about me in a language I can’t exactly understand, but I’m learning. Having him near, knowing that he’s here for me no matter what, well most of the time that’s more than enough, and just about the best there is. It’s a dog’s life for me.
 
The joys and responsibilities of a dog in my life are wonderful, but just a pale shadow of real life connected to the heavenly Father who feeds barn swallows, dresses up lilies of the field, knows the human tendency to anxiousness, and extends the invitation to come, to seek his kingdom first and have everything we need and more.
 
I want that for all my dog friends, too. Somehow, I want to help these neighbor friends discover our loving owner, God: Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

The Quality of Mercy by Lorraine Triggs

My son and his friend were wrestling as ten-year-old boys are prone to do. I paid no mind, until I heard one of them yell, “Mercy!” And the other respond, “Show no mercy!” Were they ever surprised when I interrupted their play with a motherly theological lecture about mercy. Fortunately for the boys, I refrained from quoting William Shakespeare, “The quality of mercy is not strained, so knock it off, guys.”

That familiar line is from Shakespeare’s play, The Merchant of Venice. In his book The Soul in Paraphrase, Leland Ryken notes that this phrase about mercy means that it cannot be forced. In the play’s context, Ryken says, “This speech uttered by Shakespeare's fictional heroine Portia occurs in the famous trial scene in act 4, scene 1, of The Merchant of Venice. The context is that the vengeful Jewish moneylender Shylock has dragged his debtor Antonio into court and is pursuing an attempted murder of him based on a contract that Antonio had signed. Portia, in the guise of a trial lawyer, utters her speech in an attempt to dissuade Shylock from his attempted murder and to persuade him to show mercy instead. Immediately preceding the speech, Shylock had asked scornfully 'on what compulsion' he must show mercy as Portia had claimed in the words 'then must the Jew be merciful.' The opening line of Portia's speech is a reply to that immediate question.”

A few lines later, Portia declares that mercy
“’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.”

I thought of another king when I read these lines, not a Shakespearean king, but the one after God’s own heart, David. In 2 Samuel 12, David got more than a Portia reminding him that the quality of mercy is not strained. He got Nathan, sent by the Lord. After Nathan’s story about the rich man taking the poor man’s one little ewe, David exploded. That man deserves to die—no mercy. Then came Nathan’s stinging pronouncement, “You are the man!” The king’s crown had slipped, and now he was the one who needed mercy. David needed someone greater than himself to show him unrestrained mercy.

He found the One. “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin!” (Psalm 51:1-2) And if David were to forget why he needed God’s abundant mercy, Psalm 51 is attributed to “the choirmaster. A Psalm of David, when Nathan the prophet went to him, after had gone into Bathsheba.”

I don’t have a crown that keeps slipping or a psalm attributed to any of my many sins (a huge mercy in and of itself), but I come to the same One who abounds in mercy and lovingkindness. I come to the God, who proclaimed his name to Abraham as “The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.” And I come to Zechariah’s God, who "gives knowledge of salvation to his people in the forgiveness of their sins, because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (Luke 1:77-79)

I come just as I am.

The boyhood game of "Show no mercy!" showed the human perspective on mercy: don't show it. But for people in power, the showing of mercy is something that makes a person great. Mercy is at the very heart of God. As his children, we are to be people of mercy.

Back to Shakespeare and one more note from Ryken’s selected words. It’s the word “become” that means appropriate or fitting. Portia's point was that mercy is more appropriate or fitting for a ruler than his very crown. Unless, I might add, when the crown is composed of thorns.

Dots, Lines, Circles . . . Eternal Life By Wil Triggs

I like to read book reviews. Sometimes these reviews are more about the writer of the review than they are about the writer of the book being reviewed. Still, if it’s a well-written review, for me at least, it’s worth reading. But most reviews, like most books, don’t stand the test of time.
 
But William Tyndale and Thomas More, back in the 1500s—their words survive.
 
When William Tyndale translated the New Testament into English, it was a struggle. He had to invent new words to express truths for which English, at the time, did not have just the right word he was looking for. So, the translation itself was a challenge. Then, he had to figure out how to get it printed.
 
He journeyed around Germany--Hamburg, Wittenberg, Cologne, Worms. His goal was the whole Bible in English. But the New Testament was his first step. At last, his translation of the New Testament was completed in 1525. Sir Thomas More wrote this in his review: "not worthy to be called Christ's testament, but either Tyndale's own testament or the testament of his master Antichrist."
 
Eleven years later, Tyndale was condemned as a heretic, strangled and burned at the stake.
 
Something or someone got ahold of William Tyndale, and he determined to get the Bible into English and into the hands of English-speaking people. He persevered in his translation and publishing efforts and years after his death, his work became the basis for future English-language Bibles.
 
We may think of England today as a Christian or post-Christian nation, but in Tyndale’s time, it was not a welcome place for the English Bible. Though not a life-threatening project exactly, a man in College Church is persevering in his own way for his own people in a land that is less-than-welcoming to his Christian work.
 
Imagine a boy in a Muslim-majority country waking each morning to the Muslim call to prayer. He sits up and at the same time, hears his father singing Christian psalms in their native tongue. The boy wonders how his father learned such songs, where did they come from?
 
The man is not William Tyndale, but Yousaf Sadiq and the country is not England, but Pakistan. The book is not the Bible, but The Contextualized Psalms: A precious heritage of the global Punjabi Christian community.
 
Over time, Yousaf discovered the prayer songs his father sang were Punjabi-language psalms native to this land and passed down orally from generation to generation. He began to write them down, along with a history of how they came to be. They are a core part of every branch of Christian churches in Pujabi-language worship. Yet cultural shifts mean the preferred language for many is Urdu or English. “Punjabi is my mother-tongue,” Yousaf told me. “As I studied how these psalms came to be, I began to see who I was as both a Christian and a person.”
 
Now, a citizen of the U.S., Yousaf is a member of College Church and on the Board of Missions. And Yousaf’s updated history of the Punjabi psalms and his translation of these psalms are being published in Punjabi this summer. He and his wife, Ruth, are actually traveling to South Asia to meet with the publisher and make different churches and ministries aware of this new book.
 
Both Tyndale and Sadiq worked in the context of persecution to bring word truths to their people. Language mattered to both.
 
Have you ever considered the miracle of written language, what a gift from God is language. How we moved from people without language to where we are today.
 
Think of how little dots and lines and circles arranged in a certain way make up letters and then how those letters arranged in particular orders become words that represent both things and thoughts. We become so accustomed to language that we forget how amazing it is that we can communicate with one another using letters, words, sentences, paragraphs. Words matter more than we realize…Tyndale created new words in his work to bring to life the Bible and the psalms; Yousaf's work can bring a persecuted people together in worship like no other words or writing in his homeland.

Whether it’s Greek, Hebrew, Punjabi, English or another language, words point us toward God or away from him. We have the privilege and ability to use words this day in ways that could cause harm or in ways that God might use to bring people to Christ.
 
We all have words, spoken or written, that we can use to express truth and love. We are all messengers of eternal life. Let's choose our words with great care. Let's not keep the words of life to ourselves but speak them and write them as we can to those around us.

“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.” (John 6:68b-69)

Voice Recognition by Lorraine Triggs

Had my father lived to see this digital age of ours, he would have been hooked just as his daughter is. Now, my mother? Not so much. She relied more on face-to-face than FaceTime for her communication. As a college student, I came to value her reliance on the face-to-face.

We were a one-car family that operated on the principle that if you wanted the car for fun and someone else needed to be somewhere else, then you had to take the other person to wherever and pick her up from the same said place on time and without complaint. That principle explained why, one summer, I woke up every morning at 5:20 to take my mom to work. As part of the facilities crew at our church, her shift started at 5:30 and I was forever thankful for our very local church.

Our routine was simple: pull up in front of the main glass doors of church, a quick I-love-you-have-a-good-day-be-careful goodbye, wait until my mom clocked in and returned to the doors to wave me on my way, leave. I was usually home by 5:40 a.m.

Except for the day my mom was taking longer than usual to come to the doors. I turned the car off and closed my eyes until a bright light shined into the car. It was one of the city’s finest shining his flashlight into the car.

License, please?

Uh. My license? I just rolled out of bed to take my mom to work.

No license? Why are you here?

The conversation went back and forth. I kept glancing at the door, hoping to see my mother waving me on my way. No such luck. Then just as I envisioned my college career coming to a screeching halt, my mom was there at the doors, waving to me.

“Mom,” I shouted. “Tell the policeman who I am.”

Mom opened the door and called out, “What did you say, honey?”

Instantly, both the officer and I relaxed.

Now that my identity had been established, I learned that an alarm had been tripped in the church that sent the police to the scene, at the same time that my mother was calling her supervisor. Think how quickly all this could have been resolved with a simple text to two, but all it took for the police was my mother’s voice responding to my voice.

The gospel writers show us wind and raging waves responding to Jesus’ voice in Luke 8:23-25. They show an unclean spirit, who said his name was Legion, for he was many in Mark 5:1-13. Then there’s Lazarus who responded to Jesus’ loud voice, “Come out” in John 11. So, wind and waves, an unclean spirit, a dead man—all obeyed his voice.

And then there’s Jesus’ followers who question that voice. The disciples who sat in the boat in a calm sea, asked who this Jesus was that “he commands even winds and water and they obey him.” (v. 25). In Mark 5, the people in the region who saw the formerly demon-possessed man in his right mind, begged Jesus to leave the area. And Martha warned Jesus about the odor because her brother had been dead four days. They questioned the voice that wind, waves, demons and death obeyed.

I’m not sure that I  question Jesus’ voice as much as I like to drown it out with competing voices that promise something that poses as abundant life here and now, especially when the here and now is weighted with burdens and cares. When that happens, I need to hear Jesus' voice again, calling me by name, reassuring me that I am a sheep of his pasture. 

In Luke 23:46, Jesus calls out in a loud voice, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!"

There is no other voice. Jesus goes before me. He lays down his life. He promises me abundant life in him alone. His voice brings grace and truth and mercy, finishing the work only he could do. So I join the storm, the spirits and the dead man in hearing and knowing and obeying his voice that gives me strength and courage and grace to face this and every other day he gives.