Bananas in prison

Darlene Deibler Rose was a missionary in Indonesia and was captured and imprisoned by the Japanese during World War II. She writes her story in Evidence Not Seen, a gripping, unforgettable book. Here is one of my favorite stories. Darlene is in a cell that has a window overlooking the courtyard. She looks out to see Margaret Kemp, one of her fellow missionaries, who was also imprisoned.

~ ~ ~ ~

About a week later, at the time of day when the guard herded the women from the front cell block into the courtyard, I decided to check on Margaret Kemp. There she was in my housecoat. I was so pleased that she had it and wished I dared call to her. With her in the graveled courtyard were several native women prisoners. They had been jailed for minor misdemeanors and were allowed to take air and exercise afternoons in the courtyard, whenever it pleased the officer in charge.

The actions of one woman in particular fascinated me. Every time the sentry on duty turned his back to her and marched to the other side of the courtyard, she inched over toward a fence covered with Honolulu Creeper. When the guard clicked his heels, turned about, and began to stroll in her direction, she stopped. There he went, and there she went. "Aha, intrigue. She's going to make contact with someone who's hidden in those vines. Isn't this exciting! Oh, do be careful. With no books to read, I'll watch the drama taking place here before my very eyes!" I empathized with her. I wanted her to succeed, and not to be caught. Finally, reaching the vine-covered fence, the woman stood very still. The guard clicked his heels and went off again. At that moment, I saw a hand shoot through the tangle of vine. It held a big bunch of bananas. Quickly she grabbed the bananas, slipped them into the folds of her sarong, and strolled nonchalantly back to join the other women. Nobody knew she had those bananas. But I did--bananas!

I dropped to the floor of my cell. Exhausted from my efforts, I shook all over. Worse still, I began to crave bananas. Everything in me wanted one. I could see them; I could smell them; I could taste them. I got down on my knees and said, "Lord, I'm not asking you for a whole bunch like that woman has. I just want one banana." I looked up and pleaded, "Lord, just one banana."

Then I began to rationalize--how could God possibly get a banana to me through these prison walls? I would never ask the guard. If he helped me and was discovered, it would mean reprisals. I would certainly never ask a favor of the Interrogator or the Brain. There was more chance of the moon falling out of the sky than of one of them bringing me a banana. Then I ran out of people. These three were the only ones. Of course, there was the old Indonesian night watchman. "Don't let it even enter his thinking to bring me a banana. He'd be shot if caught."

I bowed my head again and prayed, "Lord, there's no one here who could get a banana to me. There's no way for You to do it. Please don't think I'm not thankful for the rice porridge. It's just that--well, those bananas looked so delicious!"

What I needed to do was link my impotence to God's omnipotence, but I couldn't see how God could get a banana to me through these prison walls, even after the knife episode and my healing.

When the Japanese officers from the ships docked in Macassar Harbor visited the prison, great hardships were inflicted upon the prisoners. We were laughed at, scorned, and insulted. When the cells were opened, we were expected to bow low at a perfect ninety-degree angle. If we didn't perform to their satisfaction, we were struck across the back with a cane. These were humiliating and desperate experiences.

The morning after the banana drama, I heard the click of officers' leather heels on the concrete walkway. The thought of getting to my feet and having to execute a bow was onerous, to say the least. My weight had dropped during those months in the converted insane asylum, until now I was skin drawn over bones. One nice thing about my streamlined proportions was that the thinner I got, the longer my dress became, so I had more covering at night. I stretched out my hands often and laughed at my bird's claws. The meager daily meals were not designed for putting on weight. I had been healed, but I needed food for strength. I wondered if I could manage to get to my feet and remain upright, but I was determined that when that door opened, they would find me on my feet.

The officers were almost at the door. I reached up, grabbed the window ledge, and pulled myself upright. "Now, Lord," I prayed, "officers are coming. Give me strength to make a proper bow." I heard the guard slip a key into the door, but he had the wrong one and ran back to the office to get the right key. I dropped to the floor to rest, then came to my feet again when I heard his tennis shoe-shod feet moving quickly down the walkway. My legs were trembling, and I clutched the bars of the window to steady myself. "Lord, please help me to bow correctly."

Finally, the door opened, and I looked into the smiling face of Mr. Yamaji, the Kampili camp commander. This was early July, and it had been so long since I had seen a smiling or a familiar face. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, Tuan Yamaji, seperti lihat sobat jan lama, "Mr. Yamaji, it's just like seeing an old friend!"

Tears filled his eyes. He didn't say a word but turned and walked out into the courtyard and began to talk with the two officers who had conducted my interrogations. At roll call in Kampili, I had had to give certain commands in Japanese, but I had made a deliberate effort to learn as little of the Japanese language as possible. It was better not to know it. I couldn't understand what Yamaji was saying--but he spoke with them for a long time. What had happened to the hauteur and belligerence with which those two always conducted themselves toward me? I could see their heads hanging lower and lower. Perhaps he spoke to them of my work as a missionary, or maybe he shared with them concerning that afternoon in his office after I had learned of Russell's death, when I spoke of Christ, my Savior, Who gives us love for others--even for our enemies, those who use us badly.

Finally, Mr. Yamaji came back to my cell. "You're very ill, aren't you?" he asked sympathetically.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Yamaji, I am."

"I'm going back to the camp now. Have you any word for the women?"

The Lord gave me confidence to answer, "Yes, sir, when you go back, please tell them for me that I'm all right. I'm still trusting the Lord. They'll understand what I mean, and I believe you do."

"All right," he replied; then, turning on his heels, he left.

When Mr. Yamaji and the Kempeitai officers had gone and the guard had closed the door, it hit me--I didn't bow to those men! "Oh Lord," I cried, "why didn't You help me remember? They'll come back and beat me. Lord, please, not back to the hearing room again. Not now, Lord. I can't; I just can't."

I heard the guard coming back and knew he was coming for me. Struggling to my feet, I stood ready to go. He opened the door, walked in, and with a sweeping gesture laid at my feet--bananas! "They're yours," he said, "and they're all from Mr. Yamaji." I sat down in stunned silence and counted them. There were ninety-two bananas!

In all my spiritual experience, I've never known such shame before my Lord. I pushed the bananas into a corner and wept before Him. "Lord, forgive me; I'm so ashamed. I couldn't trust You enough to get even one banana for me. Just look at them--there are almost a hundred."

In the quiet of the shadowed cell, He answered back within my heart: "That's what I delight to do, the exceeding abundant above anything you ask or think." I knew in those moments that nothing is impossible to my God.

After God assured me it was His delight to send me those bananas, my heart was salved, and it took all the character I possessed not to eat all ninety-two in one sitting. After months of meager rations of rice porridge, I knew that to gorge could make me deathly ill, so I portioned out so many bananas per day, saving the greener ones for last. This was God's provision, and strength began to flow into my body. "Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies" (Psalm 23:5).

Late in the afternoon of the day following Yamaji's visit, I heard the Indonesian night watchman paused outside my door. He called softly, Njonja.

"Yes, sir?" I jumped up and put my ear to the door.

Njonja suka pisang gorengkah? "Do you like fried bananas?"

"Oh, yes, I like anything to eat!" I heard him walk away and knew he wasn't risking opening the door. Trembling with excitement, I climbed to the transom above the door and saw him returning. The overhang of the roof concealed from the view of others the fried banana tied in a corn husk dangling gaily from the bayonet atop his gun. Imperceptibly he shortened his steps as he passed my cell to allow me to reach out through the transom and grab the gift. Murmuring my sincere thanks, I jumped to the floor and promptly dispatched it with relish. Did Mr. Yamaji's act of kindness embolden the night watchman, or was it pity for me that prompted the gift? Perhaps both.

~ ~ ~ ~

From Evidence Not Seen: A Woman's Miraculous Faith in the Jungles of World War II by Darlene Deibler Rose, chapter 8.

Nothing Too Precious

Here's another gem from Hudson Taylor's biography.

It was in Mr. Frost's home town of Attica the incident had taken place, at one of the first farewell meetings [for missionaries leaving for China]. The father of a dear girl in the party, Miss Susie Parker, had come over from Pittsfield, Mass., and was sitting near the platform. Seeing a wonderful light on his face, Mr. [Hudson] Taylor invited him to say a few words.

"He told us with a father's feelings," Mr. Taylor loved to recall, "what his daughter had been in the home, to him and to her mother; what she had been in the mission-hall in which he worked, and something of what it meant to part with her now.

"'But I could only feel,' he said, 'that I have nothing too precious for my Lord Jesus. He has asked for my very best; and I give, with all my heart, my very best to Him.' 

"That sentence was the richest thing I got in America, and has been an untold blessing to me ever since. Sometimes when pressed with correspondence the hour has come for united prayer, and the thought has arisen, ought I not to go on with this or that matter? Then it has come back to me--'Nothing too precious for my Lord Jesus.' The correspondence has been left to be cared for afterwards, and one has had the joy of fellowship unhindered. Sometimes waking in the morning, very weary, the hour has come for hallowed communion with the Lord alone; and there is no time like the early morning for getting the harp in tune for the music of the day. Then it has come again--'Nothing too precious for my Lord Jesus,' and one has risen to find that there is no being tired with Him. That thought also has been a real help to me when leaving my loved ones in England: indeed, I could never tell how many hundreds of times God has given me a blessing through those words." 

--Hudson Taylor and the China Inland Mission: Volume II: The Growth of a Work of God by Dr. & Mrs. Howard Taylor, p. 454-455

Oh how He loves you

Today I arrived in the Denver airport quite a few hours before my flight departed. I sat with one of my fellow Ellerslie students who was also going home until her flight left, and then I meandered towards my gate.

I was passing by a booth where a woman was trying to get people to sign up for the airline's credit card, and I heard her trying to attract people's notice.

"Sir, what airline are you flying today?" Her voice was strident, whining.

"Would you like to get a free flight?" It sounded like she was working as hard as she could to hide the fact that she desperately hated her job.

People brushed past her, hurrying here and there to their flights, and I myself scooted around the long way so she wouldn't have a chance to catch me.

Then the Lord spoke to my heart.

"Why don't you speak to that woman?"

I froze. "What?"

"Go up and speak to her."

My mind started racing. What would I do?

I was riding one of those conveyor belts they have in airports, going away from her. God asked me, "Do you love her enough to turn around and go back to her?" Then He gave me this supernatural love welling up inside me for her, and when I got to the end of the moving walkway, I turned around and rode the belt back.

She was speaking with a customer. Was that a good enough excuse for me to give up the idea? God asked me, "Do you love her enough to wait for her to finish with this person?" Then He gave me an extra dose of love for her, welling up inside me and loving her with Jesus's love. I sat against a wall, praying for her, and praying for the strength to go up and speak to her, and God gave it to me. I didn't really know what I would say.

First I let her give me the plug for the credit card. I listened. Then I said, "Actually, I came over here because I wanted to talk to you."

She looked shocked.

"I understand if you're working, and if you're busy and can't talk, I'll go away. But I noticed how hard you were working, and..."

I was floundering. I didn't know where I was going. Her face manifested great curiosity of what this odd person was going to say to her. I saw that she was intrigued, listening, and it gave me courage to go on.

"...I was just wondering if you knew about Jesus."

Her face hardened. She gave a curt "Yes."

"And do you love Him?" I asked. All the love inside me wanted to gush all over her.

Her face grew harder still. "I'm...okay with him."

"And do you know that He loves you?" I said. I hoped that she would sense God's love as it poured through me to her.

"Yes," she said, coldly.

"Listen," she continued, "Why don't you hit up my coworker over there?"

"Do you think she would be more interested?" I asked in a soft voice.

"Who knows?" she said. The hardness in her eyes glittered with deep-buried hurts. "Maybe."

"Well, I'll just leave you with that thought," I said wistfully.

She gave a brief nod and turned away. Hard lines remained in the set of her jaw. The conversation was over.

I walked down the hallway of the airport concourse, filled with a sense of having obeyed and left the results up to God. That was all I had to do, I realized.

And then God shared with me a little piece of His heart.

His love for that woman filled up my heart and overflowed into tears. She won't receive His love, and His heart weeps for her. He shared with me His tears. He offered me a glimpse of His Father-heart that loves and loves and loves her. He found a willing servant in the airport and sent her to that woman today because He loves her. She rejected that love. She pulled back from it. She closed herself off to it. And His Father-heart weeps, groans, laments, because this woman is precious to Him and she is cold and unresponsive to His call. Today I cried Jesus's tears.

How could I cry for a complete stranger? How could I care about a woman with an annoying voice, selling a credit card I don't want?  How could it be that the tears are running down my cheeks even now at the remembrance of the story?

Because when God finds a willing servant, sometimes he shares His heart. He gives us just a tiny little dose of what His Father-heart feels when one of His children departs far from Him. We feel what He feels. And this burden sends us to prayer.

The Orange Pickers

Parable of the Orange Tree
by Dr. John White

I dreamed I drove on a Florida road, still and straight and empty. On either side were groves of orange trees, so that as I turned to look at them from time to time, line after line of trees stretched back endlessly from the road—their boughs heavy with round yellow fruit. This was harvest time. My wonder grew as the miles slipped by. How could the harvest be gathered?

Suddenly I realized that for all the hours I had driven (and this was how I knew I must be dreaming) I had seen no other person. The groves were empty of people. No other car had passed me. No houses were to be seen beside the highway. I was alone in a forest of orange trees.

But at last I saw some orange pickers far from the highway, almost on the horizon, lost in the vast wilderness of unpicked fruit. I could discern a tiny group of them working steadily. I could not be sure, but I suspected that the earth beneath me was shaking with silent laughter at the hopelessness of their task. Yet the pickers went on picking.

The sun had long passed its zenith, and the shadows were lengthening when, without any warning, I saw, as I turned a corner of the road, a notice: “Leaving NEGLECTED COUNTY—Entering HOME COUNTY.” The contrast was so startling that I scarcely had time to take in the notice. I had to slow down, for all at once the traffic was heavy. People by the thousands swarmed the road and crowded the sidewalks.

Even more startling was the transformation in the orange groves. Orange groves were still there, and orange trees in abundance, but now, far from being silent and empty, they were filled with the laughter and singing of multitudes of people. Indeed it was the people we noticed rather than the trees. People—and houses.

I parked the car at the roadside and mingled with the crowd. Smart gowns, neat shoes, showy hats, expensive suits and starched shirts made me a little conscious of my work clothes. Everyone seemed so fresh, and poised, and happy.

“Is it a holiday?” I asked a well-dressed woman with whom I fell in step.

She looked a little startled for a moment, and then her face relaxed with a smile of gracious condescension.

“You’re a stranger, aren’t you?” she said, and before I could reply, “This is Orange Day.”

She must have seen a puzzled look on my face, for she went on, “It is so good to turn aside from one’s labors and pick oranges one day of the week.”

“But don’t you pick oranges every day?” I asked her.

“One may pick oranges at any time,” she said. “We should always be ready to pick oranges, but Orange Day is the day that we devote especially to orange picking.”

I left her and made my way further into the trees. Almost everyone was carrying a book bound beautifully in leather, and edged and lettered in gold. I was able to discern on the edge of one of them the words, “Orange Picker’s Manual.”

By and by I noticed around one of the orange trees seats had been arranged, rising upward in tiers from the ground. The seats were almost full—but as I approached the group, a smiling well-dressed gentleman shook my hand and conducted me to a seat.

I could see a number of people there around the foot of the orange tree. One of them was addressing all the people on the seats; and, just as I got to my seat, everyone rose to his feet and began to sing. The man next to me shared with me his song book. It was called “Songs of the Orange Groves.”

They sang for some time, and the song leader waved his arms with a strange and frenzied abandon, and, in the intervals between the songs, exhorted the people to sing more loudly.

I grew steadily more puzzled.

“When do we start to pick oranges?” I asked the man who had loaned me his book.

“It’s not long now,” he told me. “We like to get everyone warmed up first. Besides, we want to make the oranges feel at home.” I thought he was joking—but his face was serious.

After a while a rather fat man took over from the song leader, and after reading two sentences from his well-thumbed copy of the Orange Picker’s Manual, began to make a speech. I wasn’t clear whether he was addressing the people or the oranges.

I glanced behind me and saw a number of groups of people similar to our own group gathering around an occasional tree and being addressed by other fat men. Some of the trees had no one around them.

“Which trees do we pick from?” I asked the man beside me. He did not seem to understand, so I pointed to the trees round about. “This is our tree,” he said, pointing to the one we were gathered around.

“But there are too many of us to pick from just one tree,” I protested. Why, there are more people than oranges!”

“But WE don’t pick oranges,” the man explained. “We haven’t been called. That’s the Pastor Orange Picker’s job. We’re here to support him. Besides, we haven’t been to college. You need to know how an orange thinks before you can pick it successfully—orange psychology, you know. Most of these folk here,” he went on, pointing to the congregation, “have never been to Manual School.”

“Manual school?” I whispered. “What’s that”? “It’s where they go to study the Orange Picker’s Manual,” my informant went on. “It’s very hard to understand. You need years of study before it makes sense.”

“I see,” I murmured. “I had no idea that picking oranges was so difficult.”

The fat man at the front was still making his speech. His face was red, and he appeared to be indignant about something. So far as I could see there was rivalry with some of the other “orange-picking” groups. But a moment later a glow came on his face.

“But we are not forsaken,” he said. “We have much to be thankful for. Last week we saw THREE ORANGES BROUGHT INTO OUR BASKETS, and we are now completely debt-free from the money we owed on the new cushion covers that grace the seats you now sit on.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” the man next to me murmured. I made no reply. I felt that something must be profoundly wrong somewhere. All this seemed to be a very round-about way of picking oranges.

The fat man was reaching a climax in his speech. The atmosphere seemed tense. Then, with a very dramatic gesture, he reached two of the oranges, plucked them from the branch, and placed them in the basket at his feet. The applause was deafening.

“Do we start picking now?” I asked my informant.

“What in the world do you think we’re doing?” he hissed. “What do you suppose this tremendous effort has been made for? There’s more orange-picking talent in this group than in the rest of Home County. Thousands of dollars have been spent on the tree you’re looking at.

I apologized quickly. “I wasn’t being critical,” I said. “And I’m sure the fat man must be a very good orange picker—but surely the rest of us could try. After all, there are so many oranges that need picking. We’ve all got a pair of hands, and we could read the Manual.”

“When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you’ll realize that it’s not as simple as that,” he replied. “There isn’t time, for one thing. We have our work to do, our families to care for, and our homes to look after. We…”

But I wasn’t listening. Light was beginning to break on me. Whatever these people were, they were not orange pickers. Orange picking was just a form of entertainment for their weekends.

I tried one or two more of the groups around the trees. Not all of them had such high academic standards for orange pickers. Some held classes on orange picking. I tried to tell them of the trees I had seen in Neglected County, but they seemed to have little interest.

“We haven’t picked all the oranges here yet,” was their usual reply.

The sun was almost setting in my dream. Growing tired of the noise and activity all around me, I got into the car and began to drive back along the road I had come. Soon all around me again were the vast and empty orange groves.

But there were changes. Something had happened in my absence. Everywhere, the ground was littered with fallen fruit. And as I watched, it seemed that before my eyes the trees began to rain oranges. Many of them lay rotting on the ground.

I felt there was something so strange about it all, and my bewilderment grew as I thought of all the people in Home County. Then, booming through the trees, there came a voice which said, “The harvest truly is great, but the laborers are few: pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth laborers into his harvest.”

“Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me. And he said, “Go…”

And I awakened—for it was only a dream!

Helen Ewan

She Was Only 22

The Story of Helen Ewan of Scotland: A Fragrant Dynamic Life

by James Alexander Stewart

Introduction

In one sense, Helen Ewan was an ordinary, common Christian, and in another, she was an extraordinary one. Her brief Christian life of eight years was filled with the fragrance and glory of God. It was filled with blessings to both saint and sinner. Today, many years after her translation, thousands still are being inspired and challenged through her life.

Some of my friends who also knew Helen believe that the story of her life is too sacred to reveal publicly, but I have felt the continuous urge of the Spirit to pass on the message of her life to a cold church and unbelieving world. I feel a great responsibility, as I suppose I knew her better than anyone apart from her father and mother, through our adventures in soul-winning together in the industrial city of Glasgow.

Although we were the same age, Helen was my friend only in a spiritual sense. What an inspiration she was to me! Her whole being was poured out in rich devotion to the Christ Who had redeemed her.

Yours in Calvary’s bonds,

James Alexander Stewart

March 1966

Asheville, N.C.

U.S.A.

While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal. 2 Cor. 4:18.

For we preach not ourselves, but Christ Jesus the Lord; and ourselves your servants for Jesus’ sake. For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us. 2 Cor. 4:5-7

At the same time that I was saved during a mighty movement of God in my city of Glasgow, a girl about the same age was also saved. Her name was Helen Ewan. She was just a slip of a girl, but at the very threshold of her new life in Christ, she crowned Him as absolute Lord and was thus filled with the Holy Spirit. She had accepted the invitation of her Lord to “drink abundantly.”

In the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried, saying, If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink. He that believeth on Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his innermost being shall flow rivers of living water. (But this spake He of the Spirit which they that believe on Him should receive.) John 7:37-39a

The torrents of living water simply began to flow from Helen’s life.

Helen Ewan was born around 1910 into an ordinary working-class family. She was the only child. Both of her parents loved Christ supremely. The blessed Son of God was the center around which the whole household revolved. They lived for only one thing and that was to please God in every detail of their lives. Three well-marked Bibles were always conspicuous in their living room when I visited them.

After her conversion at the age of fourteen, Helen’s whole personality was radiant with the glory of the Lord. God, in His sovereign grace, had shone into her darkened soul in order that through this ordinary “earthenware container” might be manifested the surpassing majesty of the power of the gospel.

This manifestation of His glory astonished us all. Hers was only a common life, but it was lit up with the glory of God. I often wondered how she could stand so much glory in her fragile earthenware container.

Being full of the Holy Spirit, she was full of Christ. As she studied the Word of God, under the illuminating guidance of the Holy Spirit, He took of the treasures of the Lord Jesus and revealed them unto her (John 16:14-15). This made her heart dance for joy. Many times she would stop Christians on the street and, with radiant face, tell of some choice portion of Scripture where she had found some new picture of her blessed Redeemer. These friends often left her presence weeping. They said, “We have seen Jesus; we have looked into His glorious face.” The awe of God remained upon their souls throughout the remainder of the day. Like Spurgeon, she was at her very best when she told us of her Lord. It was at such times she stood out as a solitary figure, so far removed from the rest of us. She knew the Lord in such a deep intimate way.

Many testified that just her passing smile, or her cheery, “Good day. God bless you,” was an uplifting tonic to them the rest of the day.

In her prayer life, Helen was such an example to us all. She arose each morning around five o’clock to commune with her Lord. She would not put on the heat in her cold little room or seek to make herself comfortable in any way, feeling she could be more alert in the cold. And besides, those for whom she would be praying in foreign lands were not sitting in comfort.

She would begin her communion with praise and worship. She then read the Word to warm her heart. She remembered the words of her fellow Scot, R. Murray McCheyne, “It is the look that saves, but it is the gaze that sanctifies.” Helen gazed with rapture into the face of her Lord. I could mention to you the expressions of adoration which she wrote down in her diary after such times with her Lord. They are too sacred for publication.

After fellowship and communion, followed her ministry of intercession for her friends and family, for her assembly, for hundreds of missionaries on the foreign fields. Then came her prayer ministry for the unsaved. She had a list of unsaved persons to whom she had testified and for whom she prayed daily until they were born again. Her yearnings after the salvation of the lost were awful to behold. The reason God gave her so many souls among rich and poor, young and old, illiterate and intelligent, was that she agonized for them in earnest intercession inside the vail. There was nothing vague or general about her pleas. After her “translation,” her mother kindly allowed me to go over her diaries and there I saw that the petitions expressed in them were strong and definite. She gave the date when she began to pray for a person and then the date when the prayer was answered. These diaries revealed a prayer life that moved God and man. No wonder that when God promoted her to Glory at the age of twenty-two, many wept throughout Scotland, and missionaries in far-off lands felt they had lost their greatest prayer warrior.

Not only at the early morning hour did Helen commit to her Lord the whole of the new day with all that it entailed, but all through the day she sought His guidance in matters small and great. It was no small thing for her to shop for some personal piece of clothing and she might be seen to pause in front of a store to seek His guidance before going in for a piece of ribbon! She must please Him in all things and she would not be led by the traditions of men. That no doubt explains the remark of her friends that “Helen was always dressed right.”

Helen’s seeking after lost souls also put us all to shame. Here again she seemed to rise head and shoulders above us all, even among tens of thousands of believers in our great city at that time. I have been out on the streets of Glasgow near midnight with my tract and gospel textboards on many occasions when I would see Helen busy in her own method of personal soul-winning. I have seen her on a cold Scottish winter’s evening with her arms around a poor drunken prostitute, telling her of Jesus and His love. On other occasions she would be dealing with drunken men, seeking to lead them to her Saviour.

In the evangelistic meetings she was always on the alert for lost souls. Sitting near the rear of the building, she would see a woman sitting alone, sorrow written on her face and weariness in her eyes. Under the guidance of the Spirit, Helen would slip over and sit beside her, praying inwardly during the whole of the service. When the lady arose to leave, Helen would leave with her, talking about the message and encouraging the lady to unburden her heart. In this way, more than one soul who was burdened with the cares of this life and bowed down with the weight of sin and despair was led to know the Saviour as Helen pointed her to the Lamb of God under the lamp post or while waiting at the street-car shop.

When finally she entered the University of Glasgow, she used to walk several miles from her home to the varsity each day so that she could distribute tracts along the way. At the same time, she could save the streetcar fare and give it to the missionary cause. Needless to say, she had the joy of leading many students to Christ on the campus.

Robert Murray McCheyne used to seal his letters with a sketch of the sun going down behind the mountains and with a motto over it, “THE NIGHT COMETH.” It was this same feeling of urgency that drew Helen on.

Like Murray McCheyne and Samuel Rutherford, Helen carried the fragrance of Christ with her, and like William C. Burns, she manifested the power of the Spirit. Her body was a walking temple of the Holy Spirit. Thus, wherever she went the power of God was manifested. When she entered into any service, immediately the atmosphere was charged with His power. I have known her to slip quietly into a prayer meeting which had already begun and set on the back seat; yet, every one of us knew that she had arrived because of the mighty sense of the presence of God manifested in our midst.

Evangelists often sought after her service. It was not that she could sing or speak in public. I do not think she ever sang a solo or gave a public testimony in any of their campaigns. All she did was sit quietly in the meetings and pray. Yet, these evangelists knew that if they could only have Helen attend their services, there would be sure to be a mighty anointing upon the meeting! Some leading evangelists have told me that she was the most remarkable person they ever knew in this way. One outstanding English evangelist, when an aged warrior, testified that possibly the greatest campaign he ever conducted was one in which Helen was able to attend every service for two weeks while she was on her vacation.

I was talking one day with two professors from the University of London. They were believers. We were talking about dynamic Christianity when one of them suddenly said, “Brother Stewart, I want to tell you a story.” Then he went on to tell of a remarkable young lady on the campus of the Glasgow University when he was lecturing there. Wherever she went on the campus, he said, the fragrance of Christ followed her. For example, a group of unconverted students would be jesting and telling dirty stories when someone would suddenly say, “Shhhhh! Shhh! Here she comes! Quiet!” and this young lady would walk by, unconsciously leaving the power and the awe of the presence of God behind her. He said that in the University prayer meetings they could always tell if this young student was present whether she prayed or not, or they could tell when she entered the room without hearing or seeing her; they sensed the presence of God in their midst.

I said, Sir, that could be only one person, that was Helen Ewan!”

“Yes,” he answered, “that was her name. She was a remarkable soulwinner.”

Another feature of Helen’s life was her deep appetite for the Word of God and a deep spiritual penetration into Divine truth. She did not just leaf through her Bible for palatable portions which suited her fancy at the moment; she studied the whole Book from Genesis to Revelation. Thus she became a deeply intelligent child of God, even at the age of sixteen and seventeen. Her feet were firmly placed on the solid rock of the Holy Scriptures. Even when she was a hard-working student in her secular studies in the University, seeking to make good grades for His glory, she still gave time for Bible study and meditation. This made her a well-balanced Christian, though there was no time or place in her life for idle gossip or foolish talk. She bubbled over with clean humor and a zest for life, and yet, because Christ filled the whole of her horizon, she sought to magnify Him through a holy life and sacrificial service.

Every growing girl has her own heroes and heroines. Helen was no different. Her favorite character was one of the Wigtown martyrs of the Covenanting days in Scotland, Margaret Wilson. 

It was of such rugged stock as this that Helen Ewan came. She might not be asked to die for her Redeemer as was Margaret Wilson, but by His grace she would live for Him each moment of every day.

At the University Helen was preparing herself for missionary service among the Russian people of Eastern Europe where I, myself, was later to labor. Already she was learning the Russian language in preparation for her life’s ministry. But God, in His wisdom and love, called her Home at the age of twenty-two.

She had been spending her vacation with an aunt in the kingdom of Fife, and while there, was continually about her Master’s business. She was taken ill suddenly and as suddenly was called Home. It was so unexpected that it shocked us all. I was laboring at the time in an evangelistic campaign in a city in northern England. When the news reached me of Helen’s Home-going, I was stunned. I could neither eat nor sleep. So great was my grief that the people were amazed to learn that this young lady from my city was no more to me than a spiritual friend and companion; not my fiancé. “How is it possible,” they asked, “that a young man could be so broken down over the loss of anyone, especially only a friend?”

I was not alone in my sorrow. Thousands wept throughout Scotland and Great Britain. Many sought to express something of the blessing this life had meant to them. For instance, at one memorial service, a Christian leader stood and told the audience of how Helen’s spirituality had so deeply affected him. “I was old enough to be her father,” he said. “I had known the Lord many years longer than she had known Him, but still she seemed so far ahead of me spiritually.”

On far-off mission stations, British missionaries grieved at the news. Alas, who would bear them up so faithfully at the Throne of Grace now? Who would step into this gap and take her place?

Even many years later when I would be again in Glasgow, one of the most thrilling experiences was to be with a group of Christian friends who would be sharing with each other something of what this dedicated, radiant life had meant to us personally. The very mention of her name had a charm; an irresistible force that drove one to his knees to cry out, “Oh, God, raise up others like Helen Ewan. Oh, God, make even me a better man for Thy glory!”

Some time later, when I had a few days free from my evangelistic meetings, I visited the cemetery where Helen had been laid to rest, in order to once again give God thanks for such a life. There I knelt before God and laid myself anew upon His altar, pleading that the fire of God would fall on even me.

One of the grave diggers to whom I spoke could not at first recall anyone having buried there such as I described to him.

“You must remember that we are burying large numbers of people here; this is a public cemetery,” he explained.

As I went on speaking, however, this strong, sturdy laborer became deeply moved. “Yes, I remember now,” he said. “When we were burying that body, I felt the presence of God all over this place!”

Now, dear reader, what is the explanation of such a life? How could a young lady, still pursuing her studies, never having preached a sermon or sung a solo, never having traveled more than two hundred miles away from her home; how could her life so affect people in all parts of the world that they felt a mighty general had fallen? The Word of God says, “One of you shall chase a thousand; two shall put ten-thousand to flight.” Helen Ewan’s life had been worth more than a thousand ordinary Christians to the Church. And the story of her life, translated into many different languages, has continued to bless many today. What, I say, is the explanation? There is only one explanation: SHE WAS FILLED WITH THE HOLY SPIRIT.

Helen, who was an ordinary young woman, became extraordinary simply because she surrendered all to Christ and appropriated for herself all that was hers in Him. She, with unveiled face, took time to receive, and thus reflected, the glory of the Lord as she passed from one degree of glory to another.

We all mirror the glory of the Lord in some degree, but if we are to perfectly mirror His glory, there are three things that must be true of us:

1. The mirror must be clean. A dirty mirror does not give a true reflection.

2. The mirror must be kept clean. In Bible days, when mirrors were made of polished metal, they had to be kept polished to be of any use. And the mirror of your life must be kept clean and polished if it is to perfectly and consistently reflect the glory of the Lord.

3. The mirror must be in place; it must face the object to be reflected. You must have both eyes on Christ, the whole life looking unto Him, if you would reflect His glory.

May you, dear reader, be so fully surrendered to your Lord that you will, like Helen Ewan, fully reflect the glory of the Lord. Let this be your prayer, with Francis Ridley Havergal:

In full and glad surrender
I give myself to thee,

Thine utterly and only

And evermore to be

O Son of God who love’st me

I will be Thine alone;

And all I have, and all I can,

Shall henceforth be Thine own.

Reign over me, Lord Jesus!

O make my heart Thy throne

It shall be Thine, dear Saviour,

It shall be Thine alone.

Oh! come and reign, Lord Jesus;

Rule over everything!

And keep me always loyal,

And true to Thee, my King!

Margaret Wilson

Story of one of the Wigtown martyrs of the Covenanting days in Scotland, Margaret Wilson. 

from a pamphlet entitled "She Was Only 22" by James Alexander Stewart, about the life of Helen Ewan.

Margaret was seventeen when she laid down her life for Christ on the 11^th day of May, 1685, in Wigtown, not very far from the little town of Anwoth where Samuel Rutherford spent the early years of his ministry. She was the daughter of Gilbert Wilson, a farmer in Glenvernock. The Wilson family unitedly carried on a guerilla warfare constantly against the enemies of the Gospel of their time. They hid and cared for the Covenanting preachers and sought every opportunity to magnify their Lord.

In February of 1685, Margaret ventured to creep forth from her hiding place and steal down to her home because of hunger and cold. She was soon discovered by the enemy and locked up in prison-in the “Thieves’ Hole” where the worst malefactors were her associates. For six or seven weeks she lay in this dismal place. Then she was taken out and placed in another prison where constantly, day and night, she was asked to deny her faith. She steadfastly refused.

An elderly widow, Margaret Lachlison, and she, along with Margaret’s young sister Agnes, aged thirteen, were sentenced to be “flogged through the streets of Wigtown by the public hangman, and thereafter be put for three days in the jougs.” Gilbert Wilson paid the sum of one hundred pounds sterling for the release of Agnes, who was then absolved of her dreadful sentence. But Margaret was old enough to know her own mind and would stand or fall according to her own decision.

The townsfolk were all afoot on that fateful day of May 11^th, 1685. Until now, the enemies of the Gospel in Scotland had been put to death by burning at the stake. Now, for the first time, they planned to use water. This was to frighten the prisoners and deter the people from taking like stands for the hated truth.

There was near the town of Wigtown a little stream called Bladnoch. The course of this stream has long been changed, but in the year 1685 the channel it had cut for itself was close beside the foot of the hill on which Wigtown stands, and the coasting sloops could sail almost to the place where the church and the graveyard were—and are today. At low water, the Solway recedes for miles, and it is over the naked sands that the Bladnoch trickles to its goal. But when the tide returns, it rushes rapidly up the river’s path and by and by overflows the banks on both sides.

That dreadful morning, two stakes had been driven in the sands within the channel of the stream while the tide was out; one farther up than the other, but both comparatively near the town. To the stake farther out they fastened Margaret Lachlison, the widow, seeking to intimidate the younger girl who was tied to the stake near the shore. The tide was as yet far out. The people stood waiting, prepared to rescue the two women at the first sign of their relenting.

Then the tide came rushing in. The people retreated up the banks for safety. The water was already lapping about the face of Margaret Lachlison, who was struggling silently. “What think ye of your companion now?” cried some brutal official to Margaret Wilson, who felt the cold waves about her waist.

“What do I see but Christ wrestling out yonder? Think ye that we are the sufferers? No! It is Christ in us.”

Then the girl sang part of the twenty-fifth Psalm, and opening her Bible, read the eighth chapter of the Epistle to the Romans. We can imagine with what pathos she read the closing words of that chapter:

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
 As it is written, For Thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter. Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us. For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Finally, she prayed. The water began to lap over her face. Her tormentors began to plead for her to recant. The following dialogue took place:

“Margaret, ye are young. If ye’ll pray for the king, we will give you your life.”

“I’ll pray for salvation to all, but damnation to none,” she replied.

They dashed her under the water and pulled her up again. People looked on and said, “Oh, Margaret, will ye say it?”

“Lord, give him repentance and forgiveness in salvation,” she prayed.

“We do not want your prayers,” cried the enemy cursing her bitterly. “Just take the oath.”

“No sinful oath for me,” she answered.

When Margaret was released for that moment to swear the oath, the heartbroken people cried out to Major Wiram, “She has said it! She has said it!”

But to Major Wiram the brave girl gave a flat refusal.

“I will not. I am one of Christ’s children.”

They placed her on the stake again and the waters of the Solway rolled over her head. Margaret was instantly in the presence of her Lord.

Mama Judy

Mama Judy lives in Uganda.

Grace, one of the Ellerslie staff, met her on a mission trip to an orphanage in Uganda where Mama Judy works. She told her story in a devotional message this week.

"Mama Judy was the most full-of-Jesus person I had ever seen," Grace told us. "She always gave 100% of her love and affection to the kids at the orphanage. She found that I was leaving with only two days notice, and she stayed up all night weaving a basket for me, just because she hadn't made me anything yet.

"This is a woman who walks two hours each way to work. She leaves her children at home to work all day, because it's the only way she can make ends meet. She has five children of her own, but after her sister died, she took in all of her children and cares for them as well. When Mama Judy was pregnant with her 5th child, her own husband died. Now, she is the only provider for her household. She works at night to do the housework, cooking, cleaning, and laundry for her family, and she works at the orphanage during the day."

How can she keep up this schedule? How can she stay cheerful? How can she keep giving of herself every moment of every day?

Grace asked her these questions, and she answered, "I can keep going because God is good. I read His word and I believe it is true. I walk with Jesus. He is my strength."

How many of us have half the difficulty and pressure of Mama Judy, yet we have not yet found the blessing and power of God?

God is not small.

He is big enough to sustain you.

Trust Him.

The Piping Turkey

Bruce Olson was a missionary to the Motilone tribe in Colombia and recounts an experience during a Motilone hunting expedition: 

"Our intrusion into the jungle that day brought the usual reaction from assorted birds and monkeys, but as we quietly slipped through the dense undergrowth, I noticed a sudden escalation in the volume and intensity of the cacophony. Thousands of katydids joined the animal squawks and screeches, raising the noise level to the point where our human voices were drowned out. I had never heard anything like it. 

"Astonished, I shouted to the Motilone ahead of me on the trail, "Listen to that! Isn't it incredible?"

"He nodded. "Yes," he called back. "We heard it, too. It's a piping turkey." 

"His remark stopped me in my tracks. A piping turkey? All I had heard was chaotic, ear-shattering racket! How could anyone notice the voice of one lone turkey in the midst of this din?

"My companions saw my confusion and signaled me to stop and listen. It was several minutes before I began to pick out which sounds were which--animals, birds, insects, humans. Then, slowly, the separate voices became more distinct. Finally, after more patient listening, I heard it. Behind the hue and cry of the jungle, behind the voices of my companions, behind the quiet sound of my own breathing, was the haunting, reedy voice of the piping turkey, calling out as if it were inside a hollow tube. 

"It was a poignant moment for me. I wondered what else I'd missed--not only in the jungle, but also in my own spiritual life. How much had I overlooked when I'd failed to patiently tune in to God's subtle voice in the midst of life's chaos and stresses? 

"In the years that followed, the piping turkey often came to mind when I struggled to discern God's voice and sense His quiet presence during perplexing or discouraging situations. Over time, I developed the patience to see and hear God in the subscripts of life. And I learned from experience that even when I couldn't sense what He was doing, I could trust that He was always there, always working out His sovereign will, even when I was too overwhelmed by the "noise" to notice or appreciate His complex orchestrations." 

--From Bruchko and the Motilone Miracle by Bruce Olson with James Lund, chapter 11.

~~~~~~

Are you unable to hear God's voice? Are you unable to feel close to Him? Does the Bible seem to bounce off of your consciousness without penetrating? 

Maybe, like in the Motilone jungle, the volume and intensity of your life has suddenly increased. 

Here at Ellerslie, I have seen the value of cutting out distractions in order to be able to more easily detect and listen to God. 

God is worth listening to! His voice is worth hearing! What He wants with my life is worth knowing.

So here's a suggestion. Stop and listen. It doesn't have to be forever, but stop long enough to actually hear what God is saying. 

Turn the volume down. 

Try a week with no headphones, no music, no ipod, no apps, no games, no TV, no movies, no internet, and none of the other optional activities that you can cut out. 

While you're enjoying the silence, just listen. Listen hard. Listen like you're trying to pick out the piping turkey from the cacophony of the jungle sounds. Listen for God's voice. Pick up His word and read it hungrily. Read it to obey. Read it and let it sink deep into your soul. 

You might be surprised to find you can actually hear.

Diligence

Proverbs 22:29

"Seest thou a man diligent in his business? 

he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men."

Do you see anything special about this picture? 

How about this one?

"Uh... it's just a little narrow stream," you might be thinking.

Yes, but it's no ordinary stream. This is an irrigation ditch, built in the late 1800s by a man named Benjamin Harrison Eaton. This ditch is 4 miles long, and it brought irrigation to his land, which was right here where I walk every day.

Can you imagine building a 4-mile-long ditch?

Consider the diligence that would take. It takes me an hour just to walk the distance of 4 miles. How long would it take to dig this out? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? I have no idea. Somehow, Mr. Eaton was able to construct this ditch while also farming during the summer and teaching school during the winter. How do you do something like that? Just farming alone is a full-time occupation. He had 25,000 acres of land! How in the world could one guy farm all that, let alone find time to dig a ditch in his spare time?

Ditch digging is hot, sweaty, demeaning work. Not many people like to do it. We classify "ditch digger" as the epitome of lowly work, akin to slave labor.

But Eaton didn't see it like that. He had a vision. He saw the benefit to his land from the irrigation that he was preparing. He looked down the road and saw what a great reward he would reap from the investment of his time and effort. So he approached the task with diligence and accomplished it.

A short biography from the Colorado State Archives website reveals that Eaton had more than his fair share of trouble and hardship. His wife died in childbirth just one year after they were married. He was unsuccessful in an attempt to find gold. He roamed over the west and fought in the Civil War. But none of these things daunted him.

So we find him in 1866, buying this farm and digging this ditch. At the time, it probably seemed to him like no one but him would ever care or remember.

But Proverbs tells us that kind of diligence will not go unrewarded.


Is it any coincidence that 18 years later, he became the governor of the state of Colorado? In 1884, he was elected, and he served until 1887. This many years later, we still remember his accomplishments. A sign is posted by his ditch, commemorating his efforts. His stained glass portrait decorates the state's capitol dome. Northern Colorado gratefully acknowledges their thriving sugar beet industry to his irrigation contributions. And one humble blogger is inspired by the diligence that his life displayed.

May our lives be a striking illustration, inspiring others to levels of service beyond their previous levels of expectation. May the grace of God in our lives enable us to live the impossible life with diligence, dedication, and givenness, for the glory of God. 

You can't trust your feelings

We were talking about foreign money the other day at the table. One of the girls here is from New Zealand, and she was talking about how much she hates pennies.

"In New Zealand, we have 1- and 2-dollar coins, so you can have a wallet full of change and it can be over twenty dollars," she said. "But here, my wallet is full and it's like...60 cents!"

We all commiserated with her and I mentioned my experience using British pounds for the first time. They, too, have 1- and 2-pound coins, and I remember paying for something with 3 coins, which would have been 6 pounds, which was equivalent to about $12 in American money. Because our largest coin is the quarter, I felt like I was only spending about 75 cents, and then I wondered why all my money disappeared so quickly. 

Feelings

Facts

One of the other girls quipped, "It just shows you can't trust your feelings." 


I was like, "Yeah." 


How often do we go by our feelings? How often do we act as if our feelings correspond to reality, when they don't? 


Regarding Spiritual things, we are some of the worst offenders.

"I don't feel like God loves me," we say.  

"I feel like this behavior (sin) is okay for me." 

"I don't feel like anything good can come out of this situation." 

"I feel like if I trust God with this [business, relationship, addiction, area of obedience, etc.], it won't work out."  

"I don't feel like forgiving."  

"I feel like I'm too busy to dedicate 3 or 4 hours a day to prayer."  

"I don't feel like it's responsible to trust God to work out the little nitty gritty details of my life. Doesn't He leave those things up to me?"  

"I feel like true victory over is unattainable in the Christian life."

If our feelings do not correspond with the Word of God, then they are just as bogus as my feelings that I was spending 75 cents, when in actuality, I was spending $12.

Align your thinking with the Word of God, and let your choices be dictated by His character, His promises, His faithfulness, His truth, and the reliability of His word. Disregard your feelings about the matter. They don't have any say. They don't have any bearing on your obedience.

You can't trust your feelings, but you can trust the reliability of the Word of God.

Phyllis, Hayley, and Ultimate Truth (conclusion)

Way back at the beginning of this article, I mentioned the common quote,

"What's true for me is not true for you." 

I said that this phrase was insufficient to glibly explain our differences away, and I mentioned that we are missing a key piece of information when we accept this saying. I also stated that in so doing, we keep ourselves in the dark and rob ourselves of the truly intellectually-satisfying experience of seeing all the puzzle pieces fitting together.


So what is that one key piece of information I was talking about?

It can be stated this way: The question we ought to be asking is not "Is it true for me or for them?" but rather,  "Whose version of "truth" actually matches up with reality?" There is an eternal, unchanging, perfect reality, which we call TRUTH. 


Although we have borrowed the word "truth" for use in the saying, "What's true for me is not true for you," the word does not mean the same thing as the eternal, unchanging Truth that is perfect. (In order to differentiate between the terms for this article, I will capitalize "Truth" when I mean the eternal, unchanging, perfect reality, and I will use lowercase "truth" when I refer to the current, popular use.) 


When we say, "What's true for me is not true for you," what we are really saying is, "My inner reality meter doesn't match your inner reality meter." Right. It's obvious that they don't match. The problem is, we have been duped into leaving it there, as if things were at an impasse, as if Truth was divided and one person had one piece and another person had another piece. What we should be saying is, "I don't really care if my inner reality meter matches yours or not--what I'm concerned about is, which one is closer to the way things really are?"  


Remember Phyllis and Hayley? 


You saw that Phyllis's inner reality meter was different from Hayley's inner reality meter. But you also saw quite clearly that one person was much closer to the Truth than the other. 


There is a way things really are. The closer we get to the way things really are (the Truth), the more accurate our inner reality meter will be. The more things will make sense to us. The less confusing things will be.


I don't doubt that all of my readers were able to recognize that Hayley's story matched with reality, while Phyllis's didn't. Details like the fact that Phyllis's mother had died more than 20 years earlier made it impossible for Phyllis's experience to be real. Did Phyllis have an experience? Yes. But her experience was nothing more than a vivid dream, while Hayley's experience was waking reality.


In the debate about religion or any other topic, it's evident that people have differing views. It's evident that all of us are varying distances from the Truth. But how is it that we stop at the non-solution "what's true for me is not true for you" as if we were at an impasse, instead of looking for the perfect, absolute reality called Truth, and then matching everything up with it to see which one comes the closest? 


People say this absolute reality called Truth doesn't exist. 


It does exist. 


And before we deteriorate into a "Does not! Does too! Does not! Does too!" shouting match, Phyllis and Hayley can illustrate this for us as well. 

Phyllis thought that they were outside in the middle of the day; Hayley thought that they were in bed in the middle of the night.

Either they were one place or another. There is an answer. Saying there is no absolute reality called Truth would be like visiting the bedroom to arbitrate in the middle of this saga and saying, "You both disagree, and that is proof that there is no right answer. Both of your stories are true." Hello! You're standing in the bedroom! You're looking at two women under the covers, with the clock in sight that tells you it's the middle of the night. There is a gravestone that you can visit--that everyone can visit--showing Phyllis's mother's date of death. There is a physician's diagnosis that explains why Phyllis is having trouble calibrating her inner reality meter with the facts. For you to say, "Both of your stories are true" would be to willfully suppress the Truth.


Knowing the Truth brings freedom, makes things make sense, and clears out the darkness so that we can
regain the truly intellectually-satisfying experience of seeing all the puzzle pieces fitting together. If Phyllis were able to suddenly align her thinking with the Truth (which often happens when you wake up from a dream), all her distress would have evaporated, and she and Hayley would have been able to go peacefully back to sleep. On the other hand, Hayley could not align her thinking with Phyllis's (even though she could commiserate with Phyllis), for nothing she could do could bring Phyllis's mama back from the dead or permit her to enter into Phyllis's dream.


It has been my hope to fix your mind on this topic in order to convince you of the fact that there is such a thing as Ultimate Truth and that you will benefit by aligning your life to it. Alter your own inner reality meter, wherever necessary, to conform to the Truth. Find this truth in the Word of God, and accept Jesus as the Word reveals Him to you.


"And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." John 8:32

Phyllis, Hayley, and Ultimate Truth (part 5)

This illustration was merely one example of many to show us how the Bible updates and corrects our idea of reality. What we can glean about the world through our senses, education, investigation, or study, is invariably incomplete. The Creator of the universe knows more than you do, and you ought to be thankful that He has been kind enough and merciful enough to grant divine revelation concerning the most important realities of life, things that could not have been otherwise discovered. 

Aligning our Thinking with the Bible

The Bible doesn't talk much about astronomy, neuroscience, physics, or mathematics. Where it touches on these subjects, it is accurate (further reading on that here and here), but it doesn't make it a point to reveal to man the intricacies of these and many other subjects. We can figure these things out for ourselves, and God has placed many rewarding pursuits within the reach of man. There is still so much to discover in these and many other fields, and it gives a chance for humankind to have useful and interesting occupation exploring these frontiers. But where God saw that no man or woman would ever discover certain important truths, He provided divine revelation in the form of a book, His love letter to us, the Bible. It behooves us to study it in order to know what it si that God has revealed, and then to align our thinking with its teaching, for only then can we have an inner reality meter that is accurate.

This is by no means an easy process. Many of the teachings of the Bible are in direct opposition to the way we naturally think. You must lay down your life in order to find it, be the servant in order to be the greatest, be the last in order to be the first, give away your goods in order to gain true treasure, and be weak in order to be strong. How can we align our thinking with such a topsy-turvy-seeming system? How can we just discard our own ideas, which seem to make way more sense, in favor of ideas that seem to be the opposite of what is true?

The Bible itself admits this difficulty, but it reveals to us that the problem is with OUR fallen minds, which are incapable of naturally grasping the high and lofty truths about God.

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts." (Isa. 55:8-9)

It is not a question of blindly replacing our thoughts with God's thoughts, neither is it a statement of impossibility, as if the difference between God's thoughts and out thoughts were insurmountably great. Rather, as we read the Bible, study it, meditate on its truths, and absorb its teachings, we gradually begin to see things from God's perspective. We learn the truth. More and more, as we internalize the Word of God, all those things that initially seemed to make no sense become clear and natural, and we consider them to be superior to the old standards of truth that our darkened mind held. We see clearly for the first time in our lives, because the Bible contains the power of divine revelation.

To see things as God says they are is to see them as they really are. And the more you know how things really are, the more you can answer any question and handle any objection.

Of course, the Bible is not merely a book full of truths, but rather, its primary purpose is to reveal a person, Jesus Christ, who IS the truth personified. God makes us a glorious offer: the Spirit of His Son can literally live in our bodies, in order to live out, in us, the type of life we could never perfectly live. No amount of head knowledge about the Bible can replace this. We receive this life by faith according to the promises of God's word.   


The Christian who has the living God dwelling within him will do many things and act in many ways that baffle the world. The more the Christian conforms to the Christ-life within him, the more his life will demonstrate spiritual realities. Anyone who knows only physical and natural (not spiritual) reality, will be stumped by the things that he sees and hears the Christian doing. 


Who can explain a martyr going cheerfully to his or her death, singing, with perfect peace, smiling? 


Who can explain why one would preach the gospel to mocking crowds who only seek to scorn and oppose the message? Why not just shut up and enjoy the gospel privately and preserve one's own peace and tranquility? 


Who can explain why a young person with great prospects (such as William Borden) would leave it all behind, shun the comforts of family and wealth, and go to die in a heathen land? 


Who can explain why a wealthy heir (like C.T. Studd) would give away all his money and voluntarily trust God for all his provision?


Who can explain why a man like Youcef Nadarkhani will face the death sentence rather than recant?


We offer up our explanations for these aberrations. "They believed in it--their faith was just that strong." "They were just crazy." "They were bold, intrepid, independent-minded souls who wanted to do what no one else had done." 


But none of our explanations can fully satisfy. They are like my ideas for why the guys in Inception were behaving strangely. I was suggesting explanations to myself, but none of them turned out to be quite right. I had to temporarily adopt the movie's version of reality in order to make sense of the plot.


The unbeliever must adjust his inner reality meter in the face of these Christian behaviors, for the astonishing fact is that these people were acting perfectly consistently with the unseen spiritual realities that are no less real for being unseen.

"While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal." 1 Corinthians 4:18

"For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse." Romans 1:20

Christian behavior makes perfect sense in the light of the Biblical revelation of spiritual realities. Those of us who have our inner reality meter calibrated to the Bible's teaching can understand this behavior, and we would behave exactly the same way if we were faced with a similar situation. 

Keep Reading

Phyllis, Hayley, and Ultimate Truth (part 4)

Here’s an illustration of the way God reveals certain spiritual truths to us that we could not have figured out on our own. 

Job's Perplexing Case of Suffering

The book of Job tells the story of how Job lost all his possessions and all his children in one day. However, he did not curse God. Then he lost his health. Still, he did not curse God. Job’s friends came to comfort him, and they spent about 35 chapters arguing about whether Job did anything wrong to cause this suffering to come upon him. It went something like this.

Job’s friends: “Job, this has come to pass in your life because you have done something wront.”

Job: “No, I’m innocent.”

Friends: “You must have done something wrong, or this wouldn’t have happened to you.”

Job: “No, I’m really innocent.”

Friends: “We know that good happens to the righteous, and evil happens to the wicked. Why don’t you take the shortcut to relief and just repent?”

Job: “I can’t repent of something I haven’t done. I’m innocent.”

Friends: “Even though it may initially look like the wicked are getting away with their deeds, it always catches up to them in the end. Come on, confess what you did. If you repent, God will surely forgive you.”

Job: “You’re wrong to accuse me like this. What miserable comforters you are. I didn’t do anything to do this. I wish I was never born.”

Friends: “If you would just turn away from the evil that you’re obviously hiding, things might start looking up for you.

Job: “I wouldn’t treat you like this if I was in your place. I haven’t done anything wrong, and I wish I could bring my case before God and file a complaint.

They just go around and around in circles and don’t get anywhere until God enters the conversation.

Notice why they were stuck: Both Job and his friends had an incomplete picture of reality. They had lived long enough to see that God’s pattern was to bless the righteous and to punish the wicked. As far as they knew, God's nature was unchanging, so this principle held absolutely. Then they encountered Job and something didn’t match up. Something didn’t make sense. However, instead of looking to see if this strange bit of incoming data about Job could possibly be a sign that they needed to alter their own idea about reality, they just assumed that their inner reality meter was right and that Job must have sinned, and that he must be lying about it to cover it up. They were missing a key piece of data. They needed to update their inner reality meter with a puzzle piece that would make the situation make sense. And this key piece of information was something they probably could not have figured out without divine intervention. Fortunately, God came through for them and told them what it was.

The key was God’s glory. God was getting glory in the heavenly realms by Job’s faithfulness. God was boasting to Satan, in effect, “I have a servant down there who loves me so completely that he will continue to trust me, even when bad things happen to him.” Satan doubted the possibility of this, but God vindicated Himself, for Job’s response was, “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” God got glory. All the angelic and demonic powers probably took a collective gasp at Job’s words. “God, how did you do that?” they probably all wondered.

When the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, he essentially said, “Where were you and who are you and how much glory do you have compared to mine? Deck yourself with your glory and see if you compare to me.” Job, on seeing this vision of God’s glory, had no more thought of lodging a complaint, and responded, “I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes."

God was using Job's experience to expand on and correct Job's and his friends' inner reality meters. They were right to a certain extent, because it's true that in general, God blesses the righteous and curses the wicked. (We see that ultimately, this pattern held true in Job's life, because at the end of the story, he gets everything back double.) But they were unaware of another factor that could trump this order of things. That factor was God's glory. If God was getting glory, things on earth might seem to be going all haywire for a season. This would look random and senseless from earth's perspective, because no one saw the scene that took place in God's throne room. Without divine revelation, we couldn't know that was happening. How could we know, without being told, that we as humans could be held up as a spectacle on display for all the witnesses of heaven and hell?

Keep Reading