perfect love, imperfect fear

Remember that time when you were a kid? You know… that time that you and some other kids (friends, siblings, whatever…) were horsing around and something broke. It wasn’t even your fault, but when dad came to see what happened you just knew that you were in trouble.

Oh boy, was your dad mad!

His nose flared and the veins popped out in his forehead. Instantly everyone was afraid of the wrath that was to come.

You, and everyone else just froze.

Since nobody wanted to own up to the horseplay that resulted in the [whatever it was] that got broken, everyone was going to be punished. Nobody wanted to take the punishment so each one of you pointed your finger at somebody else. Maybe it was you that ‘fell’ into it, but it was your brother that pushed you. Everyone had an excuse as to why it wasn’t them that should get punished.

So everyone was sent to their room to wait for the final judgement. Remember that feeling?

Sitting there alone.

Shivering.

Waiting.

Every second feels like an hour. Things start running through your head, and the fear overtakes you. The waiting is somehow worse than whatever the punishment could end up being.

Then dad steps into the room where you’re waiting. He says things like, “this hurts me more than it hurts you.”

What?

You think, “How can it possibly hurt him more than it hurts me?”

You forget that the thing that broke was a priceless [to him] heirloom that has been passed down in his family for generations. It was something that connected him to the very essence of who he is. And now you must pay for the damage that has been done.

At that moment it’s hard for you to understand what your dad is feeling. You are devastated because of what you are about to loose, but he has to deal with something that he just lost AND having to punish you for loosing it. Still it is hard for you to look past what’s about to happen to you, especially considering that you don’t think that you were to blame.

Then it happened…

Just before you are about to receive your punishment, your brother walks into the room. He’s crying. He tells your dad that you didn’t do anything wrong. He takes responsibility for the whole thing. He steps in and takes your punishment.

Remember how you felt?

The fear was gone.

Instantly.

The Apostle John talks about this same feeling when he speaks about the Lord:

There is no fear in love [dread does not exist], but full-grown (complete, perfect) love turns fear out of doors and expels every trace of terror! For fear brings with it the thought of punishment, and [so] he who is afraid has not reached the full maturity of love [is not yet grown into love's complete perfection].

                                                                                                                     – 1 John 4:18 (Amplified)

I’ve always looked at this verse without fully understanding how to apply this idea that “love casts out all fear”. I guess that I always tried to figure out how I should love others, but still struggled to make the connection with how exactly it was supposed to cast out fear. But John wasn’t talking about us.

He was talking about Jesus.

Remember that sin that you have in your life? Jesus stepped in and took our punishment. He didn’t want us to have to pay for it. He stepped in because of His [perfect] love for us.

When Jesus showed His love for us by stepping in like He did, we no longer have a reason to be afraid of the judgement to come.

Perfect love shreds our imperfect [and immature] fear.

.

Note: The idea for this post came out of one was developed in an exercise in the Spring 2010 Homiletics class I’m teaching at Sarasota Bible College. The idea was a group effort, so I cannot take full credit for developing it. Special thanks to Anita Gerbig and Todd and Jeri Schliecher for brainstorming this with me!

how to [generate] creativity

Take one part courage, one part passion, and one part crazy. Mix all of that together with a few talented people who are willing to sacrifice of themselves in order to accomplish a dream, and then top it all off with some dedicated Christ-followers with a story to tell.

The end result = a piece of art that will [hopefully] be remembered for a long time!

When I first heard about the start-up magazine called GENERATE, I was excited just to find an opportunity to contribute some of my work and experiences. But eventually what I found was that I got to be a part [even if it is a small part] of something special.

And now that I’m holding my copy of the inaugural issue in my hands, I am even more honored to have had the opportunity to contribute to something so awesome.

The first issue of GENERATE just hit mailboxes within the last week, and I can’t already can’t wait until the next issue comes out! And this isn’t a magazine that is going to get relegated to magazine rack duty. Oh no… This is one that rivals the coffee table books that I am often proud to display for all to see!

The stories are raw and real.

The poetry is beautiful and borders on worship.

The interviews are thought-provoking.

The photography and artwork reflect God in an awe inspiring way.

And the overall design is just…   cool.

The end result is a magazine that will make you think and feel, laugh and cry, rejoice and get mad. This magazine is a great collection that reflects the Spirit of Christianity in our day. I think that Makeesha Fisher [executive editor and one of the founders] says it best when she states…

…what I value so much is the collective voice that is coming through. A voice that is honest and conflicted but filled with a generous hope that is so compelling to me. I’d like to focus on the value of story and the inspiration and hope-giving power of telling and hearing our stories. The collective narrative holds no value without the telling and the hearing — which also means that we cannot chronicle and pass along our story as Christians without one another.

Well done GENERATE team! And if you haven’t seen GENERATE yet, then I strongly recommend that you subscribe now.

poetry [justice]: pull-apart bread

poetry [justice]: pull-apart bread

by Jeanne E. Loupe

 

Before I end, I must begin,
For I cannot go back, and I cannot relent!
It does nothing for me to lay low and to whine,
Or to pick up the pearls and feed them to swine.

No, I must equip and empower the poor,
So I push and I pull and I open the door,
To the weak and forgotten, the blind and the sick,
What is philanthropy if these I don’t pick!

In governing lives I cannot espouse,
Or advocate society apart from its spouse!
For society in general does not entail,
The fight of dear vengeance or its own assail,

For the town fires in justice, but the man spits in revenge,
Yet authority smothers what should be recompense.
And all in due time will unfairness reveal
The heart behind the blind leading the blind as it feels.

Yes, justice is driven by emotion and sense,
And if we were to step back and think in defense,
What would be our answer if love overcame!
The deception of hearts, oh what pity and shame!

But I cannot end before I begin,
I cannot go back! I cannot relent!
It does nothing for you to lay low and to whine,
So pick up the scraps and feed them to swine.

 

About the author:

Jeanne E. Loupe is… LSU Student passionately in love with Jesus Christ. Sunrises over sunsets. Loves to read Amy Carmichael and C.S. Lewis. Can’t wait for eternity =0).

You can follow her on Twitter at @jeanneloupe.

 

Check out more great stuff from the creative writing challenge: justice edition.

prose [justice]: opening my lens wide

by Gabrielle Dickinson

One minute of watching, and my eyes are so accustomed to this sight that they don’t take long to adjust to the window on my screen. My eyes are sore from being apart from the reality of this for so long. They are just dirt roads. They really shouldn’t have this effect on me. But they do. They always have, and they always will. It doesn’t even take a minute, for me to realise that my heart is beating in sync with the music of this land. Their footsteps sound like drums, and their eyes look like fire. There is a steady togetherness about these ones. In their hands they mean to bring hope. Into their stories they have inscribed courage. Their bodies are not weighed down by the trauma their spirits have endured. Instead their souls are free and all about them is lightness of being. That is if you look away from their eyes.

With their dancing smiles, they will speak of what can never be taken from them. Really, their richness of spirit lays me to waste. They lay claim to things I would never dare to possess. But their hope is never in vain. Music will be the wave they ride upon. The crest that takes them to His love. In my shallow life, my mind has no boundaries that will give me room to imagine what living with 60,000 other people around you is like. Looking at their faces, you would never know why they are there. Nothing in the air gives a scent of injustice. The buzz that exists stems not from excitement. Questions take the place of fear, and conversations are perpetually in motion. They dwell in chaos, yet their chaos is ordered. Even their chaos keeps itself to a rhythm.

Displaced ones. The name is sewn into the fabric of their lives. They are out of place, and all the while the blood in their veins, is the same colour as mine. They too ache for a land called home, but they have arrived at this longing in a way I beg never to be attached to. Faces with skin that gives the appearance of perfection. Faces that look the same as mine does with tears over it. A little girl throws her soul into choking back the tears, as she speaks. It costs her far more to disburse the silence. My complacency is secure. My lips have never been barred from speech. Their shattered lives have hope locked inside. I see it written in the lines of their faces.

They have been told they dwell in safety, in this make-shift world of things they were never meant to belong to. Yet they know that even shelter has become an illusion. Meal-times have become storms, where tears soak food like streams of salt. They pray prayers that cause Heaven to sway and move, embracing them in their broken places. For each night, the light is the same. The moon keeps watch over them, and reminds them of better days to come.

They are a people who are moved, and who express the things that we tend to hide from. Captive in the palm of their own people, yet hope plays the stronger chord. While we shut our eyes to forget, they close their’s to remember. Lives meant for amazing things, are instead sold out to violence of the worst kind. The voice of oppression rules in weakness, as they are forced to take even their own lives. Death, like an intimate enemy, forces it’s crooked way into their souls. Each fragile frame holds a beating heart, covered in scars. Each scar makes a mockery of their strength. Still no voice holds the power to diminish the relentless spirits that are their foundations in life. Somehow, though different in depth, their scars are a line in the sand, just like mine. Scars that mark the entry to life, and the crescendo of a battle that was not worth the fight.

These are they, who brim with unreasonable dreams. The dreams I dare to dream are laughable when I listen to each of them tell of their dreams. They are more alive than I have ever been. Beaten, but not destroyed. Struck by the hand of terror, yet not abandoned to corners of darkness. Sometimes I forget that the smallest ones of all, can be the greatest giants. The ones who will fight with love burning brighter than the evil, that has tried to terrorise them. They are an army, whose hands are no longer stained by the blood of innocents, but are drenched in the blood of One Innocent. The only One to have ever lived.

 

About the author:

Gabi Dickinson has lived for 25 years with a heart that beats for Africa. Her life is not her own and she is heading back to Uganda in January for 3-6 months. While there she will be working with the children at Hope Children’s Home, a children’s cancer hospital, and possibly a prison where she will be sharing His love and praying for the patients and inmates. You can follow her journey at http://handsbuiltformercy.wordpress.com. If you would like to support her financially in her missions work then donations can be made on PayPal to dickinsonbarbara@hotmail.com or directly to her missions account online at http://www.showmercy.org/donate/index.php?categoryID=81 (in either case please note that the donation is for Gabi Dickinson for Africa). 

Gabi wrote this piece about the issues of child soldiers in Uganda.

 

 

Check out more great stuff from the creative writing challenge: justice edition.

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