There once was a church on a hill by the bay,
with a wonderful spirit of love, you might say,
till a ragged stranger came inside
and rumors abounded far and wide.
Some thought he came from a shelter or prison,
and feared he might cause the church shame or a schism.
He’d invite total strangers and give money away.
And he really didn’t care what the members would say.
His friends didn’t smell clean as most church members would,
and in the eyes of the deacons, he brought more than he should.
The pastor spoke discreetly of this ragged man,
“He doesn’t fit our strategy plan.”
Brother Rupert said, “Don’t you see?
He laughs too loud and sings off key!”
Clara was concerned about relations and such.
She said, “He plays with the children too much!”
Jed, the chairman of ministry troops,
said, “None of our leaders want him in their groups!”
But the ragged man went on his way,
serving the church on the hill by the bay.
Scrubbing the toilets and cleaning the floors—
these were the ragged man’s ministry chores.
On Sunday they dreaded his unsightly appearance
and prayed that he wouldn’t cause strange interference.
They said, “Our church has stood too long
to be tainted by him and his curious song.
This man’s a menace to this congregation!
He’ll tarnish our image and fine reputation.”
They were tired of this ragged man’s presence inside,
and they locked all the doors so he wouldn’t reside.
A wicked northern blew a blizzard their way
as the members sang hymns in the church by the bay.
They sang to drown out his normal arrival,
as the blizzard threatened the man’s mere survival.
As the church members sang, their voices grew stronger,
each heavenly note was held longer and longer.
The winds blew that storm to the bay like no other
and covered the corpse of that unwanted brother.
The storm passed and they went on their way,
the members of the church on the hill by the bay.
They didn’t see the heap of snow
nor the ragged man buried below.
Yet beneath his old gloves buried deep in the snow
were the wounded hands pierced by nails long ago.
If they had looked closer at this man with no bed,
they’d have seen thorn-driven scars on the brow of his head.
And if they had embraced him, they surely would have cried,
for they would have felt the sacred wounds on his back and his side.
And if they had sought to know this man so odd—
they would have met face-to-face—Holy—Omnipotent—God.

In the year
of disappointment,
loneliness,
fear,
In the year
of confusion,
desperation,
and chaos,

I saw the Lord.

My eyes had been blinded by amusement—toys,
savings and wealth,
dreams and aspirations.
In the midst of the sand castles of my own
self-importance,
my eyes were blinded by the temporal,
until an eternal God shook the doorposts of my soul.
He came to me, and I saw myself for who I was outside of Him:
naked,
dying,
cold,
starving,
and helpless.
He didn’t come in the sanctuary.
He didn’t come in the crowds.
He didn’t come in the ceremonies,[pullquote3 quotes=”true” align=”right” variation=”orange” cite=”Matt Tullos”]He didn’t come in the ceremonies, in the shifting dance of the day-to-day. He came into my deepest closet of hopelessness.[/pullquote3]

in the shifting dance of the day-to-day.
He came into my deepest closet of hopelessness.
He didn’t come with four laws.
He didn’t come with three points and a poem.
He visited me at midnight, when I least
expected to hear His voice.
He came to me at a time when my hopes were dashed,
when my future appeared bankrupt.
He came to me when every solid foundation seemed to collapse.
He came to me in the wilderness of my own destitution.
He came to me in the poverty of my own understanding.
He came to me when I laid down my toolbox,
my first-aid kit,
and my cookbook.
He came to me!
Hallelujah!
With a quick fix?
No.
He came to me!
With a list of seminars and books to read?
No.
He came to me,
and there was absolutely nothing I could offer in my own strength.
The masks, alibis, and diplomas faded under the light of His passionate gaze.
He didn’t need me.
He didn’t need my talents.
He didn’t need my knowledge, my money, or my influence.
On the contrary, He came to me because, for the first time in my life, I knew I was utterly helpless;
I didn’t have the answers.
For the first time in my life, I knew no word, no thought, no event would change me.
Only God,
Christ alone,
could change my heart.

He came to me!
He wrapped His arms around me and said,

My beloved, I’ve been waiting for you.

[blockquote align=”left” variation=”orange”]The fuel of desperation compels us to open up our closets, or treasures, our secret wounds, our addictions because pride is no longer an option for us.[/blockquote]

There once was a church upon a hill
where everything was fine until
the paint inside was getting old
and peeling in some spots, I’m told.
The pastor called a business meeting.
And after the preliminary meeting,
The deacons cried, “Come one! Come all!
What color should we paint each wall?”
They gathered in the sanctuary,
each determined and contrary.
Sister Gail said, “What do you think
about a very chartreuse pink?”
Brother Dave said to the crowd,
“Isn’t that a bit too loud?
I prefer a subtle blue.
It makes the walls look clean and new.”
Six women rebuked, “We wanted gold!”
It seems much warmer. Blue’s too cold!”
The pastor said, “I’m here more than all of you.
I agree with Dave. The walls should be blue.”
From that point on their voices grew stronger.
Each emotional plea became longer and longer.
Then a voice of strong and stern love
silenced the church as it spoke from above.
“You wonder why you can’t hear My call
when your greatest struggle is paint on the wall.
Paint your church the pale color of skin,
for you let no other races come in.
Paint your church a wealthy green,
for you ignore starvation that you’ve seen.
Paint it white and clean as uncalloused feet,
for you refuse to share My joy in the street.
I agree that your walls could be painted in blue,
for your hearts so cold are given to few.
You give many renditions of church as a game,
but you fail to give water in My Holy Name.
You pray using eloquent thees and thous,
and yet you forget about the heres and nows.
You struggle to be an earthly saint,
but My love must not be covered in paint.

Lord Have mercy…

On the lost in foreign lands
On the hopeless needing helping hands
On the broken- desolation’s child
On the unwed mother’s lonely mile
On the blind who stumble in the dark
On the ones who miss the mark
On the hungry, void of bread
mourners ’round their loved one’s bed
On secret shame, remaining still
On those embattled for Your will.
On an outcast soul’s despair
When broken hallelujahs fill the air
Amidst the wreckage, You are there
May we be angels unaware.

Why is God so interested in money and time? The answer is simple: it determines where our heart’s desire really is.

In the middle of our mess we here a message.

The following is a sermon based of David’s experience of desolation and failure in a place called Ziklag.

It’s hard to know where the seed of bitterness began
Perhaps before the dawn of man
When an angel of light,
Heaven’s delight
Wasn’t satisfied with reflecting someone else’s might.
And in bitterness he shook his fist at his Creator
Satan born
Now the author of scorn.
And in bitterness he roams the face of the earth
Killing…
Lying…
Hating…
Defying…
Bitterness snaked its way into the soul of nations,
Defiling God’s most precious creations.
Bitterness- born out of shame
for justifiable reasons of so it seems
“She left me without a word.”
“He broke my spirit.”
“My father never loved me.”
“No one listened to my side of the story.”
“Someone stepped in and took my glory.”
“The decision was made and I didn’t get a choice.”
You were deflected, neglected, corrected
And the resentment brewed in a putrid still
Intoxicating your life
With anger, backbiting, sorrow,
Tainting every hopeless tomorrow
With bitter nights
You drink your own poisonous nectar
You fantasize your moment of sweet revenge
Flames of rebellion begin to singe every moment of the day.
Resentment spoils every part of the road.
Instead of running to the healer
We find a place with a killer

Bitterness toils[blockquote align=”right” variation=”yellow”]Tainting every hopeless tomorrow With bitter nights You drink your own poisonous nectar You fantasize your moment of sweet revenge[/blockquote]

It spoils
It recoils
It paralyzes fathers and mothers
Incites wars between sister and brother.
Instead of churches and an agent of grace
We choose nails and thorns and spit on Christ’s face
That’s what we do when we huddle in anger
The devils our father and Christ is a stranger
And runs through the church
Crushing every beautiful thing God blesses
Turning holy moments into public messes
Bitterness doesn’t care
Resentment grows in an insatiable feasts
Killing the bride
And feeding the beasts
of gossip, evil declaration
an unmerciful generation
it settles in our homes
it crushes our bones
it leads wives into despair
it kills children unaware
of the toxic venom
that settles within them
Bitterness breeds shame
It says, I’ll never trust again
It exiles pure joy to the wilderness
Making pain out of a marriage of bliss
You see it was bitterness and pride that sent Jesus to the cross
And yet we listen willingly to it, no matter the cost.
And there is bitterness in this room.
You might not see it right now
It’s like a dormant disease
Waiting for the command of demons
It can bring a church to its knees
And families stand before the gallows
Of opened wounds
What once was alive nested in the tombs.
All because of bitterness.
It took root.
Malice and rage are its scornful fruit
While well-meaning Christians stand and salute
the furious, unfettered rise of scorn
Born from the seeds of bitterness.
Still there’s another path God has given us
It’s a journey toward the bread and the cup
It’s offer of freedom
And blessing
And peace
It’s an offer to turn
An offer of release
From the bitterness that’s stealing every part of your life
From the sin you’re concealing – your anger and strife
The table has been set.
The offer is here.
To let go of regret.
And in peace draw near.
That’s the meaning of this wine, this bread and this time.
Banish your rage inside of you.
Return to the one who makes all things new.