Shepherd King, Part 3: He Makes Me

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     For many years I’ve wondered what kind of access the enemy has to our thoughts. To be clear, I should specify the enemy in view: the accuser, deceiver. The father of lies. Satan by name, devil by reputation. I’ll presume you’ve heard of him. Has he ever read your mail? Disconcerting, isn’t it? Though I’m reluctant to give too much credit, it does seem that our emotions, thought processes, and forces of reason are vulnerable to his ugly influence. How does that happen?

     I’ve asked the Father about this numerous times, asked to be granted immunity. The answer has consistently been No. I’ve asked to be happy as a clam and just as clueless, to dig deep into the sand beyond the notice of predators. Nope. Which makes me wonder again: Does the Father have a better plan?

     As we meditate on the Twenty-Third Psalm phrase by phrase, this letter is the third installment. Not to short-circuit the plan, but we’ll take three phrases this time because they’re so closely related – the first two set up the outcome of the third:

     He makes me lie down in green pastures.

            He leads me beside still waters.

                        He restores my soul (verses 2-3a).

     Ask yourself: Where is this heading? The enemy will never lead you to restoration. Never. His game is destruction. If there’s any restoring to do, he’s out. The only thing the enemy fathers is lies. Jesus said so, and you can bank on it. Only the Shepherd King restores souls. He makes. He leads. He restores.

     Does the Father ever discipline? Sure. Does the Holy Spirit ever convict? Absolutely. But where is it going? Along with the restfulness of green pastures and refreshment of still waters come the unpleasant yet needful discipline and conviction. It’s of-a-piece: none are mutually exclusive of the others. That’s the Father’s better plan. He even plunks us down within earshot of the enemy, where we have to decide whose voice we will heed.

     Remember: Only damaged things need restoration. The unused, the untouched, the pristine have no need of it. But your soul and mine have been battered. There’s one path to restoration, and only one who leads in it.

     Turn to the Shepherd King.

     For all the books to his credit, for all his vaunted knowledge and respected papers, the recently departed theologian J.I. Packer had a sweet, simple recitation that was part of his near-daily routine:

    “I am a child of God; God is my Father.

    Heaven is my home, and each day is one day closer.

    My Savior is my brother; all Christians are my brothers and sisters as well.”

     I still don’t know by what means, exactly, the enemy influences my thoughts. May never. I’ve heard theories, none of which have been satisfactory, all of which took time I could’ve spent in green pastures. Meanwhile, the Twenty-Third Psalm makes the uncluttered invitation to be led, to be made, by the one who restores souls.

     Come on.

 Grace and Peace (for what more can we ask?),

 

John

Shepherd King, Part 2: Wanting

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? Since we started our every-other-week newsletter pattern for the summer, these chats can seem a bit disconnected. To refresh: we had just started looking into the Twenty-Third Psalm, one phrase at a time. We’ve now had a full two weeks to meditate on The Lord is my shepherd from verse 1, and something I’ve noticed (maybe you have too): more than I’ve needed a leader or advisor, more than I’ve needed a counselor or advocate… I’ve needed a shepherd. Do you suppose the Lord knew that already? I haven’t wanted to admit I needed a shepherd, but I have. Reckon the Lord knew that too.

     Brace yourself, Church, because the next phrase is even more humbling: I shall not want (also from verse 1).

     First, a word on semantics: “I shall not want” is a different statement now than it was three or four hundred years ago. Some modern Bible translations put it something like “I shall have no lack.” Feel better? Me too. If to not want meant to not have desires, to not feel short-changed at times, to never give in to the fear-of-not-enough – yeah, good luck with that. If that’s what it meant, we’d all be yelling back down the centuries in our snarkiest tones, “Well, that’s just fine for you, Mr. La-Dee-Dah Psalmist – but I’m stuck here in the real world!” But it doesn’t, so relax.

     But wait, what about “shall”? I shall have no lack? How am I supposed to pull that off? The angst builds. And it gets harder before it gets easier. That word “shall”? There’s no wiggle room in it. This must happen: not wanting, having no lack. Feel better now? Me neither.

     Take a deep breath.

     The Twenty-Third Psalm is a song lyric, and it’s a poem. One of the commonest misunderstandings of poetry is to think of it as fancy speech. It isn’t. Poetry is the simplest of speech, distilled to the essence. Poets and psalmists have neither time nor inclination for extra words, so they make spaces for those to happen at spirit level. As participants in the Twenty-Third Psalm, we have several words and phrases that click in perfectly, right between “shepherd” and “I”:

     The Lord is my shepherd… therefore…  I shall not want.

                                               that’s why… I shall not want.

                                               and so………. I shall not want.

                                           behold……… I shall not want.

     The shepherd certifies the shall. The shepherd guarantees there will be no lack. Shall – and the absence of wiggle room therein – doesn’t bother him in the least. And so it’s settled, right? All the angst that built up earlier has dissipated, no? There will be no lack; we have the shepherd’s word on it. Not a care in the world, have we?

     From where we sit right now, and without trying very hard, you and I could compile a list of approximately 2.2 bajillion things we lack. Lack is every place and every moment. Lack is the rule, contentment the rare exception. All I can figure is: the shepherd must have a different way of calculating lack and not-lack.

     Christians of yore talked of the church as “militant” and “triumphant.” Both terms are easily misunderstood, but in the simplest explanation, the church militant consists of all Christians living at this moment, fighting the good fight and keeping the faith; the church triumphant consists of all Christians who have finished their pilgrimage, and whose souls are now present with the Lord. That part’s easy enough to understand, but what boggles my mind is that the old-timers saw no division between the two. Let that sink in for a minute: no division. One church. Think also on this: the billion-or-two Christians living at this moment are exponentially outnumbered by the uncountable billions who have gone on, who are done with this world until they come back with Jesus to rule it. And remember: no division.

     The hardest space for me to get out of is my own head. Same goes for you; please don’t try to deny it. These skulls of ours, though bashed easily enough from the outside in, are nearly invincible from the inside out. We need the shepherd to draw us out of our own estimations, our own economies, our own way of calculating lack and not-lack, and into his way – if even for a brief moment every once in a while…

     “Jesus, shepherd – help us.”

     The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. And with that, we cruise into another couple of weeks of meditation, especially on I shall not want. Maybe it’ll help to think of the multitudes for whom this statement is utterly undoubtable, made true forever: I shall not want. There is no loss in Christ, and ultimately, no lack either. The math is his to figure out.

 Grace and Peace (as a salve for the wanting),

 

John

Shepherd King, Part One: Start Here

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     Take a moment, please, to consider the incredible staying power of the Twenty-Third Psalm. How it shows up in places expected and surprising. How fragments of it are embedded in speech. How it gets used and misused, with or without the user knowing which was which. And yet the Psalm rights itself somehow. “The Lord is my shepherd…” and the speaker may or may not have a sweet clue what that means. But there it is.

     More than a moment, I’m asking you to take several weeks, actually, to meditate on the Twenty-Third Psalm. Best I can tell, I have permission from the Lord to ask such an audacious thing. I hope you’ll agree at some point. To that end, please take the very next moment – yep, this one – to pray for me… maybe something like “Father, let John hear you clearly, and use his writing to draw us into the beauty of your favor and affection.” Thanks.

     We’ll take the Psalm slowly, a phrase at a time. This’ll take a while, which, if I’m understanding the Lord correctly, is mostly the point.

 The Lord is my shepherd… (verse 1).

 Just say it… um, please. Several times. Move the emphasis from one word to the next with each repetition, and lean into the change. Here: I’ll suggest with punctuation what I hope we can do with our hearts and minds and voices:

The Lord is my shepherd… to the exclusion of all impostors.

The Lord is my shepherd… because he promised to never quit.

The Lord is my shepherd… though he tends the whole flock, he won’t lose me.

The Lord is my shepherd… even though I’m still figuring out the sheep/shepherd thing.

     Just so you know, I recited the Twenty-Third Psalm early on the morning of this writing… out loud, standing barefoot in the dewy grass of my backyard, arms outstretched. Should’ve been glorious, right? It wasn’t. And just so you know this also (because the Holy Spirit is insisting I tell you), I should’ve been out there two hours earlier; I should’ve had my big-boy boots strapped on, good-to-go; I should’ve been pointing and directing and barking out orders by then – at least to myself. 

     The Father’s favorite part of “shoulda” is the “shhh” part: “Shhh, little one. Don’t should on yourself. You don’t know what you’re should-ing yourself into. Shhh… now, would you like to hear what I have for you?”  

     Reciting the Psalm this morning was awful… except. Except that, underneath the gyrations of my heart and mind was a steady beat: The Lord is my shepherd; he knows and he sees; he is here and he is able; his Word is my guide; his Spirit leads me, now and forever.

     Four full decades of following Jesus have taught me at last: pushing ahead of the Lord’s pace is a greater sin – because it’s more harmful – than lagging behind. I used to think it was the other way around. I used to think “helping” the Lord to quicken his pace was a virtue. It’s not. It is so not a virtue. The sheep leading the Shepherd… how absurd is that?

     The Lord is my shepherd… let it run on repeat until I write to you again, letting this one simple declaration have its way, growing in depth and power. Meanwhile, I’ll leave us with a few words Jesus spoke to an anxious crowd long ago:

    “There is no need to be afraid, little flock, for the Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom” (Luke 12:32).

 Grace and Peace (to calm the shoulda’s),

 

John

Apprenticeship 401: Cap and Gown

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     In this “Apprenticeship” series of letters, I’ve intentionally mixed academic and vocational terms: course monikers like 101, 201, etc., with “journeyman’s card.” In serving our apprenticeship to the Father, and cooperating in being conformed to the image of his Son, we’ll be getting a more well-rounded education than either category of terms can describe on its own, so I’ve wanted us to get used to seeing them together. Our work in this walk-around world is designed to produce something in the world – and in us – which begs the question…

     Where, exactly, is the Father going with our apprenticeship?

     In his letters to the Corinthian Christians, the apostle Paul made some statements that may have startled even himself. Here’s a sampling from the sixth chapter of (what we call) the first letter: Or do you not know that the saints will judge the world? (verse 2) Do you not know that we are to judge angels? (verse 3). It’s not hard to imagine the wide-eyed Corinthians responding, “Nope, sure didn’t.”

     Our first-century forbears hadn’t got used to being blood-bought daughters and sons of God Most High – and neither had their apostle, quite – which is one reason their exchange of letters at times sounds so contentious: “When are you going to get it, people?” “What the heck are you even talking about, Paul?” The high calling in Christ Jesus was higher and better than any of them had imagined up to that point.

     Which brings us to the twenty-first century, and a whole new batch of Corinthians (Cobblestonians?), learning moment by moment what their calling involves. Paul didn’t ask those questions of his own accord. God breathed them out, and Paul made sure they got put down on parchment, to be circulated throughout the family of God. Being God-breathed, they’re not the least bit imaginary. We may bank on them as if what they describe has already happened. The saints will judge the world. We who are saved will judge angels. Ready? Go.

     Oops, not ready? Yeah, me neither. Which is why it’s so important to know where this apprenticeship is going – and how far we’ve yet to go.

     In (what we call) Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians, the Father calls his children ambassadors for Christ, given the ministry of reconciliation (5:18, 20). That’s what he has made us now. Our titles don’t change when God’s plan comes to fruition; the change is that our work becomes altogether effective and unfailing. How good does that sound to a soul weary with the world’s troubles? Fully animated by the Holy Spirit and unwaveringly obedient to the Master, we can’t miss the intended mark.

     The unsaved world would get mighty grumpy if the Church started putting up billboards now, saying, “Hey, Y’all, betcha can’t wait to be judged by us Christians!” So, as I’ve said earlier in this series, the unsaved world doesn’t need to see us as better, only different. I’ve heard Andrew Holzworth say, “When a Christian walks into the room, the room should change.” I agree. A peace merchant just showed up. A minister of reconciliation is at work. Someone, finally, is practicing mercy on the Master’s behalf. This is our work in the here-and-now.

     When we receive our caps and gowns – or as the Revelation puts it, the white robes and a new name (2:13, 7:9) – we’ll know what to do with them. Meanwhile, the very best thing we can do is acknowledge our dependence on the Father, and lean fully into him – Behold, as the eyes of servants look to the hand of their master, as the eyes of a maidservant to the hand of her mistress, so our eyes look to the Lord our God, till he has mercy upon us (Psalm 123:2).

     On your very last day you will be most like Jesus. Same for me. I’m happy to wear the apprentice’s cap, happy to cooperate with the Master for as long as it takes. Same for you, I hope. Beloved, we are God's children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is (1John 3:2).

 Grace and Peace (from the Master himself),

 

John

Apprenticeship 301: Honoring the Master

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     I remember vividly the day I became a wage-earning machinist, transitioning from a vocational school student to the real world of shaping metals. The memory is sharp mostly because the day didn’t go so well. I was the first trade school student to co-op in the shop; this was a grand experiment for my new employer. The shop supervisor, Mr. Herman Ulrich, led me to an old Monarch engine lathe, pointed to a chunk of steel bar stock on a nearby skid, and said, “Rough it down to 4 inches.” And then he walked away. The date was January 8, 1979… a Monday.

     The task was simple enough; I had already done far more intricate work at school. But next to the raw stock was the piece we were replacing, and I decided I would make the new one just like it. I found the correct measuring instrument, applied a little finesse, and got it within a thousandth of an inch – at which point it was scrap. When Herman came back, he made that known to me in no uncertain terms.

     What I hadn’t taken into account was that the mating part hadn’t been reconditioned yet. Its shape would change, and my part would have to work with the new shape. The grand experiment was a flop, and I was sure my one-day employer would go back to hiring only experienced machinists.

     In this third installment of the “Apprenticeship” series, I hope to foster belief in one of the most important aspects of the Master/apprenticeship arrangement: the Master is worthy of honor, and in giving honor, the apprentice will be actively practicing humility.

     There’s a small section of John’s Gospel that I try to keep in mind at all times:

    About the middle of the feast Jesus went up into the temple and began teaching. The Jews therefore marveled, saying, “How is it that this man has learning, when he has never studied?” So Jesus answered them, “My teaching is not mine, but his who sent me. If anyone's will is to do God's will, he will know whether the teaching is from God or whether I am speaking on my own authority. The one who speaks on his own authority seeks his own glory; but the one who seeks the glory of him who sent him is true, and in him there is no falsehood (John 7:14-18).

     As often as I can remember, I pray a prayer based on what Jesus said and did there, something like, “Jesus, keep showing me how to work for the honor and glory of the one who sent me – wow, the same one who sent you: our Father in heaven. Use me as a man of truth, with nothing false about me.” From there, I check frequently to see if I’m cooperating in the answer to my own prayer.

     The quickest way to destroy a good apprenticeship is with arrogance. And arrogance, though we tend to think of it as something completely obvious, is actually sneakier than we give it credit for. Arrogance happens in the absence of humility. Active humility is the antidote to arrogance. Working for one’s own honor and glory is the default position – to honor the Master, that circuit has to be turned off first, and the active humility circuit turned on. Feel free to borrow my prayer or compose your own, but please don’t let the default have its way. If Jesus was so quick to point to the Father – look again: he didn’t skip a beat – we can be quick, too.  

        Among the apostles, Peter generally gets the ribbon for “Most Improved,” which may be true, but I give the one marked “Most Like Jesus from the Get-Go” to John. It shows up in the Gospel he was inspired to write, and in his letters. John gets my vote as the one most willing to practice the active humility necessary for honoring the Master. In the intro to his first letter, he testifies to what we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands, concerning the word of life (John 1:1). He’s diligent in making sure that what we have seen and heard we proclaim also to you, so that you too may have fellowship with us; and indeed our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ (verse 3). Ever and always, he honors the Master.

     Along with honoring the Master in his first letter, John also has a word about apprentices. It’s easy to miss, so I’ll call it out:

    My little children, I am writing these things to you so that you may not sin. But if anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous. He is the propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only but also for the sins of the whole world. And by this we know that we have come to know him, if we keep his commandments… whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked (1John 2:1-3, 6).

    And then he writes:

    Beloved, I am writing you no new commandment, but an old commandment that you had from the beginning. The old commandment is the word that you have heard. At the same time, it is a new commandment that I am writing to you, which is true in him and in you, because the darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining (verses 7-8).

     The true light is already shining… which is true in (Jesus) and in you. And in you, Christian, as a Christ-like one. Apprentices can do good and gainful work on behalf of the Master. We’re not meant to wait for the “journeyman’s card” to turn out the first good part. On that cold and frightful Monday in January of ’79, yeah, I got off to a rough start, but before the shift was over I was making goods that could be sold to the customer. After a dose of discipline from Herman, I was ready to do what he had actually told me to do. The true light is already shining – by way of our fellowship with one another and indeed with the Father and his Son Jesus Christ, our job, in honoring the Master, is to make the darkness pass away at the fastest possible rate… beginning right-the-heck here, right-the-heck now.

     What do you need to get through today’s shift, and honor the Master along the way? Discipline? Encouragement in the Lord? Holy Spirit animation? All of the above? He is the faithful Master and Teacher. He intends for his apprentices to turn out good work and gain experience. Just ask.

     Eventually, the majority of the workforce in the shop was made up of us hot-shots from the county’s two vocational schools. Turns out I didn’t spoil the plan altogether. And I worked there myself for twenty-five years, and left on the best of terms when it was time to go. But boy, did it take some hard lessons in humility! The sooner those were learned, the better. In the same way, the sooner we learn to honor the Master by doing what he has actually set us to do, the more helpful and rewarding our apprenticeships will be.

 Grace and Peace (for today’s shift),

 

John

 

Apprenticeship 201: Trust the Process

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     Some dude has a cooler tattoo than you. I haven’t met the dude myself, but I saw a pic of his tat lately, and it’s cooler than yours.

     “Judas ate too.”

     Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. During supper, when the devil had already put it into the heart of Judas Iscariot, Simon's son, to betray him, Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was wrapped around him (John 13:1-5).

     How many feet did Jesus wash? Twenty-four: the text leads us to understand Jesus washed the feet of all twelve disciples, including Judas, the betrayer. Doesn’t it stink that Jesus got snookered into washing the feet of the very one who would turn him over to his enemies? No, it doesn’t stink, because Jesus didn’t get snookered: For he knew who was to betray him… (verse 11).

     How many mouths did Jesus fill at the Last Supper? One: though all the disciples shared in the Passover meal, one was singled out for special treatment. So when he had dipped the morsel, he gave it to Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot (verse 26). What Jesus did was as close to spoon-feeding as one can get with the materials on hand. Why would he do such a thing?

     This is now the second installment in the “Apprenticeship” series of letters. Bad stuff happens really fast when we strike out on our own and make up a bunch of hacks as we go. Far better to serve an apprenticeship with someone who knows the way. And when the skill to be acquired is forgiveness, there is no better study than with the Master of forgiveness.

     Trust the process, Church. Jesus says forgiveness works. Watch what he does in the Gospels, what he says from the cross. He forgives on purpose. He forgives with purpose, to show us how and why. He picks the very last thing our fallen nature wants to do, and says to do that very thing. He even taught us to pray about forgiveness: in particular, to ask the Father to forgive our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.

     The hardest lessons I’ve had from the Lord have been on forgiveness. The best lessons I’ve had from the Lord… same subject. It’s been a long and arduous apprenticeship. If I can save some of you a few twists and fruitless turns in your journey, I will. I can pray for relief from any malady; I can plead for deliverance from any dilemma; but when I practice actual forgiveness, it’s like the Lord puts the hammer and chisel in my hands, I pound through the shackles, and I am free.

     If this letter were embedded in a self-help book, this is the paragraph that would begin to lay out all the necessary steps for accomplishing forgiveness. Not today. Not ever. Wasted time, wasted words. I could three-point it, alliterate it, give it a clever acronym, but your flesh would still struggle, your mind protest, and you would invent a thousand reasons why anything but forgiveness is called for. Been there, done that. The best I can tell you is: Make forgiveness happen, in the power of the Holy Spirit. 

     Knowing who would betray him – knowing it as surely as if it had already happened – Jesus still invited Judas to the table, washed his feet. Judas ate too.

     Watch the Master. Study him, copy him. Make his ways your own. You might even ask him what your next tat should be.

 

Grace and Peace (to break every chain),

 

John

Apprenticeship 101: From Whence

 

Hey, Cobblestone,

     Take a fresh look, please, at this familiar Bible passage:

Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.”

So God created man in his own image,
    in the image of God he created him;
    male and female he created them.

And God blessed them. And God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth” (Genesis 1:26-28).

     What do you make of it? Did anything new and exciting leap at you from this reading? No? That’s OK; most of your fellow readers will not have been amazed either. Familiarity is perhaps this passage’s worst enemy. Let’s draw from it, then, two essential phrases – “let us make” and “let them have” – and see if we can find some amazement.

     Let us make: Who’s doing the making? Did Adam’s consciousness loom out of the dust of the ground and make the making happen? Did he first form a finger, with which he tapped God on the shoulder to call attention to the unfinished project? Was it Adam’s idea to fall into a deep sleep and have a rib extracted… by whom… for what reason? Of course not. Mankind has no plausible explanation for his existence aside from God’s thoughtful and utterly precise action in creation.

     Let them have: God, in absolute sovereignty, conferred authority on mankind. If he hadn’t given it, we wouldn’t have it. From the first two humans onward, the collective imago Dei were to exercise dominion over creation on behalf of Dei. All the while, The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof (Psalm 24:1). Though man claims ownership, he has never proven it outright in the court of the universe.

     Those two phrases – let us make and let them have – establish a Master/apprentice relationship, a fact as unassailable on earth as it is in heaven. Grit your teeth and strain real hard, trying to make this planet spend twenty-five hours per revolution instead of twenty-four: not gonna happen. The old song goes, “Stop the world and let me off”: good luck with that. The opening verse of Psalm 2 asks, Why do the nations rage and the peoples plot in vain? Beats me. And yet, being subject to anyone, even the Almighty, is precisely what imago Dei of every tribe and tongue simply cannot abide.

    Smack in the middle of our “Real Life” teaching series, the looming giant we’re facing is the idea that mankind is master rather than apprentice, answerable to no one but himself. As long as the giant persists, conversations on gender, marriage, sexuality, stewardship – pretty much anything that involves humans interacting with one another and with creation – will be wonky. We can’t get it right if we don’t know who is Master and who is not. I’m calling us together to slay the giant.

     If anyone should be able to rightly understand the Master/apprentice arrangement, it would be we who have regenerate souls and the mind of Christ. Ours is the secret and hidden wisdom of God, which God decreed before the ages for our glory… these things God has revealed to us through the Spirit (1Corinthians 2:7, 10). Own it; it’s yours, Christian. And with that secret and hidden wisdom, please do this: faithfully serve your apprenticeship to the Master.

     The unsaved world doesn’t need to see you as special, only different. The difference will draw in the unsaved. Our willingness to acknowledge the Master as Higher and Other will bring peace to a world all a-jitter with the illusion of self-importance. “Peace I leave with you,” Jesus said, “my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid” (John 14:27). As saved people, you and I are peace merchants on behalf of the supplier, distributors of a commodity much in need.

     I want to write more to you on this topic, Church, next week. The basic concept of apprenticeship is all but lost in this age in which the individual reigns (except he doesn’t, and neither does she). It may take a few tries to get it back. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you with a simple prayer exercise: Upon waking tomorrow, say to the Lord,

     “It’s all yours, Papa. What would you like me to do with it?” Then listen for the next bit of secret and hidden wisdom.

 

Grace and Peace (for all the Master’s apprentices),

 

John