Currently viewing the tag: "Obedience"
Make Me Thy Fuel
by Amy Carmichael
From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee
From fearing when I should aspire
From faltering when I should climb higher
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee.From subtle love of softening things
From easy choices, weakenings
(Not thus are spirits fortified
Not this way went the Crucified)
From all that dims Thy Calvary
O Lamb of God, deliver me.Give me the love that leads the way
The faith that nothing can dismay
The hope no disappointments tire
The passion that will burn like fire
Let me not sink to be a clod:
Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.
Belle the basset hound’s face pretty much sums me up lately: I’m tired. Not “I-need-a-nap” tired. More like, “I-need-a-month” tired. After an extra busy spring, I crave a Sabbath. “Shabbat.” Cessation. Rest.
“Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy,” God commanded. (Exodus 20:8) Commanded, not suggested, and Belle obeys beautifully. She ceases from labor so regularly that she never actually gets around to labor at all.
I wonder why I sometimes think that busier is better. Is it the pride of thinking things will fall apart if I don’t run the show? Is it the fear of not having a role or identity if I stop? Is it because I think saying “no” to my kids, friends, or calendar diminishes me?
Perhaps it’s a refusal to hear all that God has to say, if only I’d make the time to listen.
A few weeks ago, I confided in a friend about some spiritual battles I’ve had lately. She immediately asked about my prayer life—what I did for regular prayer time. I told her that I write prayers in my journal, and she said, “Hmm. So, that’s mainly you talking. How often do you spend time just listening?”
Sabbath makes time to listen. It makes sure my schedule reflects what I say I prioritize. Most of all, Sabbath takes me off the throne of my heart as I rest in the One who really runs the show.
Lord, thank You for commanding a Sabbath for my own good; help me to obey! Let me cease from labor to honor You, and rely on Your faithfulness, and hear Your voice. Thank You that, when I’m “weary and burdened”, You give rest—even “rest for my soul”. (Matthew 11:28-30) I love You, Lord. Amen.
Previous Lessons from a Basset Hound:
My mom could tell you that a few years ago, I read this entire “Hairbrush” story aloud to her from Beth Moore’s book, Further Still. As I read, Anne walked over to Andy and whispered, “Is Mama gonna read that whole book?” Well, here it is in video form, to spare you from my reading the whole book.
Watch it with a ready kleenex. And oh! Let’s let Jesus use us however He sees fit.
The kids and I took turns recently with a fever, cough, and sore throat. And oh, the sore throat. Not as bad as strep, but still, it hurt to talk, laugh, or even think about swallowing. I also had a few painful canker sores in my mouth, too, which made me brace myself at every bite of food, every drink, every smile.
For the first time in more than three decades, I found it easy to remain silent.
Well, not completely easy. Sometimes, like when I had to pass up perfectly good jokes, I was sad at not talking. But for the most part, when I opened my mouth to talk, I’d think it over first. If the words weren’t absolutely necessary, I’d close my lips right back again. The pain just wasn’t worth it.
“Think before you speak” is hardly a new idea, but it took a sore throat and canker sores to make me live by it. Just this morning, I recalled a time several years ago when my words hurt a friend. Why didn’t I think first that day? Better yet, why couldn’t I have had a “guard over my mouth” to “keep watch over the door of my lips”, as David prayed in Psalm 141?
I speak without thinking when I want to promote myself. I say things to feel self-satisfied and superior…but I prove myself to be small and sinful. My thoughtless words often announce that I am very unlike Jesus Christ.
God, let my mouth bless and not curse, heal instead of hurt, build up rather than tear down. Change the heart from which my thoughtless words overflow. Give me the mind of Christ, so I can speak His words after Him. And will You keep watch over the door of my lips? Guard my mouth, Lord. The pain it inflicts just isn’t worth it. Amen.
Belle the basset hound is rather like Eeyore the donkey. Sad eyes, melancholy nature, even a missing tail. Maybe they’re twins who were separated at species.
Sometimes when we unlock Belle’s crate door to let her out, she refuses. She lifts a heavy eyebrow to say, “No thanks. I’ll just stay here and be miserable.”
Honestly, I can relate. I often default toward the depressed. I’ve noticed, too, many fellow Belles and Eeyores around me. Many of us seem perfectly content with a lack of joy.
Meaning, we don’t want to cheer up.
Meaning, no amount of encouragement or optimism will improve our negative outlooks. We’d rather just stay miserable.
But we can learn contentment, Paul says, and while we can’t choose our circumstances, we can choose joy. So why is that choice so difficult for the Belles and Eeyores…and Amys…among us?
Two reasons, I think. First, because choosing joy requires faith. Trust is scary, but when I believe that God is good—and at work for my good—then I can have joy regardless of the circumstances. My joy-level rises and falls with my level of trust, and as faith grows, joy overflows.
Secondly, joy is a difficult choice because it requires obedience. Some days and in some situations, “obey” is most definitely a four-letter word. I fight hard against submission, but joy always comes when I finally surrender—when I determine to obey Him in everything. “I will do what You say, Lord, regardless of how I feel.” Obedience never fails to bring joy.
Joy for me is a daily—sometimes hourly—choice, and I don’t always walk in faith and obedience. But oh, to live a life of joy! To learn a lesson from Belle and Eeyore, and leave the cage of my own misery. I choose joy, and joy sets me free.
Previous Lessons from a Basset Hound:
When I was in eighth grade, I went out for track. Believe me, I was motivated purely by social obligation.–“All” the girls were in it, and so there I was. Peer pressure at its finest. From the first minute of the first day of track, I hated it. Not only did I have to run, but even worse, I had to run outside. It was a long spring.
In my one and only track meet, the coach required that we participate in two events. I signed up for the shortest race, and placed nowhere near the top. My second event was the standing long jump. I chose it for one reason: it said “standing”. I knew I could stand.
It’s impossible to explain just how very, very poorly I jumped. The other girls had apparently trained in some fashion, because their feet sprouted wings as they “stood”. They leaped, stretched, kicked and did the splits in mid-air as though they were jumping from one side of a busy highway to another. I certainly wasn’t jumping any streets. I could barely make it off the curb.
Even worse, we each had to make several attempts at the standing long jump. Or, in my case, the standing little hop. After my final turn, I waited in the sand for the judge to stop giggling long enough to measure my distance. One of the girls—a flier—looked at my feet sadly. She shook her head, unable to fathom how anyone could be so pitiful. Then she looked up into my eyes and urged, “Girl, you gotta jump.”
Not surprisingly, the only thing I took home that day was a sunburn. But the flier’s advice stayed with me. She was absolutely right. You can’t be in the standing long jump and not jump. You gotta jump. It says so, right there in the name.
Sometimes I sense the Lord urging something similar. With a friendship, “Girl, you gotta forgive.” (Colossians 3:13) In my marriage, “Wife, you gotta respect.” (Ephesians 5:33) For difficult relationships: “Amy, you gotta love.” (Matthew 5:43-48)
In all these areas and more, He calls me to obedience. Bold, ongoing, adventurous obedience. Jesus looks at my life and wonders why I’m just standing there. “Child,” He says lovingly, “you gotta jump.”
On an extra hot day last summer, the glass in our patio door shattered. First, it popped loudly, as though hit by a rock. Then, it crackled quietly as thousands of thin lines spread across the whole door.
Andy called a repairman, who said that shattering is common in glass that gets direct sunlight. He also said that he was on vacation and couldn’t fix it for two weeks. For five of us, two weeks with a broken door was just an annoyance. But for one of us–the one who walks on four legs and drools terribly–the non-working door was a puzzle. Belle could not understand.
“Ruff,” she’d say, sitting at the broken door, asking to be let out.
“Come, Belle,” we’d call from across the room, to take her through the front door instead.
“Ruff?” she’d repeat, confused.
Basset hounds, the dog books say, enjoy routine. That’s one of the reasons we chose her breed, actually, because I’m not fond of change, either. But the broken door ruined Belle’s normalcy. For two whole weeks, she was forced to do something–gasp!–new.
Aversion to change is harmless enough in basset hounds. I suppose it’s even understandable in my personality type. But a problem arises when my dislike of “new” becomes a lack of faith, or worse, a willful disobedience of what God tells me to do.
Andy and I have been in a season of change. One area of ministry ended and another began, and I must say, at times I’ve obeyed God only after pitching a royal fit about it. My kids are changing, too. Last night as I folded Nathan’s laundry, I sighed and wondered aloud, “When did we get big kids?” How dare they grow so quickly. Our church, too, is fast-approaching a new building, with new opportunities for ministry and growth. It’s exciting! And, terrifying.
But God is in the “new” business:
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:18-19)
“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 36:26)
“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” (2 Corinthians 5:17)
“He who was seated on the throne said, ‘I am making everything new!’” (Revelation 21:5)
Lord, You’re leading me through a new door, and I want to follow. Thank You that what is unknown to me is nothing new for the Ancient of Days. Help me to trust, and to obey with boldness and joy. In all the changes, I rely on Your unfailing love and Your unending faithfulness. I love You, Lord. Amen.
Previous Lessons from a Basset Hound:
When Molly was born, my hospital experience was less than stellar. To be fair, my perspective was skewed, because Nathan and Anne had been delivered by a fantastic doctor, at a hospital where the nurses did their best to make labor and delivery feel like a weekend at the spa. Molly’s arrival was much less…serene.
One nurse was especially difficult. What she lacked in bedside manner, she made up for in constant chatter. She talked to herself as she copied information from my chart onto my plastic bracelet. I heard her say, “Blood type…O pos.”
“Uh,” I interrupted, “I’m O negative. The universal donor.”
She looked back at my chart and said, “Oh! Well, yes! Yes, you are.”
I swallowed, and worried what other critical information she had wrong.
When she told another nurse, “I need a smoke, but that one [pointing to me] is about to go,” I knew we would not be friends.
Her comments continued. “I guess I’ll give you ice chips, since it’s your third baby.” “I could really use a cigarette!” “You know, I was supposed to go on break, right when you arrived.”
As my contractions grew worse, so did my temper. I gave Andy “the look”, but he only shook his head, essentially saying, “You’re okay.” Clearly I’d have to handle this non-nurse myself.
Once more, she complained about my being in labor. “You are really having this baby at the wrong time for me,” she whined.
With eyes that let her know just how ridiculous I thought she was, I snapped back, “Apparently!”
Stunned, she set down my ice chips and hurried out.
Andy was done with my attitude. He is not a finger-pointer, but he pointed his finger then. He leaned over my hospital bed, pointed right at my nose and said quietly, “You need to be kind.”
I started to cry. “I’m in labor! And she isn’t kind.”
“Be. Kind. Anyway.”
Apparently there would be no “helpless, with-child woman in pain” sympathy pass for the universal donor. Andy was right. As usual.
“Be kind anyway.” That sums up much of following Jesus, really. You don’t feel like loving? Love anyway. Don’t want to be gracious? In Christ, you don’t have the option.
To be honest, I argue with God about this. But sometimes, I tell Him, my unkindness is understandable–even justified! I defend myself with all the awful things that were done to me…all the reasons that I shouldn’t have to obey His command to love. Why should I be kind to someone who is unkind to me?
Answer: Because Jesus was kind to me first. He forgave when I was in sin and loved when I was unlovely. Jesus would’ve been more than justified to reject me with contempt, but instead He lavished me with grace. Talk about the Universal Donor.
Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death–even death on a cross. (Philippians 2:5-8)
Because of Christ’s amazing love for me, I can “do it anyway”. If I claim to follow Him, I must. Even when I don’t feel like it, I must respect my husband. Discipline my children. Keep my promise. Control my tongue. Forgive my friend. Be kind to a non-nurse. Do. It. Anyway.
He did it for me.
“Get in your bed, Belle.”
She raises a heavy hound eyebrow but remains otherwise unmoved.
“Bed, Belle.”
Still no movement. Her expression says, “No thanks. I’m comfy right here.”
Andy stands up and walks toward the kitchen. “Belle, get in your bed. Do you want a treat?”
Now she’s interested. She rolls over, stretches her legs, keeps an eye on Andy to make sure he isn’t bluffing, and slowly heads for her crate.
Belle only—only—performs for treats. No inner motivation from this girl. Often, we have to wave the treat directly in front of her nose before she’ll budge. Belle wants a reward, and she has to see it before she’ll obey.
The people listed in Hebrews 11 weren’t like Belle. They obeyed by faith, without tangible proof of reward. Noah “built an ark”, Abraham “obeyed and went”, and Moses obeyed “because he saw him who is invisible”. But where was their reward? “All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised: they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.” (Hebrews 11:13)
I wonder…do I have such faith? Do I truly believe that God will reward, and that His rewards are best? Or do I, like my basset hound, only obey when I see the reward I want already on its way?
“Yes, God, I’ll obey You in this…because You’ll ‘bless’ me financially for it.”
“Sure, I’ll obey…because people will praise me for a job well done.”
Obedience for a selfish, short-term “treat” isn’t what God wants. He wants faith. He wants me to believe Him for a better reward.
“These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised. God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect.” (Hebrews 11:39-40)
Belle won’t budge until she sees a dog treat headed her way. But I must obey by faith, and believe God for His promised reward. I may not see it now, and I may not receive it on this side of eternity. But when God waits…when the reward is delayed…He has something better in mind. Something even better than what I think I want.
I must faithfully obey.
He will faithfully reward.
Other Lessons from a Basset Hound…
“I’m like, the only one who can’t say bad words,” Nathan announced one afternoon. He wasn’t complaining, just stating fact. The neighbor kids had taken a poll on which curse words they were each allowed to say, and Nathan couldn’t say any of them.
He’s also the only one who can’t watch certain TV shows, and the only one who can’t ride his bike beyond certain streets. And, sadly, he’s the only one who must come home at a certain time for dinner.
Occasionally Nathan complains.
“But he doesn’t have to go in yet….”
“But he can watch the movie….”
And my response? “He is not my kid. You are mine, so you have my rules.”
Ah, that’s one of those parenting lines that echoes around in my head as God’s Spirit gently nudges, “Yes, Amy, that’s what I’ve been trying to teach you, too.”
Sometimes I complain.
“But she gets to retaliate when she’s angry. She complains and pouts and gossips.”
“But she handles things on her own. She sets her own agenda, and she’s very successful. I know You tell me to wait on You, but God, she gets things accomplished by herself!”
And God lovingly replies, “She is not My kid. You are Mine, so you must live by My rules–according to My life-giving word, given for your own good!”
“My children–those who would follow Me and call themselves by My Son’s name–must love and forgive, not retaliate and hold grudges. My kids don’t complain or gossip. My daughters trust Me, and hope in My promises, and wait for Me to advance My kingdom through them, rather than take matters into their own hands, for their own selfish gain. Child, do you insist on being unloving? Untrusting? Then you are not My kid.”
A prayer: God, I want to be Yours! Oh, how I long for it! Why am I tempted to settle for less than what You’ve promised? Let me not be completely happy until I completely submit. I love You, God, and I’ll obey. Thank You again and again for letting me be Your kid. Amen.
