Going For Bangladeshi Party Tomorrow (Reflections from Luke 10: 25-47

Tomorrow our Sunday school is joining some Bangladeshi workers for a fun fair.

Why do this? What are we proving? Does it even matter?

The answer lies in an interesting conversation where two questions were asked:

Here, a lawyer asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?”

And Jesus replied, "Wrong question - we should instead ask: Am I a neighbor?”

What is a "neighbor"?

Not the priest or Levite.

Like the lawyer, they had the "theology" and knowledge, but they didn’t care, didn't love, were too busy with their ordered lives.

It was the Samaritan.

He was probably not of the same race as the man in need. Might not have known a lot of Bible. But he interrupted his "journey", stopped and cared.

Who is my neighbor today? The one I can help. The one I could avoid and nobody would question. The one everyone is avoiding.

To love a neighbor, one has to be: Compassionate (v 33). Color blind (v 33). Cross culture (v 33). “Come” to the person (v34). Won’t be Convenient (v35). May Cost us (v 35). May not get Compensated (v 35).

Reflections From Luke 9 - What is Your reality?

There is the Transfiguration, there is also the coming down from the mountain (9:28-37).

There is the call – but it comes with challenges. There is the up-in-the-cloud experience, there will also be the down-to-earth reality.

The crowd marveled- “were amazed” - at the miracles of Jesus; but they also missed His message of the cross (9:38-45).

The disciples yearned for the glory of greatness; but they also stumbled over the simplicity of service (9:46-48).

James and John got it right and had power and gifting; but they got it all wrong when they had no love for people (9:49-56).

The people on the road declared, “Yes Lord I will follow you wherever you go”; but they also said, “Lord, please let me go first to . . . and then I will come.” (9:57-62)

Jesus wants us to choose Him every day; but He also cautions, “. . . but the son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.”

Our living comes with the dying.

The higher way has the harder roads.

You want the Master; don’t miss the mission.

You want the rewards; but do you know the reality?

LESSONS ON THE POTTER’S WHEEL

The clay is a shapeless, squishy, lumpy lump.

The potter is an artist, creator, planner, master designer.

The clay hardens quickly and when that happens, nothing could happen.

The potter labors speedily - keeping the clay moist tirelessly, making everything happen.

The clay does nothing on the wheel.

It says nothing and does nothing except to shut up and stay still.

The potter does everything on the wheel.

He designs, he drives, he directs – according to his perfect plan and will.

The clay is soft and gentle; it takes whatever form the potter chooses.

The potter is meek and tender; he exerts only enough pressure on the clay to mold, not to mar, to bend, not to break.

Lord, help me to remember that I am just the clay.

I don’t drive the wheel. I don’t decide my shape. I don’t determine my ways.

I don't say, "I only want to be this" or "I only want to do that."

Help me to remember, Lord, that you – and you alone – are the potter.

You step on the pedal. You press, you pull. You twist, you turn.

You say, "I only want the best for you" and "I love you."

So whenever I feel bored – “Why so long?”

Uncomfortable – “What? Another squeeze?”

Fearful – “More water on me? Will I drown?”

Lost – “I can’t see where you’re going!”

Help me to never forget:

"Be still, and know that I am God” (Ps 46:10).

“You have enclosed me behind and before,

And laid Your hand upon me” (Ps 139:5).

You are the Potter - the artist, creator, planner, master designer.

And I - shapeless, squishy, lumpy - I am just the clay.

Thoughts on my birthday

Miscarriages: two.

Serious cried-myself-to-sleep-heartbreaks I could remember: four.

Close encounter with cancer (and healed by the grace of God): once.

Age started full-time ministry: 21.

Countries visited for ministry: around 50.

Countries lived in overseas (and had a baby): three.

Distracted, discouraged, sinned, repented, forgiven: countless.

People who prayed for me: more than I know.

God's bountiful grace and blessings - past, present and future: above and beyond what I could fathom, imagine or dream of.

Loved by one faithful man: almost 40 years.

Blessed by one beautiful daughter: 25 years.

Entertained by two interesting cats: 16 years.

What a life!

Thank you Jesus.

I am not afraid

I must not be afraid of the lows and downs of my life.

For without giants, there are no heroes.

Without challenges, there are no challengers.

No Goliath, no David's one-stone win.

No Midanites, no Gideon and his 300 men.

In my life, I have met many moments of trials and traps.

But God turns them into tools to train me, and build my trust and tenacity.

I have faced my share of Pharaohs and Pharisees.

But God uses them to push me to my knees. And to pursue authenticity and pay attention to Him.

Yes, I must not be afraid of the lows and downs of my life.

Though I feel weak now, I shall be strong.

I see obstacles, but by His power I will overcome.

No giants, no heroes.

No challenges, no challengers.

THE NEW NORMAL

"We don't have weekly date nights anymore!"

"Thanksgiving isn't Thanksgiving for us this year - no turkey (too expensive in this country)."

"I'm not a good mum - I haven't been baking lately."

This past week, I'd heard many people telling me their life isn't "perfect".

Why? Because "it ain't normal."

"What's normal?" I asked.

"Who decides what's right or perfect or normal anyway?"

Santa Claus? (he's not here anymore)

Your neighbor? (he doesn't really care if you had turkey)

The whoever-she-was who wrote that "Perfect Man" article? (she might not even be married)

What's really normal?

Look at our Lord Jesus Christ.

He defied all definitions of what's acceptable and respectable and, yes, "normal" in His time.

He touched the leper. He spoke up for the women. He cleansed the temple.

He set people free.

Look at Mary.

She didn't just break that perfume bottle. She broke all fears of pressure and prejudice and what men in her time felt wasn't "normal" for her to do.

She did what she could and not what people wanted her to do - or not do.

She did a "good thing" for her Lord.

My "new normal" husband doesn't remember to compliment me every time I have a new dress or hairdo.

And he buys pots of plants for me, not bouquet (the botany major in him finds expensive dead flowers sub-normal).

My courageously "new normal" daughter has almost blonde hair, works from home, borrows my shoes (and clothes and scarves), and reaches out to abused and abandoned children..

As mum, I try to be as "new normal" as possible.

My baking sucks.

I'd never done porridge for my baby like all "normal" Chinese mothers would.

But I held her hand through her first ear pierce, took her to a Guggenheim art exhibition, and brought her to Mongolia, China, and the Seychelles on mission trips.

I bet if we allow the "new normals" into our lives every day, we'll appreciate more, whine less, cross more boundaries, and live life to the full.

Let's not be just normal.

Let's be more than normal.

Hi HOW ARE YOU? COME BACK!

I remember my first Christmas party.

Uncle Tommy, mum’s brother, had brought my siblings and me to his church youth Christmas celebration that morning. “Whoever brings the most kids wins a prize,” he announced as we packed into the bus.

We didn’t win (a huge guy with 15 tiny friends did); but we were happy enough with the games, M&Ms and agar agar.

A lady sitting next to me asked for my name. “You’re 13?” her eyes fluttered excitedly when I told her my age in my softest voice possible. “Join my Bible class! Next week come.”

Next week I didn’t come. In fact I’d completely forgotten about her until two months later when I received her card in the mail on my birthday.

On the outside, it had pink and yellow flowers drenched in glitter; on the inside, she’d written in cursive words: “Hi, how are you? Come back.”

When we were little, my family couldn’t afford birthdays. On the rare occasion when there was extra loose change, mum might boil two eggs for us on birthday mornings.

That year, that sparkling card was all I got. But it made my siblings green with envy and me feeling tall and happy.

More important, it helped me to listen better when a chapel speaker at school shared the Christmas story nine months later. That wasn’t the first time I heard the gospel though it was the only time I paid attention, and eventually received Jesus as my Savior.

Dozens of Christmases have since come and gone.

Having lived in Europe, Africa, India, the Philippines, Hong Kong, and Korea, I have observed Christmases in numerous climatic conditions, culture, and hairstyles.

I know the magic of a white Christmas with snow boots, scarves, and a sniffing runny nose; I have also sung “Silent Night” to booming Indian drum-beats, bundled up and bulky in six yards of sari.

But whatever the language or location, smell or sound, I have learned that Christmas should be exactly how it came to me 40 years ago.

Not about frantic gift buying (every year I hunt for, wrap and scotch-tape 37 presents for relatives alone), party dresses, and Christmas menus (one year I baked three turkeys; I hadn’t done turkey since).

But taking the trouble to come out of our comfort zone to go out of our way for others, because Jesus took the trouble to come down to earth and go to the cross for us.

It could mean coaxing that young one to church for the first time; asking for the name of that stranger sitting next to us every Sunday; and hunting down a card with pink and yellow flowers drenched in glitter, and sticking it in the mailbox so that we can tell that someone we haven’t seen for while:

“Hi, how are you? Come back.”