What's That Smell?

Ahadi, the ten-year-old daughter of Mwamba, stood beside her father and pointed down the slope from where her village rested on the mountain. Her mouth and eyes were wide open with wonder. She pointed at an oddity she had never seen. Three men in strange clothes and stranger skin were climbing toward their village. Ahadi spoke to her father as would any child seeing something so completely out of the ordinary. The excitement, fear, and curiosity in her voice was met with a hush from her father as he observed and examined a sight equally unfamiliar to him.

Mwamba raised his right hand and spoke a quick command. At his command, drums began to sound, calling the people of the village to acknowledge the arrival of outsiders. Soon, Ahadi's finger was not the only one pointing, and her voice was joined by a hundred others.

"Look at their skin. It has no color," shouted Ahadi's friend, Ambata.

The village was alive with the same question: "Who are they?"

"Well, I think we've been spotted," said Thomas as he looked up the hill and saw hundreds of smiles and stares. The closer Thomas, Cliff, and Samuel got to the village, the harder it became to breathe. Not because of the altitude, but because of the odor. No matter how many villages they entered in these mountains, they could not get used to the pungent odor of diseased skin afflicted with sores and lesions. The disease was not from a physical origin. It was spiritual.

Thomas first read about this strange mountain in an old book he had received when a missionary friend of the family gave Thomas his personal library. Thomas assumed it was nothing more than folklore, myth, and superstition. After all, who ever heard of an entire mountain range where the sinfulness of the people who lived there manifested itself in lesions, sores, and cracked skin?

Thomas had tried for years to dismiss the notion, but it kept returning to his thoughts nearly every time he prayed. At night, his dreams were filled with visions of dark-skinned people tormented by an itching, stinking disease. They cried out for someone to help them in his dreams. Finally, Thomas shared this peculiar information with Samuel, a friend at church. Samuel instantly became intrigued. Before long, their research led them to a few possibilities of where this mountain might be. They agreed to make an adventure out of laying the myth of this mountain to rest.

Thomas and Samuel took two trips and hiked four different mountains, but found nothing. On their second trip, at a rundown Kenyan hotel, they met Cliff, a global strategist for a soft drink company who just happened to be the grandson of a missionary. Within a few hours, Thomas was sharing his strange story with this complete stranger, expecting Cliff to write him off as delusional. But to his surprise, Cliff had heard of this mountain from his grandfather.

Cliff recounted to Thomas and Samuel how his grandfather often spoke of a mountain inhabited by diseased people. All Cliff remembered from those conversations was his grandfather's description of the horrendous odor that kept any missionaries from entering the villages and how each village on the mountain was outlined with fallen trees. Cliff remembered the "fallen tree fence" because of the unusual description of the tree. Each tree was large, twenty feet long, stripped of its bark and limbs, and twisted by nature into the shape of a snake.

It didn't take long before all three men were firing up their laptops and ipads to scan the mountains on Thomas' list through online satellite images. "It shouldn't be that hard to locate snake-shaped fences around villages," said Cliff.

"It wasn't," answered Thomas with a wry smile. He had found the images of the snake-like fence. Thus, he had found the mountain. The three men parted ways, agreeing on a time to return and visit this odd place they named Mission Mountain. That was four months ago.

Now they were here. Climbing the mountain of the "Skinners" - a name Samuel had tagged them with because their skin revealed their sin. The three men had taken every measure they could to prepare themselves for the tremendous odor. Nothing worked. The odor penetrated masks, cologne-drenched nostrils, and cotton balls dipped in vaseline and rammed up their noses. The men fought through the horrific smell of the disease because they knew they had the cure and they believed they had been sent to deliver the Skinners from this disease.

Mwamba was the first to approach the three men. He couldn't help but stare at their skin. It was not just the fascination of seeing white people. It was the rare glimpse of a disease-free adult. Only the babies of these villages had clear skin. Nothing they tried prevented it from infecting them as they grew older. No cure or ritual or witch doctor had ever been successful at relieving the pain, let alone removing the disease.

As with the other villages on the mountain range, the three men were met with great curiosity and overwhelming friendliness that erupted into joy and excitement. The entire population of the village was ecstatic to see the men.

It all replayed itself the same way it had in the other villages, until Hadiya approached the three men with tears, rushed up to them and began sniffing and smelling their hands and arms. Hadiya was an elderly woman who looked well past 90 years of age, but may have been younger due to the damaging effects of the disease. The sniffing and smelling from Hadiya caught the men off guard. This hadn't happened before.

As Hadiya inhaled their scent, her eyes closed in peace, she fell to her knees and lifted her hands to the sky, and muttered words from her heart language through tears of joy and gratitude.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say she was thanking God," said Samuel. The men were stunned at this because nowhere had they found anyone among the villages who believed in a personal God or showed any understanding of the concept of prayer.

None of the three men spoke the heart language of this group of people, but Cliff knew Swahili. He asked the crowd gathered around them in Swahili what the woman was saying, hoping that someone among them knew the language.

Mwamba stepped forward with tears streaming down his face. "Hadiya say, 'Thank you, Spirit-Man. Thank you for sending these men. You showed them to me when I was a girl. Now they are here to give us Your words that will free us from our pain.'"

Cliff stood there in awe. The shocked look on his face caused Samuel to ask, "What? What is it? What did she say?" Through tears, Cliff interpreted her words to Samuel and Thomas. They were all stunned at the powerful work of God.

After several long minutes of trying to absorb this holy moment, Thomas was still confused by the sniffing incident. "Why did she smell our skin?"

The translation process through Cliff, Mwamba, and Hadiya gave the answer: "Because the Spirit-Man said I would know these men were from Him because they would have His sweet fragrance."

While Cliff and Thomas slowly sniffed their own hands and arms, the word "fragrance" struck a nerve with Samuel. He quickly opened his New Testament to 2nd Corinthians 2:14-15, and read these words:

"Now thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and through us diffuses the fragrance of His knowledge in every place. For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing."

Salvation came to that village that day, as it had to others previously and since. God gave an unusual sign on this unusual mountain range. Every person in every village who placed his or her faith in Jesus was instantly healed of the skin disease. The pungent odor was blown away by the wind of the Spirit and the people took on the fragrance of Christ.


I Smell Pretty...do you?
Perry Crisp

Excuse Me While I Fly

People saw people flying. Or so they thought.

Last Friday, January 27, 2012, onlookers in Manhattan suddenly found themselves reliving the old "Superman" intro: "Look! It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's..."

No, it wasn't Superman. It was three remote-controlled people-kites. The promoters of a new series called "Chronicle" wanted to drum up some buzz about their show, so they hired some brilliant folks from the Academy of Model Aeronautics to design and fly remote controlled planes that look like people. The video of the live event is pretty amazing. It really looks like three people dressed in superhero costumes are flying around NYC.

As I watched the video, it sparked something on my insides. I want to fly. Without the airplane or parasail this time. I don't even want canisters of jet fuel strapped to my ankles. I just want to fly. Not a chemically enhanced flying, either. There was that time in the dentist chair with the novacaine when the dentist stepped out of the room and forgot to return. He finally returned to a very happy Perry. There were other times involving other things that I refuse to incriminate myself with from younger days. But, I don't want to just FEEL like I'm flying. I want to fly.

And I will.

"Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air..." (1st Thessalonians 4:17, NKJV).

Righteoussssss! No, really. Righteous. This is a promise to those who have dumped their own attempts at righteousness (being right and doing right) and accepted by faith the righteousness of God through a personal commitment relationship with Jesus Christ. A few verses before, Paul wrote, "For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again..." There it is. That's where it begins. Start there. Do you believe that Jesus died and rose again? If you can say "yes" to that, you're on your way.

Next you need to ask yourself why Jesus died and who Jesus died for. What was the whole purpose of it? The answer is found in the most googled spiritual, Biblical, or religious reference on the web - John 3:16: "For God so loved the world (replace 'the world' with your name) that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever (you, me, anybody) believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life."

I believe I will fly. Destination Jesus. No pilot. No seat belt. No kidding.

See you there...or in the air.

Perry

Resting on His Easel

I’m not smart enough to understand or explain all the things that happen in life. Some of life’s details puzzle me because my view is limited. While I don’t understand all the details, I believe I have a solid grasp on the big things - the really important stuff. I believe there is a God. But more than that, I believe He is a personal God who created us with a purpose and part of that purpose is to have a relationship with Him through love and faith. I also believe that a personal, loving God who creates with purpose and a desire to know His creation would send a message loud and clear to those He loves.

He did.

Short version? God has revealed the big things to us through His Son, Jesus Christ and His Word, the Bible.

The things that matter – the big things - are all covered in the life and message of Jesus and the Bible. Things like life, death, faith, hope, peace, forgiveness, grace, love, commitment, and eternity are all in the book. Above and behind all those things that matter is God – the Architect, the Artist, the Engineer – whatever metaphor works for you.

Today, let's think of God as the Artist. The world is His canvas. His brush moves with purpose. Included within that canvas is the heart and life of every one of God’s children. You are there. So am I. Somewhere on that enormous canvas, you'll find my portrait as only God can paint it. What you see in the God-painting of me depends on where you stand. If you narrow your focus into my life and see only a few details, you miss the big picture. But you not only miss the big picture of my life, you miss the bigger picture of God’s purpose.

Some of you have known me all my life. Others knew me in my childhood years. Many of you have known me just a few years or months. If you only see a few years or months of me, you stand too close to the canvas. If you focus only on what you’ve seen, you miss the greater understanding. It all depends upon what part of my life you have seen. You may have been in God's art studio while He was splashing my life with bright and brilliant colors. Or, you may have witnessed brush strokes of darker colors. Or both. Some of you have witnessed the good. Others, the bad. And those who have witnessed the ugly and remained friends? God bless you. God's paintbrush has dabbed from all corners of His palette while painting me.

You too?

If you talked to others who were in God's art studio of my life at a different time than you, it would be like zooming out from the canvas a bit. You would see with greater clarity. More importantly, the larger picture would come into view. The most important brush strokes on the canvas of my life occurred when I was a teenager. Against the backdrop of dark colors, I opened the canvas of my heart freely to God and surrendered my life to Him. I asked God to forgive me of my dark colors. I invited God to paint a cross across my heart and autograph the name JESUS into my soul. God dipped His brush into a blood-colored cup and swept it across my life. I went from a cheap "paint by numbers" future to a masterpiece in that moment.

I can’t explain some of the brush strokes. Some of the darker colors. Some are there because of my own selfishness and foolishness. Others are there mysteriously. If they have a purpose, I'm unable to figure them out.

But I don’t have to...because I trust the Artist.

Even when I know there’s a bigger picture that I haven’t seen and things I may never understand, I choose to trust and believe that He has a purpose. And I've never tried to make Him answerable to me. He's the Artist. I'm just the canvas.

Step back even further from the canvas of my life and you’ll see that God didn’t paint me separate from the rest of the painting. No. Some of the paint from my life bleeds into what God has painted and is painting into yours, and vice-versa. Influence lingers. Integrity stands in bold colors.

Our colors touch.

Like I said, my view is limited. None of us can explain all of the brush strokes God has painted into our lives. But there’s One whose view isn’t limited. God knows what He's doing. Even when those final brush strokes are made - just before our portion of the canvas is finished - there are liable to be many dark, undiscernible splashes where God's hand pushes hard on the brush. Sickness. Accidents. Loss. Failing health. Losing the struggle to breath. Where we might see tragedy, God sees majesty. In fact, the Bible says so. Psalm 116:15 says, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.”

I have a picture in my mind when one of God's dear children dies. It’s a picture of God setting the brush down, stepping back, looking at that portion of the canvas dedicated to the earthly life of that precious loved one, and smiling a smile of satisfaction that says, “Well done, Child. You are a good and faithful servant.”

Precious in the sight of God…

I’m not an artist nor the son of one and you may not be either, but we are a canvas. And there is an Artist. Brush in hand. Purpose in mind. Grace, love, and beauty in heart. Would you surrender the canvas of your heart to Him and trust Him? It makes all the difference in the world.

Resting on His Easel,
Perry Crisp

Fuzz Buster

God. Truth. Choice. Consequence. What do we do when words and concepts become fuzzy to us? We need to do some soul-searching. We need honest, painful, gut-check, reality checking.

Why? Because this stuff matters and matters forever. If God is who the Bible says He is and not just whatever you think He is, then this isn't a game. It's real. The real question when words and concepts become fuzzy to us is this: Are the words and concepts fuzzy in and of themselves or is it my vision that has become impaired?

The Bible is quite unfuzzy about God and truth. God doesn't change. Period. Do not try to adjust Him when He appears to gets fuzzy or when others try to convince you He's fuzzy. Genesis 3 tells us who is behind all attempts to make God and His word seem fuzzy. If God appears fuzzy to you, you're wearing Serpent glasses.

What about truth? Truth is truth. It doesn't change, either. Even when your society, your culture, your favorite talk show host, and your most esteemed and highest educated tongue-waggers tell you that truth is relative, it doesn't change the truth about truth. There is right and wrong. Period. The same God who isn't fuzzy has given us His unfuzzy and unfuzziable truth. Man can't tell God who God is. God tells man who God is.

Nor can man tell God what God should accept from man. Cain tried that. God wanted an animal sacrifice. Cain showed up with a vegetable tray as if to tell God, "I think this is better." Cain was dead wrong.

That leaves us with a choice - the third one in the list above. If God isn't fuzzy and God's truth isn't fuzzy, then how fuzzy are our choices? Not very. We have a choice to believe Him, His Word, His ways, and His promises (promises of what will happen to those who obey His truth and those who do not), or we can choose to disobey. There's no "Choice Purgatory" where we can bargain for a lesser degree of obedience or punishment. There isn't a court of appeals at the corner of heaven and hell.

We either choose to take God at His word and obey or we choose to disobey. After we make our choice to obey or disobey, we are then introduced to the consequences that tag along behind each choice. The consequences can be numerous. One consequence is that every sin I commit and refuse to repent of leads me to commit an even worse sin which leads to an even worse sin, and the tilt continually only leads me further from God and deeper into misery, emptiness, and loneliness.

Cain's anger led to the premeditated homicide of his brother and a curse upon him that was more than he could bear.

There are other consequences, as well. My sin hurts more than me. It hurts others, especially those close to me. As my selfishness rises, my view of their worth diminishes and the ego I feed becomes a beast who devours those who truly care about me.

Some consequences cannot be altered. If I stole a car, was arrested, and in jail asked God to forgive me, God would forgive. Would that cause the deputy to unlock the doors or the judge to dismiss the case? Not likely.

But...

(Aren't you glad there's a "but"?)

But God is a God of grace, mercy, love, and forgiveness. There is always a turning point with God. God doesn't condone what we do nor give us permission to continue what He says we should not do, but He does forgive us when we stop doing things our way and start doing them His way.

We ask. He forgives.
We pivot. He guides.
We stretch out our hand toward His to find His waiting on ours.

Cain found that God was merciful even to repentant murderers. I never killed my brother, though my thoughts on the subject came dangerously close a time or two. But I've made messes of my own. And I've found that God is merciful when I repent of my messes, too.

God. Truth. Choice. Consequence. It all starts with how accurate your vision of God is. There's a very accurate eye exam that starts in Genesis and ends in Revelation. Take it. If you see a cross with tearful clarity, you pass.

The Eyes Have It,
Perry Crisp

A Dad's Broken Heart in the Father's Blessed Hands

Six months ago, a fifteen-year-old FFA student named Skylar went to her home in heaven after an accident. She was in a suburban with other students and a school teacher heading to an FFA event when the accident occurred.

Last night, her dad, David, spoke to a house full of men about the journey of his family's loss. To say that it was touching is an enormous understatement. Yes, every man in the room was touched to see the grace of God at work in the life of a man faced with such grief and heartache. But more than that, we were challenged to live for God like never before.

David spoke from the raw, yet deep experiences of his six-month journey and came to some very sobering decisions. He said that when you go through something like what he and his family are going through, you have two options: "fall back on God or push God away." I am so thankful to have witnessed what happens in a man's life when he decides to fall wholeheartedly back on God. Everything changes. Especially your focus and your purpose.

David goes to bed at night and asks two questions: 1) What did I do for God today, and 2) what did God do for me today? He said the second one is always easier to list than the first. God always does more for us than we do for Him, but why don't we do more for Him than we do?

I didn't know Skylar until last night. I can honestly say I know her now because I've seen her through her daddy's heart. Her relatively short time on this earth was well-lived for her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Because of the way she lived her life for Christ, others have come to accept Him as their personal Savior, including a young girl whose route to school every day goes by the scene of the accident where Skylar died. That young girl and her family learned about Skylar and the way she lived her life for Christ, and she wanted to know Skylar's Savior personally.

I am challenged today by a dad whose love for God is helping him walk through the darkest nights of his life with a light that helps others find, believe in, and cling to our heavenly Father. The heart of that dad reminds me of the heart of that Father. God, our heavenly Father, gave His only Son willingly to die on the cross as an eternal payment for your sins and mine. That's an awesome Father, an amazing gift, and an incredible love!

Wherever you are right now -- whatever you're going through -- would you stop for a minute and make a decision to fall wholeheartedly into the arms of God? Pushing Him away only leads to darker darkness, lonelier loneliness, and emptier emptiness.

Darkness needs light. Loneliness needs presence. Emptiness needs substance. God gives all three generously to those who seek Him.

What can I do for You today, Lord?
Perry Crisp

War Against Words

"This is war!" Three words shouted by a madman just before he opened fire on the people gathered at First Baptist Church, Daingerfield, Texas in the summer of 1980. His "war" came without warning and was unleashed with tremendous fury on the innocent.

It was a war no one knew existed until it erupted that June morning. It was a war I will never forget. It has left permanent visual images on my mind. Since that day, there have been similar one-man acts of war that have ambushed innocent people on college campuses, churches, schools, and other public places.

There are wars we know are wars, and there are wars we remain unaware of until we're under attack. There are visible, strategic, correspondents-on-the-ground wars and invisible, surprise, no-one-knew-this-was-coming wars. Pearl Harbor and Nine Eleven rank high on our nation's memory of surprise attacks.

There are at least two ways to be invisible. One is to fly under the radar so that no one sees you. The other is to be so cleverly disguised that no one sees you even when you're right out in the open. There is an invisible war taking place right now. It is not flying under the radar. It is out in the open. Yet, few see it.

Even though it is a war on all fronts, it continues to go unnoticed. The reason it continues to go unnoticed is because its strategy is one of slow erosion. The outer defenses have been systematically removed with intellectual sniper fire. Yet, it is not a war against man, though man is a casualty. It's a war against paper. Paper? Paper. Documents. Parchments. Scrolls. It is a war against the authoritative documents once respected and obeyed in this land.

The strength of this nation is directly linked to the principles, values, and Divine guidance found in written form. The primary source of the U. S. Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, our nation's authoritative documents, is the Bible. Those who question that fact wear a darker blindfold than Lady Liberty. Not for the sake of justice, but for the sake of defiance against the notion of an involved God in the affairs of man.

The content of our conduct contained in those parchments of liberty and law are reflective of that which is contained in God's Word. State Constitutions are an even greater reflection of a Biblical foundation. Yet, we now live in a day when all the authoritative documents of our land, especially the Bible, are under fire.

Liberties are being squeezed into handcuffs. Laws of God-ordained human conduct and decency are being court marshalled. Man has assumed an editing role over what God has written and drawn red ink X's over sections that do not meet with their approval or desired lifestyle urges.

When men elevate themselves above their authoritative documents, there is anarchy. When men tell God who He can and cannot be and what He can and cannot do or say, the insane have truly taken over the sanitarium.

We have mislabeled arrogance and called it wisdom. We have substituted pride with what we were told was enlightenment. We have forced nature to accept what is unnatural. We have become so subnormal that the normal is now seen as abnormal. We celebrate homosexuality and mock celibacy. We fight vociferously to save whales in icy waters and send scalpels into hearts beating with human life inside human wombs. We have decided humans are evolved monkeys and then wondered why our children act more like monkeys than humans.

This is a war that is fully engaged and rapidly gaining strength. We need to be students of history. When Israel behaved similarly, turned her back on God's Word and God's ways, allowed man-made gods equal status to the God who made man, the God who made man removed His hedge of protection and allowed peoples of distant lands and purveyors of pagan religions to cart them off as conquered enemies.

To engage this battle for the soul of this nation, let us return to the primary document of true faith which includes the following directive: "If My people who are called by My name, will humble themselves, and pray and seek My face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin and heal their land" (2 Chronicles 7:14).

The hope of healing for this nation is real. You have just read the prescription needed to bring healing. Will we fall to our knees...or be brought to them?

On the Battlefield of Prayer,
Perry Crisp

Homeless No More

Last Saturday, Max Melitzer's life and world changed. Max started out the day the same way he had for at least four years - pushing a shopping cart that contained his few possessions, roaming the streets of Salt Lake City, Utah, eating at rescue missions, and sleeping outside.

Max had no home and no hope...until Saturday. As Max pushed his shopping cart through Pioneer Park, a man approached him and asked if they could sit and talk. Max sat down on a park bench and received the news that his brother who had died of cancer last year left him a significant amount of money in his will. Max knew that his brother had died, but had no idea that he had been included in his brother's will.

David Lundberg, the private detective hired by the Melitzer family to find Max, told the Associated Press, "He'll no longer be living on the street or in abandoned storage sheds. He'll be able to have a normal life, and be able to have a home, provide for himself, and purchase clothing, food and health care."

Last Saturday, Max sat down a poor man and stood up a rich man. He had done nothing to improve the status of his life. Nor was it blind luck that reversed his course. Max's life changed because of a generous gift from someone who loved him more than he realized.

Max knew that his brother had died. But he didn't know that his brother's death turned the tumblers that opened a vault that would change his destiny.

You probably have some level of knowledge regarding the person named Jesus of Nazareth. The Christ. The Messiah. It is also quite likely that you have been informed that Jesus died on a cross 2,000 years ago.

But did you know...

•Jesus loves you more than you realize?

•Jesus was heaven's generous gift to you that opened an eternal inheritance you could never earn or repay?

•Jesus' death turned the tumblers that opened heaven's vault that could change your forever destiny if you will accept Him by faith?

Max received an inheritance from someone who loved him. An inheritance that came only after death. Max has a choice. He can either accept or refuse the gift. But how could he turn away from that sacrificial gift of love without rejecting the giver? I'm sure that Max feels unworthy and humbled by the gift. But I'm also sure that he loves his brother now more than ever because he knows how much his brother truly loved him.

Your response to Jesus is the same. You have the same options Max has, yet with eternal implications and consequences. I yearn to testify that I have accepted the sacrificial gift from Jesus, though no one is less worthy of it or more humbled by it.

Jesus loves me, this I know - for the cross tells me so.
Perry Crisp

You've Got Sole!

Conception. Birth. Infancy. Childhood. Adolescence. Adulthood. Death. Seven stages of your life and mine. Most of us have used up the first five and transitioned into the sixth. Unlike the others, there's not a chronological mark that tells us when we're going to the next.

Some of you are just getting used to the sixth. Like breaking in a new pair of boots, you are learning who you are as an adult. Others of us have thoroughly broken into the sixth and settled into a well-defined pattern of behavior and thinking. Life at this point is about comfort. Our boots may not have the shine they used to, but they're comfortable. Still others of us are not just broken in, we're breaking through! The boots are getting so worn, they're falling apart. We're not sure how much longer they will last. Soon enough, there won't be anything left but the --- sole.

Look at those seven words at the top of the page again. Is there anything missing? Of course there is. Even if the whole world is a stage, life is more than stages. While there's so much more to life than those seven words, there's one word missing that is the most important of all: Purpose.

Purpose answers the question, "Why?" Why life? Why the stages? Why did I start as a twinkle in my parent's eyes and end up as a tearful memory in the eyes of my children?

What's the point of going through those seven stages? Surely you've thought about this. Please tell me you've wrestled internally with this and not just accepted what others have told you.

What is your purpose? What is mine? To be another human on the assembly line of human history? Here I come. There I go. That was fun. Really?

Whatever your honest answer is to the purpose question will naturally and logically lead you to the existence of a personal Creator. If you say, "My purpose is to love...or make a difference in this world...or help others...or observe and appreciate life and beauty..." ---- you've led yourself naturally to see that you are expressing a reflection of the nature of your Creator.

Since there is a Creator, who is He and what is His purpose in creating me and you?

Come on. Keep going. Don't stop. Even if it goes against everything this world has taught you, you owe it to yourself to wrestle with the purpose question and follow it's trail until it leads to the pot of gold known as "truth."

Even if you've been taught there is no such thing as tangible truth, don't let other people put stop signs on a trail when your heart says there is more beyond. Your boots are wearing thin. You've got a sole to think about.

You and I both know people who went on to stage seven early in the sixth stage while the boots were still new. Others have skipped some of the other stages and gone to the seventh. There are no "Seventh Stage Two Miles Ahead" exit signs.

It's a dangerous thing to get comfortable short of the truth. Keep going, please. And be honest.

The sole may die, but...

A Soul Lives Forever.
Perry Crisp

Lynn, May I?

Did you ever play “Mother, may I” as a child? I remember playing this game a few times. Each time, it was with my big sister, Lynn – the mother of all “Mother, may I” contestants. She was the oldest and the only female among us three children, so she felt it fitting that she should always be the first mother in the game of "Mother, may I."

My brother, Mark, and I never ever made it to the finish line to dethrone Lynn as top mama. Occasionally, she would feel generous and say, “Yes, you may.” Unless you asked for giant steps. As long as Lynn was big mama, it was baby steps or nothing. By far, her favorite answer was, “No, you may not!”

She was cute and always smiled when she said it, but there was something sinister about the whole thing. Thankfully, the cute part of Lynn has stayed with her and the sinister part has eroded over the years…I think! (I guess we’ll never know until or unless we have a “Mother, may I” rematch!)

Other than recalling the goofy eyeglass frames of the 60's that Lynn and Mark both wore back then, I don’t have fond memories of “Mother, may I.” But there is another game I absolutely LOVE to play – “Father, may I?” Actually, it’s not a game at all. It’s a way of life for the believer. “Father, may I” is the greatest conduit to the largest supply of resources in this world or any other.

Our Father has unlimited resources to match His unlimited love and grace. His only begotten Son, Jesus, taught us all about “Father, may I.”

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened” (Matthew 7:7-8, NKJV).

I’ll get us started and let’s all make it a daily part of our lives to say, “Father, may I?”

“Father, may I see Your mighty hand of revival sweep across this continent again?”

“Father, may I have the privilege of sharing your love and grace-message to one more person?”

“Father, may I sit near You for awhile and tell You I love You over and over again?”

What better month than the month of “May” and what better week than the one which holds the National Day of Prayer (this Thursday) to renew our zeal to ask, “Father, may I?”

Yes, You May.
Perry Crisp

Is It Just Me or is There a Rough Draft in Here?

I am only a co-writer in the story of my life. God is the true Author. He's the Editor-in-Chief. He writes the events, characters, the timing of things, and the circumstances of my daily environment. He schedules appointments and disappointments. I can only write in response to what He writes. My feelings. My faith. My lack of either. He sets the stage. He writes in advance. He knows what's in chapter 24 while I'm still in chapter 12. I walk onto today's stage without script or preparation. My life-writing is impromptu. My responses reveal who I truly am. But I know I'm not writing alone. He has a plan and His plan is good. So, I take what He writes and hope that I gain wisdom, but so often I lose character. I do respond with wisdom...sometimes (occasionally maybe? Okay, so it's more like occasionally-bordering-on-rarely). Most of the time I react emotionally and regret what I write with my words or my actions. Yet even then, God gives me opportunity to rewrite. What feels like permanent red ink boiling out of me in one instant is touched by His eraser of forgiveness the next. He allows for rough drafts. His Spirit lends gentle correction to my outbursts. He calms my trembling hand. He soothes my broken heart. I'm given a second chance to right what's wrong with what I've written. An example from a past manuscript of my life is in order. Please understand -- I'm not proud of some of the things I've written into my life. I usually don't let people see the rough drafts. But I feel compelled to revisit an important chapter. Perhaps you have a chapter comparable to mine. This particular chapter began May 14, 1993. It was a day that I had scheduled for celebration, but it took an unpredictable bounce into a night filled with tears. I was an inexperienced life-writer. I wrote as if life bounced like a basketball. The bounce of a basketball is predictable. You learn the feel of it and know where it's going to be when it bounces back up. Your fingertips can anticipate a basketball so well that your eyes never have to look down. The bounce is in the script. Everything goes according to script. Like I said...I was inexperienced. I looked forward to May 14, 1993. I worked hard for years to get to May 14, 1993. When it finally came, the joy, exhilaration, and adrenalin I felt holding that piece of paper that certified a 92-hour Master's degree is hard to describe. My family and church family were in the audience standing and applauding when my name was called...just like I had written into the script. We celebrated with a graduation party, gifts, and cake. In the script. All was right with the world. The basketball of life was bouncing according to my anticipated desires. Somewhere between the last bite of cake and bedtime, the basketball turned into a football. My life took a very unpredictable bounce. I learned that night that the only thing predictable about life is that it is predictably unpredictable. Life bounces like a football. Ever tried dribbling a football? Try it. You'll understand. Late that night, after the kids were in bed, my mom and dad said they had something to tell us. Mom was in a rocking chair. She was rocking that chair hard. She licked her lips a couple of times as she struggled for words. Something inside me knew I wasn't prepared for what she was about to say. I knew everything I had written had been said. I didn't write what was about to be said. Her cancer was back. This time, it was bone cancer. This time, short of God's powerful, yet fully capable intervention, it would take her life. Suddenly, all that was right with the world vanished into the shadows. My hand hung in the air waiting for the basketball to bounce back up. It never did. A year later, Mom finished her fight, completed her race, and received her crown. I pretended I was still dribbling a basketball. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know how to grieve. I should have put the pen down and stopped writing. It wasn't a fairy tale. It was real. It hurt. Unresolved hurt leads to anger. I tried to resolve it with my resolve. Just keep dribbling. Just keep dribbling. Maybe no one will notice there's no ball there. Maybe if I just kept dribbling, the ball would find its way back. It didn't. Anger has many expressions. Internally, I began to write in invisible ink. Under the surface. A new me. An ugly me. Not for publication. The roughest of rough drafts. Subconsciously, I was angry at the Author. Deep inside me, I fired the Editor-in-Chief and took over all the publication duties of my life. The anger got ugly. Jesus once said, "Apart from Me, you can do nothing." He's right. But in that chapter of my life, you could add one word to the end of His sentence and it would still be true: "Apart from Me, you can do nothing GOOD." I did nothing good. I tried. I took tools too big for my hands into my hands and tried to build my own kingdom. How silly. I'm not an ancient Chinese, but I came up with a proverb: "He who cannot build bird house has no business building a kingdom." It didn't stand. It fell. So did I. Through a process outlined below, I quit playing editor-in-chief of my life and humbly welcomed the authentic Editor-in-Chief back into His rightful place in my life. Life still bounces like a football. I can't predict it. But wow --- you ought to see God dribble a football! It's no problem for Him. How to Rewrite Life - A Process Learned the Hard Way by Perry Crisp: 1. Be Ready. It will happen to you. The predictability of the unpredictable in your life is my prediction. Go ahead and accept it. Count on it. Be ready for anything. Make sure you have more than a fair-weather faith while the weather is still fair. 2. Be Confident: (a) in the power of prayer (Do you realize that Jesus prayed? Jesus would not have prayed if prayer were powerless), and (b) in the presence of friends. Friends may not always understand. In fact, they may even seem clumsy, insensitive, and unthinking at times. But the truth is, they care -- else they wouldn't be there. 3. Be Real. Life isn't a fairy tale. It doesn't go according to our script. While you grapple with accepting that, also give yourself permission to be real with God about your feelings, your hurt, your loss, and your anger. He's a big God. He can handle it. 4. Be Right. With God. The temptation when life takes an unpredictable, unfair, and painful bounce is to let go of God and give up on your faith. I've been there. That path only leads to a dead end of misery. Resist bitterness. You must decide: Do I want to be bitter or get better? It's an either/or choice. Accept what can't be changed. Focus on what's left, not what's lost. Hang on. Cling tighter. Cry louder. Lean harder. Surrender more. His anchor holds through the fiercest storm. 5. Be Renewed. You can't force or fake this part. It's a work of God's grace. Renewal comes through surrender. "God, take what's left. Take what I've made a mess of. It's all in Your hands. I'm in Your hands. I thought I had control. That was just an illusion. I have no control. You have control...as it should be. Renew Your Spirit in me." 6. Bless Others. I know it sounds crazy. But God has wired the universe so that we get better by reaching out to meet the needs of others in spite of our own neediness. Do you need to feel loved? Love someone. Do you need hope? Extend hope to another. Do you need a second chance? Give someone else a second chance. Trust me. It works. "Father, here is a crumpled, worn, tear-stained rough draft. I submit it to You in hopes that You will use it today to speak to my fellow struggling life-writers." Amen... Perry Crisp

A Tearful Cast

Two of us will remember that Spring day in 1970 for the rest of our lives...but for very different reasons. It was my first fishing tournament and my first fishing trophy. I was eight years old and yes - I still have the trophy. Fifteen or twenty of us boys from our church group were camping and fishing on the Sam Rayburn Reservoir. None of our adult sponsors had a boat, so we all had to fish the RA (Royal Ambassador) Invitational Bass tournament from the bank.

My Zebco 33 reel was on a brand new Ugly Stick rod and I was chunking a black and chartreuse H&H spinner bait. The night before the tournament we all took turns bragging about who was going to catch the most fish or the biggest fish. I don't know about the other guys, but I was determined to make my words come true. When the time came to start the tournament, I was pumped up and ready to go. With every cast, I gave it all I had. I pushed the button on the Zebco reel, reared that rod back, and rocket-propelled that H&H as far as it would go.

I had two strategies: 1) Cover more water than anyone else. 2) Throw into the brush and stumps where the other guys were afraid to throw. It paid off. Melvin was my only competition and we were both about even when I saw a fallen tree about twenty yards out. I landed my spinner bait right in front of that fallen tree time after time and came back with nothing. To toss over the tree was a risk even I didn't want to take because it meant I would definitely get hung up and lose my lure. The only way I wouldn't get hung up was if a fish hit the lure before it got to the tree. Even if a fish hit it, the chances of dragging a fish over a fallen tree were very slim.

Then Melvin caught another fish.

Before I knew it, my H&H was flying over that fallen tree. No sooner than it hit the water, a four pound bass wrapped his lips around it. My line was zigging and zagging across the bark of that fallen oak. I gave the line a great big yank and two miracles happened. The fish came clear out of the water, over the tree. That was miracle number one. Miracle number two, he didn't spit the hook out. I still had him. My skinny eight-year-old frame fought that bass like he was a marlin. I landed the fish. But before I could celebrate, I noticed Melvin was fishing again. He was chunking over fallen trees.

I gave my prize catch to one of the sponsors so I could get back to fishing. I figured there might be another fish on the other side of that fallen oak. Some of the boys on that fishing trip had never seen a four pound bass, so they were all gathered behind me admiring the fish I caught. But I was worried about Melvin.

I settled my feet into the muddy bank, pushed the button on the reel, reared back, and tried to chunk that spinner bait to the same spot, but my lure got caught in something behind me. I didn't look back to see what it was. I just kept yanking.

At first, I thought it was a tree limb above me, and if I just yanked hard enough, it would break loose. Then I noticed something. Every time I yanked, Macky yelled. I turned around to see that the hooks of my H&H were caught in the top of Macky's head! He had been behind me admiring my recent catch -- only to become my next one.

I never got another chance to toss on the other side of that oak because the sponsors called an end to the tournament while they dug my hooks out of Macky's head with their pocket knives.

I got a trophy. Macky got stitches. Neither of us will ever forget that day. But for different reasons. It was a moment of pride for me, but pain for him.

There's coming a day the whole world will never forget. A day that will cause some to rejoice and many others to regret. It will be the day to end all days. The day all days end. Then, according to Jesus in Matthew 24-25, there will be a separation. Some will inherit a glorious eternity in the presence of God. Others will begin an eternity of unspeakable sadness and pain.

All will be fair. All will be final. The good news of God's love and His grace-gift of eternal life through faith in Jesus Christ is within your heart's grasp. Trust Him or turn away from Him. It's your choice. But it is the biggest decision you'll ever make with the longest lasting results you'll ever experience. It'll be a day none of us will ever forget.

I pray it won't be for different reasons.

Perry Crisp

Think Again

You Thought...

...You were indestructible.
...You were incorruptible.

...You would never make THAT mistake.
...You would never be in THIS situation.

...Life lasted forever.
...Love lasted forever.

...You had everything figured out.
...You had everyone figured out.

...He/she was your friend.
...She/he/it wouldn't change.

...YOU wouldn't change.

*********

You Didn't Think...

...Yesterday would shape and distort today.
...Tomorrows would decrease and yesterdays would increase.

...The kids would grow up so fast.
...You would grow old so soon.

...Emptiness would be this hard to fill.
...Loneliness could be this deep to fall.

...Truth is absolute.
...God is involved.

...The culture was wrong.
...The Bible was right.

...You needed to change.

"Seek God while He's here to be found, pray to Him while He's close at hand. Let the wicked abandon their way of life and the evil their way of thinking. Let them come back to God, who is merciful, come back to our God, who is lavish with forgiveness. 'I don't think the way you think. The way you work isn't the way I work,' decrees God." ~ Isaiah 55:7-8 (The Message).


Think Again,

Perry Crisp

Knowin' vs. Guessin'

A quick check of current bass fishing lures at a major retailer lists 937 types. With each type, there are size and color variations on the average of 22 per type. Multiply those together and you need a tackle box that can hold 20,614 items.

What's a fisherman to do? Unless he is on speaking terms with a largemouth bass (and I know a few people who ARE), he is forced to guess. There are, however, different levels of guessing.

Take Homer and his wife, Etta, for example. Being the romantic husband that he is, Homer decided to take Etta fishing on Valentine's Day. Actually, he had planned on taking her to the Dairy Queen but it wasn't his fault the bass began their pre-spawn activity on Valentine's Day!

So the two lovebirds hopped into the john boat and headed to the north end of the lake. Being the generous and loving husband that he is, Homer rigged Etta's pink and purple female-type fishing pole with a Texas-rigged, super killin', hog smashin' craw-worm. He told her to chunk it on out there, let it hit bottom, and then slowly crank it in, giving the rod an occasional pop. Even though Etta never said, "Huh?" - Homer knew the look. Being the patient husband that he is, he chunked it out there for her and demonstrated his prior instructions.

After a long ten minutes of fishing and catching nothing, Etta went to fiddling around in Homer's tackle boxes.

"What are you doing, sugar muffin?" asked Homer.

"I'm looking for something else to fish with. Something with a little bling to it," answered Etta. She looked up at him with her one good eye and grinned that gorgeous, albeit toothless, grin that always melted his heart. He returned the grin with a nod and a half smile, then turned where she couldn't see him smirk.

Homer thought to himself, "Bling? Did she say bling? It's a tackle box, not a jewelry box. She ain't gonna catch nothin. And when I catch me a hawg on this here craw-worm, she'll be sorry she didn't listen to the master!"

Homer prided himself on knowing exactly what the fish were biting. He even bragged to his buddies that God blessed him with a fish's brain and he "knowed what they were thinkin'."

Etta pulled a ten-inch worm out of the bottom of Homer's tackle box and held it up. "Can I try this one?" she asked.

Homer had no idea how such a worm ever made it's way into his tackle box. That worm was a sight! It looked like a mardi gras parade puked all over it. It had every bright-colored, glittery speck you could imagine imbedded into it's black and motor-oil colored body.

Homer spit. Then he spoke. "Apparently, that old worm has set too long on the bottom of my tackle box," he said. "And all the glitters and sparkles from other baits melted into it. That's the ugliest thing I ever saw! The fish ain't gonna hit that thing. In fact, it'll probably scare 'em all away...honey pie."

She batted her eye, squared her jaw, and tried to stand up in the boat so she could put her hands on her hips (a posture Homer knew all too well). "But, but, but, if my four-leaf clover darlin' wants to fish with that," Homer corrected himself. "Then, by golly, she's gonna fish with it."

Etta sat back down and grinned like a giddy school girl. Homer took the bling mardi gras puke worm from her hand and put it on her hook. It went against every fiber of his being and he hoped no one could see him. Etta cast the worm about two feet, making an awful splash as that big worm hit the water right next to the boat.

While Homer was shaking his head and whispering his good-byes to all the bass in a two-mile radius, Etta's pole went to bending and Etta went to screaming, "I got one!"

"No way!" Homer shouted before he could stop himself.

"Yes, way!" Etta yelled back. "Stop standin' there gawkin'. Get the net!"

"You sure it ain't a stump or a gar or a trot line?" Homer asked and instantly regretted asking it. Before that sentence got to "trot line," Homer knew the answer. A bass so big it would be a wallhanger in Jimmy Houston's house (pause for a moment of silence at the mention of his name) jumped straight up out of the water, did a hula dance in mid-air with five inches of puke worm hanging out of her mouth, and headed straight back down.

"Hang on, Etta! I'm gettin' the net. Give her some slack or she'll break your line," Homer shouted.

Etta leered at him and said, "I got this! You just get the net."

Homer did the husband hunker that all men are familiar with. The one that says, "Yes ma'am" without the words.

The fish was longer than the mouth of the net, but they managed to get her into the boat. After a dozen high fives, a thousand hoops and hollers, and a couple of pictures with the polaroid, Etta turned to the crowd that had gathered at the bank and held her lunker hawg big momma bass up like Jay Yelas at the Bassmasters (another pause). She could hear the folks whistling and shouting.

When she turned back around, Homer, being the humble husband that he is, was digging in the bottom of his tackle box for a ten-inch black and motor-oil worm with some bling on it.

The lesson of Homer and Etta is three-fold: 1) Take your dog - NEVER your wife - fishing on Valentine's Day. 2) If you DO take her fishing and she catches a bigger fish than you, DON'T go to the Dairy Queen right after that. 3) No matter how good a guesser you are when it comes to fishing -- everyone occasionally guesses wrong, and anyone can occasionally guess right.

Fishing is guesswork. But you can improve your chances of guessing right by learning patterns, studying the seasonal behavior of fish, discovering what is and is not working from other experienced fishermen (and knowing whether they are lying to you or not), and by following the three P's: practice, practice, practice.

However, even a first-time fisherman can crawl into a boat or stand on a bank and be in the right place at the right time with the right bait. The guesswork factor in fishing is what makes it fun.

Unless you're fishing for answers to life's questions.

Life was never meant to be a guessing game. The Creator of life did not create haphazardly. He created with purpose, design, and compassion. He not only planned YOU, He has a plan FOR you. You don't have to guess. You just have to search.

Where do you begin searching? The first place to search for God's plan for your life is in the Bible. It is God's instruction manual for man. In it, you will find truth. Truth is the guide of life that we all need. Jesus said, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father but by Me" (John 14:6).

The truth of the Bible also tells us that "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life" (John 3:16). That's not a guess. That's a guarantee from the Manufacturer.

A second place to search is in prayer. Prayer is simply opening your heart to God and talking to Him. You can tell Him how you feel. You can ask Him to show you what He wants you to know. You can ask Him anything. He longs to hear from you. A third place to search is in a healthy church. Being around other followers of Christ gives you people just like you to talk to, lean on, and learn from.

This life and the one following is too important to leave it all up to chance. God wants you to know. He hasn't put 20,614 options in front of you. Just one. His Son. I pray you will accept Jesus as, not only the Savior of the world who died for the sins of the world, but as YOUR personal Savior who loves you and died for you.

Googling Really Large Tackle Boxes,
Perry Crisp

The Game of Life Isn't

Life, for a lot of people, really is like Monopoly. People have their preferences. Some like the race car. Others want the thimble. Everyone has a niche. A thing. A game piece molded into a tiny idol. They go around and around trying to win more stuff than their neighbors while also hoping to avoid penalties and prison. When the game is over, they want to be the one who owns the bank and the board.

What then?

It's still a lot like Monopoly. The game ends. The board is folded up and placed in a box. All the houses and hotels slide off the board and into a bag. All the property cards are rubber-banded together and placed in a plastic holder. The winner realizes all that he or she has won is fake. All that paper money and all those property cards mean nothing in the end. You can't take them with you.

The luck of the dice and the legs of skilfull ability can only take a person so far. Then comes the end. And in the end, it will not matter what you've accomplished or accumulated. Your lifeless arms will be folded and your body will be placed in a box. Game over.

Or is it?

Have you ever played a game with someone who changed the rules for his or her own benefit? Penalties that applied to you did not apply to them for some obscure reason. Rewards that advanced them did not advance you.

Funny how people like to shape their own realities with nothing to go on but their own selfishly-shaped perceptions. It is most obvious when you talk to them about "Game Over."

Ask them what happens when you die and you will hear about heaven, nirvana, reincarnation, and a few who believe you just stop existing altogether.

They've created a monopoly world and changed some of the squares. They don't like the idea of hell, so they cut and paste "Free Parking" over it. They don't like some of the truths in the Bible, so they remove those verses from the card pile.

Oh, but they like heaven. So, all four corners of their board lead to heaven.

How would you feel if you were the creator of the game, the writer of the rules, the placer of the squares, and you made your game public only to find everyone else manipulating your monopoly?

Probably the same way Elizabeth Maggie Phillips felt. Lizzie, a Quaker, invented a game board in 1903 and called it "The Landlord's Game." The purpose of Lizzie's game was to teach people how monopolies end up bankrupting the many while giving extraordinary wealth to one person. It was intended to illustrate the negative aspects of greed.

People started playing her game and it had the opposite impact on them. Instead of teaching them to beware of greed, it fed their greed. They liked winning. They enjoyed taking everyone else's property and money. Others took her idea and redeveloped it into Monopoly. Wikipedia calls Monopoly "the domination of a market by a single entity."

Can you imagine how Lizzie felt?

God can.

God made life, created the players, wrote the rules, and placed the truths of eternity squarely into reality. He put the cards in the pile that say, "Do not..." He filled the board with good things and gave clear instructions on how to find them and how to avoid the bad things. And even when bad things were inevitable and the players needed a helping hand, God put His own Son into the game. Jesus is the "Get out of hell free" card of life.

But we keep trying to change His rules. We keep editing what He has written. We keep sticking temporary labels over permanently etched facts.

There is an enormous difference between Lizzie and God that you need to know about. Lizzie was powerless to stop the manipulation of her creation. In fact, she even succombed to it and republished her game to take advantage of everyone's greed and accumulate her own.

God is not powerless. You can try to rewrite the game all you want. You cannot erase what He has written. Cancel hell on your board. But it will still be on God's board. What God calls sin on His board will still be punishable no matter what you've called it on yours.

God loves you. Because He does, He wants you to know the truth. And it doesn't matter if your name is Rich Uncle Pennybags with your little moustache, smoking jacket, walking cane, and top hat --- Only the truth can set you free.

This isn't a game.

What Was I Going to Put Here for a Title?

Reminders. I'm amazed at how many I need. God, in His sovereignty, allowed someone in the past to invent Post-it-Notes because He knew I would be born! I live in a yellow-sticker world.

I drive a pickup truck that has a yellow sticker on the windshield put there graciously by the oil and lube folks who hope it will remind me that my oil needs to be changed. When my truck gets low on gas, an annoying noise dings and a yellow light comes on to remind me to get gas. When my tires need inflating, my dashboard flashes a yellow icon that looks like a flat tire. My truck is filled with electronic Post-it-Notes!

Why do I need to be reminded of so many things? Maybe I'm ADD. I don't know. I've made a few (34) appointments to get tested, but something else always came up and I missed the appointments. I understand why I need to be reminded to do routine tasks. They're minor. It's the important stuff that shouldn't require a hai-karate slap. I shouldn't go fuzzy on the big things.

But I do. We all do.

Many of the most popular phrases of our existence, whether they are on bumper stickers or in our Bibles, are reminders of important stuff.

"Seek first the kingdom of God..." is the key to having our priorities right. It's the motto that should drive our motor. Do we? Do we wake up every morning locked in on what God wants? Or do we need reminding?

"Live, laugh, love..." are words that decorate our homes and color our imaginations to remind us how we ought to redeem every moment we've been given. Do we? Do we truly live, savoring every moment of every day? Or do we frequently coast, occasionally trudge, or set our mental gauges on "Just Get Me Through This Day"? Do we laugh? Really laugh. Unrestricted laughter that makes squeaking or snorting noises. The kind of laughter that doubles us over and barely stops long enough to let us breathe. Do we love? Love isn't words or feelings alone. Love is action. Love loves. Love lets others know we thought enough of them to do something unexpected. We should never need a reminder to love.

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart...and your neighbor as yourself." The Bible is obsessed with this one. From Genesis to maps, we are reminded to love God and each other. God is crazy about love because He's crazy about you. Do we? Do we love Him and each other? If love is action and not words or feelings alone, how much love is God getting from you? From me? How about that neighbor? Is he/she feeling the love? Oh, how oft we need reminding.

"Don't worry. Be happy." Four words. Two statements of two letters each. We know them, sing them, and are familiar with the two dots of eyes, the upward smiling curve in a circle of....YELLOW (another Post-it-Note) that symbolizes the saying. But are we? Are we happy and worry-free? Some of us are medicated with happy pills and still can't find our sweet spot. We are like the camel who said, "I don't care what anybody says, I'm thirsty!" In spite of the "don't-worry-be-happy" montra, we do worry and we aren't always happy. So we need reminding.

These reminders have become familiar to us through repetition. They are necessary for us because we lose focus. We all need occasional reminders more than occasionally.

So, what's the point of all this? I don't know. I got distracted. Let me scroll back up and read. Oh yeah. We need reminders of the important because we are easily distracted by the urgent. I'm not advocating the need for group meetings. Even if we organized an RA group (Reminders Anonymous), I'd forget to show up.

Just consider this a Post-it-Note of the important in your life. I don't know the details of the most important notes of your existence, but I'm sure it involves love. Consider yourself reminded!

,

Perry Crisp

Four Big Days

"So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom" (Psalm 90:12).

The Bible speaks often of the number of our days. Even if the Bible didn't tell us, we would still know that our days are numbered. An afternoon walk through a cemetery, reading tombstones, would provide us with the sobering news that a number will be placed on the other side of our dash. We also know that the number of days rarely reaches 36,500.

Let's be gracious and say that you and I live 36,510 days. We both reach and barely pass 100 years. I've already used up nearly half of mine and it really seems to have gone by fast. Life has a heavy foot. The days in the rearview are mostly a blur. Job called them a shadow and said they move faster than a weaver's shuttle. The Psalmist and James describe life as a vapor that appears for a brief time and then disappears.

Depressing? It can be. Especially when you read about Job's life and then check out his philosophy, "We were born yesterday, and know nothing because our days on earth are a shadow" (Job 8:9).

So much for our frequently used line of self-defense, "Do you think I was born yesterday?"

Job's answer? "Yup."

Compared to eternity. Compared to God. We were born yesterday and will die tomorrow when you compare our life to His. No wonder our dash is so small. We aren't even a hiccup on the timeline of human history. On the chart of eternity? No microscope could find us compared to the God who has no beginning, no dash, no expiration date, and no tombstone. A grave tried to hold His Son once, but failed.

Speaking of His Son...

Of the days numbered on the chart of human history, there are three that are significant to the world: The day of Christ's birth, the day of Christ's death, and the day of Christ's resurrection. Those three days changed everything!

You don't have to count very high to "gain a heart of wisdom." Once you realize the significance of those three days, you are on your way to a very important fourth day. Your day of grace. Your spiritual birthday. Mine came in the fifteenth year of my life. A couple of months after my 5,475th day of oxygen, I confessed to God that I was a sinner and invited Jesus Christ to be my personal Savior. God forgave me. Jesus saved me. That day became the center point of the pendulum swing of my life. No matter how many ticks of the clock I have left on this earth, everything changed that day.

My soul was moved out of time's control and into eternity's vault. The promise from God's Word is that I now belong to Him and will spend eternity with Him before the tombstone carver can chisel the date on the other side of the dash.

Three days changed history. The fourth one changes eternity. Today is a great day for your fourth. I pray you will accept God's gift of eternal life through Jesus Christ and invite Him into your life today.

Briefly Yours, Eternally His...
Perry Crisp

That Wasn't Ferry Nice!

*Rated U-PC (Un-Politically Correct): Reader Discretion is Advised. Liberals, most news agencies, most college professors, and the politically correct WILL be offended.

A Staten Island Ferry removed the baby Jesus from their holiday display but left the "holiday" tree and the menorah. One official said the baby Jesus was "a religious symbol and they didn't want to offend anyone," so they removed him. What an intolerable toddler! Isn't it ironic that a baby can strike such fear in the pc police?

There are only a few thousand problems with the logic of those who booted the baby from the display, but let me focus on three. First, the menorah is a Jewish "religious symbol" dating way back to the days of the Tabernacle (Exodus 25). But let's not let faulty logic stand in the way of an official statement. Surely, we have learned THAT from our government by now.

Second, the "holiday" tree is, and always has been, a Christmas tree. Only recently have some hypocrites, who want to celebrate Christmas without Christ, come up with the whole "holiday" replacement word. I'm not saying you have to be a Christian to enjoy Christmas. I'm just asking you to stop butchering reality with lunacy.

I don't like asparagus, but I would not disparage you from enjoying it nor would I attempt to make up another name for it simply because of my personal preference. And if thereis ever a date on the calendar that celebrates Asparagus Day where lovers of asparagus exchange gifts or decorate their homes, I'm not going to take what I want from their celebration, strip it of it's meaning, and call it Chocolate Chip Cookie Day!

If Christmas offends you this much, George Costanza from Seinfeld has come up with an alternative for you called Festivus. You can get together with your family and friends, stare at your silver pole, try to pin one another with feats of strength, and air your grievances with everything you hate about Christmas. It's the perfect alternative.

Third, Christians in this country are not considered to be "anyone" by the politically correct. They "did not want to offend anyone," so they adiosed Jesus. When was the last time someone punted Buddha off a stage? Ever hear of Mohammed being yanked from the public's eye? No one else is fair game. Christians are the only ones untolerated by those who scream from their arrogant platforms of tolerance.

It is a most unusual form of persecution. It pales significantly and substantially from the persecution our brothers and sisters face in China and other parts of the world. But since I have "freedom of speech" and "freedom of religion" (at least in document form) in this country, I'm fixin' to use it.

There is an ongoing blatant hypocrisy that poisons political correctness. For example, the department stores all want us (especially Christians) to go shopping to buy gifts that will be exchanged on December 25th. They want and beg us to buy the latest toys, gadgets, cars, computers, lights, tinsel, bows, food and candy for the 25th. They cannot survive without our dollars.

It's all for the same date: December 25th. None of this stuff is for Hanukkah or Kwanzaa. It's all for Christmas. But each and every one of their employees (Christian or not) and each and every sign on their windows and ads in their papers all say, "Happy Holidays" instead of the horrifying sound of "Merry Christmas!"

They smile as they swipe our cards. They grin as they stuff their "Happy Holiday" stamped plastic bags with our purchases. They are swiping more than our cards, folks. They are essentially trying to rob Christians and Christmas of Christ. And we let them...even though they could not survive without us. And if we question this unbelievable treatment of intolerance, the same people whose own survival depends on our shopping sprees release public statements offensive to no one but us. It's incredible!

They want to take Christ out of Christmas but could not survive if we took Christmas out of the calendar.

They are so hungry and greedy for our money that they even begin decorating and advertising long before November. Thanksgiving has become a speed bump they hurdle. They can't wait for the third Friday of November so they can gorge themselves on our credit cards.

Now, as to the big question: Why? Why is a manger scene offensive and a sacrificial atoning Savior so repulsive? Again, there are a few thousand reasons, but most of them boil down to one --- pride. Man is so full of pride that he will even shake his finger in the face of God if God tells him he's a sinner.

The same pride that fell Satan from heaven stirs bad tidings on earth. If anyone were to take an honest look at the whole issue, they would find this very situation to be compelling evidence in favor of Christianity. There must be something sinister and evil behind a movement that wants to hush the singing of "Silent Night" or toss into a dumpster the display of a tiny baby resting in a feeding trough.

Mohammed can call for infidels (non-Muslims) to be killed and is met with toleration and acceptance. Statues and temples made of pure gold adorn Buddhist communities while the worshippers of Buddha starve in poverty. Not a voice is raised in protest from the pc. Name a religion and you'll find a fault, an injustice, an inconsistency, but you won't find anyone in this government trying to wipe it out or remove it from the public's eye (with the occasional exception of Judaism, which is the root system of Christianity).

Tax-funded schools are not allowed to pray to the God of Christianity while accomodations are made for Islamic prayer times in tax-funded schools in predominately Islamic communities. The point is: One is persecuted in this country while the rest are tolerated and accomodated. Why? Because there is one true God and He has an enemy.

The enemy only wishes to keep ONE message silent. That message is this: "For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord" (Luke 2:11).

Think about it. And while you are thinking about it, dwell on the irony of the name of the Staten Island Ferry that tossed Jesus overboard. The ferry with the baby Jesus phobia is named the St. George!

Who is St. George? A Christian officer in the Roman military who refused to sacrifice to pagan gods after the Roman Emperor Diocletian, in AD 302, ordered every Christian soldier in the army arrested and every other soldier to offer a pagan sacrifice. George objected and, with the courage of his faith, approached the Emperor.

George loudly renounced the Emperor's edict, and in front of his fellow soldiers he declared his worship of Jesus Christ. Diocletian attempted to convert George with bribes of land, money and slaves if he would make a sacrifice to the Pagan gods. George would not cooperate with the attempts to renounce Christ, so Diocletian had George decapitated on April 23, 303.

George's witness and martyrdom were so powerful that the Empress and one of the pagan priests converted to Christianity and were martyred as well.

George's body was returned to Lydda for burial, where he can currently be found rolling over in it.

Merry CHRISTmas,
Perry Crisp

Free Indeed

Shon Hopwood was not a particularly sophisticated bank robber. His bank-robbing strategy was not well planned. Listen to the strategy of someone assuming one of the most difficult tasks to get away with in this country: “We would walk into a bank with firearms, tell people to get down, take the money and run.”

Brilliant, right? Wrong. Shon pulled off 5 robberies in rural Nebraska in 1997 and 1998 that only brought in $200,000 in cash and resulted in over a decade-long vacation in federal prison. Yep. He got caught and went to prison.

No one was hurt in Mr. Hopwood’s bank robberies, but, according to the judge who sentenced Shon to prison in 1999, he and his accomplices “scared the (inserting Baptifanity* replacement word) heck out of the poor bank tellers.”

The judge was skeptical about Mr. Hopwood’s vow that he would change. He had heard it over and over again from those caught and convicted of crimes. After Shon's pledge to change, the judge said, “We’ll know in about 13 years if you mean what you say.”

Getting caught has a way of changing us. The honesty of it all is this: We get caught every time. There is never a time, never a crime, never a sin, never a slight of hand or eye that is not both seen and recorded. God sees. God knows. When I miss the mark, He doesn’t miss noticing that I missed the mark.

Ironically, getting caught is sometimes the door to true freedom. You’ll find that out about Shon Hopwood in a few minutes. You can see it in a nameless criminal in the gospel of Luke 23, beginning at verse 32 right now.

"There were also two others, criminals, led with Him (Jesus) to be put to death" (Luke 23:32). Criminals. The King James Version calls them "malefactors." The word in Luke is a combination of two words: "evil" and "work." Luke called them evildoers. Matthew and Mark were more specific and called them robbers. Luke wasn’t concerned with the flavor, just the poison. Sin is sin regardless of the label.

Matthew says that both men joined in the sneering and mocking of Jesus at first. But somewhere between verses 37 and 39 of Luke’s account, one of the criminals began to have a change of heart. After the other criminal screamed at Jesus to save Himself and them if He truly was the Messiah, the other criminal rebuked his partner in crime. He confessed that, of the three hanging on a cross that day, only one didn't deserve to be there. Then he turned to Jesus and said, "Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom" (v. 42).

How is getting caught the door to true freedom? To receive the forgiveness of God, you have to first admit you failed. Our conscience is supposed to weigh on us. And it usually does, but not always. When we continue on and push past our conscience, a hardness begins to set in. If left to harden and callous, we can become our very own hardened criminal. Sometimes, the only hope we have left is to get caught.

Had this criminal not been caught and punished on that very day, he may have never looked within himself nor to the Man on the Middle Cross who died to pay the price for his own evil work. But he did get caught. He did hang on a cross to pay humanity for his evil work. Yet simultaneously, the Man next to him hung on the cross to pay the debt owed to God by that evil worker…and this one.

One word made the difference… “Lord.” Jesus, by His own reply to that man in verse 43, opened a door no one ever thought could be opened for such a man. “Today, you will be with Me in Paradise."

No one would have ever picked that cross-hanging criminal to be the Valedictorian of Redemption. If he'd had a high school yearbook, the only thing written in it would have been, "You'll never amount to anything." Had we interviewed the old men from his neighborhood, they would have spoken of him in disgust, "That boy has been trouble since the day he was born."

But that boy was escorted by Jesus to the kingdom of heaven as the first trophy of God's amazing, redeeming grace.

Shon committed the crime and was forced to do the time. Once behind bars, Mr. Hopwood quickly began soul-searching. Prison has a way of getting a person’s attention. Shon said, “I didn’t want prison to be my destiny. When your life gets tipped over and spilled out, you have to make some changes.”

I would like to say that Shon turned to the Lord. He didn’t. Instead, he spent much of his time in the prison law library, and it turned out he was better at understanding the law than breaking it. He achieved something rare at the top levels of the American bar, and unheard of for someone behind bars: Shon Hopwood became an accomplished Supreme Court practitioner.

He prepared his first petition for certiorari (sir-she-o-rari) — a request that the Supreme Court hear a case — for a fellow inmate using a prison typewriter in 2002. Since Mr. Hopwood wasn’t a lawyer, the only name on the brief was that of the other prisoner, John Fellers.

That year, the court received 7,209 petitions from prisoners and others too poor to pay the filing fee, and it agreed to hear only 8 of them. One was Fellers v. United States .

Seth Waxman was the United States Solicitor General at the time. He had argued more than 50 cases in the Supreme Court. Of Shon’s petition, Waxman said, “It was probably one of the best cert. petitions I have ever read. It was just terrific.”

Mr. Waxman agreed to take the case on without payment. But he had one condition: “I will represent you,” Mr. Waxman told Mr. Fellers, “If we can get this guy Shon Hopwood involved.” Mr. Fellers agreed and they both felt good that Shon was there to quarterback the effort.

The former solicitor general showed Shon drafts of his legal briefings. The two men consulted about how to frame the arguments, discussed strategy, and tried to anticipate questions from the justices.

In January 2004, Mr. Waxman called Mr. Hopwood at the federal prison in Illinois to tell him they had won a 9-to-0 victory. Mr. Fellers’s sentence was reduced by 4 years.

The law library changed Mr. Hopwood’s life. Mr. Hopwood helped inmates from Indiana , Michigan and Nebraska get sentence reductions. Mr. Hopwood was released from prison in the fall of 2008. Mr. Fellers, the fellow inmate who was first assisted by Shon, was out before Shon, and owned a thriving car dealership in Lincoln, Nebraska .

“Here,” Mr. Fellers said, presenting his jailhouse lawyer with a 1989 Mercedes in pristine condition. “Thank you for getting me back to my daughter.”

Mr. Hopwood now works for a leading printer of Supreme Court briefs, Cockle Printing in Omaha . “What a perfect fit for me,” he said. “I basically get to help attorneys get their cases polished and perfected.”

His boss at Cockle said she had some misgivings about hiring Mr. Hopwood. It was hard to believe his story to start with, and it was really odd to see an aspiring paralegal driving around in a Mercedes.

But she called Mr. Hopwood’s references, including the former solicitor general, and was not only surprised to get right through to Mr. Waxman, but to hear his glowing endorsement of Shon. Did you catch that? Shon got through on the recommendation of a higher authority. So did the man in Luke 23. So do we.

Mr. Hopwood, who is 34, hopes to attend law at the University of Michigan. Mr. Hopwood’s personal life is looking up, too. He is married, and he and his wife had a son on Christmas Day.

A professor at Michigan who had worked with Shon in previous court cases said, “His gratitude for the quality of his life is that of someone who has come back from a near-death experience.”**

I know someone like that. Several someones. The man from Luke 23, the man who wrote what you are reading, and quite possibly the person now reading these words. Ours wasn't a "near-death" experience. It was a "true-death" experience. We were truly dead in our sins and needed the life-giving power of the blood of Jesus to make us alive to God. When you've been brought from death to life, you can't help but be grateful.

Excerpts from my favorite current writer are quite fitting here:

"The past doesn’t have to be your prison. You have a voice in your destiny. You have a say in your life. You have a choice in the path you take."

Remember this. Jesus, from the cross "saw you cast into a river of life you didn't request. He saw you betrayed by those you love. He saw you with a body that gets sick and a heart that grows weak. He saw you in your own garden of gnarled trees and sleeping friends. He saw you staring into the pit of your own failures and the mouth of your own grave. He saw you in your own garden of Gethsemane and he didn't want you to be alone ... He would rather go to hell for you than to heaven without you."***

Free Indeed,
Perry Crisp

*Baptifanity - replacement words used by Baptists instead of cusswords.
**Shon's story was published in the New York Times, February 9, 2010, and was written by Adam Liptak.
***Max Lucado

The Search is On

Abel Madariaga saw his 28-year-old wife, Silvia, being forced into a car by Argentine army officers on January 17, 1977. That was the last time he saw his pregnant wife. Silvia, a victim of evil politics as part of the 1976-1983 "dirty war" against political dissidents, was kidnapped and killed after giving birth. Some Argentinian rights groups believe that about 400 children were stolen at birth during this time from women who endured the same fate as Silvia.

Abel made it his life's ambition to find out what happened to his wife and child. When Argentina returned to democratic control, Abel lobbied the government to create a DNA database and dedicate judicial resources to the effort.

Abel's efforts paid off. After years of searching, he was able to find out what happened to his wife, though the details were sketchy and heartbreaking. Abel learned that his wife, Quintela, gave birth to their son in July of 1977 while imprisoned in a notorious torture center in Buenos Aires. The newborn, whom the couple had planned to name Francisco, was taken from his mother the day after he was born. Quintela was never seen again.

Abel's son, with umbilical cord still attached, was taken by a military intelligence officer, Victor Gallo, to his own home and his own wife, Ines. They named him Alejandro Ramiro Gallo and never told him anything about the circumstances of his birth or his adoption. But Francisco knew that something wasn't right. He never felt that he belonged to the Gallo family. He looked nothing like his brother and sister.

The marriage between Victor and Ines didn't last. Victor was a violent man. As the Gallo family fell apart, Francisco found a way out as a professional juggler touring Europe. Meanwhile, Victor Gallo was convicted of murdering a couple and their child during a robbery in 1994 and was sentenced to prison for ten years.

Eventually, Francisco worked up the courage to confront his "adoptive" mother, Ines. She broke down and told him what she knew. She didn't know who his parents were or where Victor got him. But she told the young man she knew and loved as her son, Alejandro, that he had been adopted. The news was a welcome relief to the increasing doubts that had haunted Francisco.

Francisco forgave Ines and the two of them determined together that they would try to find Francisco's family. Finally, some friends encouraged Francisco to get a blood test. On February 3, 2010, over 33 years after his mother was kidnapped, Francisco's blood was sent for DNA testing to a database set up by his own father, Abel Madariaga. A couple of weeks later, the DNA results arrived.

The test results told Francisco that Victor and Ines Gallo were not his parents. Gallo was not his real name. His real name was Madariaga and his father, Abel, was alive and searching for him. On Friday, February 19th, 2010, father and son embraced for the first time.

"When he came through the door that night, we recognized each other totally," said Abel to a large gathering of media cameras and microphones. "The hug that brought us together was spectacular. Hugging him that first time, it was as if I filled a hole in my soul," he said.

At age 59, Abel had never stopped believing that he would one day find his child. For 33 years, he searched the faces in the streets of Argentina, hoping to see his son.

At another news conference, Francisco, who had learned his real name only a few days earlier, said, "For the first time, I know who I was. Who I am."

The only time Francisco stopped smiling during the news conference was when the name Alejandro, given to him by the Gallos, was mentioned. Francisco stopped smiling and said, "Never again will I use that name. To have your identity is the most beautiful thing there is."

My soul identifies with the life story of Francisco Madariaga. Something inside me was missing. I wasn't complete. I wasn't whole. I was filled with holes.

Then I met the Father who never stopped searching for me. The Father who created a means by which I could find the identity He purposed for me. It wasn't through a blood test, but through a blood gift. He and His Son created a plan to help me find my way home. He gave His own Son as a willing sacrifice and substitute to purchase my invitation to come home.

Like Francisco, I now know who I am. I have my identity. I'm a child of God through faith in Jesus Christ, His Son. And I must agree with Francisco -- to have my identity is the most beautiful thing there is.

I must also agree with Abel -- the holes in my soul have been filled.

Home Where I Belong,
Perry Crisp

Open For Business

A mysterious stranger arrived at a New England seaport town from somewhere across the ocean. He opened an office with a sign that simply read, "Recovery of Lost Things." At first, no one entered the stranger's office, but everyone was curious.

The stranger put an ad in the paper to further explain his business, "I will help you find anything you have lost." The explanation did not satisfy all.

"So he's a detective?" asked one villager. His question received only shrugs of uncertainty.

Yet, the explanation was enough for a woman who had lost a great deal of money. She slipped into the stranger's office under cover of night. A few nights later, another person asked for the stranger's help because he had lost his great-grandfather's Bible.

Eventually, many of the villagers felt drawn to this stranger. The more comfortable they felt with him, the more they truly opened up to him about other "things" they had lost. An aging lady with wrinkles and sadness wept before the stranger, yearning to recover the beauty of her younger days. A young man of barely twenty was filled with regret and asked the stranger if he could help him get his innocence back.

After a few weeks, the stranger sat in his office late one night with a list of grand requests:
1. Bring back opportunities that were missed.
2. Restore tarnished reputations.
3. Replace sadness with joy forfeited long ago.
4. Renew relationships destroyed by selfishness, hatred, pride, and greed.
5. Resurrect loved ones buried both recently and long ago. Many asked only for one final moment to express feelings of love, or to apologize for things said or things not said.
6. Return the accolades, fame, popularity and praise of years past that has now faded and been replaced with continual silence.
7. Remove the effects of aging, smoking, drinking, and hard living and restore health, fitness, and vibrance.
8. Replace bitterness, emptiness, loneliness, and callousness with love, joy, forgiveness, and peace.

The stranger shook his head in disbelief. He only meant to help others find lost luggage, cargo, or other tangible items left behind on nearby ships. Yet, just as these hurting souls felt drawn to him to express the loss of their truest valuables, he felt the depth of their pain, listened to their requests without clarifying his intentions, and assured each one, "I will do everything I can."

He became a praying man, a compassionate man, a broken man, and a man of great understanding concerning the importance of valuing relationships and redeeming the time.

These requests were neither returned nor recovered by the mysterious man. But at least the longing of each visitor to his office was addressed. At least the pain was confessed. At least someone listened. Someone cared.

What each villager did not know was the trail of pain and heartache from which this stranger from across the ocean had fled. He came to their village to escape. Each of their longings reflected the longings of his own heart. His wife had died giving birth to their first child. The child followed his mother into eternity an hour behind her. He dealt with the pain of his loss with great anger and drunkenness. He boarded a ship with his few possessions in hopes of getting away from the painful memories. Upon arrival at the village, the ship's crew could not find some of the belongings he had stored below deck.

As the weeks turned into years, many who had once visited his office met him along the sidewalk or in the market. They met him with smiles, hugs, handshakes, and expressions of gratitude. With renewed hope and lifted spirits, they thanked him for all he had done. What had he done?

Only what each of us can do for one another. He gave them permission to grieve, promised to get involved, and prayed on behalf of their woundings. He did so unwittingly. We can do so intentionally. In helping others with their wounds, he found healing for his own.

This morning, let's go into business together. You grab a hammer and a nail. I'll hold the shingle above our business door that says, "Recovery of Lost Things."

Perry Crisp