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CNN’s “State of the Union,” host and Chief National Correspondent John King tells the story of the bare bones life on the Cheyenne River Reservation.  Read this article and see why I cry for the Lakota nation.  This is why my group is so focused on sending mittens, socks and other warm clothing to CRR. 

I have no more words for this situation.  Only tears.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and the book:

North! Or Be Eaten

WaterBrook Press (August 18, 2009)

Andrew Peterson is the author of On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness and The Ballad of Matthew’s Begats. He’s also the critically-acclaimed singer-songwriter and recording artist of ten albums, including Resurrection Letters II. He and his wife, Jamie, live with their two sons and one daughter in The Warren near Nashville, Tennessee.

Visit the author’s website and website.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: WaterBrook Press (August 18, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1400073871
ISBN-13: 978-1400073870

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

TOOOOTHY COW!” bellowed Podo as he whacked a stick against the nearest glipwood tree. The old pirate’s eyes blazed, and he stood at the base of the tree like a ship’s captain at the mast. “Toothy cow! Quick! Into the tree house!”

Not far away, an arrow whizzed through some hanging moss and thudded into a plank of wood decorated with a charcoal drawing of a snarling Fang. The arrow protruded from the Fang’s mouth, the shaft still vibrating from the impact. Tink lowered his bow, squinted to see if he had hit the target, and completely ignored his grandfather.

“TOOOOOTHY—oy! That’s a fine shot, lad—COW!”

Podo whacked the tree as Nia hurried up the rope ladder that led to the trapdoor in the floor of Peet the Sock Man’s tree house. A sock-covered hand reached down and pulled Nia up through the opening.

“Thank you, Artham,” she said, still holding his hand. She looked him in the eye and raised her chin, waiting for him to answer.

Peet the Sock Man, whose real name was Artham P. Wingfeather, looked back at her and gulped. One of his eyes twitched. He looked like he wanted to flee, as he always did when she called him by his first name, but Nia didn’t let go of his hand.

“Y-y-you’re welcome…Nia.” Every word was an effort, especially her name, but he sounded less crazy than he used to be. Only a week earlier, the mention of the name

“Artham” sent him into a frenzy—he would scream, shimmy down the rope ladder, and disappear into the forest for hours. Nia released his hand and peered down through the opening in the floor at her father, who still banged on the tree and bellowed about the impending onslaught of toothy cows.

“Come on, Tink!” Janner said.

A quiver of arrows rattled under one arm as he ran toward Leeli, who sat astride her dog, Nugget. Nugget, whose horselike size made him as dangerous as any toothy cow in the forest, panted and wagged his tail. Tink reluctantly dropped his bow and followed, eying the forest for signs of toothy cows. The brothers helped a wide-eyed Leeli down from her dog, and the three of them rushed to the ladder.

“COWS, COWS, COWS!” Podo howled. Janner followed Tink and Leeli up the ladder. When they were all safely inside, Podo heaved himself through the opening and latched the trapdoor shut.

“Not bad,” Podo said, looking pleased with himself. “Janner, next time you’ll want to move yer brother and sister along a little faster. Had there been a real cow upon us, ye might not have had time to get ’em to the ladder before them slobbery teeth started tearin’ yer tender flesh—”

“Papa, really,” Nia said.

“—and rippin’ it from yer bones,” he continued. “If Tink’s too stubborn to drop what he’s doin’, Janner, it falls to you to find a way to persuade him, you hear?” Janner’s cheeks burned, and he fought the urge to defend himself. The toothy cow drills had been a daily occurrence since their arrival at Peet’s tree house, and the children had gradually stopped shrieking with panic whenever Podo’s hollers disturbed the otherwise quiet wood.

Since Janner had learned he was a Throne Warden, he had tried to take his responsibility to protect the king seriously. His mother’s stories about Peet’s dashing reputation as a Throne Warden in Anniera made Janner proud of the ancient tradition of which he was a part.1 The trouble was that he was supposed to protect his younger brother, Tink, who happened to be the High King. It wasn’t that Janner was jealous; he had no wish to rule anything. But sometimes it felt odd that his skinny, reckless brother was, of all things, a king, much less the king of the fabled Shining Isle of Anniera.

Janner stared out the window at the forest as Podo droned on, telling him about his responsibility to protect his brother, about the many dangers of Glipwood Forest, about what Janner should have done differently during this most recent cow drill. Janner missed his home. In the days after they fled the town of Glipwood and arrived at Peet’s castle, Janner’s sense of adventure was wide awake. He thrilled at the thought of the long journey to the Ice Prairies, so excited he could scarcely sleep.

1. In Anniera the second born, not the first, is heir to the throne. The eldest child is a Throne Warden, charged with the honor and responsibility of protecting the king above all others. Though this creates much confusion among ordinary children who one day discover that they are in fact the royal family living in exile (see On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness), for ages the Annierans found it to be a good system. The king was never without a protector, and the Throne Warden held a place of great honor in the kingdom.

When he did sleep, he dreamed of wide sweeps of snow under stars so sharp and

bright they would draw blood at a touch.

But weeks had passed—he didn’t know how many—and his sense of adventure was fast asleep. He missed the rhythm of life at the cottage. He missed the hot meals, the slow change of the land as the seasons turned, and the family of birds that nested in the crook above the door where he, Tink, and Leeli would inspect the tiny blue eggs each morning and each night, then the chicks, and then one day they would look in sad wonder at the empty nest and ask themselves where the birds had gone. But those days had passed away as sure as the summer, and whether he liked it or not, home was no longer the cottage. It wasn’t Peet’s tree house, either. He wasn’t sure he had a home anymore.

Podo kept talking, and Janner felt again that hot frustration in his chest when told things he already knew. But he held his tongue. Grownups couldn’t help it. Podo and his mother would hammer a lesson into his twelve-year-old head until he felt beaten silly, and there was no point fighting it. He sensed Podo’s rant coming to an end and forced himself to listen.

“…this is a dangerous place, this forest, and many a man has been gobbled up by some critter because he weren’t paying close enough attention.”

“Yes sir,” Janner said as respectfully as possible. Podo grinned at him and winked, and Janner smiled back in spite of himself. It occurred to him that Podo knew exactly what he’d been thinking.

Podo turned to Tink. “A truly fine shot, boy, and the drawing of the Fang on that board is fine work.”

“Thanks, Grandpa,” Tink said. His stomach growled. “When can we eat breakfast?”

“Listen, lad,” Podo said. He lowered his bushy eyebrows and leveled a formidable glare at Tink. “When yer brother tells ye to come, you drop what yer doin’ like it’s on fire.” Tink gulped. “You follow that boy over the cliffs and into the Dark Sea if he tells you to. Yer the High King, which means ye’ve got to start thinkin’ of more than yerself.”

Janner’s irritation drained away, as did the color in Tink’s face. He liked not being the only one in trouble, though he felt a little ashamed at the pleasure he took in watching Tink squirm.

“Yes sir,” Tink said. Podo stared at him so long that he repeated, “Yes sir.”

“You okay, lass?” Podo turned with a smile to Leeli. She nodded and pushed some of her wavy hair behind one ear. “Grandpa, when are we leaving?”

All eyes in the tree house looked at her with surprise. The family had spent weeks in relative peace in the forest, but that unspoken question had grown more and more difficult to avoid as the days passed. They knew they couldn’t stay forever. Gnag the Nameless and the Fangs of Dang still terrorized the land of Skree, and the shadow they cast covered more of Aerwiar with every passing day. It was only a matter of time before that shadow fell again on the Igibys.

“We need to leave soon,” Nia said, looking in the direction of Glipwood. “When the leaves fall, we’ll be exposed, won’t we, Artham?”

Peet jumped a little at his name and rubbed the back of his head with one hand for a moment before he spoke. “Cold winter comes, trees go bare, the bridges are easy to see, yes. We should grobably po—probably go.”

“To the Ice Prairies?” asked Janner.

“Yes,” said Nia. “The Fangs don’t like the cold weather. We’ve all seen how much slower they move in the winter, even here. Hopefully in a place as frozen as the Ice Prairies, the Fangs will be scarce.”

Podo grunted.

“I know what you think, and it’s not one of our options,” Nia said flatly.

“What does Grandpa think?” Tink asked.

“That’s between your grandfather and me.”

“What does he think?” Janner pressed, realizing he sounded more like a grownup than usual.

Nia looked at Janner, trying to decide if she should give him an answer. She had kept so many secrets from the children for so long that it was plain to Janner she still found it difficult to be open with them. But things were different now. Janner knew who he was, who his father was, and had a vague idea what was at stake. He had even noticed his input mattered to his mother and grandfather. Being a Throne Warden— or at least knowing he was a Throne Warden—had changed the way they regarded him.

“Well,” Nia said, still not sure how much to say.

Podo decided for her. “I think we need to do more than get to the Ice Prairies and lie low like a family of bumpy digtoads, waitin’ fer things to happen to us. If Oskar was right about there bein’ a whole colony of folks up north what don’t like livin’ under the boot of the Fangs, and if he’s right about them wantin’ to fight, then they don’t need us to gird up and send these Fangs back to Dang with their tails on fire. I say the jewels need to find a ship and go home.” He turned to his daughter. “Think of it, lass! You could sail back across the Dark Sea to Anniera—”

“What do you mean ‘you’?” Tink asked.

“Nothin’,” Podo said with a wave of his hand. “Nia, you could go home. Think of it!”

“There’s nothing left for us there,” Nia said.

“Fine! Forget Anniera. What about the Hollows? You ain’t seen the Green Hollows in ten years, and for all you know, the Fangs haven’t even set foot there! Yer ma’s family might still be there, thinkin’ you died with the rest of us.”

Nia closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Peet and the children stared at the floor. Janner hadn’t thought about the fact that he might have distant family living in the hills of the Green Hollows across the sea. He agreed with his mother that it seemed foolish to try to make such a journey. First they had to get past the Fangs in Torrboro, then north, over the Stony Mountains to the Ice Prairies. Now Podo was talking about crossing the ocean? Janner wasn’t used to thinking of the world in such terms.

Nia opened her eyes and spoke. “Papa, there’s nothing for us to do now but find our way north. We don’t need to go across the sea. We don’t need to go back to Anniera. We don’t need to go to the Green Hollows. We need to go north, away from the Fangs. That’s all. Let’s get these children safely to the prairies, and we’ll finish this discussion then.”

Podo sighed. “Aye, lass. Gettin’ there will cause enough trouble of its own.” He fixed an eye on Peet, who stood on his head in the corner. “I suppose you’ll be comin’ with us, then?”

Peet gasped and tumbled to the floor, then leapt to his feet and saluted Podo. Leeli giggled.

“Aye sir,” he said, mimicking Podo’s raspy growl. “I’m ready to go when the Featherwigs are ready. Even know how to get to the Icy Prairies. Been there before, long time ago—not much to see but ice and prairies and ice all white and blinding and cold. It’s very cold there. Icy.” Peet took a deep, happy breath and clapped his socked hands together. “All right! We’re off !”

He flipped open the trapdoor and leapt through the opening before Podo or the Igibys could stop him. The children hurried to the trapdoor and watched him slide down the rope ladder and march away in a northward direction. From the crook in the giant root system of the tree where he usually slept, Nugget perked up his big, floppy ears without lifting his head from his paws and watched Peet disappear into the forest.

“He’ll come back when he realizes we aren’t with him,” Leeli said with a smile. She and Peet spent hours together either reading stories or with him dancing about with great swoops of his socked hands while she played her whistleharp. Leeli’s presence seemed to have a medicinal effect on Peet. When they were together, his jitters ceased, his eyes stopped shifting, and his voice took on a deeper, less strained quality.

The strong and pleasant sound of it helped Janner believe his mother’s stories about Artham P. Wingfeather’s exploits in Anniera before the Great War. The only negative aspect of Leeli and Peet’s friendship was that it made Podo jealous. Before Peet the Sock Man entered their lives, Podo and Leeli shared a special bond, partly because each of them had only one working leg and partly because of the ancient affection that exists between grandfathers and granddaughters. Nia once told Janner that it was also partly because Leeli looked a lot like her grandmother Wendolyn.

While the children watched Peet march away, a quick shadow passed over the tree house, followed by a high, pleasant sound, like the ting of a massive bell struck by a tiny hammer.

“The lone fendril,” 2 said Leeli. “Tomorrow is the first day of autumn.”

“Papa,” said Nia.

“Eh?” Podo glared out the window in the direction Peet had gone.

“I think it’s time we left,” Nia said.

Tink and Janner looked at each other and grinned. All homesickness vanished. After weeks of waiting, adventure was upon them.

2. In Aerwiar, the official last day of summer is heralded by the passing of the lone fendril, a giant golden bird whose wingspan casts entire towns into a thrilling flicker of shade as it circles the planet in a long, ascending spiral. When it reaches the northern pole of Aerwiar, it hibernates until spring, then reverses its journey.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and the book:

The Blue Enchantress

Barbour Books (August 1, 2009)

M.L. Tyndall, a Christy Award Finalist, and best-selling author of the Legacy of the King’s Pirates series is known for her adventurous historical romances filled with deep spiritual themes. She holds a degree in Math and worked as a software engineer for fifteen years before testing the waters as a writer. MaryLu currently writes full time and makes her home on the California coast with her husband, six kids, and four cats.

Visit the author’s website and blog.

Product Details:

List Price: $10.97
Paperback: 320 pages
Publisher: Barbour Books (August 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602601577
ISBN-13: 978-1602601574

ISLAND BREEZES

She’s done it again!  She grabbed me and sucked me right into this story.  I can’t get enough of the Charles Towne Belles.  She did the same thing to me with The Red Siren.  Now that I’ve been enchanted by Hope’s story, all I can do is wait for book 3.  I don’t want this series to end.  I want to follow these ladies throughout their years, especially if they keep going to sea.

Once you’ve been a sea person, it’s difficult to get the salt out of your blood.  How I would have loved to have sailed the sea in the masted ships as well as my ocean liners.  I can do that with MaryLu’s books while enjoying such good fiction.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

St. Kitts, September 1718

“Gentlemen, what will ye offer for this rare treasure of a lady?” The words crashed over Hope Westcott like bilge water. “Why, she’ll make any of ye a fine wife, a cook, a housemaid”—the man gave a lascivious chuckle—“whate’er ye desire.”

“How ’bout someone to warm me bed at night,” one man bellowed, and a cacophony of chortles gurgled through the air.

Hope slammed her eyes shut against the mob of men who pressed on three sides of the tall wooden platform, shoving one another to get a better peek at her. Something crawled over her foot, and she pried her eyes open, keeping her face lowered. A black spider skittered away. Red scrapes and bruises marred her bare feet. When had she lost her satin shoes—the gold braided ones she’d worn to impress Lord Falkland? She couldn’t recall.

“What d’ye say? How much for this fine young lady?” The man grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. Pain, like a dozen claws, pierced her skull. “She’s a handsome one, to be sure. And these golden locks.” He attempted to slide his fingers through her matted strands, but before becoming hopelessly entangled in them, he jerked his hand free, wrenching out a clump of her hair. Hope winced. “Have ye seen the likes of them?”

Ribald whistles and groans of agreement spewed over her.

“Two shillings,” one man yelled.

Hope dared to glance across the throng amassing before the auction block. A wild sea of lustful eyes sprayed over her. A band of men dressed in garments stained with dirt and sweat bunched toward the front, yelling out bids. Behind them, other men in velvet waistcoats leaned their heads together, no doubt to discuss the value of this recent offering, while studying her as if she were a breeding mare. Slaves knelt in the dirt along the outskirts of the mob, waiting for their masters. Beyond them, a row of wooden buildings stretched in either direction. Brazen women emerged from a tavern and draped themselves over the railings, watching Hope’s predicament with interest. On the street, ladies in modish gowns averted their eyes as they tugged the men on their arms from the sordid scene.

Hope lowered her head. This can’t be happening. I’m dreaming. I am still on the ship. Just a nightmare. Only a nightmare. Humiliation swept over her with an ever-rising dread as the reality of her situation blasted its way through her mind.

She swallowed hard and tried to drown out the grunts and salacious insults tossed her way by the bartering rabble. Perhaps if she couldn’t hear them, if she couldn’t see them, they would disappear and she would wake up back home, safe in Charles Towne, safe in her bedchamber, safe with her sisters, just like she was before she’d put her trust in a man who betrayed her.

“Egad, man. Two shillings, is it? For this beauty?” The auctioneer spit off to the side. The yellowish glob landed on Hope’s skirt. Her heart felt as though it had liquefied into an equally offensive blob and oozed down beside it.

How did I get here? In her terror, she could not remember. She raised her gaze to the auctioneer. Cold eyes, hard like marbles, met hers, and a sinister grin twisted his lips. He adjusted his tricorn to further shade his chubby face from the burning sun.

“She looks too feeble for any real work,” another man yelled.

The sounds of the crowd dimmed. The men’s fists forged into the air as if pushing through mud. Garbled laughter drained from their yellow-toothed mouths like molasses. Hope’s heart beat slower, and she wished for death.

The gentle lap of waves caressed her ears, their peaceful cadence drawing her away. Tearing her gaze from the nightmarish spectacle, she glanced over her shoulder, past the muscled henchmen who’d escorted her here. Two docks jutted out into a small bay brimming with sparkling turquoise water where several ships rocked back and forth as if shaking their heads at her in pity. Salt and papaya and sun combined in a pleasant aroma that lured her mind away from her present horror.

Her eyes locked upon the glimmering red and gold figurine of Ares at the bow of Lord Falkland’s ship. She blinked back the burning behind her eyes. When she’d boarded it nigh a week past—or was it two weeks—all her hopes and dreams had boarded with her. Somewhere along the way, they had been cast into the depths of the sea. She only wished she had joined them. Although the ship gleamed majestically in the bay, all she had seen of it for weeks had been the four walls of a small cabin below deck.

The roar of the crowd wrenched her mind back to the present and turned her face forward.

“Five shillings.”

“’Tis robbery, and ye know it,” the auctioneer barked. “Where are any of ye clods goin’ t’ find a real lady like this?”

A stream of perspiration raced down Hope’s back as if seeking escape. But there was no escape. She was about to be sold as a slave, a harlot to one of these cruel and prurient taskmasters. A fate worse than death. A fate her sister had fought hard to keep her from. A fate Hope had brought upon herself. Numbness crept over her even as her eyes filled with tears. Oh God. This can’t be happening.

She gazed upward at the blue sky dusted with thick clouds, hoping for some deliverance, some sign that God had not abandoned her.

The men continued to haggle, their voices booming louder and louder, grating over her like the howls of demons.

Her head felt like it had detached from her body and was floating up to join the clouds. Palm trees danced in the light breeze coming off the bay. Their tall trunks and fronds formed an oscillating blur of green and brown. The buildings, the mob, and the whole heinous scene joined the growing mass and began twirling around Hope. Her legs turned to jelly, and she toppled to the platform.

“Get up!” A sharp crack stung her cheek. Two hands like rough rope clamped over her arms and dragged her to her feet. Pain lanced through her right foot where a splinter had found a home. Holding a hand to her stinging face, Hope sobbed.

The henchman released her with a grunt of disgust.

“I told ye she won’t last a week,” one burly man shouted.

“She ain’t good for nothing but to look at.”

Planting a strained grin upon his lips, the auctioneer swatted her rear end. “Aye, but she’s much more stout than she appears, gentlemen.”

Horrified and no longer caring about the repercussions, Hope slapped the man’s face. He raised his fist, and she cowered. The crowd roared its mirth.

“One pound, then,” a tall man sporting a white wig called out. “I could use me a pretty wench.” Withdrawing a handkerchief, he dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.

Wench. Slave. Hope shook her head, trying to force herself to accept what her mind kept trying to deny. A sudden surge of courage, based on naught but her instinct to survive, stiffened her spine. She thrust out her chin and faced the auctioneer. “I beg your pardon, sir. There’s been a mistake. I am no slave.”

“Indeed?” He cocked one brow and gave her a patronizing smirk.

Hope searched the horde for a sympathetic face—just one. “My name is Miss Hope Westcott,” she shouted. “My father is Admiral Henry Westcott. I live in Charles Towne with my two sisters.”

“And I’m King George,” a farmer howled, slapping his knee.

“My father will pay handsomely for my safe return.” Hope scanned the leering faces. Not one. Not one look of sympathy or belief or kindness. Fear crawled up her throat. She stomped her foot, sending a shard of pain up her leg. “You must believe me,” she sobbed. “I don’t belong here.”

Ignoring the laughter, Hope spotted a purple plume fluttering in the breeze atop a gold-trimmed hat in the distance. “Arthur!” She darted for the stairs but two hands grabbed her from behind and held her in place. “Don’t leave me! Lord Falkland!” She struggled in her captor’s grasp. His grip tightened, sending a throbbing ache across her back.

Swerving about, Lord Falkland tapped his cane into the dirt and tipped the brim of his hat up, but the distance between them forbade Hope a vision of his expression.

“Tell them who I am, Arthur. Please save me!”

He leaned toward the woman beside him and said something, then coughed into his hand. What is he doing? The man who once professed an undying love for Hope, the man who promised to marry her, to love her forever, the man who bore the responsibility for her being here in the first place. How could he stand there and do nothing while she met such a hideous fate?

The elegant lady beside him turned her nose up at Hope, then, threading her arm through Lord Falkland’s, she wheeled him around and pulled him down the road.

Hope watched him leave, and with each step of his cordovan boots, her heart and her very soul sank deeper into the wood of the auction block beneath her feet.

Nothing made any sense. Had the world gone completely mad?

“Two pounds,” a corpulent man in the back roared.

A memory flashed through Hope’s mind as she gazed across the band of men. A vision of African slaves, women and children, being auctioned off in Charles Towne. How many times had she passed by, ignoring them, uncaring, unconcerned by the proceedings?

Was this God’s way of repaying her for her selfishness, her lack of charity?

“Five pounds.”

Disappointed curses rumbled among the men at the front, who had obviously reached their limit of coin.

The auctioneer’s mouth spread wide, greed dripping from its corners. “Five pounds, gentlemen. Do I hear six for this lovely lady?”

A blast of hot air rolled over Hope, stealing her breath. Human sweat, fish, and horse manure filled her nose and saturated her skin. The unforgiving sun beat a hot hammer atop her head until she felt she would ignite into a burning torch at any moment. Indeed, she prayed she would. Better to be reduced to a pile of ashes than endure what the future held for her.

“Six pounds,” a short man with a round belly and stiff brown wig yelled from the back of the mob in a tone that indicated he knew what he was doing and had no intention of losing his prize. Decked in the a fine damask waistcoat, silk breeches, and a gold-chained pocket watch, which he kept snapping open and shut, he exuded wealth and power from his pores.

Hope’s stomach twisted into a vicious knot, and she clutched her throat to keep from heaving whatever shred of moisture remained in her empty stomach.

The auctioneer gaped at her, obviously shocked she could command such a price. Rumblings overtook the crowd as the short man pushed his way through to claim his prize. The closer he came, the faster Hope’s chest heaved and the lighter her head became. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the groans of the mob. No, God. No.

“Do I hear seven?” the auctioneer bellowed. “She’s young and will breed you some fine sons.”

“Just what I’ll be needing.” The man halted at the platform, glanced over the crowd for any possible competitors, then took the stairs to Hope’s right. He halted beside her too close for propriety’s sake and assailed her with the stench of lard and tobacco. A long purple scar crossed his bloated, red face as his eyes grazed over her like a stallion on a breeding mare. Hope shuddered and gasped for a breath of air. Her palms broke out in a sweat, and she rubbed them on her already moist gown.

The auctioneer threw a hand to his hip and gazed over the crowd.

The man squeezed her arms, and Hope snapped from his grasp and took a step back, abhorred at his audacity. He chuckled. “Not much muscle on her, but she’s got pluck.”

He belched, placed his watch back into the fob pocket of his breeches, and removed a leather pouch from his belt. “Six pounds it is.”

The silver tip of a sword hung at his side. If Hope were quick about it, perhaps she could grab it and, with some luck, fight her way out of here. She clenched her teeth. Who was she trying to fool? Where was her pirate sister when she needed her? Surely Faith would know exactly what to do. Yet what did it matter? Hope would rather die trying to escape than become this loathsome man’s slave.

As the man counted out the coins into the auctioneer’s greedy hands, Hope reached for the sword.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and the book:

Christianish

David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2009)

Mark Steele is the president and executive creative of Steelehouse Productions, a group that creates art for business and ministry through the mediums of film, stage, and animation. He is also the author of Flashbang: How I Got Over Myself and Half-Life/Die Already. Mark and his wife, Kaysie, reside in Oklahoma with their three greatest productions Morgan, Jackson, and Charlie.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 272 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434766926
ISBN-13: 978-1434766922

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Nineteen months are all that separate my two older sons, Jackson and Charlie. In practically every way, one is the antithesis of the other. They both have their strengths and weaknesses, but smash them together and they fill out the other’s weak spots, becoming one practically perfect human being. Of course, the scattered remains that are left would be a bit messy. In other words, they complete one another, either as a right example or as a wrong one—their choice.

Charlie is currently seven and Jackson just turned nine, which means their choices— at least for the time being—might skew a bit ornery. A few months ago, I walked upstairs to turn off our daughter Morgan’s light for bedtime. It was later than usual and a good hour after the boys had been put to sleep (which means something different for children than it does for pets). They had been told to go right to bed. Unconsciousness isn’t really something that can be demanded of a child, but I—like millions of parents before me— made the attempt anyway. As I opened Morgan’s door to check on her, I caught the two boys in her room. They ceased mid-play, frozen, and stared at me—deer in the headlights. They were standing in the middle of her bedroom, a clump of Lego’s squeezed in each fist. They gaped with wide-eyed guilt on their faces for about three solid seconds. And then they ran like mad wildfire through the adjoining bathroom. I heard the scurry of feet on linoleum, followed by the bounce of springs and the flip-flop of covers as they scrambled into bed.

Reasoning doesn’t enter into the equation all that much at the ages of seven and nine. For some reason, not only was the rationale to sprint away and dive into bed considered a good idea, but the identical urge to flee the scene hit both brothers at the same time.

I sauntered through the hall to their bedroom (the longer path than the bathroom route by about eleven inches) and creaked open the door. They were each in their bunk, feigning sleep. And so, the cover-up began.

Boys?

They attempted to rouse themselves from their faux slumber, “What? Huh?”

Were you out of bed and playing in Morgan’s room?

A beat. A moment of pause. And then—both—simultaneously…

No.

Certainly I sympathize with the gut instinct of the cover-up. It is the defensive urge of the male, not to mention the mischievous pre-puberty male. In later stages of life, it will be replaced in-turn by hormones, rage at injustice, and unnecessary snacking. Throughout my own young journey, I was on the punishment end of the cover-up multiple times.

It felt ironic to finally be on the other side.

No? I responded, You were NOT in Morgan’s bedroom?

Sweat trickled down their tiny foreheads.

Nope. No. Nope.

Just now? Like, fifteen seconds ago, you were NOT holding Lego’s in Morgan’s room?

(Slightly more hesitant than before) Noooo.

I paused for dramatic effect: Well—I saw you.

Not since the Noahic Flood have the floodgates burst open so abruptly. The words “I’m sorry” rat-a-tat-tatted out of their mouths repeatedly in a fusillade of desperate penance.

I know you are sorry, but you lied. You know what the punishment is for lying.

I’m fairly certain there were a couple of “yes, sirs” uttered amid all the slobber and snot.

Go downstairs. You’re each going to get one spank.

Yes. My wife and I believe in spanking. Not “grab-your-knees-while-the-back-ofyour-eyeballs-rap-against-your-brain” spanking. But certainly a recognizable sting that serves as a tangible reminder of why the punishable incident was a bad idea. We want our kids to have a sensory reinforcement that sin is not such a preferable option. It always astounds me when parents don’t believe in appropriate spankings, because the world spanks people every day—especially the people who didn’t receive any as a child. Personally, I would rather feel a short-term sting than the sort the Internal Revenue Service doles out.

Of course, an appropriate spanking is exactly that. Just enough to sting—and definitely on the derriere. And, of course, the act is attached to teaching and forgiveness and a walking through of the issue so that it leads to reconciliation and change and love.

That’s the pretty version.

The boys weren’t seeing the benefits just yet.

Jackson and Charlie have a very different approach to the news of an impending spanking. Charlie just stares. Wide-eyed. His brain immediately begins clicking and whirring. Within fifty seconds, he orchestrates a mental plan of how best to charm his way through the incident with minimal pain. By a sheer act of will and a reasoning through percentages, he determines swiftly that playing the situation down will cause it to end with only a slight portion of hurt to his person.

Jackson destroys everything within his wake.

Not literally. He doesn’t throw things or flail. But within a small eight-inch radius, the planet implodes. Jackson takes the news that he will receive one spank the way most react in a house fire. He hugs his favorite belongings close to his body while screaming and rolling on the floor.

I greeted Jackson into the spanking chamber (our bedroom) first as I knew that the twenty-two solid minutes it would take to actually deliver the one spank would be an epic purgatorial wait (and hence, bonus lesson) for Charlie.

The reason a Jackson spanking can take so long is because we don’t believe in wrestling our kids into the spanking. There has to be the moment of surrender. Charlie can fake surrender like the best of them—but Jackson? Not so much.

Lean over, son.

I CAN’T! I NEED A GLASS OF WATER FIRST!

You can have a glass of water after your spank. It will take ten seconds.

I MUST HAVE A GLASS OF WATER FIRST! I’M THIIIIIRSTY!

You cannot have a glass of water until after your spank.

No one tells a father he is going to be put in a position to say these sorts of irrational things.

You’re stalling. Let’s just get the punishment over with.

NOW I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!

What?

YOU CAN’T SPANK ME BECAUSE I’LL PEE! I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM FIRST!

You can go to the bathroom after I spank you. We would be finished already…

YOU’LL WHACK THE PEE OUT OF ME!

I promise I won’t whack the pee out of you.

See. Irrational things. Of course, this is when Jackson moves from delay tactics and transitions into physical blockers. As I lean him over and pull back the spank stick, all sorts of appendages start

flailing about spastically like Muppet tails, blocking the punishment trajectory. I’ve never seen the kid move so fast as he does when he strategizes a spank block.

ARM HAND ARCH BACK!!

ARM, FOOT, FOOT, HAND FINGERS

PUSHING AWAY ARM HAND, DOUBLE-HAND, FOOT HEAD

BOTH FEET (wow)!

ARM, HANDARCH!

The kid is Mister Miyagi-ing me, suddenly Jean-Claude Van Damme, blocking every attempt to close the deal. He won’t play football, but this he can do. I finally settle Jackson down.

Jackson, I’m not going to fight you. You have to decide that you’re going to accept the consequences for what you’ve done. You’ve fought me so long, that now you’re going to get—

(Wait for it.)

—two spanks.

Son. Of. A.Gun.

I had no idea what the kid had in him. He began to writhe and weep and gnash his teeth. I’d never seen gnashing—but it’s actually very impressive. I believe he may have even utilized sackcloth. The boy just flat-out wailed like he was being branded with a hot iron. To the neighbors, it must have sounded like I was stunning him with a police taser.

And then, Jackson moved away from delaying and blocking—to step three: blame.

IT’S MORGAN! SHE’S THE LIAR!! SHE LIES ALL THE TIME!

Who are you and what have you done with my child?

MORGAN LIES! SHE LIIIIIIIIIIIIES! MOOHAHA!

All right, son. For that, you’re now going to receive—

Somewhere, between the bedrock layers of our planet, a mushroom cloud was forming its power, readying itself for a self-imploding FOOM! Tension built, and a roar and a rumble began to build just beneath the crust of the earth.

—three spanks.

And that is when Jackson vomited.

Seriously.

He barfed.

He wasn’t sick to his stomach or coming down with a virus.

The boy got so worked up over three spankings that he literally upchucked everywhere. He blew chunks all over the proceedings. As a father, you can’t help but debate your own discipline tactics at this point. I helped him wash up and then cooled him down with a cloth. He began to settle.

After a few moments, I addressed him.

You okay?

I told you I needed to go to the bathroom.

Against all of Jackson’s hopes and dreams, the regurgitation session did not replace any of the punishment, and I forged ahead with the three spanks anyway. The beauty of Jackson is, though he fights you all the way, you know where he stands. When the punishment is over, Jackson is quick to reconcile, huddled and sobbing in my arms. At that moment, after the pain, he is truly repentant. And he always comes out the other side changed.

Amid all of this excitement, Charlie sat waiting in the hall.

For twenty solid minutes. Hearing the sounds of torrential screams and human wretching. He sat, stone. Eyes like nickels on a plate of fine china.

Needless to say, Charlie walked in, bent over, and received his one spank in about six seconds flat.

Immensely accommodating.

But alas, not nearly as life-changing as Jackson.

It’s harder to tell whether or not Charlie truly changes because Charlie knows how to charm. During that same spanking, he sat near Kaysie and spoke to her as Jackson’s sobs and moans were muffled behind the bedroom door.

I’m not gonna do anyfing Jackson is doing when I go get MY spanking.

You’re not, huh.

Nope. I’m gonna walk wight in and jus’ get spanked.

That’s a good idea, Charlie.

I do not wike it when Daddy spanks me.

I’ll bet you don’t.

I wike it when you spank me. This piqued Kaysie’s interest and she hesitated before asking nonchalantly–

Oh really? Why?

Because when Daddy spanks me, it hurts—but when you spank me, it does not— Charlie’s gaze finally met Kaysie’s. The realization of the privileged information spilling out of his mouth occurred to him. He stared.

I pwobably should not have told you dat. Kaysie smiled pleasantly.

Tell you what, son. From now on, we’ll let Daddy do all your spankings.

Charlie sighed.

Yep. I definitewy should not have told you dat.

So, there is an inherent difference in the way Jackson deals with disappointment and in the way Charlie deals with it. Yes, Jackson goes off the deep end, revealing his scars and putting his emotions in front of a microphone—but at least we know where Jackson stands when the consequence is said and done. Jackson wrestles his flesh to the ground— and he does so in public. That’s how we know the transformation is real. I know that his repentance is true because I witness his internal journey from resistance to acceptance firsthand.

Charlie? Well, you don’t always know with Charlie. Charlie is good at seeming fine. He keeps his deepest feelings close to his chest. And the rough stuff? You could go a very long time without Charlie allowing anyone to see the rough stuff. The result is an engaging and personable child—everyone’s best friend—though you don’t always know what’s really going on inside there.

And yet, we as a Christian culture seem to think that it is this same positioning and decorating of ourselves that ministers most. In an effort to put our best foot forward, we disguise the ugly, bury the past, and soak the dirty laundry in perfume. We have an emotional need to seem holier than all the “thou’s we encounter while fitting in to the perfect flawless world of those who side-hug us on the way to the sanctuary.

We delay. We block. We blame.

We cover-up.

And we somehow believe that it delivers a better impression of what it means to serve Christ. We believe that seeming the Stepford Wife makes us some sort of demented recruitment tool. But the truth is, we have done more damage to the world’s impression of Jesus by feigning inaccurate perfection than we could ever cause by allowing those who don’t follow Christ to see us wrestling our sins and flaws to the ground.

SCANDALOUS HISTORY

Many cite Matthew 5: 48 “Be perfect, therefore, as your Heavenly Father is perfect,” but that verse doesn’t have anything to do with fakery. It is a call, instead, to spiritual maturity. And maturity owns up to the truth. Others refer to Jesus and how it was His holiness that truly ministered. This, of course, is true. But we too quickly forget that His holiness ministered most powerful as it stood side-by-side with His humanness. And, never was His humanness more on display than in His birth.

Jesus revealed the rough stuff with the very way He first came into the world.

It seems to me that the first sentence in the first telling of the Son of God entering into this world would be glorious and filled with holy hyperbole. Not so. Instead, we get a few pragmatic words: “A record of the genealogy of Jesus Christ.” This is merely a preamble to the names that follow—names that expose Christ’s lineage. The first chapter of Matthew fires the names off bam, bam, bam: so-and-so was the father of whatcha-macall-him—never taking the smallest breath, diving headlong into historic minutia until ZING! Verse seven delivers the whopper—the first specific detail mankind received about the family Jesus comes from:

“David was the father of Solomon, whose mother had been Uriah’s wife.”

Uriah? Wasn’t he the guy David had killed? Murdered so that David could sleep with his wife? That guy? Why on earth, out of all the admirable people in Jesus lineage—and for that matter, all the honorable traits of David—why is this bucket of family dirt given the first and greatest mark of attention? A golden opportunity missed. Here the ultimate history book had the option of paving a red carpet and paparazzi before Jesus, publicizing the elitist line He came from and urging the public down to its knees in awe. This was the proof: that Jesus came from the lineage of the favorite King, the man after God’s own heart—David. But instead of applauding this fact, chapter one in Matthew pauses to remind the reading audience that this great King David whose line led to the Savior—this beloved ancestor of Jesus Christ—was a man of great failure and greater scandal.

Matthew started his history book with tabloid fodder. Why?

Because just like you and me, Jesus came from a scandalous history. But unlike you and me, Jesus was not afraid for the world to know and remember that scandal. As a matter of fact, He welcomed it.

We all come from something scandalous. Perhaps those who came before us, perhaps the life we lived before we lived for Christ, perhaps some aspect of our current life. But in modern Christianity, we have somehow deluded ourselves into believing that priority one is to eradicate this reality.

We bury. We pretend. We deny to others and ourselves.

And, even worse—when the opportunity arises to actually come clean with the soiled spots of our life history—we instead make believe everything is, and always has been, a series of either perfect, fine, or no big deal. And in so doing, we make ourselves into the very fakers we detest. We somehow convince ourselves that this is what Jesus would want: a wiped-clean façade. A steam-pressed, white cotton, buttoned-down church shirt.

We live the rough stuff, but we keep it silent. We believe it to be a lapse in faith to actually comment on the rough stuff or give it reference. We assume that exhaling the rough stuff somehow gives it more power, so we smile and wave and praise the Lord that everything good is permanent and everything not-so-good had zero effect on us. We have a terrible habit of skipping the rough stuff.

I don’t understand why I do this. I look at the way Jesus entered this world and I see very quickly why it was important for Him to make mention of his scandalous history. It softened the blow for the shame and disgrace that would accompany Him into the world. It was as if Jesus said, I know the manner in which I am born is going to start the rumor-mill flowing, so I might as well give it a head-start. And, what rough stuff it was:

a mother pregnant before even engaged

a father who almost broke off the engagement

parents who make their decisions based on angel dreams

a cousin born of the elderly

a birth in an animal barn

adoration from astrologers

a birth that prompts the murder of hundreds of other infants

Let’s just say that if you brought all these needs up during a prayer meeting, the family would be ostracized forever before the first syllable of amen.

The truth is this: Jesus experienced the rough stuff before the age of five in ways you and I could never imagine. We consider Christ’s sufferings and we picture Him at the age of thirty-three, but the beatings go all the way back to the birth canal.

THE ROUGH STUFF

How did we take this life picture and somehow misconstrue it to mean that if we just believed in Jesus, our lives would be wealthy, prosperous, and happy? Jesus doesn’t promise that. Jesus says that many great things will come to those who follow Him, but He also promises a whole lot of lousy.

And, here’s the key: the lousy isn’t rotten. The lousy isn’t sin. The focus of your life is not supposed to be dodging lousy.

Because lousy is life.

And lousy is important.

It is in the rough stuff where we truly become more and more like Christ, because it is amid the lousy where we experience life on a deeper level. With intense pain comes the opportunity to love more richly. With disappointment comes the push towards selflessness. Neither of those come with pleasant because pleasant breeds boredom. And boredom is a moist towel where the mung beans of sin sprout. Life following Christ is not supposed to be a ride. It’s supposed to be a fight because there is a very specific villain—and if we don’t fight, he wins. If our Christianity aims only for pretty and pleasant and happy and rich, the enemy becomes the victor.

But there is another just-as-important reason that we should embrace the rough stuff. Not only because Jesus did. And not merely because it is important.

We must embrace the rough stuff because, for far too long, Christians have skipped the rough stuff. We have pretended it does not exist in order to speak into existence a more promising present. But there is a massive dilemma when the Christianish skip the rough stuff.

Real life doesn’t skip the rough stuff.

And those who do not yet follow Jesus know this. Their lives don’t skip the rough stuff and they know good and well that your life doesn’t skip it either.

So while we as a microcosm of faith have been busy naming-and-claiming, yearning for a better bank account and more pleasant pastures, ignoring the fact that lousy exists— the world watches.

And when they watch, they see the truth:

Life doesn’t skip the rough stuff.

We say that our lives do skip the rough stuff.

Therefore, we are liars.

Or—at absolute best—we don’t understand real life at all.

The world is looking for Jesus, but they don’t know they are looking for Jesus because they believe they are looking for truth. You and I know that truth is Jesus. But they? They do not know that truth is Jesus because you and I are supposed to be Jesus— and you and I couldn’t look less like the truth.

For decades, our focus has been completely skewed. In the eighties, our passion was prosperity, never noticing that the only wealth that is important to Jesus is a wealth of love and compassion for those around us. In the nineties, we were branded by righteous indignation, and Christianity became a political term that meant we were anti more things than we were pro. In the new millennium, the postmodern set poured out bitterness and disappointment on the church of their parents, disregarding everything the previous generation built only to construct the same thing with hipper color palettes and larger video screens. We still worship what we want our lives to feel like more than we worship Jesus. We still major on the minors, debating whether the book of Job is literal or parable when we should be out there pulling people out of the rough stuff. We still spend more money on self-help books than we give money to help others. We have become a club—a clique. A group that is supposed to be a perfect picture of the Father—but instead just acts like a bunch of bastards.

And we wonder why no one wants to be a Christian.

We’ve got to do some serious redefining of what that word means.

I am in the same boat. I am guilty as charged for all these crimes. I look back on my life and I see more times than not that I wish someone did not know I was a Christian. Why? Because my unkind words and bad behavior probably did more damage than good to the reputation of Jesus. Yes, this is spilled milk—but the longer we resist cleaning it up, the more sour it will smell.

The root, of course, comes down to the why.

Why do we as Christians strive for extremely temporal things and call them Jesus? As a people group, we are currently defined by the modern world as unloving and unwilling to gain a better understanding of any individual who is not already a Christian. These characteristics have absolutely nothing to do with Jesus. They are petty and selfish. They are Christianish. And yet, they are our very own bad habits. Why? Don’t we mean well? Don’t we want to live for Christ—to share His love with those around us? Don’t our mistakes stem from our frustration with the state of society? With what we perceive as the rebellion of modern mankind against the ideology of God?

Actually—that is the core of the problem. The world is broken. Completely broken. What we neglect to accept is that we are broken also.

We each come from damaged goods and scandalous histories and then pretend those negatives have no effect on us. The result equals a sea of followers of Jesus who can’t properly see or hear Him beyond the chaos of our own lives. So, instead of following Him, we say we are following Him while actually following a combination of Him and our own chaos. Sometimes we get it right, sometimes we get it wrong, but most of the time it is a mixture of the two. Just enough of God to make a difference. Just enough of ourselves to leave a questionable aftertaste.

So, the world sees that God is real—but at the same time, something doesn’t quite set well with them about Him. What is the negative common denominator?

The navel-gazing.

We are supposed to act as if everything is perfect, but deep down, we know nothing quite is. So, our silent desperate prayer is also a stare. A constant internal eyeball on the broken shards of ourselves. Deep down, most of us feel unglued—in pieces—longing for our Christian zealousness to turn to superglue. We feel that if we just do enough, act out the right formula, all the pieces will melt and coagulate like Robert Patrick in Terminator 2. That we will not only become whole, but indestructible. So, we wall up our compassion and act shatter-proof to a world at large while inside we are falling to pieces.

And we believe this reveals Jesus.

The great news is that Jesus looks down on us with the same tender compassion that He has for the rest of the world. He sees our pain. He sees our scandal. He knows what we are desperately trying to do, and He wants us to succeed.

But there is a realization that we must first accept.

We will never become indestructible by staring at our pieces.

We are not supposed to become indestructible. Untouchable. Safe.

And we aren’t supposed to be staring at our own pieces at all.

Because when we stare at our own pieces, we cannot see the solution.

We only find the solution when we stare instead into the eyes of Christ—and in those eyes, see the reflection of the hurting world.

We know this, but every gut instinct tells us to shout out, “I CAN’T! How can I help a hurting world, when I can’t even figure out how to glue back the broken pieces that make up my life?!” This is when Jesus changes our perspective. This is when He says softly…

You are not pieces.

You are my piece.

The Christianish approach is to see our lives as irreparable shards—always striving for the glue. But that pursuit is fruitless. Because God did not put your glue in you. He did, however, make you the glue for someone else.

Our lives are not shattered pieces. This whole world is a broken puzzle—and each of us fits next to those around us.

YOU ARE THE GLUE

My favorite television show is ABC’s Lost. The masterminds of Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse have constructed a vast mythology where none of the bamboo strands make any sense until the day they eventually become a basket. Yes, I adore the convoluted structure and the peel-back-the-layers mystery of it all, but more importantly, I appreciate the fact that the strands in that basket –are people.

The beauty of Lost is that these characters were marooned on an island with no foreknowledge of any of the others. They each carry their own bruises, scandal, and broken pieces onto this island. What they do not know is that each is the glue for someone else’s piece. Sawyer has the information Jack needs from his dead father. Locke knows where Sayid’s long-lost love lives. Eko knows that Claire’s psychic was a phony. Each one is the ghostbuster to what haunts the other—but some never discover this. Some in this story are never healed. Why? Because the answers do not exist? No.

Because the characters neglect to connect.

When Jesus came to this earth, He was bold about His own scandalous history and He was born under tabloid circumstances. Why? Simple.

Because He knew that His rough stuff was the answer to someone else’s—and He did not want to keep it quiet. He knew that the only path to healing was to connect His glue to someone else’s pieces.

In God’s great plan, He created us each the same way. We each have our own brokenness and we each have a God-given strength. However, we continue to sit in confusion because we feel like a life following Jesus should feel less disjointed and make more—well, sense.

And that is exactly the problem.

Our lives don’t make sense because our lives were not intended to stand alone.

Our lives were each made by God as pieces. Pieces of the eternal puzzle.

We are made to fit our lives into one another’s. Our entire lives.

The good. The bad. The strength. And the rough stuff.

As hopeful as we are that our strength will heal someone else, it is far more likely that our rough stuff will. Because, not only does our rough stuff hit another life where it most matters—the acknowledgement of our own rough stuff communicates that we understand this life we live and this world we live it in. Embracing the reality of our rough stuff communicates truth. Truth that the world is able to identify. Truth that will become the glue to their pieces.

This is the profound orchestration of how God intended to use imperfect people to represent a perfect God. It is not in each of us faking our way to an appearance of flawlessness. It is in each of us being true and vulnerable in our pursuit of Christ and taking the glue of His power (even amidst the frailty of our humanness) and connecting with the broken around us. It is this weave—this interlocked puzzle—this merging of shrapnel and adhesive into a beautiful picture—it is this that reveals the real truth of Jesus Christ. If we are ever to escape the Christianish and truly become little Christs, it will only be in this merging—acknowledging that our strengths are from God and not our own, while allowing that strength to mend the broken. But it does not stop there. We also have to be willing to reveal our pieces so that others’ strengths can heal our own pain.

This is the perfect earthly picture of Christ. It requires a new sort of church culture: a culture that no longer positions itself at the prettiest angle, but rather gets down to the scandalous histories for the sake of revealing to a world at large that Christ not only understands, but can transform our pieces through the power of other broken people.

Just like the rest of the world, my sons Jackson and Charlie fit together. They are simultaneously each other’s antithesis and each other’s antidote. Each other’s miracle or each other’s foil. It all depends upon whether or not they are each willing to fit together and allow the collision of their rough stuff and strength—their scandals and successes— to make the sum of both entirely complete.

scandalous

Can you relate to the flawed thinking that positioning and decorating ourselves— pretending the rough stuff doesn’t exist—ministers most?

Do you come from something scandalous? Do you experience the rough stuff? Have you hidden from this? Is that hiding drawing you closer to Christ or driving a wedge between you? Is it drawing you closer to others?

Consider the statement: “We have done more damage to the world’s impression of Jesus by feigning inaccurate perfection than we could ever cause by allowing those who don’t follow Christ to see us wrestling our sins and flaws to the ground.” Do you agree or disagree? What are the detriments to hiding our struggle? What are the benefits of allowing it to be seen?

Do you agree or disagree with the statement: “The lousy isn’t rotten. The lousy isn’t sin. The focus of your life is not supposed to be dodging lousy. Because lousy is life. And lousy is important.” Why or why not?

Have you considered your life “in pieces?” Have you attempted to put yourself together on your own?

What do you think of the philosophy that you are actually a “piece”—that the solution to your life lies in the way you fit together with the other people who make up the community of this world?

There’s an article in today’s New York Times about Obama’s latest campaign tour work tour to Yellowstone National Park.  What the article doesn’t tell you is that everyone including security packed up and left while Obama’s daughters were still at the lodge.  Someone finally did remember and came back for them, but is this an example of what the security is like here in the States?  If this is the kind of protection the first family receives here, how can the rest of us feel any security with our open borders? 

Sometimes not even Big Brother is watching.

To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul.  O my God, in you I trust; do not let me be put to shame; do not let my enemies exult over me.  Do not let those who wait for you be put to shame; let them be ashamed who are wantonly treacherous.

Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths.  Lead me in your truth, and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all day long.

Be mindful of your mercy, O Lord, and of your steadfast love, for they have been from of old.  Do not remember the sins of my youth or  my transgressions; according to your steadfast love remember me, for your goodness’ sake, O Lord!

Good and upright is the Lord; therefore he instructs sinners in the way.  He leads the humble in what is right, and teaches the humble his way.  All the paths of the Lord are steadfast love and faithfulness, for those who keep his covenant and his decrees.

For your name’s sake, O Lord, pardon my guilt, for it is great.  Who are they that fear the Lord?  He will teach them the way that they should choose.

They will abide in prosperity, and their children shall possess the land.  The friendship of the Lord is for those who fear him, and he makes his covenant known to them.  My eyes re ever toward the Lord, for he will pluck my feet out of the net.

Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted.  Relieve the troubles of my heart and bring me out of my distress.  Consider my affliction and my trouble, and forgive all my sins.

Consider how many are my foes, and with what violent hatred they hate me.  O guard my life, and deliver me; do not let me be put to shame, for I take refuge in you.  May integrity and uprightness preserve me, for I wait for you.

Psalm 25

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

The knitters are at it again.  Pictures of mittens are pouring in.  Check out Ann’s blog over at sheepshots to see the latest from the land of knitters.  Mittenz 2009 will be warming a lot of hands at Cheyenne River Reservation this year.  I’m ashamed to say that none of those mittens in the pictures were contributed by me.  I’ve really slacked off on my knitting this past year.  Now that I’m beginning to get more settled in with my new job, I’m hoping I can get in more knitting and sewing time.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and the book:

Make Love, Make War: NOW Is the Time to Worship

David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2009)

Brian Doerksen has always had a passion for expressing worship through music. He is an award-winning songwriter of some of today’s most acclaimed songs of worship. He is currently developing a musical of hope based on Luke 15 called “Return.” Brian, his wife, Joyce, and their six children reside in Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: David C. Cook; New edition (August 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1434766829
ISBN-13: 978-1434766823

ISLAND BREEZES

This is a unique book.  Each chapter focuses on one of Brian’s songs.  First we are blessed with the words of the song.  Then Brian expands on the meaning and circumstances of the writing of that song.  At the end of each chapter, we are given songwriting tips. 

This book has given me fresh inspiration and desire to keep writing.  I don’t think my talent lies in songwriting, but I have some books trying to get out.  The main thought I take from Make Love, Make War is that God wants to see us live a song.  It’s way too easy to forget that in this hectic life we live.

 AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Come, now is the time to worship

Come, now is the time to give your heart

Come, just as you are to worship

Come, just as you are before your God

Come

One day every tongue will confess

You are God

One day every knee will bow

Still the greatest treasure remains for those

Who gladly choose You now

Willingly we choose to surrender our lives

Willingly our knees will bow

With all our heart, soul, mind and strength

We gladly choose you now

Brian Doerksen

©1998 Vineyard Songs (UK & Eire)

From the moment I “heard” the beginning of this song floating through the air early on that September morning in London, England, I knew something special was happening. 2

In the mid 1990’s I had become somewhat disillusioned with worship music and the ministry connected with it. I grew tired of the striving, weary of artists jumping on the worship “bandwagon” just because worship music projects were selling more units. There was also my own shallowness and my comparing myself with some of those artists. Looking back I can see that I was passing through a patch of wilderness; God desired to break me in different ways, so He could use me in new ways.

For the previous 5 years, I had experienced some successes with songs and recording projects (all of which were a surprise), and some failures too (not a huge surprise but still discouraging!) I had also spent a good portion of those years pursuing a dream to communicate the “Father-heart” of God through music and story in a musical called “ Father’s House.” The project collapsed for several reasons at the end of 1996. In the process I reached a low point; a point where I was not even sure I believed in God anymore . . . or maybe that I believed in God, but it was more like He wound up the universe, and for the most part abandoned us to sort ourselves out. Rather than finding a figurative corner to “suck my thumb” and feel sorry for myself after the musical collapsed, I decided to try and find a place in the church where I could serve someone else’s vision for a few seasons, rather than try and keep my own visions alive. And so God, in His great compassion for my family and my wife Joyce, moved us to England. (It was there that God restored our soul and gave us some wonderful life-long friends!)

I was given two jobs upon arrival. The first was to be the worship pastor at the Southwest London Vineyard under the leadership of John & Eleanor Mumford. The second one was to train the songwriters and worship leaders in the Vineyard movement throughout England, Scotland and Ireland. There were about 75 Vineyard churches in the UK and Ireland at that time.

It was challenging to do a good job leading worship when so much of my heart was still ravaged by confusion and disappointment. But I had served long enough in the church to know how to effectively gather people up in the presence of God through intimate worship, and so I just got on with it, believing that eventually my feelings and the restoration of my heart would follow. I do remember a few times, gulping rather deeply before I would get up to lead worship, wondering if God might strike me down for leading in public, when privately I was having doubts about His very existence; or at the least, doubts about his goodness and whether He was actively intervening on behalf of His children. Yet where else could I turn? I knew enough about the other major philosophies and religions to know that nothing else really made sense of life and death, nor satisfied my heart and awakened my spirit.

Most mornings I would get up before the kids to go for a brisk walk. It was some light daily exercise and a chance to clear my mind before the day began. And it was also time to pray, to sing and to speak out scriptures. It was on one of these walks that I heard it. The idea floated through the air, and in that moment my life changed again. I tuned into what felt like the “frequency of worship”; that realm where God is completely real, and I immediately sensed the presence of God in a way that I had not for some time. I intuitively knew I was tuning into God’s invitation that is going out “day after day” as it says in Psalm 19:

“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard. Their voice goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.” Psalm 19 1- 4 NIV

The call to worship is unending. Its sound reverberates in every language and culture . . . and I was just hearing a little part of it in English in England’s capital city on that September morning. It is so amazing how big a little fragment of “God inspiration” can be!

Once the idea came, I just kept singing it over and over again so I wouldn’t lose it. (I have heard stories of songwriters who get a brilliant idea but they lose it because they don’t sing it enough to imprint it, or write it down or record it some way.) When I got home, I raced upstairs to the top loft of the house where the piano was and I started playing the idea over and over. I took a mental picture of playing the melody on the piano. I jotted down some notes on a piece of paper including other phrases that popped into my head. I only had a few minutes, because my favorite daily job of walking my kids to school was upon me, and so I managed to document the basic idea of the first section of the song before I left. I don’t remember the details of that morning walk with the kids. I am known to drive them crazy by singing silly songs . . . whatever I see sparks something and I love driving them crazy and embarrassing them by being silly. It’s part of the Dad job description. However, I expect that morning there were no silly songs, just the repetition of this God-breathed melody.

Over the rest of the week, I continued to sing the song . . . morning, afternoon and evening. When you are in the middle of writing a song, it feels more like birthing, and it invades every waking thought.

If you would have told me that this song would travel the globe, get translated into numerous languages and be recorded by dozens of artists I would have chuckled in disbelief . . . but just maybe I also would have said, “Yes, that’s going to happen.” I sensed something special was being designed and built and God, by His grace, was letting me in on the ground floor.

About a week later I felt like the song was basically finished; that’s pretty quick for me as sometimes I take months with songs as they go through multiple drafts. The next Sunday I tried the song out at our home church: the SW London Vineyard.3

The song connected right away. In fact, it seemed to me only a few weeks later that I started hearing that the song was already being used in South Africa. Part of what happened is that people passing through London would visit our church if they were interested in or connected to the Vineyard movement, and they would sometimes take songs with them as they headed home to other places. I remember being amazed to hear that the song had already traveled to the other side of the world. I had heard stories of other songs that had done that; but to have it happen to a song that I had written seemed crazy!

But even crazier is this: I wrote this song at one of the lowest points of my life; the point where I had failed in a big way with a project publicly, the point when privately doubts raged about this whole “Christian ministry” and serving God thing. But that explains some of the lyric choices I made.

I think if someone else had received the same melodic idea and opening line, the song would have likely been something like this:

Come, now is the time to worship

Come now is the time to give Him praise

Come, bring Him your best and worship

Come, give Him your all in glorious praise

Come

The focus may have been more on the good that we could do for God. But I was feeling broken. I needed to know that I could come and worship God just the way I was; that He would receive me even though my life was not all together. I needed to know that worship was more a matter of the heart than of our accomplishments. And so I wrote lines like “give your heart” and “just as you are before your God” because those were the things that I needed to re-affirm. I needed to know that those lines were true. That’s what you are constantly doing as a songwriter; stepping back from what you have written and asking yourself, “Are these lines true?” “Do I need to say that in this season to God?”

Would you like to know a songwriter secret?

We basically write the songs that we need to sing. God by His mercy sometimes enables them to become songs for other people too, but we are writing the things that we really need to say to stay sane and alive! And I think that’s a good thing. That’s why I challenge worship songwriters to stop trying to write songs that the church around the world will sing, and try and write a song that they have the courage to sing in their private time with God.

So I wrote the first section of the song as an urgent invitation from God. The key words were

“Come”; “Now”; “Time”; “Heart”; & “Just as you are.” The 2nd section of the song declares the

contrast between the “one day” that is coming and this amazing treasure we receive when we choose to worship God: the treasure of relationship with God.

Think about it this way. Worship is reality.

Being aware of God, focused on Him and in relationship with Him is ultimate reality. Worship brings that reality into focus. One day, reality will be forced on everyone. Everyone will have to accept the certainty and truth that God exists and that He is their Creator and Judge. The tragedy is that He also longed to be their Savior, their Father, and Bridegroom.

I have received a few letters over the years from people who have accused me of being a

Universalist. This included one man who really hoped I was and thought He found evidence in this song! A couple of other worship leaders said they wouldn’t use the song unless they could change the words. The line they were wrestling with was “still the greatest treasure remains for those who gladly choose you now.” Some believed that because I said “greatest treasure” that there was a lesser treasure awaiting everyone else, hence “Brian Doerksen; the closet universalist”.4

The greatest treasure I am referring to is the “treasure and pleasure of worship; a living, loving relationship with God.” I had no intention of inferring that others who reject God will get a treasure of eternal life as well. After a few years of answering this question I am beginning to see how someone could stretch my words to head in that direction; it just never entered my mind, nor the minds of the theologians that I tested the song lyrics with before it was published.

This is one of the challenges of writing for worship; we want to be theologically accurate, but we only have a few phrases to express an idea. Preachers and authors can take one concept and talk or write about it for quite awhile! Songwriters take a large amount of material and reduce it to a few phrases that one can remember, forming it into poetic and artistic phrases that sing. If we wanted to fully explain each concept with 15 verses, the song wouldn’t make it very far.5

What I was trying to say was that one day everyone will be forced to “worship” God with their bodies by bowing their knee, but some are missing this greatest treasure, the experience of worshipping God willingly in the here and now, knowing and loving God and being loved by Him. Instead of living for God, some spend their days seeking earthly treasure, treasure that will be revealed on that “one day” as worthless. God remains the only treasure that will always be worthy of our pursuit and devotion!

It seems that the “theological concerns” I received were really about who is going to get into heaven? And how exactly is that all going to work? I’m not sure any of us can presume to know those answers.

I can tell you this. Having special needs sons who cannot communicate verbally has tested me on

this point because they can’t pray the traditional sinner’s prayer. What if the deeper, heart-question that God longs for us to ask is: How can I get more heaven into me? and how can we get more heaven into us as the community of God? God alone will be the judge of who enters his presence. And He will be more HOLY than we could ever imagine . . . and more merciful!! So I’m leaving those matters in His hands. He knows our hearts. He will not force us to choose Him. He invites us to choose Him and our response to his invitation to “Come” makes all the difference in this life and the next!

Several months after I wrote the song, we started planning the first of 2 recordings I would produce while living in England in the late 90’s. The first one became known as “Winds of Worship – Live from London” with an alternate title of “Come now is the time” and the 2nd one turned out to be “Hungry” which went on to sell over 400,000 copies. The first recording took place on the 22nd of February 1998. It was a Sunday evening and we were in the Eliot high school auditorium, jampacked with people. It was as if people sensed something special was about to happen. Eleanor Mumford spoke before we started the first song about the treasure of worship and encouraged us to worship by singing to the Lord a new song with our whole heart! 6

As we started the song, I sensed God whispering to me, “This is one of the main reasons I brought you across the Atlantic – to encourage and awaken the call to worship in England and Europe in this season.” And it was as if the entire evening was bathed in the presence of God and charged with an energy and urgency that came from God stirring our hearts. I continued to sense that energy and urgency through the long days of postproduction, and we needed plenty of energy as we only had one week to mix the project, so some days at the studio started at 9 AM and didn’t end until 4 AM.

That sense of urgency was there because of the urgency to worship. Now is the time means just that. Now is the time to choose God, to choose to love and follow him. We don’t know how much time we have left, but we do have today. We have this moment to respond to God’s invitation.

This urgency speaks of re-ordering our priorities. It’s time to return to this truth.

Worship is first. . . .

always has been

always will be.

It’s the way we were made; it’s what we were created for!

Worship is the highest privilege and pleasure in the Kingdom of God. It is the response of our lives to the greatest commandment in Scripture: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your mind, with all your soul, and with all your strength.” Mark 12:30

I wrote this song in London, one of the great cities of the earth. But it’s filled with people who are passionately serving other gods. These days, the most common god is the narcissistic trinity of “me, myself and I.” A world of people faithful only to themselves, yet made in the image of God, created to worship YHWH. Some activists have declared this to be the generation when we can end extreme poverty with our technology and wealth. What a fantastic goal! There is only one challenge. When you have a world of people who are self-absorbed, serving and worshipping themselves and protecting their own rights at any costs, how can we see poverty ended? The only way to see poverty destroyed is to destroy the idolatry that is its root cause.

That’s one of the main reasons why there is such urgency to the call to worship that God is sounding. So much hangs in the balance. Those of us who have been called by God to sound this call often come under intense warfare and attack. That’s one of the reasons why having a “prayer shield” is so vital. Pam Dyck, who leads my team of intercessors shared this with me recently. “Satan hates what we do when we worship God. For when we embrace the calling to be “lead worshippers’, we are doing what Satan abandoned.” Many theologians believe that there is evidence in scripture that satan was a beautiful angel specifically created to direct the worship around the throne to God, until He desired the worship for himself. Of course, we won’t know in this life exactly what happened eons ago when Lucifer fell, but we do know that satan longs to be worshipped; behind every false religion and bondage is the “father of lies” craving what only belongs to God.

And so our calling is to clearly and urgently sound the call to worship God. And what is the core of that calling? Nothing less than our hearts! It’s loving God with all of who we are!

And if worship is first and foremost of the heart, it’s not about where we worship or what we look like when we worship. It’s not a performance for God. It’s a surrender of love to God, just the way we are.

It’s time to worship.

The word “time” reminds us that we are in the season of worship that God is releasing on the earth. Some people believe that the modern worship music movement “discovered” worship in the last few decades. I think that’s proud and ridiculous! I believe that Jesus inaugurated these days when He arrived a short 2,000 years ago, and even Jesus the “son of man” was building upon the worship of the millennium before him including the Davidic house of worship.

Listen to Jesus’ words recorded in John 4.

“A time is coming and has now come when the true worshippers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshippers the Father seeks. God is Spirit, and his worshippers must worship in spirit and truth.” John 4: 23,24 NIV

The implications of what Jesus is saying here are HUGE!!! We are changing seasons, and I am bringing clear revelation of the truth, so that each of us can become the kind of worshipper the Father is seeking.

A time is coming and has now come . . . . we are in that time now. A time when we are called to worship. What does it really mean to worship? Does it only mean getting together on Sundays and singing a few songs and clapping our hands? And why did Jesus speak some of his most direct and instructive words on worship to an outcast woman? Wasn’t that incredibly un-strategic of Jesus? Shouldn’t this conversation have happened in the temple with the high priest, with someone who could teach and influence the nation?

I believe one of the many reasons Jesus did this is that He wanted us to see the contrast between the truth and faithfulness of who He was, and the faithlessness and brokenness of our lives filled with fatherless worship. The shame of the woman at the well was the result of men’s utter faithlessness. We don’t know, but for a woman to become like this woman, it’s very likely that her father abandoned her, likely through neglect or more optimistically through death. Otherwise, if she had known the love of a good father, why would have she sought out the love of so many unfaithful men? Do women with good fathers throw themselves into the arms of scoundrels? Well yes, we can all probably think of a couple of examples, but they are the exception.

Here is Jesus, speaking to a woman who is miraculously still seeking truth, though there is evidence that she is starting to abandon hope, for “the one you have now is not even your husband.”

And so Jesus offers this woman two things. One is living water. She had been drinking from the polluted wells of unfaithfulness which always made her thirsty again. Jesus offers her a well of pure water; water that would satisfy her spiritual thirst. All romantic relationships are inherently spiritual. We know that we are not complete in ourselves, and so we reach out for another to complete us. Because we as humans are all fallen, the only true romance that can fully satisfy our hearts is the divine romance.

The second thing Jesus offers is the opportunity to worship the Father. I wonder if she cringed when she heard the word “Father.” It seems crazy to me that in our season of history we seem to shy away from this clear Biblical revelation. Just because so many men are scoundrels and bad fathers doesn’t mean we should not hold out the truth.

Jesus is saying to the woman, “People just like you who have experienced the pain and rejection of unfaithfulness can be healed. You can become a daughter again and this time you will encounter true faithfulness. Trust me. Everyone who worships experiences my faithfulness.”

There is no better place and way to be healed from the effects of unfaithfulness than to give yourself to God in worship. As we worship, our hearts are healed by the faithfulness of God; because that’s who God is. God is a faithful God!

At the very core of worship is a call to faithfulness, because faithfulness is what’s most important to God. How many times in the OT did God send prophets calling . . . “Return to me faithless people!” 7 We tend to wander away from God and his heart.

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,

Prone to leave the God I love.8

Worship is returning.

There was and is nothing that breaks God’s heart more than faithlessness. Can you imagine what

Jesus was feeling for this woman? The Father had revealed to him that this woman’s life was filled with failed marriages and unfaithful living. So Jesus came to show her the path to faithfulness, a chance to break free from fatherless worship to worshipping the Father in spirit and truth.

And if nothing breaks God’s heart more than faithlessness, we know that nothing brings God greater joy than faithfulness.

God doesn’t want to just hear us sing. God wants to see us live a life of faithfulness. The songs that spring from that kind of life will bring God much joy. If people sing of faithful love with their lips, but have hearts that are far from him, and their lips are kissing unfaithful lovers, the song they sing is no longer pleasing to God.

Biblical worship is full of truth. Truth about who God is coupled with truth about who we are.

These truths are essential for real worship. Sometimes God’s people were clear on declaring the truth of God, his actions and character. But they would never reveal the truth of their lives and struggles in His presence. This leads us in the direction of an artificial or acting faith, where we are always doing “great” and we only sing songs that are happy and full of thanksgiving . . .and we think we are really worshipping. Well sometimes we are really lying! I recently read an interview with one of Hollywood’s rising talents, and He confessed that as actors they basically get paid to lie; to pretend to be someone that they are not. Real worship is saturated with truth!

I love the Psalms and I love King David; he’s one of my biggest heroes! I often say “I want to be like Dave!” For centuries the Psalter, the collection of the 150 Psalms, was the hymnbook of God’s people. I am not advocating that we only sing Psalms from this side of the cross. But the Psalms are still full of truth and comfort for God’s people today. And they contain truth about God and truth about us as humans. God is not afraid of our humanity. As we come to worship, let’s be truthful to who we really are and how we are really doing. Anything else is not real worship.

Listen to Eugene Peterson’s version of Jesus’ words to the woman:

‘But the time is coming – it has in fact come – when what you are called will not matter and where you go to worship will not matter. It’s who you are and the way you live that count before God. . . . Your worship must engage your spirit in the pursuit of truth. That’s the kind of people the Father is out looking for: Those who are simply and honestly themselves before Him in their worship.’9

Jesus is saying, “I am thrilled that you are asking about worship; but you are asking the wrong questions. You have asked about ‘where’ and I am telling you that the most important aspect of worship is ‘who’ – who God is and who you are!”

This woman lived in a world (as do we!) where what you are called – your genealogy and roots, your class, your background, your profession, your age, your sex, your name, matter. They matter a whole lot! Jesus is saying that a time is being ushered in when labels will not matter anymore! The full and final fulfillment of his words will not happen in this life among the kingdoms of men. But it will happen in the kingdom of heaven! And it happens here on patches of earth where God’s rule and reign is invited in.

So Jesus says that “what we are called will not matter.” Therefore, the names that our parents give us and the labels others slap on us are not as important as who we are in the Father’s eyes. I can hardly wait for the day in heaven when we get our new name . . Rev 2:17 He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it.

I think of this as the name that is you or me . . . there could never be 2 people with the same name. It will be almost like God breathing out a word and that word will be us, it will be our name. Maybe that’s how God awakens worship in us to start with. He speaks our name, and we respond with worship!

But it’s not just the labels we wear that are throwing us off the real track of worship. It’s our focus on the “where” or place of worship. That means that the denomination or type of church we belong to is not the most important thing (I’m so grateful we are seeing breakthroughs in this as more and more of God’s people are learning to walk together). Nor is the type of building we worship in of ultimate importance. This is a really big one, and to be fair to the people living early in the 1st century, this was a big shift that Jesus was introducing!

Our labels and locations are so important to us. And we will do almost anything to defend and protect them and attack those not like us. The sin of prejudice is probably the most violent sin on the earth.

And so Jesus speaks truth to this woman and to us across the centuries. What counts to God is not our labels, it’s not our outside appearance. It’s our integrity, our honesty that counts to God. God wants us to come before Him just as we are; “simply & honestly themselves” means God is inviting us to come with a genuine naturalness.

You don’t have to change before you come to worship. You change because you have worshipped.

This is in contrast to Ps 78:

‘Psa 78:36 – 37 But then they would flatter him with their mouths, lying to him with their tongues; their hearts were not loyal to him, they were not faithful to his covenant.

When we flatter someone we are just saying what we think they want to hear so that we get something back . . . sounds eerily like some modern worship services doesn’t it? We fill the air with our “happy-clappy” songs about how wonderful God is so that we get blessed with good feelings and prosperity.

This is the essence of religion, doing everything we can to reach God and make ourselves presentable to Him. This is approaching worship with the attitude – what I give is the most important thing. It’s saying what I say is the most important thing. It all hinges on our performance. It’s trying to constantly put our best foot forward. It’s one of the reasons the phrase “let’s put on our Sunday best” has always left a bad taste in my mouth. When it comes to issues like clothing in worship, I believe God is most delighted when we come dressed the way we live; if you wear a suit during the week and that’s the way you live, then please come to worship wearing a suit! But if you live in casual clothes come to worship the way you live, in casual clothes, as long as the clothes you wear in any style are modest enough not to cause men’s eyes to be drawn and distracted.

The time for religion is over! The time for hype is over! It’s time for worship to be saturated with a spirit of humility and honesty. Hype comes from taking our cues from the advertising and image culture all around us. We are supposed to be different than our culture, yet still attractive and accessible.

What I am trying to say . . . because I believe this is what Jesus was trying to say to this woman, is that the Father is not looking for performance. It’s when we believe that everything hinges on our performance that we often resort to hype and flattery. That’s so religious. We should have no time or heart to play that game!

The Father is looking for worshippers, which means He is looking for people. The Father is looking for sons and daughters who will come just as they are, whether weeping with tears or dancing with joy.

It’s time to leave behind our fatherless worship, time to break free from the orphan living and thinking that fills our lives with striving, competition and unfaithfulness. It’s time to worship the Father in spirit and truth.

Come, now is the time to worship.

Songwriting Tips

Document your inspiration when it comes, for it will not come again! I believe that a song starts as a seed; a clear single idea that contains the songvision of the song. It’s the “one thing” of your song. Make sure when the inspiration comes, or when the seed falls into the soil of your life, you plant it! Write it down, record it, and take a mental picture of playing the melody on the piano. Invest in something that makes documenting the idea really simple.

Repetition is good; actually it’s more than good, it’s GREAT! Think of the way I repeat “come” in this song. I keep on sounding that simple clear invitation. If you are working on a song, look for the key word that you can repeat.

Make sure you have a strong melodic hook to build upon. This song starts with a very clear strong melodic hook on the 3rd note of the major scale. It’s a hook that is memorable and easy to sing. (Of course coming up with a fresh hook is always very difficult and is a gift every time it happens!)

Don’t waste time. Come right out of the gate with the key thing you want to say lyrically and a strong melody. It’s amazing to me how many times writers think they have all day to noodle around and have “indistinct” melodies to “build momentum’. You only have momentum if you have something clear right from the start!

It’s OK to be unique, to put your personality stamp on your song. One of my key melodic

distinctives is found in the way the melody is pushed on the last word of line one: “worship.” Both of those notes are pushed (of course I have heard many churches straighten those out which removes personality and energy from the melody to my ears). I love melodies that are pushed. What kind of melodies do you love?

2 At the time of writing this, I have only “heard’ two songs floating through the air; the first one was “Refiner’s fire” in 1989 and “Come now is the time’ in 1997. Most of songwriting for me is a labor of love, not simply downloading songs from heaven, though I do believe that all inspiration is a gift from God and we would have nothing without it!

3 We met at Elliot High School in Putney right beside River Thames within greater London.

4 One worship leader wrote me about the song with this theological quandary, and then after reading my explanation and wrestling with it a bit more, wrote me back and said,

“I introduced your “greatest treasure” song to our church last Sunday, and many people told me afterwards that they liked “that new song.” NO ONE mentioned anything about the lyric I was concerned about. I don’t get it. My band loves it!”

Of course just to prove how diverse we all are, others wrote and said that line was their favorite line in the song.

Over the years, I have come to see that music is very subjective; and when you mix subjective musical tastes with theology, which is also subjective and diverse, it makes for some lively and interesting discussions!

5 Unless you are Gordon Lightfoot writing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”!

6 It’s Eleanor Mumford’s voice you can hear in the swirl at the beginning of the recording

7 Jeremiah 3:14

8 Come thou fount of every blessing

9 The Message – Eugene Peterson John 4:23, 24 Can you hear how some of this paraphrase of scripture informed aspects of my song, “Come now is the time to worship”?

The title is what it is.  More thoughts.

Never measure your self-worth from the opinion of others.

Smiles are free.

I feel like a fish.  We all need to be in school with each other.

A hero is one who can hang on one minute longer.

I can change any thought that hurts.

Believe in yourself.  Someone has to make the first move.

It’s never too late to be what you might have been.

Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.

Understanding each other is the first step to getting along.  Getting along is the second step to getting well.

Happiness is to get help, to get well, to get out.

I don’t know if any of the quotes can be attributed to someone else.  I just know that the patients here wrote them down as a thought for the day.  Some of them are very astute.