I recently decided to create images for the Topical Memory System published by the Navigators, using NASB as the Bible version. I’m posting these here so that hopefully someone else who finds them useful might also benefit.
I had the opportunity to share some thoughts at a couple of recent Chapel services, once in my capacity as the band director introducing the worship songs, and once as a lay-person chosen for the week to share for a few minutes in a “whatever God puts on your heart” style.
Maybe I have a problem with food, but I thought about potlucks–a familiar theme in church settings.
Our praise team has been arranging pot luck dinners before practice for the last two months or so, giving everyone the chance to enjoy a meal together before we work out the details of the songs for Sunday’s service.
One Sunday, we were going to start the service with the old praise chorus, “Trading My Sorrows.” Yes, the one with the most repetitive chorus of all time:
Yes, Lord! Yes, Lord! Yes, yes, Lo-ord!
Yes, Lord! Yes, Lord! Yes, yes, Lo-ord!
Yes, Lord! Yes, Lord! Yes, yes, Lord! Amen!
I thought about how we come to potlucks, and how we draw near to God. As with all potlucks, there’s a little sense of pressure or propriety that drives me to bring something. After all, that’s how it works. Everybody brings a little to share–something good or necessary–and everyone is satisfied with the variety of wonderful contributions. It feels wrong to fill up your plate if you didn’t bring anything.
That isn’t how we approach Christ.
When we come to church, or when we go to God, sometimes I feel like I’ve got to show up with my best offering, something I’ve worked hard on as a gift, something I can be proud of. After all, it would be wrong to show up empty-handed, nothing to offer, expecting only to receive.
Yet that is the invitation God has made to all of humanity.
If I’m honest with myself (and with what Scripture says about me), I know that all I’m bringing to Christ is a bunch of baggage–burdens, sins, failures, weakness, frustration, and all sorts of other problems.
There’s this wonderful theological concept called “the Glorious Exchange.” We bring all our junk to Christ, and we get all His best.
He who knew no sin became sin for us, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him (2 Cor 5:21).
He was pierced for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities. The punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His scourging we are healed (Isa 53:5).
For Christ also died for sins, once for all, the just for the unjust, so that he might bring us to God, having been put to death in the flesh, but made alive in the Spirit (1 Pet 3:18).
There’s a trade that takes place, and we get the better end of the deal.
We are coming to a feast, not a potluck.
Our part is to say, “Yes, Lord!” and show up.
The Kingdom of God isn’t a situation of obligation where each of us makes our finest dish and brings it as the cost of entry. It’s a feast laid out by the generosity of the Father, a lavish display of bounty available to all who respond to the invitation.
When I think about God, I get caught up sometimes thinking that I’ve got to earn His kindness by doing enough to deserve His provision… but that’s not the Gospel.
When we come to the feast of God, we come broken, empty, without merit, without right or demand. We come to behold that glorious exchange in action.
Where I bring all my weakness, He gives strength that is more than sufficient (Php 4:13, 2 Cor 12:9-10)
Where I have lack, He has abundance (Php 4:19, Rom 8:32).
When I am anxious, He gives peace (Isa 26:3, 1Pet 5:7).
For my ashes, He gives beauty. In my sorrow, He gives joy. (Isa 61:3)
He has put out a feast of blessings for those who simply respond to the call, and He is ready to dish out seconds, thirds, and then some to those who ask in faith.
Now we have received not the spirit that is in the world, but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may know the things freely given to us by God. -2nd Corinthians 2:12
When I shared these thoughts as a lay-person, we were about to sing a beautiful song called Spirit of the Living God.
We are meant to know all that God has given us through Christ. When I get this idea of God’s invitation and provision, it changes things for me. It’s not about working up some kind of fervor or working into some kind of favor. I’m not meant to work myself into the ground to show my dedication and prove I deserve some kindness from the angry God looking down at my pathetic plea.
When I think of God’s arms extended in welcome, and the Glorious Exchange, it changes what I’m looking for, what I think I need, what I want, what I even see as available to me. When His Spirit works in me to know what exactly He has done, what all He has taken off my shoulders and out of my hands, and what He has given to replace the trash and mess I didn’t even want anymore, then that makes anything seem possible.
This week’s Blog Battle entry is for the word “bribe” in whatever genre I choose. This is the second half of last week’s story from the underworld featuring Dom the detective and his dearly loved Innova the spirit of creativity.
I’m a little bit late and a lot bit over the word count but here it is:
I crouch and hustle toward the banks of the River Styx, my drab, lifeless fingers wrapped around Innova’s wrist, almost charcoal against her gleaming skin. The waters ahead churn black and gray underneath a rolling mist. We’re almost to the ferry, hiding behind ramshackle houses, slipping through crowds of bodies wandering aimless near the docks like the wreckage of the afterlife.
Innova digs her heels into the dirt and pulls me back. “Dom, this is insane.” She gestures at the small black box strapped around her radiant ankle. “You should just take me back to the bar before the Oni gets suspicious. Calm, rational responses aren’t his style.”
I ain’t rational either, not when it comes to her. She doesn’t understand the lengths I’ll go to, the madness and hope her presence inspires within me. I’ve been Soulless for years, ever since I pulled the trigger on all my pain and suffering. I’d hoped to end it, and got an eternity’s worth instead. And after years on the outskirts of the underworld, this spirit of creativity clinging to my arm is the only thing that matters to me.
“I still have more time with you,” I protest. “He gave me his word. And if you can’t believe the giant ogre-demon Overlord who runs half of Death’s Landing, then who in Hell can you trust? Other than me, of course,” I add with a laugh.
Innova scoffs, but follows toward the ferry. Fact is, I need her to trust me on this one, maybe more than ever. I’ve been working this plan for a while and can’t have it fall apart at the last step.
The Ferryman stands at the stern of his vessel, watching each tank of bootleg spirits his dockhands unload to their storage facility. “Move faster,” he growls. “I got another shipment to fetch from the other side.”
I can hear a crowd of voices on the other side of the building, the eager buyers who ditched the Oni and his expensive bar to come get a cheaper fix. The Ferryman is building some powerful demand from his customers, judging by the ruckus on the streets nearby. Makes me wonder what he’s getting out of the bargain. The Oni deals in secrets… what does the Ferryman collect?
Questions for another day. We’re a short dash from the mooring, and the dockhands are hauling off the last of the tanks. The Ferryman is already pushing away from the dock. It’s now or never.
I feel Innova pulling away, resisting, quivering with fear now that we’re in sight of the ferry. “Trust me, babe,” I whisper. Then I dash for the boat, and thankfully she comes along, her fingers digging into my unfeeling skin.
The dockhands watch in surprise, and the tanks of spirit they’re carrying fall forgotten in the dirt. The Ferryman’s face twists in confusion at the sight of this blazing bright woman and the bedraggled scrub of a Soulless running toward him.
We hit the edge of the dock and leap, hanging over the black waters of the Styx for a second before crashing onto the planks of the ferry in a tumble.
A voice roars loud enough to shake my heart inside chest. “What is the meaning of this?!” I look up at the Ferryman, but he’s glaring at someone on the docks. Behind me, Innova groans.
At the edge of the dock, surrounded by a team of hovering demon-spawn, the Oni stands armored and armed for battle, his fists on the massive plates of obsidian at his hips. His mask is a glowing crimson like lava. His horns are tipped in blood. The long sword he holds in one hand looks like a massive sheet of razor-sharp metal with a handle tossed onto one end for convenience.
His mask moves slightly, his gaze taking in the whole scene. When he speaks, the dock rumbles beneath his weight. “A fool hoping to steal one of my precious guests? And perhaps worse—a greater fool cutting into my market with cheap imitations of my product?”
The Oni points, and four winged demons swoop toward the ferry to pull it back to the dock. The Ferryman whistles and a dozen of his burly assistants pour out of the storage facility in seconds, fists clenched, ready for a scrap.
“Dom,” Innova breathes, “what have you done?”
The Oni stomps a hoof onto the ferry and for a moment I fear the whole thing will capsize. His entourage of demons engage the dockhands trying to reach their master, and the shoreline turns into a madcap fight scene from some eighties action movie.
“I’m not trying to escape with Innova,” I say.
“Of course you are not,” the Oni replies, the empty eyes of his mask fixed on the Ferryman. “You are a thoughtful man, Dominick. A calculating man who knows the cost would be more than he could pay.”
“Just figured you’d be interested in what’s going on here.”
The Oni takes a step toward his rival. His fingers tighten around the haft of his ridiculous sword—a wall of metal bigger than my entire body. “You are correct,” he says, fearless, like a master looming over his cowering dog.
The Ferryman’s eyes dart along the docks and the shore. His men put up a good fight, but the demons are driving them back, separating the dockhands from their leader. He throws up his hands in desperation before the Oni. “You can’t kill me! I keep the Underworld full of fresh souls, customers you need. If I stop bearing the departed from the world above, the whole circle of death and life breaks down.”
“You speak truth,” the Oni admits. “I cannot kill you. However…”
There’s a rush of wind as the Oni unleashes an overhead chop. The Ferryman screams and his left arm hits the deck with a thud.
“You can still pilot your vessel with one hand.” The Oni leans in close. “I’m quite certain you could do it without legs if need be.” His expressionless mask examines the ship. “The soul-traps on this vessel… you will disassemble them, yes?”
The Ferryman whimpers and gives a vigorous nod.
Then the Oni turns to Innova and me, standing at the stern, near the rudder and the wheel. “You had a hand in arranging this meeting, Dominick. Did you seek reward? Are you currying favor, perhaps asking for another day with my lovely spirit by your side?”
Now we come to it, the moment I’m expecting and dreading and hoping for all at once. I lick my lips, eyeing that insane, bloody thing in the Oni’s massive hand. “How about—how ‘bout you set her free?”
The Oni stares in silence.
“Otherwise,” I continue, forcing some resolve into my voice until it booms over the waters, “Otherwise, I flip this on and you all get sucked into the soul traps like a Hoover.” I tip my chin toward my hand, resting on the switch that powers the vessel’s mechanisms.
I swear, even the dockhands and demons on the shore go silent. Rule number one of the outskirts: you don’t threaten the Oni.
Innova whips her head around at me, her jaw hanging like a fish plucked from the water. Even now she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
I take my eyes off her and find the Oni inches from my face, his blood-mask staring down at me, a fire smoldering in the black pits of his eye holes. “You dare not risk your beloved.”
He’s smart, calling my bluff. I don’t have an answer for that.
“I’d rather die,” Innova declares, “than be trapped on your shelf, brought out to prance before the refuse that frequents your bar, hoping to someday earn the right of basic freedom.”
I take her hand and give it a squeeze. I wasn’t sure how to get around the obvious fact that I would never put her into harm’s way.
The Oni grunts in frustration. His fingers flex and splay around the haft of his wall-sword. “You would be trapped too.”
“I’m Soulless,” I reply. “I’ve got nothing to trap, nothing to lose.”
Our standoff lasts several minutes, and then the Oni laughs. “Well played. Bribing me with my own soul. Truly a calculating man.” He turns to Innova and etches two glyphs of flame in the air. “Your contract is revoked. You are free to go.”
Innova gasps, stumbling like a drunk. Her natural radiance gleams even more, like the sun finally peeking through a cloudy sky. “You—what?”
“You are freed, spirit. No longer bound.” His voice hardens into a primal growl. “Nor do you belong here any longer.”
She flashes me a smile of thanks before he banishes her from the Underworld. There’s a flash of light, then—nothing. An empty spot where she stood, a hole in my heart that only she filled.
I look up at the gloomy skies and the thick stalactites high above, imagining that somewhere, beyond the miles of rock and lava, she’s feeling the sun on her face once again. It’s the only thing keeping me standing under the crushing weight of grief and loss.
“I respect what you have done here, Dominick,” the Oni says. “But you are wrong.”
“About what?” I stand at the stern, staring into the darkness above.
“Having nothing to lose,” the Oni says. He marches off the ferry, each step rocking the shuddering vessel.
Genre: Fantasy
Word prompt: Liquid
Update: The Finest Spirits tied for the win for the week–thanks to those who voted for Dom and Innova.
—
On the jagged, winding road that slopes down into the Pit of Hell, inside a little dim-lit crevice nestled between the lost souls begging for someone to drag them out and the angelic patrols enforcing the justice of Heaven, there’s this hole-in-the-wall dive that’s worth a pit-stop.
Pit stop, get it? I kill me… which is part of why I’m here.
Being a shade stuck in Limbo ain’t so bad as it sounds. I got skills from my time in the flesh–after twenty-three years on the beat with a badge, I know how to find what people are looking for, whether it’s a rogue demon giving the angels trouble or a way back for a vengeful victim.
I don’t know the name of the joint. It’s got some kinda Japaneezy scribbles on account of the Oni that runs the place. I try to steer clear of him and his goons. But I keep visiting because they got the best spirits anywhere –above, on the earth, or below, there’s no place like it.
Plus there’s a girl. Of course there is.
The bouncers know me, but I still get a quiver in what used to be my spine when they look at me with those blood red eyes and sharp black horns. They wave me on, but entrance is never free. Just inside the door sits a gangly, rat-faced creature, all done up in a hooded robe and ornate jewelry. He’s the Oni’s info-broker, a dealer in secrets, the only currency that’s any value in this establishment.
I know things, stuff that people would like to think they kept hidden in life. Like I said, decades of detective work. Half my mind is full of tidbits the Oni would accept. The info somehow gives him leverage over people this side of the grave–I don’t know how it works and I don’t need to.
I just need to see her.
The music is thumping inside–sounds like a busy night. After scrawling my offering in the air with flaming glyphs that vanish a second later, Rat-face waves me on and I step through the thick obsidian doors.
The atmosphere is like a swank club back upstairs, with a dance floor and plenty of private seating booths. Some back rooms support larger groups, like the revenants and emo types, the vampires and ghosts that can’t talk about anything other than how much they’re suffering and loathing the crushing burden of their deathless existence. I can’t stand their type. At least when I offed myself, I didn’t make some big, long show of it, and I didn’t spend the rest of eternity talking about it down here.
The real attraction is the bar, of course, and plenty of uglies are clustered around it putting in their orders. The barkeep, Jimmy Two-Claws, spots me beyond the sea of faces and pulls a bright bottle off the shelf. “The usual, Dom?”
“Nothing but.”
They got some kind of tracking system worked out, where Rat-face notifies the bar how much you got on your account based on the value of the secret. Mine should get me twenty minutes.
I find an empty booth and pop the cork. Radiant steam curls out of the bottle, expanding into a humanoid cloud. Then it solidifies in the seat next to me, and Innova appears. Her hair shimmers a rainbow like mother-of-pearl. The embodiment of Inspiration, her skin illuminates the booth with fluorescence like a human lightbulb. She stretches her perfect form and cocks her head like she’s loosening stiff joints in her neck. The sight of her fills me with energy, makes me feel alive again, like I could do anything I want.
That’s how it works. The Oni serves up spirits. You pay a secret, you get to spend some time with whatever you like. Creativity, Adventure, Love, Happiness and the like for the good-hearted. Strife, Jealousy, Avarice, Wrath and such for the rougher crowd. Bottles of every color adorn the shelf behind the bar, every one of them holding spirits trapped by the Oni, earning their freedom night by night depending on how many customers they can bring in.
I wonder how much longer it’ll take my girl to escape this hole.
“You look good, Innova. As always.”
“And what dreams can I inspire within you tonight, Dom?”
“Come on. You know you don’t have to keep up the act with me, babe.”
Innova laughs. “Maybe with you it’s not an act,” she purrs.
“We’ve shared too many last calls for that. I’m here for you, not your spiel.”
She smiles, then slouches in the seat and watches the crowd, the sign that she’s finally being herself instead of what people expect.
One of the staff approaches a couple in a secluded booth with an unopened bottle on the table, the contents a deep crimson, glowing from within. Romance, I’m guessing, or maybe Lust. Probably hoped to rekindle something, but neither one made a move to pop the cork.
“Doesn’t look good for those two,” I say, and Innova nods.
This is how we pass the time together–watching the desperate slobs that come in, guessing at what drives the choices they make, wondering what choices led them here in the first place.
“Check out these idiots,” Innova says, pointing to the dark room full of emo kids. A waitress brings them another round of black bottles–spirits of despair.
I listen close and hear a woman’s voice, gritty like a smoker, reading over a soft-tapped rhythm. “Shadows swirl and roll, a collision in my glass-imprisoned soul, this vessel can’t hold the full measure of my sorrow, pour it out tonight, tomorrow there’s more there. One day I’ll be free… what place waits for me? Nowhere.”
“Oh god. Are they doing beat poetry?”
“I tried to offer Despra some tips once,” Innova says of the other spirit. “But she and I aren’t on speaking terms since that ill-fated Karaoke contest last month.” She shakes her head and mutters, “Despra should not sing Disney songs, like, ever.”
“Bet that was a wreck.”
Innova shifts and glances at the hell spawn near the bar. He’s glaring at me, his yellow eyes watching like a predator in the wild.
“Time’s almost up, Dom.” She’s nervous, eying her bottle-prison with displeasure.
“I’ll pay for more, no problem.”
The second the words leave my mouth, Rat-face is at my side, a toothy grin splitting his lips, his rotting breath leaking out with a hiss. Between my need to avoid him as long as possible and my desire to give Innova a reason to keep smiling, I dig up a really good secret from the back of my mind. Juicy details on the intimate indiscretions of certain angelic patrols that aren’t coming down this way for duty.
Once Rat-face is gone, Innova relaxes and puts her hand in mine. “You didn’t have to pay that much,” she says.
“Just helping work off your debt to the Oni.”
Innova brushes her hand through her hair. “Do you realize how much you just put on your account? You couldn’t spend it all tonight.”
I shrug. “I’ll be by tomorrow, then.”
“I know you will.” She hesitates, then leans close. “Or… do you see that violet bottle on the top shelf?”
“The dusty one? Looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.”
She nods. “Generosity isn’t a common companion this side of the pearly gates. Would you do me a favor?”
I already know what she’s getting at. “Sure. I’ll by a shot. Hey Jimmy!”
A moment later, Innova and I work together to pop the cork. A wave of giddiness hits me as it launches across the booth, and we collapse in laughter.
Then I hear myself talking like an idiot. “Jimmy, you know what? Get everyone another round of whatever they’re having–on me!”
The bar erupts with cheers and applause. Even the hardest toughs give me a nod or raised glass in respect. And I’m sitting here wondering what the heck just happened.
Several bottles get passed throughout the crowd. Spirits appear at the bar, in booths, on the dance floor, at pool tables… all across the place, their grateful, liberated faces flash me and Innova a smile.
I jam the cork into the bottle of Generosity before I say anything else stupid. Then I shoot Innova a glare. She gives me a sheepish grin. “Think of how many you just released,” she says. “How much closer they are to freedom. Do you feel the positive energy in the room right now?”
“You knew that would happen.”
Innova shrugs, feigning innocence. “What can I say? It’s my job to inspire others.”
When I finally leave, just before what passes for dawn in this hellhole, I pause to consider if I’m coming back tomorrow. Then I realize, who am I kidding?
I walk up the slope, picturing Innova’s smile and running down the list of secrets bouncing around in my head.