Rachel Starr Thomson

When I was in my late teens, I was really really passionate about seeking the Lord. So passionate, in fact, that after reading a few books on revival and the “godly habits of godly people,” I pretty much burned myself out in prayer. And ever since, I’ve been a bit gun shy when it comes to my prayer life.

Recently God has been calling me to live with far more emphasis on prayer and daily seeking him, so I have to get over my qualms. I’ve been reading Prayer by Richard J. Foster, and yesterday this paragraph, advice given to a young man who was desperately trying to hear from God through a passage of Scripture, spoke to me:

“You’re trying too hard . . . You’re trying to control God. Go back to this passage and this time be open to receive whatever God has for you. Don’t manipulate God; just receive. Communion with him isn’t something you institute. It’s like sleep. You can’t make yourself sleep, but you can create the conditions that allow sleep to happen. All I want you to do is to create the conditions: open your Bible, read it slowly, listen to it, and reflect on it.”

It seems to me this advice holds true for all of spiritual life, not just lectio divina or specific types of prayer. In Luke 11 Jesus tells us to ask (not demand), seek (not create), and knock (not grab a crowbar and force the door). Any approach to God means coming empty handed and waiting humbly for him to give, reveal, and open the door.

If he decides to remain silent, that’s fine. We can still come, being faithful to create conditions. It’s sort of like being a servant and setting the table every morning, laying out a beautiful breakfast and fine china, even though it’s possible the master will decide to show up late or eat somewhere else. Laying out the table, with love and reverence, is still an act of service and love. It’s up to the master to decide how to accept that act.

I think prayer is a little like this as well. Creating the conditions can be, in itself, an act of worship. We do not decide how God will respond to that worship. But we know that he will respond–ask, seek, knock; receive, find, come through the door.

In my last post, I wrote about God as the single person’s inheritance and the opportunity we have to make God our treasure. But really, that idea is not new. Anyone who has been single for any length of time after the age of 21 has heard this. We are pointed to 1 Corinthians 7, which outlines the single person’s ability to be “wholly devoted” to the Lord without the distractions inherent in married life. And we’re often told that our singleness is a gift.

And yet, most of us still feel like we’re getting a bad deal. At the very best, we tend to see singleness as a waiting period where we hope God will do some good work in us until we get the lifestyle we really want.

Now, again, I don’t want to denigrate the desire for marriage–most single people will eventually get married, and the desire to do so is good, natural, and sometimes holy. But surely the vision of 1 Corinthians 7 is something greater than enduring a trial! It’s a vision of active devotion, whole-hearted service, and treasuring of God.

May I suggest that living out that vision requires something more than lip service from us?

It’s all very well to say that God is our treasure and we are single to be wholly devoted to him, but do we act like he is our treasure? And are we taking advantage of what Paul says are the blessings of singleness–that is, are we actually living toward God differently than we would be if we were married?

I’ve been asking myself these questions recently because frankly, I don’t think I have been. And it’s striking me that if I don’t invest in my relationship with God in a unique way through my singleness, then it’s not surprising if I don’t find my relationship with him particularly fulfilling or fruitful.

So I am trying to make some changes. For example, as a single person, I have a lot of discretionary time in the mornings and evenings. I’m trying to use much of this time for prayer and Bible reading. I want to treat God like a husband in this respect: as someone I spend alone-time with, listen to, and learn how to honour at all times through my actions, words, appearance, etc.

I’m also trying to take a good hard look at my finances and see how I can use them to invest in God’s kingdom–after all, I don’t have a family to support, so I’m able to do this perhaps more than a married person could.

I am not doing any of this perfectly. But I am finding that as I get active and deliberate about being wholly devoted in my singleness, singleness begins to look more like the calling and gift it is–whether or not it’s temporary.

Sascha Konig is a brilliant chemist, a Nazi, and a good man. That, at least, is what he tells himself. He is, after all, an educated, literate man, an artist, a man of faith. That he must sometimes obey unspeakable orders does not change that.

Ah, but, It is times such as these that we see inside a man by what he obeys or does not obey. That is but one of the lessons Konig must grapple with inside the Nachthaus, a notorious Nazi death and torture camp inside an old forest mine in Romania, where Sascha is brought to make the victim-devouring furnace burn hotter.

It does not take Konig long to learn that—Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin—the Nachthaus has been weighed and found wanting by some power greater than them all. The forest itself has launched a bloodthirsty siege against the gates of the mine, sending preternatural creatures in ferocious attack night after night. Messages—and people—come in, but cannot go out. The madman who runs the death camp is determined to prove himself victor over all, no matter what it should cost.

And Konig is himself haunted by the startling blue eyes of a Gypsy girl whose death he caused.

He was only following orders. But It is times such as these that we see inside a man by what he obeys or does not obey.

In the dark night of Nazi cruelty and nature’s fury, Sascha Konig must look inside of himself to discover the truth about his life, his world, and the path he must take. The Nachthaus puts most men to sleep, dulling them to the horrors of their lives, but for those who are awake, there are many messages.

Most of all: Deus et natua non faciunt frusta. Ex malo bonum: God and nature do not work together in vain. Out of evil, good.

Marc Schooley’s second novel with Marcher Lord Press, Konig’s Fire has much in common with its protagonist: it is intelligent, literate, and willing to examine the reality of human sin with open eyes. It’s highly imaginative—weird is an appropriate adjective—so don’t come looking for realistic historical fiction; this isn’t it. And be warned that this is a dark story, with elements verging on horror. Torture, monsters, and madmen all play into the plot. (And if you have a real problem with cockroaches, don’t read it.) But in all of that, it’s a story full of wisdom, one which not only exposes the darkness, but shows the way out. Ex malo bonum, after all.

If Konig’s Fire is a horror story, it is one with its gaze fixed on the truest horror of our existence: the reality of our own sin. But in that horror, the light of God unmistakably shines.

I am twenty-eight, and I am single. I don’t know whether I always will be, but I am sure single now. Several of my friends, both men and women, are in the same boat. And some of us will never marry.

For the sake of discussion, let’s pretend that’s where I am–single and going to stay there until I give up my last earthly breath and go to be with Jesus.

A verse in Ezekiel regarding the Levite priests jumped out at me last week:

“And it shall be with regard to an inheritance for them, that I am their inheritance; and you shall give them no possession in Israel—I am their possession.” (Ezekiel 44:28)

That stuck out to me because it’s so like the life of a single Christian. Inheritance on earth is rightly measured by children, by family legacy. A single Christian has none of that. Should I remain single, there will be no one carrying on my name, no one who looks like me and has inherited my DNA and my worldview. No one whose duty it is to take care of me in my old age and put up with me if I get all forgetful and cranky.

But I do have Jesus. In fact, Paul tells me that my lifestyle perfectly positions me to be fully devoted to him, holy in body and in spirit, free from the distractions and the ties that literally bind. This is good.

So why, when I read the words, “you shall give them no possession–I am their possession” does it feel so much like trading something for nothing?

Before you jump in with many protestations of the goodness and rightness of marriage, let me say that I heartily believe in the goodness and rightness of marriage. It is abundantly clear that God has designed marriage to show forth his reality in a unique and marvelous way, as well as to provide for many of the needs of his children. But it is also clear that God has designed a special calling and purpose for those who are single. As much as God worked his will through Abraham and Sarah, Joseph and Mary, Aquila and Priscilla, so he also worked his will through Daniel, and Paul, and Luke. And Jesus.

So when I say “Having only God for my possession feels unreal, like I am not actually being given anything,” I don’t think the best response is to jump in and say, “Oh, well, you can get married! Marriage is good!” Marriage is good, but marriage isn’t ultimate. It’s not even eternal. God is. And God apparently considers himself a worthy inheritance, a worthy possession, without the earthly blessings of marriage and family added to him.

My point is this: the Levite priests were not getting a bum deal when God made himself their possession and their inheritance. They were getting the absolute best.

So without at all diminishing the goodness of marriage, I desire to see this change in me: that I would come to recognize God as just as real, just as fulfilling, and just as beautiful as an earthly inheritance would be. Rather than pining for a husband I don’t have, I wish to learn to enjoy the God I do. Rather than wishing I had a household to run, I wish to tend His household faithfully. Rather than mourning the lack of an earthly legacy, I wish to build a heavenly one.

And I wish to do all of that even if God intends for me to marry one day (for whatever reason–because he has decided that he wants to make my life fruitful as a wife and mother, because he wants me to help show the picture of Christ and his bride that is only found in marriage, because he sees my needs and chooses to meet them that way).

Because if I can learn to embrace God as my inheritance and my possession, I will not have wasted these years. I will have enjoyed the gift God has given me rather than wishing for one I do not have. I will have exalted him as my greatest love and my greatest treasure. And I think that’s a marvelous calling to have.

The Reverend Ian Clark, pastor of a small church in Stonetree, California, has been hiding his resignation letter in his desk drawer for days, working up the nerve to call it quits on his position, his faith, and his dreams. For good. Haunted by past tragedy and his own personal failures, Ian lives up to the nickname given him by Professor Benjamin Keen, a world-traveling anthropologist and pioneer in syncretistic spirituality: “The Wandering Soul.”

But Ian’s plans stall out when Ruby Case, a member of his congregation and unremarkable housewife, accidentally raises a young boy from the dead.

As rumours, tabloids, and pilgrims converge on Stonetree, Ian and Ruby become increasingly aware that something big is happening. The druid doll on the front lawn, the frightening vision of a petrified tree, the ghost in Ian’s office—all point to realities they can’t see but must, somehow, confront. And then there’s the other resurrection . . .

Stonetree has long been rumoured to be a cursed town. Just how true that is, none of them really imagined. Somehow, Ruby Case and Ian Clark have unleashed war—and they have no choice but to see it through.

Mike Duran’s debut novel, The Resurrection, is top-notch paranormal suspense, reminiscent of Frank Peretti’s early spiritual warfare novels, but with a flavour all its own. Its intelligent blend of culture and history with paranormal elements is immensely appealing. Duran writes with cinematic sensibility, creating locales and encounters that appeal as strongly to the senses as to the mind and imprint themselves in visual splendour. He paints coastal California in perfect, vivid detail: I can still see redwoods and smell eucalyptus in the fog.

The characters are three-dimensional and engaging. (I’d very much like to sit down with Ian Clark and talk about his spiritual journey—and a few other topics as well. He’s the sort of smart, curious academic with whom I always enjoy conversing.) Their spiritual struggles are real: their questions, doubts, fears, hopes, and triumphs reflect real faith in a messy world.

I am somewhat ambivalent about the book’s depiction of spiritual warfare. Thoroughly enjoyable as adventure, mystery, and story of personal faith, The Resurrection isn’t so easily transferred to our everyday spirituality as Peretti’s This Present Darkness was. Duran is a writer of speculative fiction, and he speculates freely–about all sorts of things in the spiritual realm. As I’ve said in an article over at Speculative Faith, I came away a little confused on a few points, and feeling that it wouldn’t be too hard to interpret God as just another deity vying for control of the planet, rather than as the King of Kings thundering His authority over every inch of it. This is reality, but it’s not; the lines are blurry. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Even so, this one stays on my bookshelf, and I’m looking forward to Duran’s next title. If you read The Resurrection, tell me your thoughts about the spiritual stuff. I would love to hear what you think.

For much of my life, a pallor has been cast over my spiritual aspersions by this insidious little whisper, spoken by some persnickety church person in the general ether of evangelical life:

“She’s too heavenly minded to be any earthly good!”

Why does that whisper manage to come in and cripple my prayer life, my attempts at fasting, my desire to serve?

Granted, there is a kind of spirituality that never brings salvation to bear on our life here. You know the kind–”fire insurance” Christianity, in which Jesus only matters because he saved us from hell. I think that’s what “too heavenly minded” is supposed to refer to. And it’s true–that kind of false spirituality isn’t any earthly good. But it’s not truly heavenly minded, either.

In my own life, the pallor has come because I’ve applied the saying to seeking after God in radical ways. There’s a deep-rooted suspicion in much of the evangelical world toward “emotionalism,” or spiritual extremism, or getting a mite too Pentecostal or a mite too radical. But I have to wonder: when it comes to seeking and serving God, can we really get “too” heavenly minded? Is that possible?

If God is real, eternity is real, and heavenly reward is real, then our problem is not being too heavenly minded. It’s that we’re not heavenly minded enough. We look with suspicion on “extreme” faith because it doesn’t make sense within the context of this world, not because it’s out of step with the next.

Real heavenly-minded faith will put God first in everything. But in doing so, it can’t check out of life on earth. It brings heavenly values, heavenly priorities, heavenly actions to bear on life here, for the sake of the next life. Richard Foster talks about this in the context of prayer:

“We must never believe the lie that says that the details of our lives are not the proper content of prayer. For example, we may have been taught that prayer is a sublime and otherworldly activity, that in prayer we are to talk to God about God. As a result, we are inclined to view our experiences as distractions and intrusions into proper prayer. This is an ethereal, discarnate spirituality. We, on the other hand, worship a God who was born in a smelly stable, who walked this earth in blood, sweat, and tears, but who nevertheless lived in perpetual responsiveness to the heavenly Monitor.”
- Richard Foster, Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home

As a Christian, I want to reject “discarnate spirituality” completely . . . but I welcome heavenly mindedness. When it comes to living for God, I am not sure it’s possible to get too radical.

God ascends to shouts of joy, alleluia, alleluia.
The Lord to the blast of trumpets, alleluia, alleluia.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,
God ascends to shouts of joy, alleluia, alleluia.

A while back I bought a prayer book which, among other things, notes the days of the Liturgical Year. Though it has not been part of my evangelical Protestant upbringing, to me there’s something really cool about noting all of the important days, not just the “big ones”–Easter Sunday and Christmas.

For example, like Advent and Lent, Easter is a whole season, not just a day: seven weeks that stretch from Easter Sunday until Pentecost. For all these seven weeks after the resurrection, Jesus was walking around on this earth, showing himself to people and spending time with his disciples. The resurrection was not just some flash in the pan, a remarkable event that happened and then was over just as fast. It was the beginning of forty days of relationship building here on earth, and then of relationship building that continued beyond the boundaries of time and space.

In fact, it still isn’t over. Today is Ascension, marking the day when Jesus ascended into heaven to sit down at the right hand of the Father. That is the present-day, astounding reality with which we live: not just that Jesus died, not just that he was resurrected, but that he lives, today, and he is sitting in the most powerful position in the universe, interceding for us.

Happy Ascension Day. May all our thoughts and actions today be influenced by the reality that Jesus is alive, on the throne, and interceding for us–today and every day of our lives. Our faith is so much more than a nod to something that happened, once, a long time. It’s an ongoing relationship, an ongoing walk of trust and love for the One who is ascended on high.