Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold, but he who stands firm to the end will be saved.
Matthew 24:12,13
Chances are you are privy to the events that have overtaken the city of Jos, Nigeria in the past week. We have witnessed firsthand man’s inhumanity to man and seen atrocities committed in the name of God. We watched in horror as an ostensible political squabble metamorphosed into a full-scale Holy War with both sides trying to outdo the other. So many have lost life, limb and loot in the carnage and there is little comfort to be seen.
The stories are as shocking as they are true as we see man’s creativity used in the most nefarious ways reminiscent of Paul’s horror at those who “invent ways of doing evil” in Romans 1:30. I’ve heard of people being thrown down bridges to be dashed on the rocks, others burned alive, pleas of mercy ignored as young men are macheted to death by youth inebriated by their own depravity.
I met a young man today, fourth year Architecture student, who was caught up in the crisis. His friend and roommate was killed and burned before his very eyes. He managed to escape but lost everything but the shirt on his back. He offered to offload an old camera to me in exchange for enough money to make the short trip to Abuja. Imagine my embarrassment when he burst into tears and prostrated on the ground in gratitude when I offered to pay his fare. One can only imagine the terror he and many others like him have witnessed.
So where does one find comfort in the midst of such suffering? Where do you find the courage to face your neighbor with a different faith and offer the love of Christ? How do you tell that mother that she will never see her young son again? “He was so young and full of potential!” she cries. “He just left me to serve his country. Why, oh why?” And what do you tell the businessman who watched his life’s work go up in flames? How can you offer comfort without sounding banal, condescending or just plain out of touch?
I have no answers today, but questions only. But I do realize that in the midst of such seemingly inhuman suffering I can look to those who have experienced such and say, along with them, “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God... How my heart yearns within me!” (Job 19:25-27)
Join me now to pray for those who suffer and trust God for his healing. Amen.
With love, Doosuur.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Fit To Die
Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved.
Acts 4:12
I remember growing up singing native Tiv songs during Sunday evening Family Time, around a bowl of hot kunun gyeda. One of my favorite songs went something like this:
The Jews put the Lord Jesus on the ballot
To run against Barabbas
Barabbas lost the vote -
Barabbas was not fit to die
You remember the story don’t you? Pilate, the Governor, in a desperate last-gasp attempt to rescue Jesus from an irate Jewish mob makes an offer he thinks they should not refuse. “Which prisoner do you want me to pardon?” he asks. “Jesus Barabbas, or Jesus the so-called Christ?” (Matthew 27:17). As far as he’s concerned, it’s a no-brainer. Barabbas, the infamous robber and murderer versus Jesus, healer of the sick and the most fascinating character to walk the roads of Judea for centuries.
At that moment, the Jews had a choice. They could get rid of one of these two men with their vote. And they chose Jesus. Barabbas lost the vote. Barabbas was not fit to die.
All of a sudden the heavens fell silent. There was an upset. The Author of Creation had just been chosen to die by the very people he had created. They considered the life of a hardened criminal worth more than His. What horror! What an outrage! What blessedness!
Because along with Barabbas we all lost the vote that day. None of us was fit to die and, indeed, none is. Not until we have died with Christ into his own death. For at the moment of his death, he stepped up and took the mantle of redemption. He gave himself up so that we could die freely. Without Jesus’ death, ours would be a sore shame. But since he has died and, thankfully, has been raised to life we are, at last, fit to die.
With love, Doosuur
Acts 4:12
I remember growing up singing native Tiv songs during Sunday evening Family Time, around a bowl of hot kunun gyeda. One of my favorite songs went something like this:
The Jews put the Lord Jesus on the ballot
To run against Barabbas
Barabbas lost the vote -
Barabbas was not fit to die
You remember the story don’t you? Pilate, the Governor, in a desperate last-gasp attempt to rescue Jesus from an irate Jewish mob makes an offer he thinks they should not refuse. “Which prisoner do you want me to pardon?” he asks. “Jesus Barabbas, or Jesus the so-called Christ?” (Matthew 27:17). As far as he’s concerned, it’s a no-brainer. Barabbas, the infamous robber and murderer versus Jesus, healer of the sick and the most fascinating character to walk the roads of Judea for centuries.
At that moment, the Jews had a choice. They could get rid of one of these two men with their vote. And they chose Jesus. Barabbas lost the vote. Barabbas was not fit to die.
All of a sudden the heavens fell silent. There was an upset. The Author of Creation had just been chosen to die by the very people he had created. They considered the life of a hardened criminal worth more than His. What horror! What an outrage! What blessedness!
Because along with Barabbas we all lost the vote that day. None of us was fit to die and, indeed, none is. Not until we have died with Christ into his own death. For at the moment of his death, he stepped up and took the mantle of redemption. He gave himself up so that we could die freely. Without Jesus’ death, ours would be a sore shame. But since he has died and, thankfully, has been raised to life we are, at last, fit to die.
With love, Doosuur
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Scarred For Life
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
Isaiah 53:5
Today, November 15, is my Thanksgiving Day or, like I like to call it, my Deathday. It was 15 years ago, to the day, that I was rushing to school, late as usual. I had just come out of the cab and was waiting for change when I heard the loud blare of a truck horn. Next thing I knew, I was airborne, looking down at Mother Earth and wondering what had happened to me. It was not till I hit the ground (seconds of course, but it felt like eons) that I realized I had just been rammed, by a truck no less.
Several months of hospitals, medication and physiotherapy did their thing and I was soon back to new - except for the scars. My body did not respond well to the bruises, lacerations and infection, and I was left with hypertrophic scars on my face, neck and legs.
Today, years later, these same scars are a potent reminder of God’s mercy in my life. As I recount my deliverance, it occurs to me that these scars, disfiguring as they are, are a medal of honor. I would not have scars except I have been healed. A scar means the healing is complete and all that remains is a memory.
As I pondered this I remembered Christ’s own scars, displayed proudly one Sunday so many years ago. It was a warm spring evening but there was a chill in the air. The disciples had heard that Jesus’ body had gone missing and they were filled with trepidation, expecting a Jewish mob to storm their hideout any moment, demanding answers. As they brooded and pondered in the dim lights Jesus suddenly stood among them. “Peace be with you!”, his first words. Words cannot describe the astonishment they felt as they stared at him, eyes full of wonder. “Could it really be...?”, they thought. But then he showed it to them. His scars. A few days earlier, the soldier’s gavel had muffled the anguished cries of their master, driving cruel nails into his hands. Those same wounds, which had meant sin and shame back then now meant redemption and healing. And Life.
Everyone of us has experienced hurt, pain and disappointment. An examination failed, a relationship broken, a loved one gone. But after the grieving comes the healing and at the end of it all we can look back and see that the scars serve to remind us how far we’ve come the grace of God at work in our lives.
Join me and thank God that I’m alive. I’ve got the scars to prove it!
With love, Doosuur
Isaiah 53:5
Today, November 15, is my Thanksgiving Day or, like I like to call it, my Deathday. It was 15 years ago, to the day, that I was rushing to school, late as usual. I had just come out of the cab and was waiting for change when I heard the loud blare of a truck horn. Next thing I knew, I was airborne, looking down at Mother Earth and wondering what had happened to me. It was not till I hit the ground (seconds of course, but it felt like eons) that I realized I had just been rammed, by a truck no less.
Several months of hospitals, medication and physiotherapy did their thing and I was soon back to new - except for the scars. My body did not respond well to the bruises, lacerations and infection, and I was left with hypertrophic scars on my face, neck and legs.
Today, years later, these same scars are a potent reminder of God’s mercy in my life. As I recount my deliverance, it occurs to me that these scars, disfiguring as they are, are a medal of honor. I would not have scars except I have been healed. A scar means the healing is complete and all that remains is a memory.
As I pondered this I remembered Christ’s own scars, displayed proudly one Sunday so many years ago. It was a warm spring evening but there was a chill in the air. The disciples had heard that Jesus’ body had gone missing and they were filled with trepidation, expecting a Jewish mob to storm their hideout any moment, demanding answers. As they brooded and pondered in the dim lights Jesus suddenly stood among them. “Peace be with you!”, his first words. Words cannot describe the astonishment they felt as they stared at him, eyes full of wonder. “Could it really be...?”, they thought. But then he showed it to them. His scars. A few days earlier, the soldier’s gavel had muffled the anguished cries of their master, driving cruel nails into his hands. Those same wounds, which had meant sin and shame back then now meant redemption and healing. And Life.
Everyone of us has experienced hurt, pain and disappointment. An examination failed, a relationship broken, a loved one gone. But after the grieving comes the healing and at the end of it all we can look back and see that the scars serve to remind us how far we’ve come the grace of God at work in our lives.
Join me and thank God that I’m alive. I’ve got the scars to prove it!
With love, Doosuur
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