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Talking to the Lord - Talk and Listen, Not Dominate the Conversation

When communicating with the Lord you don't have to be on your knees, just walk around your house or wherever you are and have a conversation with God. Eyes wide open, it doesn't matter. The IMPORTANT thing is that you communicating with Him, you are being close to Him. And while you are having that conversation, make sure to LISTEN.  There are a lot of people who like to talk and not listen (I know a few).  They dominate the conversation.

Worshipping God In Truth - Lesson 4

There are many who think it really doesn't matter what we believe or do in religion, just as long as we are sincere and follow our conscience. But if it doesn't really matter what you believe, then it doesn't matter if you even believe at all. This is absurd. This philosophy exalts our conscience above the word of God. This makes our conscience our only guide and ignores what God says in the Bible. This philosophy originated with man and not with God. This is telling God we are going to worship Him the way we choose and we don't really care what He has to say. Every man then becomes his own authority thereby eliminating the authority of God, the Bible. This attitude must greatly hurt the one who gave His life for us.

Many people want to do what they think best and what seems right to them. We are warned not to do this in Proverbs 14:12, "There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way of death." According to what God says we can loose our soul by doing what seems right in our own eyes. God's word is no longer our guide, but it has been replaced with creed books, disciplines, manuals, confessions, etc. Men want to do things their way and as it seems right in their own eyes.

The philosophy of doing what seems right in our eyes has vastly altered the way people attempt to worship God. They rationalize that God will accept it. People can rationalize away just about anything they want if they work at it hard and long enough, and because of this people worship God in ignorance. Just as the apostle Paul told the Athenians in Acts 17:23 (KJV), "Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship."

The average person in religious matters takes many things for granted. He finds religious groups practicing something and he decides what the majority does must be right and acceptable to God. The Bible says the majority of people are going to be eternally lost. Jesus says in Matthew 7:l3-14, "Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it." So we don't want to depend on the majority to determine what is right for us and follow them. If we do we will also end up being lost in the eternal fires of Hell.

Many people never stop to ask, is it scriptural and is this what God wants? They believe that just any kind of worship they give will be acceptable to God. The main reason for all the religious division that we see in the world today is man will not accept God's word as final authority. Man is going to do it his own way. The Bible contains our only instructions on how to please God so we can go to heaven.

God has always told man how He is to be worshipped. He will only accept that which is in harmony with His prescribed will. God instructs us how to worship Him acceptably through His word in the Bible. In Ephesians 5:17 we read, "Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is." It is wise to know what the will of the Lord is so we can do it and be pleasing to Him.

In every age God has specified how He is to be worshipped. He says to us in 2 Peter 1:3, "As His divine power has given to us all things that pertain to life and godliness through the knowledge of Him who called us." God in the New Testament has given to us all things we need to know that pertain to life and godliness so we can worship Him acceptably, in spirit and in truth. God has always made it plain and emphatic that the only worship that is acceptable to Him is only that which is in accordance with His will.

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Courtesy of  http://www.bible.ca/interactive/worship-4-in-truth.htm

Charles Spurgeon's Morning and Evening - Devotional - Friday, April 26, 2013

Morning

"This do in remembrance of me."
1 Corinthians 11:24

It seems then, that Christians may forget Christ! There could be no need for this loving exhortation, if there were not a fearful supposition that our memories might prove treacherous. Nor is this a bare supposition: it is, alas! too well confirmed in our experience, not as a possibility, but as a lamentable fact. It appears almost impossible that those who have been redeemed by the blood of the dying Lamb, and loved with an everlasting love by the eternal Son of God, should forget that gracious Saviour; but, if startling to the ear, it is, alas! too apparent to the eye to allow us to deny the crime. Forget him who never forgot us! Forget him who poured his blood forth for our sins! Forget him who loved us even to the death! Can it be possible? Yes, it is not only possible, but conscience confesses that it is too sadly a fault with all of us, that we suffer him to be as a wayfaring man tarrying but for a night. He whom we should make the abiding tenant of our memories is but a visitor therein. The cross where one would think that memory would linger, and unmindfulness would be an unknown intruder, is desecrated by the feet of forgetfulness. Does not your conscience say that this is true? Do you not find yourselves forgetful of Jesus? Some creature steals away your heart, and you are unmindful of him upon whom your affection ought to be set. Some earthly business engrosses your attention when you should fix your eye steadily upon the cross. It is the incessant turmoil of the world, the constant attraction of earthly things which takes away the soul from Christ. While memory too well preserves a poisonous weed, it suffereth the rose of Sharon to wither. Let us charge ourselves to bind a heavenly forget-me-not about our hearts for Jesus our Beloved, and, whatever else we let slip, let us hold fast to him.
 

 

Evening

"Blessed is he that watcheth."
Revelation 16:15

"We die daily," said the apostle. This was the life of the early Christians; they went everywhere with their lives in their hands. We are not in this day called to pass through the same fearful persecutions: if we were, the Lord would give us grace to bear the test; but the tests of Christian life, at the present moment, though outwardly not so terrible, are yet more likely to overcome us than even those of the fiery age. We have to bear the sneer of the world--that is little; its blandishments, its soft words, its oily speeches, its fawning, its hypocrisy, are far worse. Our danger is lest we grow rich and become proud, lest we give ourselves up to the fashions of this present evil world, and lose our faith. Or if wealth be not the trial, worldly care is quite as mischievous. If we cannot be torn in pieces by the roaring lion, if we may be hugged to death by the bear, the devil little cares which it is, so long as he destroys our love to Christ, and our confidence in him. I fear me that the Christian church is far more likely to lose her integrity in these soft and silken days than in those rougher times. We must be awake now, for we traverse the enchanted ground, and are most likely to fall asleep to our own undoing, unless our faith in Jesus be a reality, and our love to Jesus a vehement flame. Many in these days of easy profession are likely to prove tares, and not wheat; hypocrites with fair masks on their faces, but not the true-born children of the living God. Christian, do not think that these are times in which you can dispense with watchfulness or with holy ardour; you need these things more than ever, and may God the eternal Spirit display his omnipotence in you, that you may be able to say, in all these softer things, as well as in the rougher, "We are more than conquerors through him that loved us."

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http://www.biblegateway.com/devotionals/morning-and-evening/ 

Charles Spurgeon's Morning and Evening (Devotional) - Tuesday, April 23, 2013

 

 

Morning

"Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us."
Romans 8:37

We go to Christ for forgiveness, and then too often look to the law for power to fight our sins. Paul thus rebukes us, "O foolish Galatians, who hath bewitched you, that ye should not obey the truth? This only would I learn of you, Received ye the Spirit by the works of the law, or by the hearing of faith? are ye so foolish? having begun in the Spirit, are ye now made perfect by the flesh?" Take your sins to Christ's cross, for the old man can only be crucified there: we are crucified with him. The only weapon to fight sin with is the spear which pierced the side of Jesus. To give an illustration--you want to overcome an angry temper; how do you go to work? It is very possible you have never tried the right way of going to Jesus with it. How did I get salvation? I came to Jesus just as I was, and I trusted him to save me. I must kill my angry temper in the same way. It is the only way in which I can ever kill it. I must go to the cross with it, and say to Jesus, "Lord, I trust thee to deliver me from it." This is the only way to give it a death-blow. Are you covetous? Do you feel the world entangle you? You may struggle against this evil so long as you please, but if it be your besetting sin, you will never be delivered from it in any way but by the blood of Jesus. Take it to Christ. Tell him, "Lord, I have trusted thee, and thy name is Jesus, for thou dost save thy people from their sins: Lord, this is one of my sins; save me from it!" Ordinances are nothing without Christ as a means of mortification. Your prayers, and your repentances, and your tears--the whole of them put together--are worth nothing apart from him. "None but Jesus can do helpless sinners good;" or helpless saints either. You must be conquerors through him who hath loved you, if conquerors at all. Our laurels must grow among his olives in Gethsemane.
 

 

Evening

"Lo, in the midst of the throne ... stood a Lamb as it had been slain."
Revelation 5:6

Why should our exalted Lord appear in his wounds in glory? The wounds of Jesus are his glories, his jewels, his sacred ornaments. To the eye of the believer, Jesus is passing fair because he is "white and ruddy:" white with innocence, and ruddy with his own blood. We see him as the lily of matchless purity, and as the rose crimsoned with his own gore. Christ is lovely upon Olivet and Tabor, and by the sea, but oh! there never was such a matchless Christ as he that did hang upon the cross. There we beheld all his beauties in perfection, all his attributes developed, all his love drawn out, all his character expressed. Beloved, the wounds of Jesus are far more fair in our eyes than all the splendour and pomp of kings. The thorny crown is more than an imperial diadem. It is true that he bears not now the sceptre of reed, but there was a glory in it that never flashed from sceptre of gold. Jesus wears the appearance of a slain Lamb as his court dress in which he wooed our souls, and redeemed them by his complete atonement. Nor are these only the ornaments of Christ: they are the trophies of his love and of his victory. He has divided the spoil with the strong. He has redeemed for himself a great multitude whom no man can number, and these scars are the memorials of the fight. Ah! if Christ thus loves to retain the thought of his sufferings for his people, how precious should his wounds be to us!

"Behold how every wound of his

A precious balm distils,

Which heals the scars that sin had made,

And cures all mortal ills.

"Those wounds are mouths that preach his grace;

The ensigns of his love;

The seals of our expected bliss

In paradise above."

Crisis and Faith: How Losing Almost Everything Can Help You See What Matters

 

Martin Spinelli
Author, 'After the Crash'

My 4-year-old son Lio had been in a coma for more than a week. While his bed was about to be changed, I maneuvered myself around all the tubes and wires and slid my hand under his back up to his head. With my other arm under his knees, I carefully lifted him up onto my lap and sat down in the vinyl-covered chair beside his bed. I wasn't expecting his skin to be so warm and I let myself feel a bit comforted.

After seeing me hold him, his grandmother (my mother) wrote in her diary that the sight of Lio draped in my arms reminded her of one of the most well-known Easter images: The Pietà, that famous Michelangelo sculpture of Mary holding Jesus after the after the crucifixion. She finished by saying, "Lio will come back to us too."

In the past I've often found words like this a bit difficult to take in. It's almost as if that most famous Christian miracle, like the miracle I was praying for (that Lio would defy the doctors and cheat death himself), could be undone or made impossible by speaking about it in such an obvious way. Maybe this is more my problem than it is my mother's. But her attempts to describe the indescribable have caused me a crisis of faith because I know that words are slippery things that often suggest the opposite of what they say on the surface. But sometimes in life crises are really second chances in disguise.

My crisis began 10 days earlier. It was going to be the most important day of my career: I was scheduled to give the keynote address at a huge international media conference in Sunderland, in the north of England. I had worked all my life that moment: I had published journal articles and written reviews; I made ambitious and challenging radio for the BBC and for NPR stations; my work was in museums; and I had just traded in my good academic gig in New York for an even better one at a university in the U.K. I felt like I was at the top of my game, I was driven and striving, with this constant itch to be forever notching up more lines on my résumé.

As it happened, I never got the chance to deliver my amazing talk on new ways of making radio. Instead, I was met at my hotel by two policemen who lacked the usual swagger and who were struggling to look me in the eye. They told me that there had been an accident on the highway and that my wife Sasha had been killed and that our son Lio was very near death in a hospital in London. I collapsed into the chair behind me and, as I struggled to process what I'd just been told, the person I'd been all my adult life simply died too -- and died quickly.

Three hours later I was by Lio's side in pediatric intensive care. The space was dark and windowless, lit mostly by the small red LEDs of medical equipment. There, surrounded by a halo of computer screens, I found my only child with a fractured skull, severe brain damage and a horribly shattered left leg. It was suggested that I consider donating his organs. Doctors told me he would likely not make it and told me that the best, the absolute best-case scenario that I should allow myself to hope for was Lio one day attending a school for the severely mentally handicapped. Absolutely everything I'd ever wanted for my life and for my son's life had evaporated in a matter of hours.

But as I looked at him, bruised and battered as he was on his hospital bed, something began to fill the void. I don't know where it came from or how I came by it, but I was getting something. I had lost my wife, but at least -- at least in that moment -- I still had our little boy. As I stood there, my thumb wedged in his tiny clenched fist, I found myself saying, "I will face this. Nothing will stop me doing what needs to be done, saving Lio and getting him out of here. He will do it." Then I found myself seeing the rest of my life unfolding, and unfolding happily, pulling Lio back from this precipice. I had been burnt empty by fear, but this little meditation that I somehow stumbled onto was putting something back, and while the fear would swallow me again and again I would again and again fall back on a version of this little pep talk.

The next morning Lio was still with us. And with this simple fact in mind the tiny kernel of faith that I had nourished by his bedside all night long stirred and grew a little bit. Gradually, with infinitesimally small steps and in the face of some brutal and devastating setbacks, Lio got better over the next days: He was taken off of his respirator and breathed on his own, unaided, when I'd been told that this might never happen. His brain started regulating his body temperature on its own again. And his muscles, initially as tight as steel springs, began to loosen.

How and why these improvements happened, no one seemed sure, given, as the doctors were fond of saying, "the original nature of his injuries." I like to think that I had something to do with it. I almost never left his bedside. I would read to him from his favorite books. I would spin out for him over and over again the magical stories that his mother and I had invented about elves and dragons and a littler miller boy who lived in the Italian Alps, stories that had been a part of his bedtime routine since he was a toddler. I would trace little lines and circles with my fingers along his face and his limbs four times a day while special brain stimulating music was playing to him in headphones.

With each incremental movement he made in the right direction, I collected another piece of my heart. In those moments and through that closeness I discovered something. I came by a profound sense of meaning and a knowledge of what I was really meant to be: not a high-flying academic, but a father -- the best father I was capable of being. Where the old me was hounded by a non-stop restlessness, an ambition to always be achieving more and having more, there, in those quiet and anonymous moments at my unconscious son's side, I found my purpose. I felt a clarity that had eluded me my whole life. Sometimes today, if I get too distracted by more traditional ambitions, I push myself to remember that clarity.

The moment when I held Lio in my arms for the first time after the crash, the moment that my mother thought looked like The Pietà, will stay with me forever. As I held him warm and broken in my arms, something happened that even I wasn't expecting. He opened his eyes. Like a newborn baby doing it for the first time, he opened his eyes for me. I can't honestly say whether they were focused or not, but he did open his eyes. As I looked at him and (maybe) he looked at me, everything else in the world stopped and I stared transfixed for the first time in 10 days into the blue of his eyes. I was lost in simply their color. There it was, beyond any subjective hope, a sign that Lio was really and truly on his way out of a coma.

The word "rebirth" is certainly a bit worn out, clichéd at best and tedious at worst. But after what we've been through, I find myself making an effort to be more charitable with other people's words, not just my mother's. The crisis of the crash -- six years ago now -- changed me in ways that I'm still coming to grips with. Perhaps most importantly, faith, in both general and specific senses, is now something that I don't shy away from, that I don't seek to avoid either as a sensation or a topic of conversation. In fact, faith has become an odd kind of tether to those terrible early days in the hospital. It's a conduit to the purpose, meaning and love I found there in those dark moments by my son's bedside, days which remain, in the strangest of ways, the most contented of my life.
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Courtesy of  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/martin-spinelli/crisis-and-faith-how-losing-almost-everything-can-help-you-see-what-matters_b_3040028.html?utm_hp_ref=religion