We're getting ready to start a series on Friday nights called Revolution. You've probably already figured out what it's about. We shoot to kill around here; no messing around.
So I've been thinking about it a lot. From an administrative point of view and a prayerful point of view, and realizing how revolutionary Jesus really is and how revolutionary I really am not.
'Cause when you read Revolutionary, what do you see?
I see American minutemen camped out in the forests of New England waiting for red coats; men who left their comfortable homes not because they had to, but because they believed in freedom so much that they were willing to die for it. I see people who are nameless and untrained, but passionate and determined; who don't fight according to the enemy's rules because truth is more important than politics; who live the battle because it's happening all around them and they know they can either fight or fall victim to it.
Then I see John the Baptist in the wilderness, yelling at Pharisees, eating bugs, and preaching an unrelenting message that Messiah is coming and you're not ready. And Jesus, doing everything "wrong," yet claiming to be God in the flesh. And Paul being beaten and threatened with death at every turn, but continuing to run the race.
Then I see the Indian woman I met this summer whose husband would beat her every Sunday for going to church, so she started walking hours to go to church in the next town where no one would recognize her. And the Indian men I read about yesterday who were drug out of their church and beaten for hours until the police showed up, and then beaten some more by the police, but who would not deny Christ. And the college students in Gaza who were beaten and are now facing trial on false charges because they were caught handing out literature about Jesus.
Then I see me. I see the desire in my own heart and the words on my lips, but secretly wonder if I wasn't more passionate when my cause was death. I see me and I wonder if I'm qualified to preach this gospel.