When my boys were young they were enchanted with a movie called “The Never-Ending Story.”  You see, when the movie ended it started all over again, and then again, and again. 
            Maybe it’s because I am a woman that I never saw the appeal.  All I could think of was housework—laundry that needs washing over and over, shirts that need ironing again and again, dust that keeps settling, meals that need cooking three times a day.  Oh for something that when I finish with it will stay finished!
            I think the Old Testament Jews understood a little.  Have you ever read the complex procedure for the Day of Atonement?  You should sometime, and then think about the promise of a forgiveness that lasts forever.
            Every year the sins that were forgiven the year before were once again remembered against God’s people, and every year the pile grew bigger and bigger.  At least when I do the laundry, I know a shirt that I washed and ironed will not be back in the hamper until it has once again been worn.  Imagine if everything you ever washed got dirty again the next week just because clean would not stay clean! 
            The first century Jewish Christians surely appreciated the blessing of forgiveness far better than we can.  They had been waiting for that promise to be fulfilled for hundreds of years.  Behold the days come, says Jehovah, that I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and with the house of Judah, not according to the covenant that I made with their fathers in the day that I took them by the hands to bring them out of the land of Egypt…But this is the covenant that I will make…says Jehovah:  I will put my law in their inward parts and in their heart will I write it, and I will be their God and they shall be my people, and they shall teach no more every man his neighbor and every man his brother saying, Know Jehovah, for they shall all know me, from the least of them unto the greatest of them, says Jehovah; for I will forgive their iniquity and their sins will I remember no more, Jer 31:31-34.
            A high priest was coming who would offer himself, a perfect sacrifice that would cleanse each sin forever.  That pile of guilt would no longer build up on each one, becoming heavier and heavier, needing yet another sacrifice every year.  Think what that must have meant to a people who through the years had seen oceans of blood pouring down that manmade altar, knowing that next year, the same thing must happen again, not only for new sins, but for exactly the same old ones as well.  What a relief.
            And what a relief for us to know that God forgives and forgets, and that because of that wonderful blessing we can enjoy another “Never-Ending Story” that will remind us of a blessing, instead of a burden. 
 
And they indeed have been made priests many in number because by death they are hindered from continuing; but he, because he abides forever, has his priesthood unchangeable.  Wherefore also he is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, seeing he ever lives to make intercession for them.  For such a high priest became us, holy, guileless, undefiled, separated from sinners, and made higher than the heavens, who needs not daily, like those high priests to offer up sacrifices, first for his own sins, and then for the sins of the people, for this he did once for all, when he offered up himself,. Heb 7:23-27.
 
Dene Ward

Medicine has come a long way since ancient times and it hasn’t stopped progressing.  As a patient who has a rare disease, I have had my share of experimental surgeries and procedures, and endured experimental medicines and equipment.  Sometimes it’s just plain scary, but when it works, it’s amazing.  I can still see, several years after I was expected to lose my vision.  It may not be great vision, and the after effects of all these procedures and medications may not be pleasant, but let me tell you, any vision is better than no vision, and you will put up with a lot to have it.
            Blood is one area where knowledge is still blossoming.  But just think of this.  Transfusions were not common until the turn of the twentieth century, and even then it had to be a live donor for an immediate transfusion.  It went on that way for nearly four decades.  Finally, Dr Bernard Fantus at the Cook County Hospital in Chicago performed several experiments and determined that human blood, under refrigeration, could last up to ten days.  Still not long, but enough for him to start the first blood bank on March 15, 1937.  Imagine the lives that were suddenly saved.  It must have seemed like a miracle.
            Medicine has progressed even further.  My little bit of research tells me that at 1-6 degrees Centigrade, blood can now be kept up to 42 days, and that some of it can be frozen for up to ten years.  I wonder if Dr Fantus had any idea what he had put into motion.
            But sooner or later that blood does become stale.  It is no longer usable to save lives.  And if there is a sudden loss of power that cannot be maintained with a generator or other power source, all of it will spoil almost immediately. 
            Imagine a blood that never loses its potency, that never becomes stale, that will always save. 
            For Christ has entered, not into holy places made with hands, which are copies of the true things, but into heaven itself, now to appear in the presence of God on our behalf. Nor was it to offer himself repeatedly, as the high priest enters the holy places every year with blood not his own, for then he would have had to suffer repeatedly since the foundation of the world. But as it is, he has appeared once for all at the end of the ages to put away sin by the sacrifice of himself, Heb 9:24-26.
            Jesus does not have to offer himself “repeatedly.”  He does not have to keep a fresh supply of blood handy.  The saving power of his blood lasts forever.  And what exactly does it do?
            It makes propitiation, Rom 3:23.
            It justifies, Rom 5:9.
            It brings us “near,” Eph 2:13.
            It purifies our consciences and makes us able to serve God, Heb 9:14. 
            It forgives, Heb 9:23.
            It cleanses us from sin, 1 John 1:7.
            Now understand this—it isn’t the fact that Jesus cut his finger one day and bled a little.  Blood in the Bible has always represented a death.  The blood that saves us is the death he willingly died on our behalf, because only a sacrificial death can atone for sin (Lev 17:11).  And we don’t have to worry about “types” and “factors.”  His blood will cleanse us from “all sin,” 1 John 1:7.
            Nowadays people want nothing to do with another person’s blood.  Everyone wears gloves.  But to gain the benefits of Christ’s blood you have to “touch” it.  How do you contact that blood?  You simply “die” with Christ.  Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life, Rom 6:3,4. 
            And that blood bank still works for us.  It keeps right on forgiving as needed, as we repent and continue to walk in him for the rest of our lives.         
            Only once--that’s all he had to suffer.  Our trips to the blood bank will likely be more than once, but may they become less and less often as we grow in grace and faith and love.  It will be there when we need it, but let’s not squander a precious gift, nor take it for granted. 
 
And just as it is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment, so Christ, having been offered once to bear the sins of many, will appear a second time, not to deal with sin but to save those who are eagerly waiting for him, Heb 9:27,28.
 
Dene Ward        

I despise dusting.  I think part of the problem is all the things you must lift and dust individually in order to get the job done.  It takes forever to do it right.  Maybe if all I had to dust were flat surfaces I wouldn't mind so much.  Of course, being allergic to dust mites doesn't help either.  I am usually miserable for the rest of the day, no matter how careful I am.
              So last Saturday I was taking all those knickknacks off the shadow boxes in the bedroom and, to make the job less annoying, thinking about where those various gadgets came from.  Piano students and family members were the biggest culprits—vases of all sizes and materials including one made of olive wood from Bethlehem, cups and saucers with cute pictures and sayings, dinner bells, porcelain figurines, seashells, a few pictures, a whiskey bottle inside of which Keith's uncle had whittled a wooden airplane.  (Yep, after he drank the whiskey.)
              Then I took down the brass candle holder.  It used to have a twin, but it was broken long ago in one of the many moves it has made since I received it over 45 years ago.  It came from my best friend in high school years.  We did not attend the same high school because we lived in Tampa across town from each other.  Even 45 years ago, Tampa was big enough to have several high schools.  But we attended church together and did our best to call one another and spend the night every so often.  Her parents owned some lakefront property and every summer found us out on the raft, a la Huckleberry Finn, talking, laughing, and planning our lives as we soaked up the sun.
              We were different in a lot of ways.  She was a petite blonde with big blue eyes and long hair, interested in becoming a secretary.  I was a not so petite, beady-eyed brunette with long hair, planning to attend college and eventually operate a music studio.  We traded lessons—she teaching me Gregg shorthand, and me teaching her music theory.  I can still do some of that shorthand, but I doubt anyone could read it!
            We were both introverts and loners, both had distinct likes and dislikes especially in clothing styles, which amounted to high neck Victorian collars, billowy sleeves, Bell bottoms, and granny dresses in those days.  We both wrote in our spare time and had things published in the school literary magazine.  We even wrote spiritual poetry together in some of those late overnighters.  We taught the children's Bible classes, brainstorming together about techniques and take-homes since no one had bothered to actually teach us how to do it.  We discussed our favorite hymns and their deeper meanings.  We took sermon notes in shorthand and always sat where we could see the overhead projector, the precursor of power point.
            All of that came flooding back as I picked up that well-patina-ed candle holder.  I have done a little purging lately, not as much as I should, but some.  I don't even use this thing any more, I thought, especially since it lost its mate.  While we lose our power often out here in the country, we have plenty of flashlights and a much more powerful propane camp lantern, not to mention a generator for the long hauls.  I have much prettier candle holders in my china cabinet now for special occasion dinners.  So why not throw it out?
           I suppose part of the problem is that I have completely lost track of this friend now.  She was in my wedding and asked me to be in hers, even though I had moved a thousand miles away, but by the time the wedding came around I would have been 8 months pregnant and that just wasn't going to work. 
          We also married differently.  Her husband was a professional, a PhD in psychology, I think, and a city guy his entire life.  Mine was an Arkansas hillbilly who had been in the Marine Corps, and then became a preacher.  They were as different as night and day, and though she did convert her husband before their marriage, we still had little in common.
           But we kept in contact, visiting one another a few times, back and forth, anxious, at least I was, to keep that old friendship that had meant so much alive.  But then, after about thirty years, it was only a matter of Christmas cards, and now that has gradually come to an end, and I don't even know how that happened.  Right now I cannot find out if she is even still alive, and no one from the congregation we used to be a part of is around who knows where she might be.  When I checked the address on Google, she is no longer listed as a resident there.
          So, what about this candle holder?  Well, I still have it.  It isn't that it would be hard to throw it away.  After all, it isn't even worth much now.  What's hard to throw away is the relationship.  I think God has the same reluctance.  When I look at those churches in Revelation, the symbolic seven (there were many more in the area) have so many problems, you wonder that God had not already angrily destroyed them.  Leaving their first love, sexual immorality, idolatry, lukewarm faith, but still he warns rather than simply throwing out their candlestick—the symbol of their identity as a church of the Lord, giving light to the world.  Even in the Old Testament, he waited for centuries, hoping that his people would turn to Him again.  He was their father, and they his firstborn.  But finally, he did come in destruction, just as he will for us someday if we follow their footsteps instead of our Lord's.
          But maybe, for a little while longer, I will keep dusting that brass candlestick.  Maybe I will someday find my old friend.  I will hold out hope a little longer, and try a little harder to find her before I discard this candle holder.  What we used to have was wonderful enough to be worth it.
              How about your relationship with the Father?  Does He even have a candle holder to remember you by?
 
For thus says the LORD: “Sing aloud with gladness for Jacob, and raise shouts for the chief of the nations; proclaim, give praise, and say, ‘O LORD, save your people, the remnant of Israel.’ Behold, I will bring them from the north country and gather them from the farthest parts of the earth, among them the blind and the lame, the pregnant woman and she who is in labor, together; a great company, they shall return here. ​With weeping they shall come, and with pleas for mercy I will lead them back, I will make them walk by brooks of water, in a straight path in which they shall not stumble, for I am a father to Israel, and Ephraim is my firstborn. (Jer 31:7-9).
 
Dene Ward

I wonder if it means as much to us.  I wonder if it would have even gotten our attention.  We take so much for granted, so many things people have not always had access to, things they would marvel at were they alive today. 
            Noon on a hot, dusty day saw a thirsty man sitting by a well after a long walk.  A woman trudged up, not during the normal hours of drawing water; a woman, we would later discover, who was on the fringes of her society, a society that was on the fringes itself, especially to people like this man, who sat where she had hoped to find no one.  To her utter amazement, he asked her for a drink.  It was not just that she was from a hated caste, but she was a woman, and men seldom talked to women in public, especially not one with her background.  And not only that, but he offered her something wonderful--she would never have to come draw water from this well again.  She was so excited she ran to tell the others in the town, even the ones who before would not speak to her because of her questionable morals. 
            He stayed for two days, teaching about this miraculous water, water they eventually realized was not wet or even real, as the world counts reality, but far more real in the dawning light of a spiritual kingdom that would accept them all, not just those other people who hated them.  Soon, everyone would have this living water available, and no one in that kingdom would be considered “second class.”
            I wonder if Jesus would have gotten my attention with this talk?  I don’t have to draw water from a well in the heat of the day—enough water to clean, bathe, cook, and stay alive.  But one day, 30 years ago, that little story meant a whole lot more to me than it ever had before.
            We came home from a trip to discover that our well had collapsed.  We did not have the several hundred dollars it would have cost at the time to fix it.  Keith had to dig a new well himself.  For a month, every night after he finished the studying and home classes he conducted as a preacher, he worked on that well, even in the cold January rain, even running a fever. 
            A farmer neighbor filled and carted a five hundred gallon tank outside our door.  That tank had held things not good for human consumption, so we used that water to carry in five gallon buckets for flushes, and pressure canners full for bathing.  Every morning I went to another neighbor’s house to fill up gallon jugs for the water we used to brush teeth, make tea and coffee, and wash dishes.  The boys were 5 and 3, way too little to help cart water.  I learned the value of carrying a bucket in each hand—balance was everything if you wanted to slosh as little as possible all over your carpets.
            We learned to conserve water without even thinking about it—no more water running in the lavatory while brushing teeth, shaving, or putting in contact lenses!  Suddenly, carrying water was a time-consuming, back-breaking job. Modern homes are simply not geared to anything but running water.  It would have been much simpler to have had an outhouse in the backyard, and a pump handle in the kitchen.  The amount of water that needed hauling would have been cut in half.
            And after a month of that, I understood what this woman must have thought, what a luxury the concept must have seemed to her hot, weary body.  Do we feel that way about “living water?”  Is salvation such a luxury that we marvel at it and run to tell others?  Or do we take it for granted like running water in our kitchens and bathrooms?  I would not wish the month we endured on anyone else, but you know what?  I think it was good for all of us.
 
Therefore with joy shall we draw water out of the wells of salvation.  And in that day shall you say, Give thanks unto Jehovah, call upon his name, declare his doings among the peoples, make mention that his name is exalted, Isaiah 12:3,4      
 
Dene Ward

All the stories my mother told me have come rushing back to me that past few weeks since her death.  One of the most special was the story of her conversion.  We could all learn a few things from this.
              Nearly a century ago, preachers often traveled from city to city and town to town, setting up tents and preaching every night for a week or more, depending on how things were going.  One of those preachers was Byron Conley, who toured Central Florida.  He was responsible for the beginning of many of the churches in that area.  One of those congregations was in a small town called Winter Garden, about 10 miles west of Orlando—at least in those days.  Now you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
              All of my grandparents lived in Winter Garden, the typical Southern town with a train track running down the middle of the main drag, and diagonal parking in front of storefronts like Piggly Wiggly, McCormick 5 and 10, a barber shop, and a drug store complete with soda fountain.  My father's mother, Thelma Ayers, attended one of those tent meetings and was converted to the Lord, and eventually became a member of the new congregation there.  Although her husband, my grandfather, was never baptized, she taught her three sons and all of them followed in her faith.
              My daddy was the oldest.  At 17, he took his high school sweetheart to church with him.  She had been raised a Methodist, mainly because it was the closest church to the house and they could all walk.  She told me that all she heard were slow dirges on Sunday morning, so that morning when she went to church with her boyfriend Gerald, she was in for a shock.  "They sang happy music!" she exclaimed.  The first song she heard was "Heavenly Sunlight," and the day she told me that story she added, "And I want that sung at my funeral."  And we did.
              So let's consider a few things this morning.  This was a small Southern town.  As is our custom and belief, they sang a capella.  It may have been "happy" compared to the slower organ pieces she was used to, but I imagine there were a few places, especially by the end, where the music dragged a bit.  I imagine there were a few flat Southern altos and a tenor or two that stuck out like a sore thumb.  This was not a performing choir, certainly not a pro or semi-pro praise band.  So why did the singing impress her so?
           Because it wasn't just a happy song.  It was sung by happy people, people who knew they were saved and pleasing to God, people who believed they were going to Heaven, people who, despite the trials of life, knew it was all worth it.  I have heard it said that our singing can be an evangelistic tool.  It certainly was for my mother.  But if the people do not match their songs, it is just another form of hypocrisy. 
           "Heavenly Sunlight" isn't as deep as some of the other older hymns but it certainly doesn't sit in the wading pool with the babes either.  It takes a mature spiritual mindset to see the "Sunlight" even in the "deep vale" and to have the faith to know that no matter what happens He will "never forsake thee."  She could see that faith in the faces of those people and eventually it became her own faith, a faith she passed on to children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
            Many of these thoughts ran through my head that afternoon as we sang for her the song that made all the difference in her life.  A small town southern church sang it like they meant it, and she wanted to know more about how they could do that when so few other places did.
           Would your singing begin the journey of conversion for a visitor?  It does not have to be ear-catching, toe-tapping, and rhythmically complex.  You just have to sing it like you mean it, and then live it that way too.
 
But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy, and spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may exult in you.  (Ps 5:11).
 
Dene Ward

In the midst of grief there is always business that still needs to be taken care of.  Planning funerals, going through belongings, paying final bills, and other such matters.  But this is the first time I have had to deal with death certificates.  My mother took care of my father's since they lived over two hours south of us and I could not be there for everything.  If you have seen them, you know that there are two kinds, the long form and the short form—just like taxes.  The long form lists the manner and cause of death.
              The manner could be natural, homicide, accidental, etc.  The cause will be the primary cause, such as heart failure.  Then there are "other conditions contributing to death but not resulting in the underlying cause" which might include things like hypertension or diabetes.
              I began thinking about people I know who have experienced spiritual death—those who used to sit on the same pews I do, but for some reason left, those who decided that living as a Christian was not worth the taunts or the sacrifice or the minuscule persecution we have to deal with in this country, or simply not worth giving up the pleasures of this world.  Those causes of death are pretty obvious. But how about those who just weren't careful to live a "healthy" spiritual life, watching their diets and exercising their senses to discern good and evil (Heb 5:14)?  I wondered what their death certificates might look like.
            
              Manner of death:  suicide
              Cause of death:  sin
              Other contributing conditions:  failure to assemble with the saints, no companionship with their spiritual family except at the meetinghouse, prayer and Bible study deficiency, failure to consider and counteract the materialism of our "too rich" culture,  thoughtless acceptance of society's standards instead of determining whether those standards will help or hinder their spirituality and are truly part of a holy life.

              I will keep a copy of my mother's death certificate in the file next to my father's.  But this I know—it is only the certificate of their physical deaths.  They never had, and now they never will have, a spiritual death certificate.  I don't believe I could bear it if they had.
              Do you have one?
 
Blessed and holy is the one who shares in the first resurrection! Over such the second death has no power, but they will be priests of God and of Christ, and they will reign with him for a thousand years.  (Rev 20:6).
 
Dene Ward

Today's post is by guest writer Keith Ward, a sequel to his post at the end of November.

That men often suffer as a result of another's sins has been shown over and over in the Bible: "Cursed be Canaan" for his father Ham's sin (Gen 9:25), 36 men died for Achan's covetousness (Josh 7), Eli's descendants lost the high priesthood to another Aaronic family because he failed to restrain his sons (1Sam3:13). Sin is an asteroid strike in the ocean with death and disease rippling outward and drowning innocent and guilty alike. So, babies and other innocents die or suffer horrid diseases because we keep sin and death active in the world, "and so death passed unto all men, for that all sinned" (Rom 5:12).
 
No other event illustrates the one to one consequences of a sin causing the death of an innocent baby more clearly than the death of David's baby son. After Nathan confronted David, "Thou art the man," one of the judgments he pronounced was, “However, because by this deed you have given occasion to the enemies of the LORD to blaspheme, the child also that is born to you shall surely die.” (2Sam 12:14). David sinned; the baby died (vs 19).
 
About a thousand years later, another son of David was born innocent and lived and innocent life (2 Sam 7:14ff). He died a horrible death despite his innocence. It was totally unfair for this innocent lamb to suffer at all, just as it was unfair for the baby to die for David's sin. Jesus died for us, the innocent for the guilty. How easily the old phrase rolls of our tongues and through our minds   His death transcends all the unfair deaths of all the innocents before and since for this son of David was the Son of God.
 
If I never understand why babies die, I know God loves me because he killed his Son that I might live (Acts 2:23, 3:18, 4:28, Jn10:18). More than I want answers to the injustices in a sin-sick world, I want to go to the place where that love is.
 
 Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love. In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. (1John 4:7-10).
 
Keith Ward

For something that is supposed to be the pre-eminent “Sports Channel,” ESPN leaves me remarkably cold—or actually hot.
              I can count on CBS to replay nearly every play of any significance immediately.  Not just touchdowns either.  They will show the touchdown from several angles, then show the quarterback as he passed, or the line as they opened the holes for the runner, or any other contributing factor.  If there is a penalty, we see it happen.  If there was an excellent block we see the block.  If a defender made an amazing move around a lineman, we see the move.
              ESPN?  I doubt that even half the plays are shown again.  Instead, we get an interview with someone on the sideline who might possibly have something to do with the game, but more likely doesn’t—he just happens to be famous.  Or we get an update from a game we chose not to watch and have to watch a piece of anyway rather than a replay of our chosen game.  Most of the time, we never get the replay, even if it was a 50 yard run to set the team up with first and goal.
              On ESPN the commentators talk about every game except the one we are watching.  In fact, they sometimes talk about a different sport altogether.  We hear about other players, other coaches, and other schools—anything but the game we are watching.  We are told the records of every Heisman hopeful, even if they are not playing in our game.  We know which coach played for which other coaches, even if they are not coaching our team.  And they can’t even do it with good English.
              But sometimes we’re stuck.  It’s the only place we can see our team play—and win, we hope, despite not being able to see the instant replays in a timely fashion and at a meaningful angle.
              I guess a lot of people don’t mind.  They are putting up with the same things at the church they attend.  They say they are Christians but their preachers present sermons about societal ills—the ones deemed politically correct to talk about--about love and acceptance of everything and everyone no matter how many of Christ’s commands they break, and never once mention the name of the Savior they claim to worship—Rotary Club talks, inspirational talks, anything but a sermon.  (See yesterday's post.) They are handed pamphlets that some board somewhere else decided they needed to study rather than the Word of God, and certainly nothing actually relevant to that particular group and its needs.  If they learn anything, it’s about another game altogether, not God’s.
              Maybe these folks don’t know what to look for.  They expect entertainment rather than edification, emotion rather than instruction, famous people and rip-roaring religious fervor, along with a meal or two to keep the belly from growling.  Jesus had some choice things to say about people like that.  Jesus answered them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, you are seeking me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.  Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you. For on him God the Father has set his seal” John 6:26-27.  It isn’t about the feel-good physical, he told them, it’s about ME!
              On Sunday mornings, I want to hear about my Lord.  I want to study the Word of God and learn more from it than I knew the day before.  On the other hand, I don’t mind a repeat of an old lesson, perhaps from a new angle, and certainly prefer that to an interview on the sideline with someone who is supposed to be “famous” in the religious world.  Big name preachers can sin the same as the rest of us. 
            And you know what?  We CAN turn this channel.  We can look for something else.  You can look for something else.  Give me the simple truth of the gospel and the quiet worship of those people long ago.  Why don’t you come with me so we can find it together?  Nothing else can fill your soul quite the same way.
 
I am the bread of life.  Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died.  This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” John 6:48-51.
 
Dene Ward
 

Yesterday I stepped onto the curb outside my supermarket and the scent instantly sent me back to my childhood, when artificial Christmas trees were unheard of, and the whole house smelled of fir, spruce, pine, or whatever evergreen we found at the local lot that happened to fit that special spot in the living room for those few weeks every year.  Funny how a smell can bring back so many memories.
            It happens with the change of every season.  Right now the cold air carries the smell of wood fires from all the hearths in the neighbors’ houses.  And isn’t it odd that on winter mornings the aroma of bacon can travel for hundreds of yards when it won’t any other time of year?  Soon the smells will change to jasmine, gardenia, and other heavily scented tropical flowers, and the air, while still cool, will gain a little weight in the morning from fog.  Then summer will carry the smell of new-mown grass, afternoon rain blowing in on humid breezes from the west, and all too often the chicken farm a mile down the highway.  Finally, the air will begin to crisp and the fires will come from leaf piles and field burns, a less pleasant odor than the wood fires, which will once again permeate the air soon after.
            Aromas mean a lot to God as well.  He told his people several times that when they offered acceptable sacrifices the “sweet savor” of their offerings pleased him (e.g., Ex 29:18; Lev 1:9;Ezra 6:10).  Ezekiel told them that God would “accept them as a sweet savor” when they returned from exile, a penitent and purified nation, (Ezek 20:39-44).  On the other hand, He used a reeking garbage dump in the valley of Hinnom, where even the bodies of the dead were often thrown, to symbolize the punishment He had in store for the faithless (Isa 66:24; Jer 7:31-34).
            They say that certain smells can energize you, calm you, lift your spirits, ease your tensions, and just about anything else you can imagine.  God has used our sense of smell and the power it has to conjure up thoughts to symbolize the pleasure He has in our gifts to Him, the fear we should have in displeasing Him, and the grace He offers to such weak, sinful creatures as us, who deserve nothing but His disapproval.  Take a good whiff and see what you can smell this morning.
 
 Be ye therefore imitators of God, as beloved children; and walk in love, even as Christ also loved you, and gave himself up for us, an offering and a sacrifice to God for an odor of a sweet smell, Eph 5:1,2.
 
 Dene Ward

Men and women are different when it comes to directions.  Men want exact road names and exact number addresses.  Women?  We’re happy with, “Turn by the weeping willow and it’s the house with the closed-in carport.”  Even if I have been there before, Keith does not feel secure if he doesn’t have something more than, “Two roads past the firehouse and the next door neighbors have a yard full of crabgrass.”  I always thought it was my vision—I haven’t been able to read street signs in years, forget those numbers on the houses.  But no, all my women friends give directions exactly the same way:  turn left at the round-about and it’s halfway around the next curve where the honeysuckle blooms on the mailbox.  Can we help it if men can’t tell the difference between honeysuckle and plumbago?

              Funny how that also describes the difference in people spiritually.  Some people want a list.  Here, they seem to say, I’ve done this and this and this, so I ought to be all right.  Then there are others who go by what “looks right” or “feels right.”  I recently heard a young woman who has decided she wants to be a preacher say this: “When I walked into the room, I just felt at peace, so I knew God was saying that was all right.”  And this woman wants to preach the gospel?

              Just like you need a good balance of exact address and some helpful landmarks when following directions, maybe you need a good balance of exactly what is right and what is wrong plus the common sense to know when something just doesn’t “feel right.”  In Galatians 5 Paul ends that list of the lusts of the flesh with, “and such like,” and the fruit of the Spirit with, “against such there is no law.”  “Such” means he hasn’t listed every single thing, but if you are honest, you should be able to figure this out for yourselves.  It should be obvious to anyone with a normal IQ, he seems to be saying, but here is a list to get you started.

              “The Bible doesn’t say it’s wrong,” is an excuse as old as my grandparents at least.  I’ve heard it all my life.  It’s just an admission that the person doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose, the common sense He expects us to use when we are trying to determine His will. 

              You can’t check off your service to God as if it were nothing more important than buying groceries and you can’t tell Him it felt good so you fell for it, even if it did violate the plain words of scripture. 

              God gives us directions that are easy to follow—as long as you want to do His will.
 
If anyone's will is to do God's will, he will know whether the teaching is from God or whether I am speaking on my own authority. The one who speaks on his own authority seeks his own glory; but the one who seeks the glory of him who sent him is true, and in him there is no falsehood, John 7:17-18.
 
Dene Ward