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GP

Easter Sermon

Today, we’re going to take a closer look at the disciples and their journey with Jesus. They, like us, had to move through many seasons – whether despair or elation, destiny or discouragement – they continued through as they watched the plans of God unveil in their lives. This all started with them being chosen by Jesus to be His disciples…

1. Chosen

I remember growing up and waiting to be picked in gym class. Some of you have fond memories of those days, being the first one that would be picked and running over to the side of your team and having them rejoice at the fact that you were there and that just your simple presence was ensuring your team the victory. And then there are the high fives and the chest bumps and the jeering of the other team who just wasn’t lucky enough to get you… OK, I’m not bitter. I’m just stirring up some repressed memories.

But, maybe you were on the other end of the spectrum. You were that kid who would stand behind that really tall girl and just give into the fact that the reason you weren’t picked first was because they couldn’t see you. Yes, that is what it is. They couldn’t see you. And then the girl is picked. And you are left standing there – exposed. Finally, everyone is picked except you and Willard – you know, the kid who eats his boogers for lunch. And the person picking teams is looking to you and then over to Willard and then back to you and then back over to Willard and you’re thinking to yourself – NO! PICK ME! PICK ME! And then you hear the words come out of this mouth. They come forward so slow. “I guess we’ll take… Willard”. The other team relents and takes you on their team and you feel like you just became the anchor that was taking this ship down.

That feeling of being looked over… that feeling of being forgotten… that feeling of being chosen last. It brings strong emotions. This was an emotion that the disciples had all felt. You see, in Jewish culture, there were two roads that you would go down as a young boy. The first was the hope of every parent in Jewish culture. It was the road of being chosen by the rabbi. The rabbi would pick certain young men who would come under their tutelage. These boys would follow the rabbi from town to town and learn from the rabbi and possibly, became a rabbi themselves one day who would then take people under their wings and teach them the way. This was the first road… the first path.

The other road was learning your father’s business and taking over the family trade. Whether it was carpentry or fishing, you would learn everything that you needed to know from your father and your father would assure that you had a firm understanding, grasp and ability to make the business your own. It is into this world that we find those first disciples who were called to follow Jesus.

It happened early on in the Gospels where Jesus is teaching by the sea and he calls his first disciples – who just happened to be fishermen. Fishermen who were working with their father. Fishermen who had been overlooked. Fishermen who were now hearing the call of the rabbi saying – ‘Come, follow me.’

I’ve heard people say, ‘How could they just leave their father there holding the nets?’ ‘How could they just leave the family business like that?’ On the other hand, ‘How could they not?’

For them, this was the chance of a lifetime. This was a golden opportunity and they had to take it. And for the father, I believe that there was no greater compliment to a dad then to have their son chosen to walk with a rabbi - especially a rabbi who had the following of Jesus. At the time that Jesus calls these first disciples to himself, the Bible tells us that He was teaching and that there were so many people there that Jesus had to use a boat as a pulpit just so he wouldn’t be crowded out. This was a rabbi who had an incredible amount of influence and one who was choosing these disciples to follow him.

So, these disciples followed Jesus and spent time with Jesus. They saw the miraculous. They saw the lame walk. They saw the blind see. They saw Him walk on water. They heard his teachings. They saw His faith. They saw His prayer life and reliance on His Father.

These disciples had an idea of what they were part of. A telling example is when Jesus looks at Peter and says, ‘Who do you say I am?’ And he replies, ‘You are the Christ. The Son of the Living God.’ Essentially, Peter is saying ‘You are the Messiah that we’ve been waiting for!’

Messiah, to a NT Jew, meant the fulfillment of what they and their parents and their grandparents and their great grandparents had been waiting for… stories past on from generation to generation of one who was going to come to make everything right… one who would make sense of this life. Now, in front of them, this one stood. And this one… this Messiah… was calling them to follow Him.

From this incredible feeling of elation and joy, came a sense of loss like no other…

2. Loss
Many of us know the story of Jesus and what happened on Good Friday. Whether it was the stories that we were told in Sunday School or the graphic rendition put together by Mel Gibson in the ‘Passion of the Christ’, we have some knowledge of what happened to Jesus.

I still remember when the depth of the loss became real to me. I was eighteen or nineteen and I was invited to this Christmas Cantada. Now, I wasn’t sure what a cantada was – and I’m still not too sure – but I found out that it was a play and a musical… at least this one was. Now, the church that I was in at this time was huge. It could sit a thousand pretty easily and I was in the last row. I was this little hoodlum, with my Duke starter jacket on who was there simply because it was Christmas and I was trying to make m parents happy. So I sat there, reluctantly, and watched.

Now Jesus comes in. I’ll never forget it. The ambiance was perfect. The music was joyous. The lights were bright white. The people were swinging around these palm branches and singing out ‘Hosanna! Hosanna!’ I can’t tell you why – maybe it was the lights or the music or the atmosphere, but I was caught up in this moment. I was into it. And then I saw Jesus. Jesus was riding up on a donkey. The people were singing to Him. The music was for Him. The praises were to Him. The lights were bright and on Him and there was a happy feeling in my gut and a smile began to infect my face – which wasn’t a common occurrence. And then everything changed.

The music went dark and the lights went red. The palms that were being held by the masses were dropped in heaps and replaced with fists which were pumping in the air. The beautiful lyrics which were being sung only moments earlier transformed into chants of ‘Crucify Him!’ ‘Crucify Him!’ The people, the same people who had just been praising him, grabbed him and threw him to the soldiers who stood by. They began whipping Jesus and beating Him with their fists and with the kicks. They then put Him on a cross and nailed Him there - hands first and then His feet. The music stopped. The movement stopped. The voices dissipated. Jesus was lifted up on the cross for all to see.

It was there, at that moment, that I got it – it made sense. I’ll never forget lifting the collars of my coat and covering my eyes because the tears began to fall, one after another. They took Him down and placed Him in a tomb. I felt the loss at that moment - the loss for me. The confusion – why did they do that? The pain – how could they do that? The hopelessness – now what am I to do?

It was there, at the foot of the cross and the base of the tomb, where we see the disciples questioning everything that they knew – everything that they believed. ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.’ – you can hear one saying. ‘He was supposed to lead us in an uprising and we were supposed to win this battle’ – you could hear another. But instead they stood there in loss. Being brought from a place of hope and worth, only 3 years prior, and then taken to the depth of despair.


3. Redemption

It is in the midst of this despair that we see the redemption story becoming clear. It is in the story that highlights a woman and her trip to the tomb. This woman sees that the tomb is there, but that the stone which sealed it shut had been removed. Her immediate response is terror. ‘How could they take him? How could they steal him? Who would do such a terrible thing?’ She gets to the door, afraid to look in… afraid of what she might find. She looks and to her chagrin… it’s an empty tomb.
The disciple Luke tells us that as they are looking in bewilderment, two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. They spoke. ‘Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!’

After this, we see moment after moment from the famous walk on the road to Emmaus to his appearance before the disciples, from his meeting with doubting Thomas to his ascension into heaven. There is a redeeming quality that takes place… a bringing back into focus.

I remember going to get glasses when I was young. The doctor would look at me and tell me to sit behind a machine. It looked like a magical contraption. I’d rest my chin on a smooth, shiny plate and lean my forehead into the padding. Everything I saw was blurry. I was looking through lenses, but the lenses offered me no hope to see. And then, one by one, the doctor would put a lens down and then put it up again. “Which is better?” He would say, “Lens one or two”. Again and again he’d do this until my vision was perfect – crystal clear.

I imagine that this would’ve been like the experience that the disciples were having on that morning. Foggy. Blurry. Confusing. Their reality made no sense. And then, the report of the tomb being empty. Lens one or lens two. And then, the road to Emmaus takes place and the testimony of Jesus’ resurrection comes again. ‘Lens one or lens two.’ Then, the upper room. He shows them His hands and His feet and the wounds which were there. Lens one or lens two. He sees Thomas and says, ‘Thomas, put your finger here. Thomas, take your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.’ Lens one or lens two. And finally, Jesus, giving the Great Commission, goes to take His place at the right hand of the Father in heaven. Lens one or lens two. We see the disciples saying, “Yes! I see! This makes sense! I understand now! I get it!” And at that moment, the disciples are redeemed or brought back into the full understanding of the message of Jesus.

4. Purpose
And it was in that moment, that moment of understanding and clarity, that Jesus says this, “You have purpose! There is a reason for your existence! It is not by chance that you are here.”

Let that be the message of Easter. Let it be a message that God is in the business of taking broken hearts and broken dreams and thoughts that we messed up too much and our regrets and our pains and all those things which bring us down or cause despair in our hearts. That He can take all of this and say, “No. We’re not done yet. Yes, it’s been hard. Yes, it’s been tough. Yes, I know that there is pain. But the message of Easter is this… ‘We’re not done yet. We’re not finished. In fact, we’re just beginning. We’re just getting started.’

Listen, if you are here today and that made sense to you, then receive it. God is not done with you. You haven’t strayed too far. You haven’t messed up too much. You haven’t hurt Him too bad. His arms are open wide and He’s saying to you, ‘Come!’

The message of Christ is simple… ‘Come to me all you who are heavy laden and I will give you rest.’ He doesn’t say, ‘Fix it yourself. Get your life together and then come see me and watch what I’ll do.’ He says, ‘Come as you are and then, and only then, can we walk this thing called life together. Arm in arm. Hand in Hand. Together.

Maybe today, you want to take that step into relationship with Jesus. Let’s pray today for that …

Books Read in 2008

Hey! I was digging through some old files and i found my list of books read in 2008. A lot of times someone asks me what I've been reading... Well, here it is. I love talking about books and encourage anyone else who shares this love and is interested in any of the '08 selection to chime in. It's pretty eclectic, so i hope that there's something for everyone. I left my Bible books in because they are some of the most thought provoking, controversial books in the Bible and worthy of some great discussions. Keep reading! GP

Books read in '08

Acres of Diamonds by: Russell H. Conwell (3/08)
The Total Money Makeover by: Dave Ramsey (3/08)
The Great Divorce by: C.S. Lewis (3/08)
Why Men Hate Going to Church by: David Murrow (3/08)
The Autobiography of George Muller by: George Muller (3/08)
Freakonomics: A rogue economist explores the hidden side of everything by: Steven D. Levitt & StephenJ. Dubner (4/08)
Fight Club by: Chuck Palahniuk (5/08)
The Sun Also Rises by: Ernest Hemingway (5/08)
To Have and Have Not by: Ernest Hemingway (5/08)
Think Big by: Ben Carson M.D (5/08)
The Relevant Church by: Compilation from [relevantbooks] (6/08)
No Country For Old Men by: Cormac McCarthy (6/08)
The Barbarian Way by: Erwin Raphael McManus (7/08)
The Shack by: William P. Young (7/08)
A Million Little Pieces by: James Frey (8/08)
2 Die 4 by: Ryan Dobson (8/08)
Genesis (Holy Bible) (8/08)
Exodus (Holy Bible) (9/08)
Matthew (Holy Bible) (9/08)
Leviticus (Holy Bible) (9/08)
Numbers (Holy Bible) (10/08)
The Screwtape Letters by: C.S. Lewis (10/08)
Mark (Holy Bible) (10/08)
Deuteronomy (Holy Bible) (10/08)
The Road by: Cormac McCarthy (10/08)
Joshua (Holy Bible) (11/08)
Judges (Holy Bible) (11/08)
Ruth (Holy Bible) (11/08)
Wealth Conundrum by: Ralph Doudera (12/08)
You’re Broke Because You Want to Be by: Larry Winget (12/08)

Creative Writing "The Interior - Chapter 2"

The story continues...

The Interior – Chapter 2

The dust had long settled in her kinky black hair and formed streaks that ran lengthwise from her scalp down her face. Dust mixed with tears forms mud which is caked to her cheeks in such a way that she resembles a warrior princess preparing for battle. But her heart is not prepared for war or pain or loss. It is not ready to move forward… alone. It isn’t ready to address the insurmountable tasks that sit right before her. So, she lies there alone in a pile of rubble allowing the weight from the debris to embrace her like the clutches of a parent… a parent she never knew.

The yelling had long ceased and the activity had been followed by an eerie silence which penetrated the atmosphere. It was a silence that brought a ringing which started as an annoyance and grew so loud that you’d have to cover your ears, knowing that the hands upon your ears made no difference but simply to placate your own soul.

A young woman in her early twenties passed the empty doorway of the hut. She saw the blood and had heard what had happened, but was looking for something else.

“Sharah. Sharah.” Her voice was low. Taking two steps into the hut she whispered, “Sharah, it’s me. Are you here? Sharah. Answer me.”

Her eyes moved quickly from the left to the right, surveying the carnage. It looked nothing like the hut she remembered from her youth. It was darker now. The sun didn’t set the way it once did and the rays which would dance on the walls had been replaced by shadows which only haunted its inhabitants. Reaching over, she grabbed a board and moved it. Then another. Then another. Then another until she exposed a small hand encrusted with blood. Her heart sank, realizing that she had found what she came to find.

With a burst of energy she began throwing the pieces of wall to the left and the right. Her tears fell steadily as she repeated, “No Sharah. No Sharah. No Sharah.” First an arm was exposed and then a leg and then a torso until finally, Sharah’s face was lit up by the shadows.

A deep cut was exposed on her forehead. Lips split from dehydration. Her eyes remained fixed upon the ceiling as her stomach exposed the thin, shallow breaths she was taking.

“Sharah. Can you hear me? Are you OK? Sharah.” She scooped the pile of bones into her arms and brought her close to her chest. She wished that she could give away life. She would freely give hers at this moment. She would allow this young girl… this child… to take her very breath… to take her very life. She would gladly die in this jungle to know that another child didn’t have to perish under the hands of that madman.

Sharah coughed and then whispered an unintelligible word. The woman was brought back to the reality of the situation. Putting her arms under Sharah’s legs and back, she picked her up and carried her to the door. She peered deeply to the left and to the right. She could still see the truck tracks and the trees which had suffered under their wrath as the soldiers exited the village. She could hear the soft muffled cries of moms who had lost sons or wives who had lost the love of their lives. She tiptoed through the doorway and went right – hoping to make it to the hut of Tsu-Tsu, the village doctor.

Every step brought a crack of a twig or the rustle of palm branches that echoed in the silence. She knew how much the militia would love to get their hands on Sharah. She had heard stories about how entire villages had been stripped of their young girls. She also understood that even though she had grown up with the people in this village and knew that they all had good hearts; she also knew that they’d be willing to give over Sharah at the hopes of getting their loved ones back. She couldn’t blame them. Loss and grief causes you to do the unspeakable sometimes, allowing you to look at your actions from the past tense instead of the present.

Dipping in between trees and huts, she was making good time. Sharah was repeating the same word over and over again. All of a sudden they stopped and slammed into the side of a hut.

“You! You! You! Everything… Put it all in here!”

The one speaking orders was close. He was right on the other side of the hut and spoke with authority and rage. Then she heard the voice… the voice of Tsu-Tsu.

“I will give you whatever you want. I will give you whatever I have. But, please sir, please don’t hurt the people. You can have everything here in the village. Just please let the people go. Please don’t take them.”

“We will do whatever we do. I’m not asking for permission. I’m giving an order.” She heard a button unlatch and then the sound of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back. “If you choose to disobey, I will treat you like the others.”

“Ok. Ok. Just don’t shoot. Please put that away. I’ll do whatever. This? Do you want this? Ok. Where do you want it?”

You could hear the hammer fall gently back into place. “That’s better. I want this entire hut placed in the truck. We need all the medical supplies we can get. And hurry up. I still have to catch up with the trucks before nightfall.”

Leaning tightly against the thatching, she slid down. Sitting there, she pulled Sharah close to her chest. Her heavy breaths told of sleep. In the background, she could hear the boxes being loaded onto the truck. These boxes carried with them life… they carried hope. With their disappearance, so went the only chance of restoration… of rebuilding… of renewal.

So she sat, buried in thatching. She sat buried in her thoughts. She sat buried under the weight of a child who was in desperate need of something far greater than medicine. She was in need of hope… of love… of redemption.

(C) 2009 GP Hintz

Creative Writing - "The Interior"

So i am back on track... that's write (ha ha), i've picked up the pen and the paper (or maybe it's just my laptop and microsoft word program) and started writing again. It seems to be the one thing that always gets pushed to the back of my life, but the one thing that i love to do! I'm challenging myself to begin writing between 500-1000 word stories. I'll share them with you and you can let me know what you think. If you aren't into reading fiction - i understand. But, give it a chance and let me know what you think. Also, stay tuned and hold me accountable... i need to write more. GP

The Interior – Short Story

He pushed hard against the cold bricks, allowing the sand from their surface to fall between his cotton shirt and dirty brown skin. His knees rested below his chin and his arms squeezed legs tightly. Breath rose like the smoke from Hitler’s chimney – clouding the atmosphere and smelling like death. Exhaling, he let his stomach fall heavily against thighs. Inhaling, you could see his ribs.

The room was the size of a closet and the air as dark as night. Sounds echoed against its thin walls and carried with them anxiety and fear. Footsteps meant men and men meant death. The footsteps came closer and stopped; so dwelt death only a yard away. He held his breath and his bones squeezed tight against the flesh of his legs.

He heard a hand touch the wall which lay only a few feet from his nose. A plastered jail cell created for his protection. The fingers tapped lightly and then ran softly – first up and then down. There were shouts heard in the distance and gunshots which rang through the air, but the volume of the hand was soft.

A child, under the age of four, lay to his left and began to stir in its sleep. He reached over, putting his hand softly over her mouth and bringing one finger to his lips. Her eyes opened fast and registered terror. He hated to see this look which had become so normal for her, but knew that it was a natural reaction to their situation. Her eyes expressed her understanding. Her childhood was a distant memory and replaced with atrocities that even grown men should never have to witness.

The hand against the wall began to move again. This time to the left and then to the right – as if a giant cross had just been finger painted on the exterior. Voices were heard again, but this time they were closer and directed at the plaster. Words couldn’t be understood, but the inflection caused fear to rise in his heart.

‘Could it be?’ he thought. ‘After all this time? After all these days? And now… now here? In this tomb? In this place of refuse?’ He grabbed the child and brought her into his arms, allowing her to bury her head into his shoulder. He could hear a soft whimper and feel the tears begin to wet his shirt. He closed his eyes to the moisture of his own reality.

The hand which was gentle now attacked the wall with fury. First, the violent slap of an angry palm rang between the walls and then a sharper sound – one of fists and butts of guns – rang out like a popcorn machine. There was no rhythm or steady beat; just the chaos of rage personified in action. Plaster began to rain like hail on the duo.

The butt of an M-16 was the first item to enter their safe haven. It slammed through the plaster and exploded upon the bricks which lay beyond it. He lay upon his little angel and protected her like a mother bird upon her eggs. Not looking, he could feel the plaster now falling in chunks on his back and the dust entering his body through his mouth and nose. The voices could be heard clearly now – yelling vulgarities at the pile of flesh which was mounded on the floor.

A soldier in camouflage reached through the wall, falling heavily upon the man – grabbing his left arm in one hand and a chunk of his hair in the other. With one tug, the man was lifted up and thrown through the wall into the middle of the room. Laced up boots began to punish the man, relentlessly kicking without discretion. Bones could be heard cracking and blood began to paint the floor red. Groans of pain filled the room.

As this continued, a dirty faced four year old remained buried in the rubble watching the only one she knew as family be tortured for doing the only thing he could to protect her… become the target.

GP

www.gphintz.com

Don't Mind Me...

Don't mind me, i've just been packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing and packing...

then, when i'm done with that i pack some more and the worst part is that i don't even have that much stuff!

Blessings,
gp
www.gphintz.com

Just Returned From a Great Ministry in Mesa

I just returned from a great ministry in Mesa, AZ called Sunshine Acres. I've been wanting to find someplace close to home to partner with and give back. If you've never heard of it before, here's some info. about it.

http://www.sunshineacres.org/

Sunshine Acres
Mission: Our mission is to provide a loving, wholesome, Christian home for children who are separated from their parents, and to help them establish long-term relationships with stable parental figures.

The Children: We serve boys and girls of all ages. The entry age is between 5 and 15. Exceptions are considered on a case-by-case basis. Placements are for a minimum of one year and may continue as long as needed and appropriate - even through college. Children are accepted regardless of race, gender,religion or national origin. Sunshine Acres is a Home and we treat the children as our own. We always welcome visits from former children and their families, as our greatest joy is hearing of their success in life.

Our Founders: Vera Dingman, who founded Sunshine Acres with her husband, Rev. Jim Dingman in 1954. Passed away on July 19, 2005. Her faith in God and loving heart are an inspiration to us all. She is dearly missed. Her legacy lives on in our staff and the lives of the boys and girls.

Fees: Guardians are encouraged to participate in the childs care as able. No child is turned away for financial reasons.

Funding: Our home is primarily funded by private donations. Contributions are given by individuals, through the United Way, family estates, corporate, and memorial gifts. All gifts, whether they be large or small, are deeply appreciated. We do not receive any financial support from the Federal, State, or City Governments for care of the children. All donations are tax deductible.

I'm praying for God's wisdom in partnering with this ministry. It is definately my heart and i look forward to helping them in any way that we can. Please log onto their site to learn more about this wonderful minstry in the heart of Phoenix.

Blessing,
GP
www.gphintz.com