A New Coach

The apprentices did not tire of their hardships in the company of the carpenter-turned-rabbi. Roughing it with Jesus deepened them somehow. And, while his parables and assignments at times perplexed them, they were never at risk of getting bored.

As he labored at offering up truth and clarifying it where needed, Jesus remained always-present to them. His favorite moments seemed to be found engaging these clearly flawed but hungering men. The rabbi taught with warmth and wit and they would catch the occasional upturned smile in the flicker of a crackling night fire. At other times his voice was marked by a distressful tone. This would not often pass unnoticed, their searching eyes exploring his troubled features. Clearly he knew things – deep, disturbing, wonderful things – not yet ripe for sharing.

While they at times tracked his sayings with clear-eyed understanding, the recruited apprentices weren’t always the keenest of trainees.

He could leave them feeling uneasy by his prescriptions for living life. Sometimes they were utterly baffled over a point he seemed bent on making. In these times, to his credit, he never demeaned them. Rather, the rabbi gently drew them in. . . to reflecting, to pondering, in ways the best educators through history have commonly done.

Jesus’s first team of trainees numbered just twelve. The wildly-diverse company of personalities with their contrasted backgrounds walked with Jesus, under his tutelage a good three years and more.

Partly because of his awful and glorious final acts – yielding up himself as a young man in his prime to a voluntary death, then shockingly emerging fully alive three days later from his garden tomb – the rabbi’s handful of followers came to embrace him fully. And, considering their remarkable Holy Spirit-empowering afterward, how could his company of trainee-disciples possibly remain few!

Being fully divine, Jesus remained entirely man. Human, subject to weariness, to pain, pleasure, hope. Yet he stayed blameless, flawless-of-character, good.

While Jesus was surely qualified to mentor craftsmen in the skills of carpentry and construction, he knew well that his mission lay elsewhere. It was a mission spanning eternity and with all tribes of the human family in view. It was a call of cosmic dimension, an assignment in transforming communities out of all earth’s cultures and languages, into persons remarkably like himself.

While the word apprentice hasn’t always sprung readily to mind when reaching for a label to tag a “Jesus-follower”, it may come as close as any to best portray this mentor-mentee relationship.

Jesus was a master teacher. Beyond this, Jesus supplies not only knowledge for learning but the power needed to effectively apply life-altering truths to raw, in-the-trenches daily living. Bringing his disciples forward into a life as his own, he leads as friend.

A few years back I happened onto the writings of a gentleman in whom the term “apprentice to Jesus” had found a welcome home. He referenced it often. The apprentice word fits Dallas Willard like a favorite pair of gym shoes fits an athlete.

We can likely learn some things from a seasoned Christ-follower apprentice – who, on entering the process, found an entirely new life emerge.              

                               “Follow me as I follow Christ”     – Paul, the apostle

         ©2018 Jerry Lout

Making It Happen

The grand company of heroes in foreign missionary work features a long list of people who never walked the church aisle surrendering to God’s work abroad. They never enrolled in a college Missions course, never boarded a plane or ship venturing off to lands and to peoples hungrily awaiting their arrival and the good news they bear.

These are the child-rearing, husband-supporting homemakers.They’re the carpenters, accountants, physicians and farmers, high-schooler babysitters, retirees making it on fixed incomes. And a trainload of other skilled and not-so-skilled, educated and hardly-literate folks, all of a common stripe. They make up the interceding, resource-sharing, passion-fueled army known simply as missions supporters.

Many are anonymous, praying and giving – passing their support on through the coffers of a partnering church. Faithful, continued, selfless giving, without which the missionary enterprise would cease to carry forward.

“It’s not as much as I wish it could be.” 

How often throughout our Africa years did we take in this and similar tender expressions, sincerely offered. 

For years Sister S regularly mailed to our East Africa PO Box a one-dollar bill. Her monthly “widow’s mite” meant as much to us as any amount from any additional source, an outflow of a big generous heart.

Africa’s enormous land mass lies a good long way from America’s shores and visitors flying out to see us through those years were few. The lone pastoral visit we received from the U.S. in our two decades on the field happened in 1989.

Billy Shoffner’s southern drawl – which usually rolled out in easy, unhurried tones – betrayed a faint trace of urgency at one point during a game park visit. We had taken a break from church ministry for a day or two of sight-seeing.

I eased the diesel pickup toward  a slow-moving herd of elephants. . . a little too near for Bro Billy’s liking.

The company of mammals had moved our direction. One especially large beast now lumbered within nearly arm’s reach to the pastor’s rolled-up window. The elephant paused there. A second or two passed. My old friend stirred in his seat before speaking.

“Ya know, Brother Jerry. . . you think it might be time now we kindly moved on past our friends here?”

Through all our years in the Lord’s service, there remain a handful of memories which when recalled, very specially warm our hearts. The faithful prayers and giving of supporting friends and family are included. Numbered among them, two shepherds paying a visit from from East Texas – half the world away – Billy Shoffner and James Walker. 

Thank you.

©2018 Jerry Lout

Tired Pain

I nudged the clinic door. Inside I inched toward a desk. The dark-haired receptionist looked up just as another sharp pain shot across my back at the waist line. Knees buckling, I caught myself, barely dodging a crash to the hardwood floor.

“Óh, sir!” the lady quickly called out while indicating a chair. “Here, right over here. That’s right, slowly there. . .” Contorting my limbs and back in a couple odd maneuvers my bottom found a resting place.

 “The doctor will see you in just a minute. Here, I’ll get your paperwork” 

Another slow turn in the chair and fresh beads of sweat sprang to my forehead. I nodded a silent thank you and took the ‘first-time-visit’ patient form and ballpoint the receptionist offered. After a couple entriesI paused a moment and recounted the happenings of past hours and the tire-shop mishap that brought me here.

If Francis could see me now. I managed a twisted grin. 

Before our Texas move, my co-worker at the Tulsa Aviation plant had pressed me about the job he figured surely awaited me on arrival to the Alamo City. Between winces now, I could almost hear his “I-told-you-so” if Francis should see me today, here in this bone-cruncher clinic. . .

“Well, Francis, it’s like this, I landed a job down at the corner of Caldera and Bandera, at this Phillips 66 station. . .”

Why did I have to get in such a hurry?

 Twenty hours ago I had grabbed two car tires still encircling their heavy rims. Swiveling around while taking a step another direction was a move that shot a serious stab through my lower back. I reflected further.

Well, I started out lame – a polio baby, back in California. Then the limping picked up again when the same virus came to our Oklahoma hills. I should probably, here in Texas, be used to these kinds of hobblings by now. . .

“Alright, sir, the doctor can see you now. Just this way. Careful there, move slowly.”

Lessons on limping followed.

©2018 Jerry Lout