Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
4 Components of Discipleship
Below is the framework of Discipleship, that we have focused on at ICCC. We have drawn upon Acts 2:42 to identify 4 components of Discipleship. The components are not all-inclusive, but fundamental to growth in Christ.
4 Components of Discipleship
"And they devoted themselves to apostles teachings and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers." -Acts 2:42
Fellowship (Hebrews 3:13) (1 Peter 3:8) (Acts 3:44)
Living life together: investing time and interest into the lives of fellow brothers and sisters
“How can we be strangers if we both follow Christ?” –Anonymous
Study (John 8:32) (Romans 12:2) (2 Timothy 3:14-17)
Wisdom above knowledge: Bible Study, Book Study, Church History, Theology/Spirituality
"In the spiritual discipline of study we engage ourselves, above all, with the written and spoken Word of God" -Dallas Willard: The Spirit of the Disciplines, 176
Accountability (James 5:16) (1 Timothy 2:5)
Authentic Confession and Graceful Guidance:
What do we do that we should not? What do we not do that we should?
"A man who confesses his sin in the presence of a brother knows that he is no longer alone with himself... in the presence of a brother the sin has to be brought into the light" -Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Life Together, 116
Prayer (Acts 1:14) (Luke 9:28)
Intercessory Prayer, Corporate prayers of praise, guidance, and confession
"If we truly love people we will desire for them far more than it is within our power to give them, and this will lead us to prayer." Richard Foster: Prayer, 191
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Haiti Video
This is a video Jen and I made of her trip to Haiti. The song is 'Your Love is Strong' by Jon Foreman. To donate to World Wide Village see: http://www.worldwidevillage.org/
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Knowledge of the Holy
This past few months the Thursday night Discipleship Group has been working through A.W. Tozer's 'Knowledge of the Holy.' The reading has provided great discussions. Tozer points the reader to a more majestic view of God. The chapters are short and great for devotional reading. You can find it free online at http://www.heavendwellers.com/hdt_knowledge_of_the_holy.htm or order a copy at http://www.amazon.com/Knowledge-Holy-Attributes-Meaning-Christian/dp/0060684127
Stumbling through a Small Group
Stumbling through a Small Group.
by Andy Graff
Eric has a chair in his home that is so comfortable, no one can sit in it without falling asleep. It's that wonderful. And Josh can eat an entire pan of lasagna by himself. Sam has fantastic hair. My wife, Heidi, smiles at everyone. Michael can speak in parables. Ben and Jen bring a splash of respectability that only a theologian and a doctor could. And Kendra has a way of cooking that makes the rest of us eat like Josh. As for myself, I contribute to the bible study mostly a small collection of vices. It's true. I sometimes feel like the group's project guinea pig, something along the lines of a canary in a coal mine who tries not to cuss too much. Which is only to say that if I can survive the fellowship and accountability of a small group of Christians, then anyone can, and perhaps should. Six months ago these people were strangers to me. I'm now coming to call them friends, and I'm glad for that. My vices are not.
When I was an aircraft mechanic in the USAF, we weren't allowed to smoke around the jets we worked on. It was something fussy to do with the jet fuel, but the message was clear. We had to make a choice between our cigarettes and our labor, and we solved the problem as only jet mechanics would. We thought about it, we cussed about it, and then arriving at the solution we started chewing smokeless tobacco instead. It has proved to be a habit I have been unable drop for years. I've tried everything the world offers, patches, gum—sometimes patches and gum—and all to no avail. Once, I even hung post-it notes on all of my mirrors while trying to quit cold turkey, these little slogan's that read, "you've been through basic training, but you can't get through three hours without sucking on leaf?" Addiction, when viewed in hind-sight, is ridiculous. But when trapped within it, addiction is as physical and as real as a mosquito buzzing in an ear. Or maybe a flapping buzzard.
In September of last year, I was baptized. It marked the culmination of a long and surprisingly dark time in which God methodically turned my world upside down. I was out of the military and in college, coming back to a faith I had lost as a teenager, and every time I would study or open the bible it felt like God was turning over the smooth lawn of my life I had worked so hard to manicure. My lawn was clean. It was healthy looking. My lawn got good grades. But God would push his shovel down into the grass with his foot—He's an eager gardener—and then flip over the sod to point at the dry, dead earth that lay exposed beneath it. When I made the decision to be baptized I hadn't defeated the sinful aspects of my life. Far from it. If anything, my studies up to that point had revealed things about myself I hadn't even considered. I was selfish. I was cold and arrogant. I was a constant stumbler. Spiritually, I was plum broke, and I knew it. But I was willing to try to amend the soil, so I made the decision and gave my confession. I was lowered into the water and died to that self I no longer wanted. I surfaced reborn into the new and collective body of Christ. It's difficult to explain, but I felt physically light afterward, as if I had shed a physical skin, as if I had taken my first real breath in a very long time. I smiled all the way home. Have you ever heard the angels sing on Muscatine avenue? I have. And they are beautiful.
Part of me hoped—even though I understood the contrary would be true—that I would emerge from my baptism a perfect Christian. I hoped to emerge a person incapable of sin. I imagined myself drifting effortlessly through a life free of temptation, new life of nothing but sunshine and birdsong. But the truth of it was I still lived in a fallen world, and the trappings of that world remained. I had been baptized. I was made new. Yes. But I still had a lot of work ahead. I had the angels. But I still had buzzards.
My tobacco habit remained a barrier that sat squarely between myself and my faith. I wasn't exactly getting up in the middle of sermons to go outside and spit in the corn field, but the addiction did feel like a barrier of distraction, this arbitrary thing—a tobacco leaf—that placed itself as highly in my field of vision as the truly important things in my life. Each time I tried to quit, I would pray, then I'd fail, and the guilt would pile even higher. In my mind, I began to feel like a failed Christian. That is, how could I even pretend to bear a cross when I couldn't even bear simple withdrawal symptoms. I was making a mistake in my thinking—equating my spiritual health with my ability, or lack thereof, to beat a physical addiction—but I didn't know it at the time. So I beat myself up about it, and then I turned to those in my bible study for help.
For several weeks during the winter, Heidi and I hosted the study at our house. I'd light a fire in the fireplace, nearly burn dinner—Josh never seemed to mind—and then we'd eat together before discussing the scripture we'd read for the week. We spent a few weeks during the coldest months working our way through 1st Samuel, discussing and learning about the nature of God while Saul stumbled and David slew a giant. The fire would sometimes burn low as we talked, so we added more wood, and then we'd talk until the fire burned low again. To close our gatherings we always ask if there are any requests for prayer, if there are struggles in our lives that we can't defeat alone. I had discussed it with Heidi, and she thought it might be a good idea to share my problem with the larger group. This call for prayer is in no way obligatory, but when my opportunity came I admitted my need: that I had an addiction and wanted out of it. It was a practical admission born of necessity. I was a normal, stumbling person who needed prayer and accountability. I knew the group would pray for me, and I also knew they would ask in the weeks ahead how my struggle was going. They'd serve as a constant I could rely on more than myself. I didn't feel ashamed. David shed Saul's armor before he killed his giant. He shed the armor, and then he found a good rock.
My eventual victory wasn't instant. I continued to stumble, and as I failed the familiar and misguided guilt returned. But now, because I had asked others to pray for me, the guilt was even greater. I no longer failed only myself. I failed others too. It got to the point where I felt like skipping the bible study because I didn't want to watch everyone's eyes drop with polite disappointment when I told them I had failed yet again. But after having lunch one day, Ben told me my thinking was flawed, that it was a mistake to rest my entire spirituality—my success or failure as a Christian—on this single struggle with tobacco. Without excusing my addiction, Ben showed me a way back to closeness with God that I wouldn't have found on my own. Once I heard it, it seemed simple to me: God knows I'm a stumbler. What's important is not that I never fall, but that I continue my earnest attempt to walk. And what I was learning is that this walk becomes easier when supported by a group. Ben's guidance was a function of accountability I hadn't foreseen, and it allowed me to pick myself up and continue from a place of conviction and hope rather than guilt and desperation. I can't tell you how glad I was when I was finally able to tell everyone I made it a full week without tobacco, and then two, and then three, and how their eyes lit up when I did. I now wake up in the morning without feeling the grip of an addiction I've had for years. And Heidi is proud of me which is best of all. There is a definite lightness to it. It's as though I've shed another unwanted skin.
I can say this for a small group of strangers turned friends. We've found a place to lean, a place to be challenged, and a place to rest. The group has never been about being already Godly, its about trying our best as a community of stumblers to continue walking in that direction. It's about struggling in concert toward a sustainable and ideal vision of life in the most practical way we know how—together, studying a scripture that's smarter than we are, laying down our very real burdens across the broader shoulders of God. I look forward to Thursday nights. I know that Eric will probably make me laugh somehow, and I know that if I need to I can sink into his wonderful chair. I know that Josh will ask for thirds, and that he'll probably stir up a great conversation. Sam will urge me to read more of Romans, and Michael will nod like a sage. Heidi will smile. We'll eat together and laugh together, and gladly move our chairs to make more room at the table. We'll study and then we'll struggle through the coldest months of winter, we'll bow our heads in the light of a growing fire, and we'll pray.
by Andy Graff
Eric has a chair in his home that is so comfortable, no one can sit in it without falling asleep. It's that wonderful. And Josh can eat an entire pan of lasagna by himself. Sam has fantastic hair. My wife, Heidi, smiles at everyone. Michael can speak in parables. Ben and Jen bring a splash of respectability that only a theologian and a doctor could. And Kendra has a way of cooking that makes the rest of us eat like Josh. As for myself, I contribute to the bible study mostly a small collection of vices. It's true. I sometimes feel like the group's project guinea pig, something along the lines of a canary in a coal mine who tries not to cuss too much. Which is only to say that if I can survive the fellowship and accountability of a small group of Christians, then anyone can, and perhaps should. Six months ago these people were strangers to me. I'm now coming to call them friends, and I'm glad for that. My vices are not.
When I was an aircraft mechanic in the USAF, we weren't allowed to smoke around the jets we worked on. It was something fussy to do with the jet fuel, but the message was clear. We had to make a choice between our cigarettes and our labor, and we solved the problem as only jet mechanics would. We thought about it, we cussed about it, and then arriving at the solution we started chewing smokeless tobacco instead. It has proved to be a habit I have been unable drop for years. I've tried everything the world offers, patches, gum—sometimes patches and gum—and all to no avail. Once, I even hung post-it notes on all of my mirrors while trying to quit cold turkey, these little slogan's that read, "you've been through basic training, but you can't get through three hours without sucking on leaf?" Addiction, when viewed in hind-sight, is ridiculous. But when trapped within it, addiction is as physical and as real as a mosquito buzzing in an ear. Or maybe a flapping buzzard.
In September of last year, I was baptized. It marked the culmination of a long and surprisingly dark time in which God methodically turned my world upside down. I was out of the military and in college, coming back to a faith I had lost as a teenager, and every time I would study or open the bible it felt like God was turning over the smooth lawn of my life I had worked so hard to manicure. My lawn was clean. It was healthy looking. My lawn got good grades. But God would push his shovel down into the grass with his foot—He's an eager gardener—and then flip over the sod to point at the dry, dead earth that lay exposed beneath it. When I made the decision to be baptized I hadn't defeated the sinful aspects of my life. Far from it. If anything, my studies up to that point had revealed things about myself I hadn't even considered. I was selfish. I was cold and arrogant. I was a constant stumbler. Spiritually, I was plum broke, and I knew it. But I was willing to try to amend the soil, so I made the decision and gave my confession. I was lowered into the water and died to that self I no longer wanted. I surfaced reborn into the new and collective body of Christ. It's difficult to explain, but I felt physically light afterward, as if I had shed a physical skin, as if I had taken my first real breath in a very long time. I smiled all the way home. Have you ever heard the angels sing on Muscatine avenue? I have. And they are beautiful.
Part of me hoped—even though I understood the contrary would be true—that I would emerge from my baptism a perfect Christian. I hoped to emerge a person incapable of sin. I imagined myself drifting effortlessly through a life free of temptation, new life of nothing but sunshine and birdsong. But the truth of it was I still lived in a fallen world, and the trappings of that world remained. I had been baptized. I was made new. Yes. But I still had a lot of work ahead. I had the angels. But I still had buzzards.
My tobacco habit remained a barrier that sat squarely between myself and my faith. I wasn't exactly getting up in the middle of sermons to go outside and spit in the corn field, but the addiction did feel like a barrier of distraction, this arbitrary thing—a tobacco leaf—that placed itself as highly in my field of vision as the truly important things in my life. Each time I tried to quit, I would pray, then I'd fail, and the guilt would pile even higher. In my mind, I began to feel like a failed Christian. That is, how could I even pretend to bear a cross when I couldn't even bear simple withdrawal symptoms. I was making a mistake in my thinking—equating my spiritual health with my ability, or lack thereof, to beat a physical addiction—but I didn't know it at the time. So I beat myself up about it, and then I turned to those in my bible study for help.
For several weeks during the winter, Heidi and I hosted the study at our house. I'd light a fire in the fireplace, nearly burn dinner—Josh never seemed to mind—and then we'd eat together before discussing the scripture we'd read for the week. We spent a few weeks during the coldest months working our way through 1st Samuel, discussing and learning about the nature of God while Saul stumbled and David slew a giant. The fire would sometimes burn low as we talked, so we added more wood, and then we'd talk until the fire burned low again. To close our gatherings we always ask if there are any requests for prayer, if there are struggles in our lives that we can't defeat alone. I had discussed it with Heidi, and she thought it might be a good idea to share my problem with the larger group. This call for prayer is in no way obligatory, but when my opportunity came I admitted my need: that I had an addiction and wanted out of it. It was a practical admission born of necessity. I was a normal, stumbling person who needed prayer and accountability. I knew the group would pray for me, and I also knew they would ask in the weeks ahead how my struggle was going. They'd serve as a constant I could rely on more than myself. I didn't feel ashamed. David shed Saul's armor before he killed his giant. He shed the armor, and then he found a good rock.
My eventual victory wasn't instant. I continued to stumble, and as I failed the familiar and misguided guilt returned. But now, because I had asked others to pray for me, the guilt was even greater. I no longer failed only myself. I failed others too. It got to the point where I felt like skipping the bible study because I didn't want to watch everyone's eyes drop with polite disappointment when I told them I had failed yet again. But after having lunch one day, Ben told me my thinking was flawed, that it was a mistake to rest my entire spirituality—my success or failure as a Christian—on this single struggle with tobacco. Without excusing my addiction, Ben showed me a way back to closeness with God that I wouldn't have found on my own. Once I heard it, it seemed simple to me: God knows I'm a stumbler. What's important is not that I never fall, but that I continue my earnest attempt to walk. And what I was learning is that this walk becomes easier when supported by a group. Ben's guidance was a function of accountability I hadn't foreseen, and it allowed me to pick myself up and continue from a place of conviction and hope rather than guilt and desperation. I can't tell you how glad I was when I was finally able to tell everyone I made it a full week without tobacco, and then two, and then three, and how their eyes lit up when I did. I now wake up in the morning without feeling the grip of an addiction I've had for years. And Heidi is proud of me which is best of all. There is a definite lightness to it. It's as though I've shed another unwanted skin.
I can say this for a small group of strangers turned friends. We've found a place to lean, a place to be challenged, and a place to rest. The group has never been about being already Godly, its about trying our best as a community of stumblers to continue walking in that direction. It's about struggling in concert toward a sustainable and ideal vision of life in the most practical way we know how—together, studying a scripture that's smarter than we are, laying down our very real burdens across the broader shoulders of God. I look forward to Thursday nights. I know that Eric will probably make me laugh somehow, and I know that if I need to I can sink into his wonderful chair. I know that Josh will ask for thirds, and that he'll probably stir up a great conversation. Sam will urge me to read more of Romans, and Michael will nod like a sage. Heidi will smile. We'll eat together and laugh together, and gladly move our chairs to make more room at the table. We'll study and then we'll struggle through the coldest months of winter, we'll bow our heads in the light of a growing fire, and we'll pray.
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