Tuesday, January 8, 2013

A Long Obedience in the Same Direction

This week finds me at a Pastor's Retreat in Russell, Manitoba, Canada. The title of the week has been A Long Obedience in the Right Direction, and the theme has been not only surviving but making the most of the ministry journey. One statistic given is that 90% of pastors burn out, or fall out of ministry, or leave the ministry for greater pay, greater freedom, or some other desire that lies outside of their reach as they fulfill their ministry pursuits. Our seminars have focused on three different topics:
  1. Understanding the Pastoral Vocation
  2. Surviving the Pastoral Vocation
  3. Finishing Strong
It has been well noted that Satan is out to kill and to steal and destroy. He takes great joy is taking down pastors, in destroying ministries, in disrupting churches, and in destroying the minister's family. At times, ministers can play right into his hands. At times, they are set up. At times they become vulnerable and open to attack in a variety of different ways. At every point of the way, ministry is fraught with difficulties, and it is exceedingly painful.

I was struck by a poem which was shared called "The Race." It comes from a book by Steve Farrar, which is entitled "Finishing Strong."  The stanzas reads like this:

Defeat! He lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye.
"There's no sense running anymore -- 3 strikes, I'm out -- why try?"
The will to rise had disappeared, all hope had fled away,
So far behind, so error prone, closer all the way.
"I've lost, so what's the use," he thought, "I'll live with my disgrace."
And then he thought about his dad who soon he'd have to face.
"Get up," an echo sounded low, "Get up and take your place.
You were not meant for failure here, so get up and win the race."
With borrowed will, "Get up," it said, "You haven't lost at all.
For winning is not more than this -- to rise each time you fall."
So up he rose to win once more, and with a new commit,
He resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn't quit.
So far behind the others now, the most he'd ever been,
Still he gave it all he had and ran as though to win.
Three times he'd fallen stumbling, three times he rose again.
To far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.

They cheered the winning runner as he crossed, first place.
Head high and proud and happy; no falling, no disgrace.
But when the fallen youngster crossed the line, last place,
The crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.
And even though he came in last, with head bowed down, unproud;
You would have thought he won the race by listening to the crowd.
And this to dad he sadly said, "I didn't do so well."
To me, you won," his father said, "You rose each time you fell."

And now when things seem dark and hard and difficult to face,
The memory of that little boy helps me keep in my race.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all,
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
"Quit! Give up! You're beaten!" They still shout in my face;
But another voice within me cries, "Get up and win the race."

This poem was paralleled by the story of John Stephen Akhwari, the Tanzanian Olympic runner of 1968 who suffered a serious fall in the marathon race at the 19 mile mark. Battered and bleeding, with a wounded knee, and a limb out of joint, he awkwardly finished the race. When asked why he endured, he stated to the press, "My country did not send me 5,000 miles to start the race; they sent me 5,000 miles to finish the race."

I know the voices all too well that scream for me to quit.
"Unworthy! Reject! Failure!" It often makes me sick.
So many times my mouth is full of gritty, dirty sand.
To just get up and dust me off? I am not sure that I can stand.
Yet in my head, yes, even now, I hear another voice;
"It's you that I have chosen; yes, you, I've made My choice.
I've gifted and equipped you; I think of you by name,
And it is by My power that I placed you in this game."
And so, back on my feet again, I stumble toward the goal,
That many saints and martyrs marked out long ago.

The last stanza I have written; it shall be my refrain
Until I hear from Heaven, until He calls my name.

I've come too far to turn back now; my steps, they keep the pace.
It doesn't matter any more; I'm almost beyond disgrace.
For its by grace that I must run; I already don't deserve,
To pass this blessed torch along; it's not a merit I have earned.
I run 'cause Jesus gave it all, yes all that He could give, 
To not only keep me in the race, but so that I might live!

And so to "Long Obedience," I say, "I'll make my stand 
Until I cross the finish line, across the golden strand."
That is where I'll take my rest; I'll lay my burden down;
And that is where, at Jesus' feet, one day I'll cast my crown.
That's when this race of stumbling will finally be run.
That's when the Voice of Heaven will say to me, "Well done!"

**Last three stanzas written by Keith A. Needham January 2013

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