FIRST-PERSON: Don't let Demas steal your joy

FIRST-PERSON: Don't let Demas steal your joy
Trevin Wax

Posted on Mar 25, 2011
NASHVILLE, Tenn. (BP)--Disciple-makers know great joys. We also know great heartaches. But sometimes, it's the people who bring you the greatest joy who eventually cause you the greatest heartache.

Perhaps you've been in my shoes. You led someone to Christ, and you faithfully sought to pour your life into them. You discipled them to the best of your ability. You welcomed them into your home. You sought to live an exemplary life before them.

But after a period of time, they turned around and went back to their old life. They left you and your church.

So you prayed for them. You pleaded with them. All to no avail. They fell back into their former worldliness and disappeared. And week after week, their absence shouts at you: "You failed them. You mistook their initial enthusiasm for true conversion. What kind of minister are you? You couldn't keep them on the narrow path. See what happens when you open your heart and life to someone?"

Eventually, God brings another person along for you to disciple. But you find that -- this time -- it's just a little harder to pour your life into them. It's harder to give your all when it comes to their growth and discipleship. You don't verbalize your thoughts, but your heart has them: "What's the use of pouring your life into them if they wind up like the other? What if they let you down too? What if they are only here for a season?"

The ache you feel for your earlier disciple keeps you from fully engaging the next one the Lord has for you.

You are not alone. The Apostle Paul once counted Demas as a fellow worker. But in Paul's last letter, he tells Timothy:

"Do your best to come to me soon. For Demas, in love with this present world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica" (2 Timothy 4:10).

It's not hard to read between the lines and sense Paul's sorrow. He wants to see Timothy (at least partly) because Demas has deserted him.

Of course, Paul's biggest concern is that Demas' soul is in peril. His former disciple's love for the world is a demonstration of his lack of love for God. Make no mistake: Paul is concerned with Demas' soul and destiny.

But that's not all that grieves the apostle. Paul needs companionship, partnership and encouragement. So he tells Timothy to come to him soon. Paul is saying, "I need you, Timothy. Demas is gone." In other words, "It hurts. Bad."

Perhaps you've discipled a Demas before. If so, then you know the hurt that accompanies their desertion. You are deeply disappointed by their decisions. You can feel your spirit deflate whenever you think about where they are right now. You may even question your effectiveness as a minister.

In that moment of grief, you've got two choices. The first choice is to let your hurt turn into bitterness. The root of bitterness will keep you from giving yourself to the next person God brings your way. Bitterness constructs a wall around your heart in order to guard you from future hurt. Go this direction and you will never have another Demas to deal with. But you won't ever raise up a Titus, either.

The other choice is to stay grounded in the Gospel, the only news that brings joy in the midst of pain. That's what Paul does. He doesn't turn bitter. He doesn't deny his sorrow. Instead, he leans on other partners in the Gospel and tells them, "I need you."

Armed with faith in the power of the Gospel and confidence that God's plan cannot be thwarted, Paul moves forward. He keeps making plans. "Bring the parchments. Bring Mark too. Bring my cloak." Hurt or no hurt, Paul maintains a steadfast joy in the sovereignty of God as he keeps on pursuing the kingdom and proclaiming the Gospel.

Pray for your Demas. Weep over him. Beg God for him. But don't let Demas steal your joy. Don't let Demas rob you of your passion for discipling others. God will continue to bring people to you. The reason you can keep working is because the Gospel never stops.

People like Demas will come and go. Yes, your next disciple may be a Demas. But it could be that the next one is your Timothy.
--30--
Trevin Wax is editor of "TGM -- Theology -- Gospel -- Mission," a small-group curriculum being developed by LifeWay Christian Resources, and is author of "Counterfeit Gospels" (Moody) and "Holy Subversion" (Crossway). He has served in pastoral roles in Baptist churches in the U.S. and Romania. This column first appeared at TrevinWax.com.

Grieve Well, for Now

Gordon MacDonald

Monday, July 11, 2011

A significant person in my extended family has just died. Even though our relationship was always a complicated one—different temperaments, different views about the conduct of faith, different perspectives on … well, almost everything—I feel stricken. In my deepest parts there are regrets and appreciations. And many stories.

For me, this death has generated that bundle of sensations called grief. I've often defined grieving as our behavior when we try to deal with something we were not created to experience. The Creator simply didn't wire us to die. Nevertheless, we must deal with this inexorable event: the dying of others and, eventually, our own death.

Because this end-of-life experience is incomprehensible, it can generate fear, loneliness, disorientation, loss, and mystery. We become paralyzed in swirling feelings that seem incapable of any helpful summation.

When you've been a pastor as long as I have, you've seen varieties of grief close up when people have invite you into their private lives in that poignant moment. You think you've learned the right ways and the wrong ways to grieve. I've seen hysterical grief, which seemed over the top, and I've seen hollow grief, which caused me to wonder if the griever had any feelings at all about the departed.

What I've learned—a no-brainer, actually—is that everyone grieves in different ways, for different periods of time, and for different reasons. Along the way there can be tears, anger, withdrawal, conversion, regret, and pleasant recollection.

I once asked an Episcopal priest if he could ever remember a speechless moment in his ministry-life. Yes, he could, he said. It occurred in a funeral parlor where an old man (married 57 years) stood by the casket of his wife. The priest—then very young—approached and quietly said, "Fifty-seven years is a long time." And the widower, without hesitating, responded, "Too d—long; she was meaner than h—." Have a name for that kind of grief?

But then there's this. I once sat with two brothers in the living room of their home, their suddenly-stricken father lying dead on the living room couch awaiting the funeral director's coming to take the body. "Our grief is strong and sweet," one of the brothers said. "We told our father how much we loved him, that we were thankful for all he'd done for us. He knew Jesus and he was confident that we also followed Jesus. So we can let him go. There is nothing of importance that has been left unsaid."

Back to me. When I learned of this family member's death (it was anticipated), I made a conscious decision to let my heart have its way. I chose to feel this loss and not be ashamed or secretive about what was happening within me. Perhaps this may seem strange that I would have to do this, but I grew up in a spiritual tradition which, all-too-often, told people what was a correct form of grief and what was incorrect. Even in death, there was a "prescriptive way" to feel and act.

In my child-years, it was fashionable for some to say of a funeral, "Oh, 'twas a blessed event. There wasn't a tear in the church. All we did was celebrate." If that's what some want, I'm inclined to say, "have it your way." But I'm impressed that even Jesus wept at the death of his friend Lazarus.

In these last few days I let my inner person quietly wail, and I have discovered these things.

My grief has aroused and rearranged both good and not so good memories of this person. I have chosen to preserve the good memories and express gratitude for them, and I have chosen to bathe the bad memories in grace and renounce any hold they have had on me. The objective: to get the recollections settled and filed away in my soul so that I shall fully love this person into eternity. Naturally, this effort will take some extended time.

My grief has taken me back to the Scriptures where I have reminded myself of its teaching on heaven. I have found myself asking interesting questions about this relative now in heaven: some humorous, some searching. How did he arrive at heaven (taxi, train, horse and carriage)? Is there an orientation program (like your first day at college, your first hours at camp?). Does he feel instantly acclimated to heavenly life? And what happens when he runs into people in heaven who were lifetime adversaries here on earth? What will he say to his (divorced) first spouse? His parents (who may have some explaining to do). What about the people he was sure would never get to heaven (mostly Democrats)? What will he say to them? Does he get a personal interview with Jesus? Will he find that heaven is just a perpetual worship service as some seem to believe? Or will there be creative work to do? I hope for the latter.

My wife, Gail, and I (like most married couples) occasionally joke—or not joke(?)—about which of us will die first. And I often tell her, "If you go before me, I can imagine arriving in heaven later on and discovering that you've got a gazillion coffee-dates with Brother Lawrence, Mary Slessor, Catherine Booth, and Amy Carmichael (some of her heroes). You're going to be so busy that you won't have time for me until ten thousand years have gone by." Gail usually laughs at me and reassures me that this couldn't happen.

My grief has taken me back to the biographical section of my library to remind me of how other heroes of faith died and how they viewed their final days. I am less impressed with some of the Victorian Christians who scripted their last dramatic words far in advance of their death-bed moments (as in "one small step for man …"). Some called these elegant 19th-century soliloquies "the happy death." There are the English martyrs who said to the executioner, "Bring it on." And there is lovely and strange St. Francis dying, naked, on a dirt floor of a shack in the woods because he wished to die a pauper and out of the sight of institutional religion, which he despised so much. The man died as he lived.

Today most of us die less dramatically: in a hospital bed, entubated, surrounded not by the sounds of singing angels but by the beeps and buzzers of medical technology. Can we do better than this?

My grief has awakened a need to be with friends and close family members. To sit and talk with them without agenda. Why? I am not sure. Actually, I am an introvert by temperament and usually wish to be alone in my melancholy moments. But in the wake of this loss, I yearn for the company of the intimate people in my life. I want to tell them stories about this person and hear myself describe to them how I feel. I appreciate their embraces, their reassurance that they are present to me.

Finally, this grief has reminded me of my own mortality. A few days before my relative's death, I stood at his bedside and took in the sight of his cancer-ravaged body and heard faltering, sedated words lurch from his once-sharp mind. I watched his wife tenderly spoon-feed him his last morsels of nutrition. In it all I saw a vision of myself in a not-too-distant day. And I concluded, "We travel from the beauty of infancy to the strength of maturity and on, inexorably, to the grotesqueness of the dying days. And we make the journey so quickly. Few of us are ever ready for the last stop."

In these moments, the lines of Scripture that have meant the most have been ones I've read in many funerals. On those occasions I read the lines for other grievers. Today I read them for myself: "(In the new heaven and new earth) He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."

No more death. No more mourning. No more crying. The old order of things: passed away.

Apparently, there is no grief in heaven.

Gordon MacDonald is editor-at-large of Leadership Journal and chancellor of Denver Seminary. He lives in New Hampshire.

Bitter Root, Rotten Fruit

 http://counselingoneanother.com/2011/07/05/a-bitter-root-rotten-fruit/

Hebrews 12:15-17 warns,
See to it that no one comes short of the grace of God; that no root of bitterness springing up causes trouble, and by it many be defiled; that there be no immoral or godless person like Esau, who sold his own birthright for a single meal. For you know that even afterwards, when he desired to inherit the blessing, he was rejected, for he found no place for repentance, though he sought for it with tears.
Let’s take a few minutes to counsel one another about the corruption of bitterness and what steps we can take to kill this nasty weed.

What is bitterness and what does it do?

• Bitterness [harsh, distasteful attitude) springs from a shortage of grace (“See to it that no one comes short of the grace of God”). When I am bitter against someone for sinning against me–intentionally or unintentionally–then I am not functioning as a grace-dispensing believer.
• Bitterness is a “root” attitude of heart. Roots grow downward, getting deeper and more deeply embedded and entangled. If my shortage of grace is prolonged then my heart will become increasingly hardened toward others.
• Bitterness has fruit that grows upward and outward, touching others (“springing up”). When I am bitter it is impossible for me to be the only one infected. Others around me will also be poisoned.
• Bitterness “causes trouble.” When I have nurtured the root of bitterness in my heart its rotten fruit will cause further harm, and lead to further sin. It is an entangling sin.
• Bitterness, if not repented of, can harden the heart to the point of no return (“Esau…found no place for repentance”). A sober warning!

Weed-killer for Bitterness

• Forgive from your heart those who have hurt you (Matthew 18:35).
• Bless those who have hurt you; overcome evil with good (Romans 12:19-21).
• Actively choose not to remember sins committed against you. Actively choosing not to remember is different than forgetting. In Jeremiah 31:34, God says he will “remember no more” the sins of his people. This is not memory failure, or forgetfulness. This is God’s conscious choice to no longer hold our sins against us. We must do the same with the sins of others.
• Destroy “lists of sins” committed against you, mental lists or actual, written lists (1 Cor. 13:5).
• Make peace with others, as much as is in your power (Rom. 12:18)

Going Deep

The following article is located at:
http://www.christianitytoday.com/le/2011/spring/goingdeep.html

Leadership Journal


Going Deep
Cultivating people of spiritual depth is a pastor's top priority
Gordon MacDonald

Monday, June 27, 2011

Recently I have been drawn to the word deep as a descriptor when I speak of mature Christians. My earliest appreciation for the term came when I read a comment by Richard Foster: "The desperate need today is not for a greater number of intelligent people, or gifted people, but for deep people."

What does it mean to be a deep Christ-follower today when unlimited options, noisy distractions, and a million versions of truth swamp the soul? How is it possible to be a deep person while being swept up in a 50-60 hour work week (if you're working), community and school events, shopping, networking, laundering, family-building … oh, and staying on top of things at church too? Is deep even thinkable for anyone living outside of a monastery? I'm just asking.

Of course we can't even attempt to answer these questions until we explore what deep means. Here's my working definition: Deep people are those whose lives are organized around Jesus, his character, his call to a serving life, and his death on the cross for their sins. The abilities (or giftedness) of deep people may be quite diverse, but each has the power to influence others to follow Jesus, grow in Christ-likeness, and live a life of faithful service. They love the world, mix well with people, but are wary of spiritual entrapments. They are known for their wisdom, their compassion for others, and their perseverance in hard times.
How important is depth?

Now, consider this statement: A church's greatest treasure is its deep people. I know recent church emphasis has valued seekers, young people, and people that reflect diversity—all important elements of a healthy church. But absent a core of deep people, a church is in trouble. Deep people do not just happen; they are cultivated. Let's take this thought one step further. Deep people are a treasure greater than a church's preacher; greater than its hottest program; even greater than its worship band. I can hear teeth gnashing.

If the previous paragraph is true, then evaluate the following propositions:

A high percentage of a church's deep people should be lay-people, those whose lives are lived in the marketplace, the school, or the community.

Church leaders should be aware of who their deep people are, just as much as they know where their money is … or isn't.

Church leaders should imagine an approach to ministry that makes the continuous cultivation of deep people (of every age) its highest priority.

Churches should consider assigning this cultivation effort to their lead pastors, noting it as their top responsibility.

What would it mean for a church to accept these propositions? Well, what if—hang with me here—the first paragraph of the lead pastor's job description were to read: "The first priority of the lead pastor is to serve as the chief (spiritual) development officer of the entire congregation. He or she will be held personally accountable by the church board to train a certain number of men and women each year qualified to offer spiritual leadership inside and beyond the church organization."

Two developments have prompted these thoughts. The first is a growing suspicion that many churches are no longer producing many (if any) truly deep people. Something is not working. The Willow Creek Association self-study, called REVEAL, seems to speak to this when it expresses concern for the paucity of mature Christians to be developed by mere involvement in church programs. I've done my own unscientific, anecdotal study. Wherever I go in North America and in other parts of the world, I ask pastors these questions:

How many deep people do you know? This often generates a discussion on what deep people look like (see above) and the quiet admission that the number of them is small.

Any chance we're calling people to an unlivable faith?

If not, do you think your church is producing deep people? (This, all-too-frequently, causes a thoughtful silence and an inventory of discipleship programs that mostly seem to work, but only for a short time.)

Do you personally, as pastor, spend time identifying and mentoring potentially deep people? (This often leads to conversations on how few hours there are in a work week.)

The answers I get to these questions are occasionally encouraging. But most lead me to conclude that a lot of pastors concentrate on what draws crowds (often preaching) but neglect what cultivates deep people (usually mentoring).

But what if most preaching events rarely produce deep people? What if preaching tends rather to inspire, to inform, to provide practical Christian advice—but little more?

These are important functions. But if the premier challenge in ministry leadership is to develop deep people, as described, for example, in Paul's words, "rooted, built up, strengthened in the faith as taught … overflowing with thanksgiving," then we may need to rethink how life-altering ministry is accomplished.

Occasionally, when I talk to pastors about these things, I am reminded that larger churches often have a staff person responsible for "discipleship." This usually means small group programs. These are often very good people.

But sometimes I push back by saying that, if populating the church with increasing numbers of deep people is a church's highest priority, then that priority cannot be delegated to associate staff. It must be led, and led aggressively, I suggest, by the senior leader. Only then will the congregation get the message that this deep-people cultivation stuff is really important. In other words, the lead pastor must be first-cultivator.
What did Jesus do?

One day I asked myself: If Jesus read the classifieds on the Christianity Today website and decided to apply for a ministry job, which one would he choose? Lead pastor? Soup kitchen operator? Denominational executive? Custodian? Children's worker?

Apparently most of the hours of Jesus' public ministry were invested in a small number of men and women who, under his mentorship, morphed into deep people and set in motion a movement that continues to this day. No question about it: this mentoring activity was Jesus at his best, his sweet spot.

So, in what capacity did he do it? Like many do it today? Form a circle and fill in the blanks of a Bible study booklet? Hold a series of Tuesday evening meetings and show videos of inspirational speakers? I don't think so.

Jesus cultivated deep people in the traditional way of the rabbis. So how did rabbis go about reshaping peoples' lives? In a way considerably different than ours.

Like most rabbis of his time, Jesus did preach. But it was a very different sort of preaching. Much of it was dialogical: story-telling, questions and answers, argument. It bore little resemblance to the monologues of today's preachers. If someone interrupted my preaching, as they apparently did in Jesus' time, I'd be horrified.

Strangely enough, much of Jesus' preaching would have earned him low grades in today's preaching courses. I mean, how would you grade a preacher who started with a curious crowd of thousands that dwindled to an audience of 12, who themselves were hardly paragons of fidelity?

Yet Jesus seemed unconcerned with empty seats. What he does appear to have cared about is what the 12 were going to be and do. I'm left to assume that Jesus the rabbi was less a preacher and more a cultivator-coach to those disciples he'd chosen. What he did with them and how he did it, I call the genius of the rabbinical contract.

I never used to take Jesus' status as a rabbi seriously. With apologies to my Jewish friends, I thought his role as a rabbi was incidental. Then I took a fresh look at the Lord's life and realized that this status as an itinerant rabbi was crucial to understanding his ministry approach. His mission was to redeem and reframe the lives of those who would extend this mission after he was gone. Rabbis, like parents, always had their eyes on the future. Who would perpetuate their teaching?

It's likely that at the age of 12, Jesus stood out among his peers for his remarkable ability to master the Torah and his aptitude for engaging with people, including those much older than he. Luke says people really liked Jesus.

A speculative question might be raised: Who was Jesus' rabbi when he was young? Who was his teacher?

I've no idea, but don't ignore one special person: his mother. She had to have had a profound influence upon his development. She was clearly one tough and intelligent lady (reread The Magnificat). I'm sure that she read the prophet Isaiah to her son every time she had the chance. You can almost hear her saying, "Son, the proud, the powerful, and the rich are not where it's at. Keep your eye out for the poor, the hungry, and the oppressed. Tell them they're loved." And he did.
If the premier challenge in ministry leadership is to develop deep people then we may need to rethink how lifealtering ministry is accomplished.

At the age of 30 Jesus left his family trade and hit the road as a rabbi-teacher. Itinerant rabbis moved from town to town and conducted seminar-type meetings with local people who usually welcomed them and hoped for a miracle or a revolution. In another time we might have called what Jesus did barnstorming. Each of these roaming rabbis possessed a somewhat unique interpretation of the Torah, and their collections of teachings were known as their "word" (as in "my word will not pass away") or even their "gospel." It was said that a rabbi "received" his teaching from one who'd gone before him.

Most visible in the life of a rabbi were his students or disciples. They were usually a small, carefully vetted group of younger men who followed the teacher. In some cases, disciples got into this rabbinical relationship because their families negotiated with the rabbi in a way not dissimilar to the way a parent might try to get a son or daughter into a top college or university.

The better connected a family was in the social network, the greater a young man's chances of connecting with a highly-regarded rabbi. Paul reflects this arrangement when he supports his claim to be an authentic Jew. "Under Gamaliel, I was thoroughly trained," he says. Today he might have put it this way: "I got my degree from the College of Gamaliel."

We have several descriptions of how things developed between Jesus and his disciples. When Jesus spent time on the boat with Peter and other fishermen, Peter told him, "Depart from me for I am a sinful man" (Luke 5).

Peter simply could not visualize himself as a disciple. Too much of a past, he may have reasoned; too many character defects; too many other ambitions. He seemed to see no way he could be what Jesus' rabbinical contract would require.

Jesus' response-"from this moment you will become a fisher of men"—doubtlessly builds off an extensive earlier conversation. In the end Jesus broke through Peter's resistance and drew him away from his trade and into a life of learning and serving.

In telling us this story, the gospel writers seem to assume that we, the readers, are conversant with the drama of the disciple-picking event. They seem to assume we know that this leaving of the nets was no instant decision, but that it had been discussed, proposed, pondered. And now the thinking became actionable. Peter and the others enter the rabbinical contract.

In the times that followed, Peter's rogue opinions and impulsive behaviors appear to vindicate his original opinion of himself. He was no "rock" in those early days, and most of us—had we been the rabbi—would probably have offloaded him at the first opportunity.

Jesus' further choice to call both Matthew (tax collector) and Simon (of the Zealot movement) is stunning when you think about it. The two men could easily have killed each other! Their political positions were as different as those of Bill Maher and Rush Limbaugh.

The 12 Jesus picked were diverse in their personalities, backgrounds, and expectations. Few of us would dare to put these people in the same room together, much less anticipate depth from them.
How do you deepen a disciple?

So how did Jesus deepen these men? Three answers: emulation, information, and examination.

Emulation: The disciples of a rabbi sought to mimic everything about their mentor. What did he think? How did he talk? How did he eat? Disciples desired to be flawless copies of their rabbi. They believed that the rabbi was the incarnation of the Torah, and they, in turn, wished for others to see the example of the rabbi in them. Now we can understand Paul when he says: "I want to know Christ … even in his death." To know was to be like.

Information: The rabbi might teach in the Temple area, but, often, rabbis taught away from a classroom and out on the roads, the fields, the marketplace, the lake shore. Everything in ordinary life became an illustration of the rabbi's teaching; most everything was taught in story form or in riddles and proverbs designed to make a point and challenge the disciple's mind. Rabbis were unafraid to leave conclusions up in the air. Even Jesus tells stories with no obvious application. It's as if he likes to say, "Go figure!"

Examination: Rabbis provided times of testing. Think of Jesus' ministry: the storm, feeding the 5000, the betrayal in the garden. Times of testing. You can hear Jesus, saying "Where is your faith?" when the storm is quieted. "You give them something to eat," he demands pointing to the crowd. "You're all going to forsake me," he predicts. There were also rebukes: "Get behind me, Satan." And questions: "What were you discussing when I wasn't there?" And assignments: "He sent them to preach the kingdom of God …"

When the rabbi decided that the contract had been fulfilled, he discharged his disciples. Again, Jesus: "You're servants no longer; you're friends." "It's best for you that I go away." "You're going to do more than I've done." "Love one another as you've been loved." "Get out into the world and replicate yourselves by teaching what I've taught you."

After saying these things, he left them. His teaching now burned into their heads, his spirit now resident in their hearts. Finally, they were on their way to becoming deep people.

You've got to admit it when you review the story: Jesus was an incredible producer of deep people. In three years he made 12 champions. Well, 11 anyway.
How do we do what Jesus did?

So what might we learn from all of this?

1. By knowing our "main thing." Is our goal simply to attract a crowd? Or to develop deep people who will carry on Jesus' cause? Developing deep people may not produce instant crowds, but it lays the foundation for a strong and enduring ministry.

2. By not delegating this away. Developing deep people has to be spearheaded by the number one person in the organization. Ask yourself—and this is sort of silly—if Jesus could have accomplished what he came to do if he had turned to John the Baptizer and said, "I'd like to make you my discipleship director. You teach the people what I think is important while I address the larger crowds, cast the vision, raise the money, and network the influencers in the Temple."

3. By helping our churches see that the continuous development of deep people is among the church's most serious investments, and that pastors are held accountable for their work in pursuing this mandate.

4. By following the strategy of emulation, information and examination. Admittedly, this takes time, and it probably means that a lead pastor might have to say to the church board, "I'm going to invest 20 percent of my time in 12-15 people each year, and you're going to have to support me when the congregation begins to ask why I'm not around for a lot of program events."

The strategy of the rabbinical contract probably requires time away from church property, being out of the view of the larger congregation. The pastor's home might be a good place to start. The would-be disciples' workplaces could be another. Any venue where growth can be taught, illustrated, and tested is a useful place.

A fifth thought. Rabbis are not necessarily nice guys. They constantly raise the bar on their disciples. They are not reluctant to open up their own lives; they know how to poke into the inner space of their disciples; they know how to bring out the best in others. Cultivating deep people is serious business.

Paul is thinking about the rabbinical contract when he writes to Timothy. "What I've taught you … teach others … who will teach others." Do it by being an example, Paul says, "in speech (what and how you say things), in life (the way you live), love (your quality of relationships), faith (how you trust God), and purity (your moral choices)." That's all rabbinical talk. "Command, rebuke, exhort?" Also rabbinical. In short: Timothy's assignment was to grow deep people.

Here's a final thought. We're developing disciples of Jesus not of ourselves. The rabbi's deep people are not his. Disciples are not to be owned, controlled, or misused. They belong to Jesus, and he is free to guide them toward life and leadership in the church but also, possibly, beyond it. The church's greatest treasure—these deep people—must be shared, exported, sent out.

When Jesus prayed before his arrest in the garden, what did he pray for? He prayed for "those whom you gave me." Hear him: "I have revealed you to them … I have given them your word … they need your protection … they need to be sanctified … I've sent them out."

He prayed not for the crowds he'd preached to, but for the disciples he'd cultivated.

I have known a "rabbi" or two in my life who guided me through the process of emulation, instruction, and examination. Sometimes they were tough, sometimes tender. They believed in the present and future me. They saw what I might become and endeavored to deepen me. They are all gone now. I miss them greatly. But I have their "word," and I'm committed to handing their gospel on to others.

Gordon MacDonald is editor at large of Leadership Journal.

Christ and Commitment

Commitment is a dirty word in discipleship today. We are a commitment-phobic generation. We commit to something and back off from it after sometime: marriage, school, ministry, any-other-thing that require commitment. We go to our dream school, started enthusiastically, fade off , then start to entertain thoughts of quitting school. We marry the dream girl, settled into a home, differences start to surface, and we start to put divorce as a possible option on the dinner table. Same applies to church...

One's commitment to Church does goes to show how much one truly follows Jesus

As much as this sound harsh, but on hindsight, it is true. If anyone would suggest to me that discipleship can be flippant and as commitment-free as possible with regards to church and its activities, then my question is : Has Christ called you? and Have you follow Jesus whole-heartedly?

Here's a quick exercise: go read and highlight the word 'follow' in the Gospels, you will not fail to notice that anyone who follow Christ gave up everything - their jobs, their hopes , their dreams, their ambition - to follow Christ. The fishermen gave up their trade. Matthew(Levi) gave up his notorious career. Some had to wrestle with the thought of leaving the dead to bury the dead. Christ calls you for commitment unto Him. One cannot possibly says he follows Christ and yet not commit to any of His plans and agenda.

So for someone to constantly miss CG or to give up on a discipleship program halfway or *gasp* leave a church, there are deeper questions to ponder upon - are we truly faithful to our station? Faithfulness is a mark of true disciples. And i do think that commitment is an issue of the heart.