What Happened at Katahdin

(I wrote this shortly after I lost my best friend to a hiking accident on May 24th, 2018. I hope that it gives some insight into the importance and impact his life had on me and all those close to him, and some comfort to anyone wondering where he is now.)

Those familiar with the Appalachian Trail to the point of the consideration of attempting a “thru-hike” will have at some point done some research or heard about Mt. Katahdin, as it is the northern terminus of the famed trail. In addition to being an entry or exit point (typically exit), Katahdin is one of the most prominent and majestic mountains in the Eastern United States. Though nowhere contesting the height of any of the Rockies or Sierras, its latitude and isolation make it a mountain exceptional in challenge and unparalleled in beauty. Though I have ascended mountains all over the United States, in the Caribbean and several places throughout Southern Africa, Mt. Katahdin will always be the ascension closest to my heart. Something happened as I climbed the Mountain and in the months and years since – something that changed everything.

June of 2016 was a time of transition in my life. I was moving from being a bachelor who was very used to his own routine and to living, doing and traveling at his own whim, to the lovely confines of matrimonial bliss. While excited about the prospect of living together with the person I was in love with, the idea of giving up these freedoms and taking on the world alongside a forever companion was somewhat daunting. I was a bit nervous and apprehensive about the gravity of the life-change. At the same time I was finishing up my first year teaching full time, and the anxiety of the coming change coupled with the stress of trying to complete all my teaching duties in a satisfactory manner caused me a degree of angst that I felt I needed an outlet to alleviate. Around January of that year, I became very interested, as an already avid hiker, in trying to complete all the state high points around the US. Since my wedding wasn’t until July, I was sure that I complete at least 3 or 4 by then, and then do more as my wife and I traveled over the coming years.

As I approached my new found obsession (as it quickly became) I knew I needed some compatriots to attempt the summits with me for reasons of both safety and solidarity. I didn’t have to think long of who to infect with my fixation, as two of my closest friends were avid hikers as well, both in tremendous physical shape for lumbering up and down mountains. The one, Jeffrey Lowery, a recent resident of the Hudson Valley region of New York where I live, had come to work on the local Air Force base. He had attended the same church I do, and we had become close friends over the previous year. The other, Kenny Steier, was a longtime friend who I had known for years and shared a wealth of life-defining experiences with. At times there would be additional add-ons to the hikes of one good friend or another to enrich the experience, but the core ended up being the three of us.

Over several months I began to make plans and plan dates. We would begin in Massachusetts (the Connecticut high point had already been completed). Mt. Greylock is located in the Northwest corner of the state near the city of Pittsfield. We rented a room in Pittsfield the night before and then ascended the mountain the next morning. It was a perfect day for a hike – about 50 degrees and sunny, but with a snowy frost on the tops of the trees that drifted down as the sun hit in the most enchanting way imaginable. The summit of the mountain has a very large memorial to Massachusetts veterans, as well as spectacular views of the surrounding Berkshire Mountains. We took a healthy amount of pictures to celebrate our achievement, and everyone thoroughly enjoyed the company of one-another. It was an excellent excursion and the weather was delightful, especially for late March.

The next peak attempted was Mt. Marcy, the high point in our own New York State. Though in the same state, it was the 5th farthest away from us, and so it wound up lower on the list of planned treks. The date was in late April, almost a month to the day from the Massachusetts trip. This time the weather did not cooperate, as we had a foggy drizzle the Saturday morning of our attempt that shrouded all the Adirondack High Peaks in a mystical blanket of white. Because we could not see anything higher than a few hundred feet, we had no idea what conditions would be as we ascended the peak, and had no knowledge of our gross unpreparedness. We found out our folly only too quickly. After about two hours into the ascent, we started to encounter deep snow drifts that soon turned into thick ice nearly impossible to gain any traction on with mere hiking shoes. By the time we could see the summit of the mountain, we were reduced to crawling, Kenny with socks on his hands as he had no gloves to avoid the cold sting of skin on ice. The visibility at the top was nil, but we were proud that we made it. On the way down the clouds cleared, the temperature rose and we had a beautiful spring day – unfortunately it was about an hour too late. Nevertheless, we had a very nice, albeit sore, walk back through the woods, and a similarly nice drive home through the mountains.

The month of May was far too busy for any excursion, but not too busy to plan one final adventure before I became a married man. After much research and building excitement, I decided that we had to hike Mt. Katahdin before my wedding. I made clear my plan to Kenny and Jeff, and they heartily agreed to the intrepid expedition. I invited two other close friends to come with us, with the promise that it would be a truly memorable experience and completely worth the several days of work they’d have to take off. After the Mt. Marcy preparedness debacle, I was somewhat concerned with having appropriate/enough equipment, but any concern was far outweighed by excitement – from everything I had heard and seen, this was truly going to be one of the greatest experiences of my life. I was right.

The days leading up the hike were anything but dull. As part of my bachelor party, there was a large dinner put on at the “Maya Café” where many and most of my good friends enjoyed a meal with me. My brothers and three of my closest friends, including Kenny, then whisked me up to the Western Catskills for a weekend of kayak fishing. On Saturday of that weekend I struggled all day to catch a fish, but right as we were leaving our reservoir I caught a very large small-mouthed bass, making the day nearly perfect. As the sun sunk we grilled steaks, smoked cigars and talked about our shared memories over the years. It was one of those times you wish you could hit a pause button and drink in the best life has to offer for a few minutes. We laughed into the night.

The next morning my older brother and I drove two hours to go to church. I threw the last few things I needed for the Katahdin trek together, and Jeff, Kenny and I left around 1PM for Northern Maine. My other two friends had made a head start on us, and had gone to get a hotel room for the night near Baxter State Park, where Katahdin is located. We arrived a little after 10 PM into the small town of Millinocket, Maine. After getting a few snacks at a gas station for the next morning, we drifted off into a restless sleep, eager for the 5 AM alarm that would spring us out of bed to head for the mountain. When the alarm came, we finished any last packing prep and headed out into the first light of morning. The sun lit up the Maine woods- never had any of us felt so remote, yet so together.

The first part of the ascent was through wooded, rocky escarpments that within a half-hour became barren scrubland. As the path became steeper the shrubs started to get smaller until nothing was left but rock. As there was nothing to inhibit it, the view became incredible. We stopped a number of times to take pictures. Everyone wanted pictures together and by themselves- Kenny wanted one with him holding one of his favorite knives. Step by step we made our way up until we came to a sign and a crossroads around 5,000 feet up. It was here that we began the “Knife’s Edge,” essentially the reason we had come to Katahdin in the first place. The “Knife’s Edge” is an extremely narrow (2-3 feet across at some points) ridge path that leads to the summit of Katahdin. On either side of the path is a drop of a few thousand feet into the valleys below on either side. A few hundred yards into the hike I began to have some pain in my foot – it was a manifestation of an injury I incurred on Mt. Marcy. With an ankle brace I struggled up the trail until we reached the “Knife’s Edge.” It was there that something happened – I’ve racked my brain about exactly what, but there’s no question that we underwent a spiritual change as we completed the last mile and a half or so to the summit. I don’t remember a whole lot of our conversation as we made our way across the ridgeline, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever felt so at peace, so tranquil or so “in the moment.” As a naturally worrisome individual, it’s very hard for me to “take it easy,” yet hiking across that ridgeline, I experienced possibly the greatest peace I ever have.

We made our way up to the summit and took ample photographs while chugging down water and energy bars. It was a “mountain top experience” unworthy to be compared with others. After about an hour, we put our shoes back on our feet and our packs back on our backs and began the long trek down. Some of ran low on water (OK, completely out, actually) but someone had brought a life-straw, and so we all got to taste cool, Maine groundwater straight from its source. At bottom of Katahdin, a picturesque lake sits hugging the northern slope. We stopped for a while to take everything in, then proceeded on to another lake a few miles away. Though the water was a chilly 50 degrees, it felt good to soak our aching joints. After only a bit more time we came back to our vehicles where we promptly drove several hours to coast to explore Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, ending the day eating lobster and muscles that had just been pulled out of the Atlantic (many of us agreed that it was the best dinner we had ever eaten, but I’m sure the place, time and company had much to do with that).

That was the day – fairly uncomplicated, very thrilling and profoundly memorable to say the least. But that wasn’t all there was too it. As mentioned above, I was at a time of transition in my life when we did Katahdin, but so were the other gentlemen with whom I shared the experience. Two had recently come out of romantic relationships, one was still healing from the death of a loved one and there a number of career changes going on as well. However, one particular member of our group was in the midst of a far greater transition – from this life to the next.

Kenny would not live two years past the trek up Katahdin, in fact, he was to pass from this life to the next almost exactly 23 months later. In a twist of irony, he would die in a hiking accident while lumbering up a rocky escarpment far less foreboding than that of Marcy or Katahdin. While climbing up a routine scramble in the Hudson Highlands, his hand found a less than sturdy place on the hill that gave way and sent him falling to his death. I would have accompanied him on the hike along with Jeff and another friend that Kenny was mentoring, but a work obligation saw me more than 20 miles way from the incident. Instead I received perhaps the worst phone call of my life that evening around 8 PM, a call that I will replay in my mind for the rest of my life on a frequent basis. The shock of the tragedy seemed to me more than I could bear at the time, and sometimes seems that way to this day, as Kenny was not only my hiking companion, but also my best friend of many years. We had seen the ups and downs of life together for the better part of 10 years when he met his untimely end. The loss is and will continue to be the greatest pain I’ve ever experienced (and I’ve had dysentery 5 times).

Time and space do not allow a comprehensive biography of Kenny, but a small piece of advising guidance will point the reader in the direction of where he can find out all about this truly remarkable individual: get to know Jesus Christ, and you will get to know the most important qualities of Kenny Steier, as Kenny was a man truly aspiring to emulate Christ in character and temperament, at least as was humanly possible. Kenny believed vehemently that his life was worth nothing if not for the glory of his Creator, Savior and King. Unlike many who venture into the wilderness to “find themselves” or to “experience nature in all its glory,” the outdoors, to Kenny, were essentially a limitless cathedral to the glory of the living God that he so delighted in. He ventured outdoors for his own personal enjoyment and enrichment, as well as the comradery that came with experiencing it with his friends, but all those things stemmed out of the glory of God on display in the majesty of Creation – a majesty that Kenny relished in and felt profoundly as he lumbered up and down mountains, taking in the solace and solitude of field and forest.

The point of this narrative is not to culminate the excitement of hiking with the horror of horrendous personal loss, as that would be completely contrary to Kenny’s legacy. The point is this: something profound happened to us on Mt. Katahdin. I think in some ways we all became different people, but thinking back over the last two years, I can say without any hesitation that Kenny definitely did. There was no dramatically monumental shift in Kenny’s life, but there was an obvious, gradual forward movement toward a deeper and more profound relationship with God that was spurred on to greater heights following Katahdin. Where did this forward movement stem from? I believe that it was a consequence of the worship and adoration of God that was integral to the hike. A lover of the outdoors who knows the God of the Bible can sing a worship song in church, spend time in prayer, read the Word and hear it preached or even simply do his early duties “as to the Lord;” all these are important forms of worship and adoration, but what greater form of worship is there for such a person than to see and savor the unbearable beauty of the Creator’s work from the peak of a mountain? It was worship in the most meaningful sense of the word – and now Kenny’s worship permanent and eternal.

If Kenny was experiencing a step in a journey toward an everlasting peak, than what of those of us who stood on the earthly peak that day – from where did the impact upon us come? The only sensible explanation I am left with is that we were impacted secondly by the incredible nature of the climb, but firstly by the simple fact that we were present with a saint that was steadily on his way to glory – how could we not be impacted? How could that peak be anything less than sacred to us? It always will be.

I can’t promise you, reader, that you will have any such similar experience if or when you climb Katahdin, but I can tell you this: one day your life will come to an abrupt end, perhaps, like Kenny, in a way that you never would have expected. I pray that like Kenny, you are ready for the final ascent. Get your equipment in order now.

Lord, lift me up and let me stand,

By faith, on Heaven’s table land,

A higher plane than I have found;

Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

A Gringo's Guide to Hispanic Food

A Gringo's Guide to Hispanic Food

By: David Harris

So you want to know the story? Well, it will take some time but please, have a nice, cool cerveza and I will tell you while we wait for our food. I was born in Laredo, Texas. My father was in the Air Force but didn't move around as much as other families. We moved several hours north to San Angelo when I was five. If it isn't obvious enough, I'm a gringo born to two gringo parents - not a shred of Mexican or any other Hispanic blood in me. However, my mother's best friend was a Mexican woman who would often bring over authentic Mexican dishes to our family on a Saturday night, or on Sunday after church. Her sons were my two best friends, and we grew up together playing cowboys and indians and soldiers in the Texas dirt. They would often speak Spanish to their mother, but they didn't like it and I almost never heard them speak it anywhere else. Sometimes I felt like they were a little ashamed of it, maybe feeling less American because of their family roots. Either way, I didn't really end up learning much in the way of Spanish as a kid, but I did learn to love Mexican food - not Taco Bell or El Pollo Loco, but the truly Mexican dishes like flautas and tamales. With one exception. When I was 11 years old I was served menudo. If you aren't familiar with this dish it's basically a glorified tripe soup. The base is the inner lining of the stomach of a cow. Even with my Mexican comida  awareness, I couldn't do menudo. I politely excused myself and vomited profusely. Sorry! I know that wasn't a pretty picture, but it's one of the only things in the world of Mexican food I didn't like immediately. I eventually developed a taste for it, but it was a long fought battle. Nevertheless, I developed a sort of pride around my love of “true” Mexican food. I saw myself as superior to my peers. After church on Sunday when my friends and I would go out to lunch, I was always trying to make my scoffing attitude toward the suggestion of going to Moe’s or Chipotle as evident as possible, then suggesting we go to a “real” Mexican restaurant where we could get “authentic” Mexican food like carnitas and frijoles over arroz.  

     Following my high school graduation I took some classes from Angelo State University. I didn’t really like the college atmosphere - it wasn’t quite adventurous for me, so I decided to take a road trip after my second trip with my two Mexican-American friends. We drove deep down into Mexico and experienced the wide breadth of culture and comida. I also got to work quite a bit on my Spanish! I was nearly fluent by the time we returned to Texas (or at least I felt like it). What an experience or a young person to have! What an asset to the rest of their life! Ok, I’m getting a little off track here, sorry. Anyway, after hanging out on the beaches, flirting with muchas senoritas at different cantinas and climbing some of the highest peaks in the country, we returned to Texas. I ended up joining the Air Force and was stationed in El Paso. I made some great friends, one in particular, a beautiful young Mexican-American girl named Natalia. We met at the church I was attending there. The first time I saw her I nearly choked on my own saliva. I guess I’ve never been that good at talking to girls, at least not ones as beautiful as she looked that night. Anyway, I went up to her hoping to impress her. Hola Senorita, Como Estas? She gave me a slightly offended look. “I don’t really speak much Spanish. Sorry.” she said. I felt incredibly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m just really into Mexican culture and stuff.” I said awkwardly. She still wasn’t impressed. “Ok, I should probably go now.” I started to walk away but she stopped me. “Well, how would you like to come over to my parents. I’m sure they would be excited to meet a gringo who speaks more Spanish than their own daughter. I’m already having several people over.” I went without any hesitation. I’m not sure if I was more excited at the prospect of being in a room with the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my life, or going somewhere where I might get some authentic Mexican cuisine made by actual Mexicans (it  goes without saying that the “Mexican” food in the Air Force is about as Mexican as an Italian on vacation in Puerto Rico). Upon introduction to her padres, I made it my goal to impress them as much as possible, hoping it would somehow rub off on their daughter. I tried the same greeting on them I had on her. It worked much better (I’d always been better with the parents than with the object of my affections). They were impressed! Hola! Habla Espanol! O! Bueno, bueno! Quiera a vecas comida? They asked if I wanted some dinner. I responded in the affirmative. Obviously I made my love of “true” Mexican food as evident as possible. I told them how much I loved menudo and flautas. They were eating it up. “It’s a shame, Natalia doesn’t speak as good Spanish as you do! She also doesn’t know how to cook our traditional dishes! Shame.” Natalia glared at me. I told them that I was an aspiring, amature chef, trying to learn how to make my favorite Mexican dishes. Needless to say, Natalia’s parents liked me a lot more than Natalia at first.

    I don’t know what’s more surprising, that Natalia eventually fell for me, or that she ended up attending culinary school and learned to make the Mexican dishes I loved so much better than I could have ever dreamed of. She was attending school in Austin, but whenever she was on break she would come back to El Paso and we would spend weekends making the dishes I loved so much with her mother and other relatives. I became very much part of the family, and my love of authentic Mexican food was surpassed for how I felt about Natalia. My contract with the Air Force was up just around the time Natalia graduated from culinary school. We were engaged that summer and got married in October. For me there was never any question about what we would do in our post-military/school lives - open an “authentic” Mexican restaurant. We moved to San Angelo where my father had purchased a place for us to get started in with me eventually buying the place from him once we met some success. I insisted we call the place “Natalia’s”, though my wife wasn’t all that happy with naming a Mexican restaurant after her before knowing if it would be successful. Luckily, Natalia’s was a hit in San Angelo, especially among the college crowd, as it was on the same street as San Angelo State. They loved the idea of eating “authentic” Mexican cuisine, maybe sharing somewhat in the superiority complex toward “other gringos” that plagued me. I took special pleasure in introducing guests to menudo, as well as our completely house made tortillas.

    Ok, ok, I’m sorry, I know you didn’t ask for all this backstory, I’ll get to the point. A few years ago Natalia and I went on another trip deep into Mexico to get some culinary inspiration, leaving my recently retired parents to run the restaurant. After about a month on the road, getting some magnificent ideas from food joints all over Mexico, my lovely wife had an idea. Why don’t we travel to some other Hispanic countries to get some more diverse inspiration. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this, as I had a very one, Mexican track mind. We went to several different countries in South and Central America, as well as the Caribbean, gaining some great insight into other Hispanic food traditions. However, the most important of all these extra trips was the first. We flew to the Dominican Republic. My culinary and Hispanic obsessed world was shaken very quickly upon arriving.

    After getting into the terminal, Natalia wanted to go to the washroom to freshen up and then call her parents. Knowing how long that usually takes, I made a beeline for a small cafe inside the airport to get a coke and maybe a quick snack, already considering any opportunity for culinary inspiration that might present itself. I sat down at the bar and asked for a coke and some fritas de maiz con salsa. The server looked confused. He said that they didn’t have any of those, but he could give me some plantanitos. I looked at him puzzledly. I asked what they were, realizing two things: 1- Each of these Hispanic countries had their own distinct cuisine that completely varied from Mexican food, and 2- I had almost no knowledge of Dominican food. He explained in a very different Spanish dialect that plantanitos were chips from the plantain - a banana like, but more savory, fruit. I asked if they served arroz con frijoles. He almost looked offended. “Senor, you’re in the Dominican Republic now, we don’t eat frijoles, we eat habicheuelas. I was confused, and the confusion didn’t end there.

    We left the airport and started visiting different restaurants. I learned a lot over those next few days. For instance, sal cocho is a savory and delicious stew served with rice, or bacolao is a cod-fish based dish that can be served as a cold salad or hot over rice. I had no knowledge of the differences between Hispanic cuisines! I enjoyed my time there so much I’ve returned 3 times already to learn more and to make more contacts. Natalia likewise was impressed by the flavors we came across in the Dominican Republic. We traveled next to Chile and to several over adjacent countries. We also visited Spain a few months later to get an idea of where some of the original flavors of Hispanic countries came from.

   And that my friend, is my story. That’s how how Texas got its first Hispanic fusion restaurant chain, employing cooks from almost every single Hispanic country, and how a gringo learned that his pride in knowing Hispanic cuisine was misplaced! Sorry I’m so long winded, but look, our food is here, here comes Natalia! This dish is menudo, I wouldn’t suggest diving right into it. Try a flauta first, they are great with the fried plantains. Oh, and make sure you try the asado, it’s a Argentinian styled grilling. Oh, don’t forget the…….

David harris

May 2015

I was looking at fightthenewdrug.org and some of their very informative videos on what pornography does to the mind (how it rewires it and what not). Some of the things I heard I found extremely disturbing - we are a culture addicted to this drug. Whether or not you have or are struggling with viewing pornography, as Christians we should be the biggest in opposition to the spread and distribution of this drug - it's killing our society and the church and we can't be silent about it. I penned this reflecting on the the disease and cure:

I Hate Porn by David Harris
I hate porn cause it sucks you dry
It kills your ambition like a filthy lie
It promises comfort, peace and a high
But it leaves you as dead as a suicide
I hate what it's doing to young people's lives
I hate how it destroys husbands and wives
I hate how so few will just come clean
And raise their sword at the evil machine
But most of all I hate its author
The Devil who presents us this bogus offer
That happiness is found in ourselves indulging
To only find guilt and pain unfolding

But I love Christ, who's great than porn
Who redeemed His own through pain and scorn
Who offers a path with actual peace
Who gives from filth an awsome release
Who won't leave or forsake, even when we fall
For He shows us His love in His gospel call
That faith and forgiveness can completely renew
A life you think that porn has ruined

Spilled for You - Poem

I was substitute teaching on Monday and ended up waiting around for awhile because I only had two periods, so I penned this while waiting, meditating on subjects like guilt, remorse, faith and grace. Hope it blesses you!

Self justified in evil deeds
Ignorant of others' needs
So often this is who I've been
A man who sinful passion feeds
My past cries out:
"Justice be done!"
"Let Hell consume this wicked son!"
This voice comes not from up above
Not from the courts of Heaven's love
But from the wretched Devil's mouth
To fill me up with fear and doubt
Regret is my unwanted friend
He tells me I should make an end
"For you sufficient grace is lacking"
"Take your life, no more contend"
"For what is life but just missed chances"
"chances gone and and lost romances"
These thoughts not from wisdom's advice
but foolishness and futile vice
The only way to conquer this:
Focus on His promises.
"My grace, sufficient for you, believe!"
"For peace and rest you have received"
"Judgment no more awaits your soul"
"For My great love has made you whole"
"You're not defined by things gone through"
"for My own blood was spilled for you"

Why I love Jesus, but hate relgion: An argument over the definition of a word?

Ok. So I've seen Jefferson Bethke's video literally EVERYWHERE. Not only has it attracted a healthy amount of praise, but it's also seeing a firestorm of critique and criticism, especially coming from catholic, reformed, and muslim circles. When I first saw the video I thought I understood what Jefferson was trying to get across, but now I'm really not so sure, so I'm going to start by going over what I really don't understand. Before I do that however, I'd like to just affirm my respect and admiration for Jefferson Bethke. He may not be Lecrae, but the man has rhyme and rhythm! He seems to be very theologically sound and genuinely love Christ and is seeking to make His name known. His "Sexual Healing" video was great, and even greater was his response to "Love Wins" by Rob Bell. Good good stuff.
     Let's get to his current piece of art though. The first thing I don't understand is his choice of WHERE he made the video. I feel like so much would make more sense if he was actually standing outside a church building. But he's not. It looks like he's standing outside a university or government building. That is confusion point No. 1. It's confusing because throughout the video I simply never quite get WHO exactly he's talking to. At first glance I would say it's obviously the "religious". But we're faced with a problem. What is religion? And that's where the heart of this strange argument over the definition of a word seems to be.
     "What if I told you Jesus came to abolish relgion.". Ok. Define religion please. Nope. Instead he continues with "What if I told you voting Republican wasn't really his mission?" This confuses me. So he's talking to Republicans? Don't get me wrong, I believe he's quite correct! Jesus would want us to vote for those who have integrity and believe in the biblical principles set down for government, no matter what their particular political affiliation happens to be. But I still don't understand what it has to do with Jesus being ">religion".
     He asks another question toward the beginning of his rhyme, this one I believe I have an answer for: "I mean if religion is so great, why has it started so many wars?" The answer I believe can be found in Matthew chapter 10: "Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law. And a man's foes shall be they of his own household." I think that may be why religion has started so many wars.
      Jefferson goes on. He doesn't say anything heretical in the least, (in fact I especially like when he says: "He looked down and said 'I want that man!'")  but at the same time, we're left without a definition for religion. I've raised this objection to several people and the response has been this: words change meaning. So really what we're arguing about is not whether or not as Christians, we want to change the definition of religion. I would argue NO, and for this reason: Changing the definition of a word adds to deconstruction and confusion in a language. It WILL happen I know, but words have meaning, and trying to change a definition only causes confusion. In this context, while I know and understand the good intention behind: "it's not a RELIGION it's a RELATIONSHIP", this statement generally only adds confusion to an unbelieving mind. I would argue the "nonreligious" unbeliever doesn't need to understand that Christianity is not a religion, but needs to understand in their unbelieving state they are indeed devoutly religious- worshiping themselves. Furthermore, the statement (religion not a relationship) is not found in the Bible- instead we find a description of what James calls TRUE religion (Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world.- James 1:27).
    It's important to remember that this is a discussion within the body of believers, and there's no reason to get bent out of shape or to emotionally invested in the argument (2 Timothy 2:14  Remind them of these things, and charge them before God not to quarrel about words, which does no good, but only ruins the hearers.).

Break-In

I'm standing in the kitchen of the Raley family with the team that has just driven up to Pietersburg from the coast (Port Elizabeth). Enjoying a steaming cup of coffee on the chilly winter night, my pocket suddenly vibrates. I pull my phone from my coat pocket: ONE NEW MESSAGE. I press the view button. In bold type the SMS (txt mssg) says one word: BURGLARY. (The house I'd been watching sends an SMS to several people if the house alarm goes off). My mouth emits one sentence: "Gabriel's house has been broken into", and I made a speedy b-line for the door. My friend Nathan (who is also on the SMS system) yells, "you want me to come with?". Angrily thinking of my possessions sitting in the house several K's down the road being stolen, I reply "whatever!".
   I hit nearly 140 Km/H on the way- down the freeway, down several dusty back roads, and finally down the long road in the veld (bush) to Gabriel and Nikki Pretoria's house. I pulled up to the outer gate- protected by a lock and 9000V of electricity pulsating through the wires attached to it. I could see the back gate to the house had been forced open. I speedily unlock the gate and run to the back entrance to the house. It's dark inside. I almost proceed inside, but then remember that an ambush could mean a quick death, a debilitating injury, or a mortal wound. I run around the side of the house and grab a wooden stick- my weapon of choice. I slowly peer around the corners as I enter the house. The alarm sounds. I start turning on lights. There's absolutely nothing missing. Praise God
     By the time I get outside to find out where the would-be thieves cut into the wire, Nathan has arrived. We examine the fence and find where they cut in, and also the windows they broke checking to see if anyone was home. Several other arrive after a little time to start the repairs. We clean up the broken glass, replace a lock, and rewire the fence. After some time, they leave, and I'm left alone. It's late. I take a shower, drink some coke. I turn ON the lights, and go to bed. The dogs bark all night. Eish.
Excitement. In South Africa.

Sermon Notes: Mchipisi Baptist Church, May 22nd 2011

 PICTURES: The first is of Pastor Kenneth and his wife Emma. The 2nd is a map of Limpopo where the red is our location (or near it). It is the farthest north-eastern part of the country.

Sermon Notes: (NOTE: this is an exact copy of my hand-written manuscript)

Sermon, May 22^nd, 2011

Romans 8:28

1^st-testimony, Psalm 19:7, Romans 10:10

Review, Roman’s Purpose

“Paul’s Gospel Book”

Chapter 1- Paul identifies himself as a slave to Christ Jesus, specifically set apart for the gospel of Christ Jesus. He spends the 1^st of ½ of chapter 1 exalting the glorious gospel of Christ Jesus, and the 1nd ½ he speaks of the terrible consequences of rejecting Christ Jesus. Chapter 2 and 3, Paul speaks of God’s righteous standard, and how no one has ever lived up to it, and being Jewish doesn’t even help! You must have Christ Jesus.

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In chap. 4, Paul speaks of Moses and how he as well was justified by faith. Chapters 5 and 6, Paul speaks of what justification brings about. Some of these things are Peace with God, escaping the wrath of Almighty God, and being dead to sin and alive to God. Chapter 7 talks of something we are all familiar with. The conflict that we have when we belong to Christ Jesus. Our struggle is between our new nature which we receive when we are born again, and our fleshly body, that we are abound to until we leave this earth.  He says “Oh wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death!” (Something I’ve oft thought after I’ve sinned)

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Now we come to Chap. 8. Verse 1-4 (read)

The Gospel of Christ Jesus here is clearly presented once again. We cannot live up to God’s standard. Remember what Jesus said: (adultery, murder, you only have to think the thoughts) Paul speaks through the next few verses about the difference between setting the mind on the flesh , and setting the mind on the spirit, but God is able to give life in Christ to those in the flesh. It is the Spirit of God that testifies that we are “children of God!” (Personal testimony example: I don’t have a date for when I was saved, but this is my assurance) (Read verses 16-17). Suffering?! Wait a moment! No one told me anything about suffering! I thought I was going to get money, good health, and good things. What is this suffering?!

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But there it is! But let’s think. What were Paul’s sufferings? He was beaten more than once, he was bitten by a snake on the island of Malta, and he was sought out by many to be killed. Jesus said in His sermon on the mountain “Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness”. (move on) Verse 19 tells us Paul’s attitude toward suffering for Christ Jesus. (read verse 18) (exposit) In verses 19-28, Paul speaks of how not only us, but ALL of creation is anxious waiting for God’s restoration. We look forward to when we be rid of these earthy bodies! When no longer we will get sick or hurt. However, we do not know when these things will be, so we must hope.

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Verse 26 and 27 give us another great hope (read verse) (exposit)

Before we read verse 28, I’d like to look at a verse in the Hebrew Scriptures. Deuteronomy 29:29-(read) how often do we wonder “what is the will of God?” And here it is! Obey His law, practice His commandments. But there is something else here. Something that is a little scary. What are the “secret things?” We don’t know. But we find our comfort here in verse 28 of Romans 8. (read verse) This verse has been on my mind since yesterday (speak about Mozambique). This verse immediately came to my mind as we left Pafuri yesterday. I had to choose whether I was to believe God in what He says here, or to believe the lies of the deceiver.

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Let’s go back to the verse: “and we know that God causes all things to work for good” Let’s stop there; Is this good God’s good, or our good? If we belong to Christ Jesus, then they are the same- but we may not always see it that way. The Greek word here is agathos- it means “benefit”. So we see that God works all things for our spiritual benefit. A question remains however: Who does God work things together for? We have 2 answers: 1. Those who love God. The Greek word here for love is agape- a love of sacrifice; one that will give up everything for Christ Jesus. Hallelujah (NOTE: This was a common interjection that is replied with “Amen”). Phillipians 3:8 (read) (exposit)

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As followers of Christ Jesus, we must be willing to give up anything for Him. (read Luke 9:23-25) (exposit) by this we know we love God! If we keep His commandments, and we will give our everything.

  In Romans 8:28, we also see that those who love God are also those who are “called according to His purpose”. All throughout the scriptures we see God’s calling. In Galatians Paul speaks of God as Him who set him apart “before His birth” and called him by “His Grace”. The book of 1 Corinthians says that “god is faithful, by whom you were called into fellowship of His Son Christ Jesus”, Halleluiah.

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These words can give us great comfort! That if we are called by God into Salvation through Christ Jesus His Son, then we will love Him, and He will work everything in our lives to our heavenly benefit. While it is a wonderful truth, it can still be hard to understand while we are experiencing trials. I would like to give one example from my own life (tell Danny’s story).

You see! Even when things seem to be terrible, God still uses them, no matter what they may be! Hallelujah! I praise God for His caring for His saints, no matter what!

-Mchipisi Baptist Church (David S. Harris), May 22^nd, 2011