Help Elizabeth Get Around!

As a missionary, my job involves a fair bit of travel. My present need is not for partners to help me reach a place far across the seas, however, but to assist me with reaching the places I need to go for daily life—errands, out to our training facility near Columbus, WI, and visits to family and friends.

My current vehicle is now out of commission, and because of its age (1984) and numerous problems, is no longer a vehicle that is worth saving. I am currently in the process of fund-raising for a new vehicle. Would you be interested in partnering with me? My goal is to raise $6500, which would allow me to purchase a fairly sound vehicle as well as covering the cost of vehicle registration etc.

If you are interested in contributing to this cause, you may do so online by going to http://www.ywammadison.org/donate/. Please designate your donation toward Elizabeth Johnson's car. If you would prefer to send something in through the mail, donations may be sent to YWAM Madison, PO Box 8503,Madison, WI 53708. For tax-deductible purposes, please make the check out to YWAM Madison, and indicate the donation is for me on a separate sheet of paper.

Thanks for your consideration!

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Discipleship

"Making disciples is a matter of pulling people, of drawing them in through who we are and what we say. 

Disciples are those who have been so ravished with Christ that others want to be like them. Others look at those disciples' life in the kingdom of God, and they say, 'This is the best thing I ever saw in my life. I must have that' ".--Dallas Willard

Immanuel

Long ago there were three very wise men who studied the stars. In the course of their studies, they became aware of the advent of a star that hailed the birth of a great king. So the rulers prepared for a long journey. They traveled many days and nights until they came to the place where the king-child was. They presented the child with gifts, and his mother with the questions that had been heavy on their hearts...


“CASPAR:
Alas! The more we know, the less we understand life. Doubts make us afraid to act, and much learning drys the heart. And the riddle that torments the world is this: Shall Wisdom and Love live together at last, when the promised Kingdom comes?


MELCHIOR:
We are rulers, and we see that what men need most is good government, with freedom and order. But order puts fetters on freedom, and freedom rebels against order, so that love and power are always at war together. And the riddle that torments the word is this: Shall Power and Love dwell together at last, when the promised Kingdom comes?


BALTHAZAR:
I speak for a sorrowful people—for the ignorant and the poor. We rise up to labor and lie down to sleep and night is only a pause between one burden and another. Fear is our daily companion—the fear of want, the fear of war, the fear of cruel death and of still more cruel life. But all this we could bear if we knew that we did not suffer in vain; that God was beside us in the miseries of His own world. For the riddle that torments the world is this: Shall Sorrow and Love be reconciled at last when the promised Kingdom comes?


MARY:
These are very difficult questions—but with me, you see, it is like this. When the Angel's message came to me, the Lord put a song into my heart. I suddenly saw that wealth and cleverness are nothing to God—no one is too unimportant to be His friend. That was the thought that came to me because of the thing that happened to me. I am quiet humbly born, yet the Power of God came upon me; very foolish and unlearned, yet the Word of God was spoken to me; and I was in deep distress when my Baby was born and filled my life with love. So I know very well that Wisdom, and Power and Sorrow can live together with Love; and for me, the Child in my arms is the answer to all the riddles.”--The Man Born to be King, Dorothy Sayers


The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,
on them has light shone.


For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given;
and the government shall be upon his shoulder,
and his named shall be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.


Of the increase of his government and of peace
there will be no end...

The Prophet's Lament

Prophet, why do you sit on the watchtower?

Prophet, what do you see?

Child, cover your eyes.

As you walk down the street, shut your ears.

If you look, you will see men kissing the wives of their neighbors.

If you listen, you will hear the weeping of the widow cast from her home.

If you look, you will see the judge extorting money from the foreigner.

If you listen, you will hear the screams of the children thrown into Molech's lap.

Even you, little one, carry bread for the idols.

You take flour for your mother to make her Asherah cakes.

Is this why you weep, O prophet?

Is this why you cry perched on your tower like a bird?

My heart is shattered, Child, like a dropped cooking pot.

Anger consumes me like the flames of a dry forest burning.

For our courts oppose the righteous,
and justice is nowhere to be found.
Truth stumbles in the streets,
and honesty has been outlawed.

Yes, truth is gone,
and anyone who renounces evil is attacked.

Hurry home, Child, for the night is coming soon.

And you, Prophet?

Will you go home to your fire?

No, Child, I will sit here.

I will sit here underneath the bright stars of heaven.

I will sit under the bright stars of heaven and wait.

Daybreak in Alabama

When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.

--Langston Hughes

 

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The Acorn That Wanted To Be An Oak Tree

Once upon a time…

...there was an acorn that wanted to be an oak tree.

The tallest tree in the forest was the great oak tree. Its massive roots were twined among the boulders alongside the river. Its strong branches were home to many forest creatures. Its leafy crest towered above the rest of the trees of the forest and seemed to touch heaven.

The acorn wanted to be an oak tree.

When the acorn expressed this desire to one of his friends, the other acorn laughed. “Have you seen yourself lately midget? You could never be an oak tree.” And he went away, still chuckling.

Another acorn overhead the conversation.

“You can be an oak tree,” he said.

“I can?”, said the first acorn. “Please tell me how.”

“You must do oak tree exercises every morning and every night” replied the other. “If you practice enough, you will become a very great oak tree.”

The acorn began that very night. He exercised with all his might. Every day when he woke up and was still an acorn he said to himself “I will work even harder today. Then surely, tomorrow I will be an oak tree.

But he never was.

One day the acorn was in the middle of his exercises when a squirrel came by. “What are you doing?” asked the squirrel. “I am doing my exercises, so I may grow into a great oak tree,” replied the acorn. “But I have been working for a long time and I don't feel any more like an oak tree than before”.

“The material world will not help you come an oak tree,” said the squirrel with a wise expression.

“Then how am I to become an oak tree?,” asked the acorn.

“You must go to the Great Mountain and think oak tree thoughts for seventy-nine days and seventy-nine nights. On the morning of the eightieth day your soul will have absorbed the fullness of oakness and you will find yourself to be an oak tree.”

So the acorn traveled through many dangers to the Great Mountain. He climbed to the summit where the icy winds whistle and emptied his mind of everything but oak trees for seventy-nine days and seventy-nine nights. But when the sun rose on the eightieth day, he was still an acorn.

The acorn climbed down the mountain and made his way back home. He passed through a great city and saw a large building filled with books. “Maybe one of those books will tell me what I need to know to become an oak tree” thought the acorn. So he enrolled himself as a student in the oak tree school and studied with all diligence. The acorn studied at the university for many years. In time he became an expert, and taught classes on oak trees. But he grew old, and his cap became dusty and brittle and he was no closer to being an oak tree. “I will go home to the forest,” said the acorn. “There at least I can look at the oak tree even if I cannot become one.”

The acorn returned to the forest and went to the great oak tree. “You are so beautiful,” he said to the oak tree. “But I have searched my whole life, and now I know that I will never be anything more than an acorn.” And a silver tear fell from the acorn to the ground.

“Why are you crying?” said a voice suddenly. The acorn looked up, and saw the oak tree fairy sitting next to him. “I am crying because all my life I have tried to become an oak tree, and now I know that it is impossible”.

The oak fairy looked thoughtful. “Do you know where you come from acorn?”. “No,” said the acorn peevishly, feeling the fairy was intruding. “You came from the oak tree. You were designed to grow into an oak tree”.

“Well I haven't,” said the acorn.

“Of course not,” replied the fairy. “For that you have to die”.

“I have to die!?” cried the acorn aghast. “What if I don't want to?”

“Then you will never become an oak tree” said the fairy matter of factly.

The acorn thought for a moment. “I want to be an oak tree more than anything,” he said. “Show me how to die”. “Let me bury you in the ground,” said the fairy. So the acorn let the fairy cover him with the velvet darkness of the soil, and fell asleep.

When the acorn awoke, he was confused. No longer was he a small nut, but he was not a great tree either. “What have you done!” he said to the fairy in outrage. The fairy raised an eyebrow. “You are now an oak tree”, he stated. “Did you think that you would be a big tree overnight?”

“O,” said the acorn. “How do I grow?”

“Drink in the sun and rain. And take your acorn cap off. You won't be able to grow wearing it.”

The acorn did as the fairy said. He took off his acorn cap. He drank in the sun and rain.

Days, and weeks, and seasons, and years passed.

And in time…

The former acorn grew into a mighty oak.

His roots twined among the boulders by the river.

His branches housed forest creatures.

And his leafy crest seemed to touch heaven.

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The Father

I saw it all. When you are a servant, people don’t tend to notice you. You’re just a part of the landscape. The Master wasn’t like that. When he looked at you he didn’t see Rachel the housemaid who was responsible for serving him his dinner late, but Rachel who had been holding back tears all day because she’d gotten bad news from home. But his sons weren’t like that. To them a servant was another piece of furniture--so they would talk in front of me like I wasn't even there.

I think maybe the Master saw what was coming when his younger son walked into the room. “Father,” he said, “give me the money that I would inherit when you die—my half of the estate”. The master walked over to the window and stood looking out of it for a long minute. When he turned back, it was as though a heavy weight had fallen on his shoulders. He looked into his son’s face searchingly. “Son,” he said, “are you sure this is what you want?”. “Of course, I’m sure” he replied. “I think I’m old enough to know what I want”. “Very well,” the master replied. “I will divide the property between you and your brother”.

Not long later, I was walking back from an errand in town, when I saw strangers bustling in and out of the house on the younger son’s share of the property. I watched puzzled, and turned when I heard a voice behind me. “Been in the family a hundred years”, said the old man behind me. “Now it’s housing strangers”. “He sold the family land to strangers? But why...?” The old man snorted. “The idiot’s taken all he has ans taken off—to have a good time, he says”. I turned and walked slowly home.

When I arrived home, it was like walking into a house were someone has died. I couldn’t bear to look into the master’s face. It makes me afraid when grown men cry.
That was a long summer. It seemed whenever you went to look for the Master you would find him looking down the road. Once he was so focused on a dusty traveler in the distance, that I spoke to him three times before he heard me. “Yes, Rachel”, he replied finally, and looked back at the traveler. He was close enough to see more clearly now. “Not tall enough” he said softly. 

“Saw your son in Nineveh”, the traveling merchant said casually. The activity and murmur of people enjoying a meal was instantly stilled. “Having a fine old time that one was”. He laughed. “Too drunk to see straight and with woman on each arm”. I couldn’t bear to look at the Master’s face. The grief covering it was too raw.

I met him later in the hall. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Thank you,” he replied. “Me too”. I looked up at him and I guess the questions that it wouldn’t be proper for me to ask were clear on my face. “I had to let him go,” he told me gently. “You control the behavior of oxen and mules, not men. He had the freedom to choose.”
I’ll never forget that hot September afternoon. I heard shouts outside, and hurried to the porch, nearly falling into the cook, Joanne. She wasn’t interested in me though. “The Master’s lost his mind," she cried and I followed her gaze to the figure of the master flying down the road towards a distant ragged stranger. 

I guess you can run pretty fast when you are excited—and I was quite a bit younger than the master. He had just caught up with his son by the time I reached them. The son was skinny as a rail and stunk like a pigsty. His head was bowed in shame. “Father,” he began “I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son...” his voice cracked. But he didn’t get a chance to get any further. The master had thrown his arms around him and was kissing him. “My son, my son,” he cried. I wish I could tell you how he said those words. They were filled with compassion for all his son had gone through, grief at his leaving, and joy at his return at the same time. I guess it’s not so bad when grown men cry when its tears of happiness. Then the master saw me and cried “Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found”.

When I brought the son his robe, he took it gratefully. “Thank you, Rachel” he said. I think that he really saw me as a person for the first time.

It was a lovely party. There was dancing and singing and delicious food and it felt like springtime in the house. One person wasn’t happy though. The older son had watched the festivities with a frown darkening on his face. Finally he turned rigidly on his heel and walked out. I timidly followed him. "Sir..." I began. He swung around to face me. "Don't try to talk to me!" he snapped, his voice simmering with rage. "I've tried so hard all these years! Every day I tried to be the best son possible for my father. But he values that...failure...inside more than all my efforts!" He laughed bitterly. "And now I'm reduced to complaining about my feelings to a mere servant while my father fusses over the wastrel." The older son turned away from me and faced the autumn evening. "I tried so hard..." he said in a softer voice that was suspiciously thick. For a moment I stood helplessly behind him, and then turned to slip back inside.

"Master," I said quietly. He turned to look up at me with a smile that faded as he saw the trouble on my face. "Please come." We walked to the back porch with the older son's silhouette stiff against the evening sky. The master gave a sigh. “My son” he said. “I can’t believe it!” the son responded without facing his father. “Here I am doing everything you ever told me and you never threw me a party. But when this idiot son of yours comes home after wasting your property with prostitutes, you give him the very best!” “My son,” the master replied tenderly, “I don’t love you because you are good enough. I love you because you are mine. You are always with me, and everything I have already belongs to you. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found”. Suddenly I felt like an intruder and turned to go inside. But as I looked back, I saw the older son, shoulders shaking, with his face buried in his father's chest. My heart was light as I rejoined the lighted room.

I know that there are many stories about what happened all those years ago. This is a true account of all that occurred, for I saw it all. And I have never grown tired of thinking over the events of that year. Nor have I ever grown tired of telling it--as I have faithfully told the story to you, the story of two sons and the father that loved them.