No More Featherdusters

"Evil never surrenders its grasp without a tremendous fight. We never arrive at any spiritual inheritance through the enjoyment of a picnic, but always through the fierce conflicts of the battlefield. And it is the same in the deep recesses of the soul. Every human capacity that wins its spiritual freedom does so at the cost of blood. Satan is not put to flight by our courteous request. He completely blocks our way, and our progress must be recorded in blood and tears. We need to remember this, or else we will be held responsible for the arrogance of misinterpretation. When we are born again, it is not into a soft and protected nursery but into the open countryside, where we actually draw out strength from the distress of the storm." (John Henry Jowett)

I read this at Youth the other night and then challenged the kids to enter the battle and pray hard for their friends, their schools and their country. I believe I also used the word "crap" when telling them how not to pray their usual halfhearted prayers. You know, the ones that are whispered, "Dear Lord, thank you for this day. Please save my school. Amen." Instead, together, we shouted out the words, "OH GOD, SAVE OUR COUNTRY! BRING REVIVAL, RESTORE PURITY! WE NEED YOU!" I even lost my voice a little bit.

It's now Friday morning, and I can't even think of a moment since Tuesday night where I've prayed, let alone cried out for the lost generation. It feels like there are two worlds inside me, and the "protected nursery" is the one in which I most often reside. Over the years, I have had to fight hard to learn how to pray in the countryside. The place where I recognize I'm in a battle, and I need to have blood on my sword. I remember those days. I felt strong. I believed nothing was impossible for the Lord. I recognized the dying world and I signed up to help save them. I learned how to pray the prayers that made evil surrender.

My sword is rusty right now,
sitting dusty on the shelf.
Barely touched.
I feel like I'm wielding a feather duster.
I can't remember the last time tears
Fell from my eyes for the lost.
When did I last raise my voice
Above a whisper?

I miss those days. I know, many would say the choices I make every day are a form of warfare. I believe that. But, I know, down in the warrior part of my heart, there is also a place for a more "violent" lifestyle. Oh, Lord, restore that part in my heart. I signed up for war, and I want to be put back into active duty.

Peter did not feel very brave; indeed, he felt he was going to be sick. But that made no difference to what he had to do. He rushed straight up to the monster and aimed a slash of his sword at its side...he had just time to duck down and plunge his sword, as hard as he could, between the brute's forelegs into its heart. Then came a horrible, confused moment like something in a nightmare...A moment later he found that the monster lay dead and he had drawn his sword out of it was and was straightening his back and rubbing the sweat off his face and out of his eyes. He felt tired all over...

Peter, still out of breath, turned and saw Aslan close at hand. "You have forgotten to clean your sword," said Aslan.

It was true. Peter blushed when he looked at the bright blade and saw it all smeared with the Wolf's hair and blood. He stooped down and wiped it quite clean on the grass, and then wiped it quite dry on his coat.

"Hand it to me and kneel, Son of Adam," said Aslan. And when Peter had done so he struck him with the flat of the blade and said, "Rise up, Sir Peter Wolf's-Bane..." (Lion, Witch and Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis)