I BELIEVE
This past week, I needed to ask myself if I indeed believe in the name of Jesus. Yes, I believe in Jesus as my savior and redeemer, but do I really believe in his name? I feel that there is a distinction between the two. It lies in believing that there is power in that name. The first recorded miracle in the book of Acts happened at the temple gate called ‘Beautiful’, Peter and Silas met a man born blind begging for alms and their response was ;
“Then Peter said, “Silver or gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.” Acts 3:6 (underline mine)
It was a
single command “walk”. Two things that gave Peter such boldness was firstly, his
belief that at the mention of the name of Jesus, there will be a change in that
man’s circumstances and indeed there was. There is great power in the name of
Jesus and we have been given the authority to ask for anything in that name,
but the onus lies on us to believe and call on that name when we need to do so.
The name of Jesus is greater and higher than all names.
“Therefore God exalted Him to the
highest place, and gave Him the name above all names, that at the name of Jesus every
knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue
confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” Philippians
2:9-11.
Another thing that gave Peter boldness was the power of the Holy Spirit. Apostle Paul
knew the importance of having that power and he prayed for the church at Ephesus
“I
pray that out of the riches of His glory, He may strengthen you with power
through His Spirit in your inner being,” Ephesians 3:16. One of the scriptures we often quote is verse 20, I found myself meditating on
that verse recently and my eyes were opened to the fact that God is able to do exceedingly
abundantly above all I ask, think or imagine according to the power that works
in me. So I asked myself ‘what type of power is at work within me?’ Am I
grieving the Holy Spirit? There is a need to reconnect to the power of the Holy
Spirit. Enjoy the song below and call the name of Jesus, and be encouraged by the testimony below.
by Bianca Juarez Olthoff
August 30, 2016
I am the reflection of my people, those émigrés who believed in the intrinsic right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. My mother’s family moved to the United States from Puerto Rico. An immigrant herself, my mother fell in love with an immigrant from Mexico, and they committed to creating a life in the concrete jungles of East Los Angeles.
My father supported our family by working multiple jobs. Whether it was laying tile, cutting down trees, or working as a cook in the cafeteria of Azusa Pacific University, he did everything he could to provide. But feeding a family of six on a single income—especially one as meager as my father’s—was hard, and we often needed a straight-up miracle to make ends meet, a Jesus-feeding-the-masses-with-five-loaves-and-two-fishes type of miracle.
The call to ministry runs deep in our family, and when my father planted a church in Los Angeles, the whole family pitched in. His dream became our dream, and we committed to loving people in our community. Most people avoid the ghetto, but my parents desired to create an oasis of hope amid the streets of East L.A. It was difficult and burdensome, but my parents served the church well. I watched them juggle the responsibilities of leading people, providing for their family, teaching God’s Word, and raising their children (and all the other crazy kids who attended the church).
In those early years of church planting, God provided in amazing ways. We didn’t own a house, we didn’t even have a car, but we were in the presence and fullness of God, and knew that what we had was far greater than three gourmet meals a day in a mansion with a Bentley in the garage but without God.
Amidst the tension of want and need, we knew God would provide. Life was beautiful, but difficult; beautifully difficult, I suppose you could say. I was often mocked and marginalized for my lack of stylish clothes. (We were po’. So poor we couldn’t afford a second O, much less the R. Yes, just po’.) I remember being in Sunday school seeing all the cool kids were decked out in their L.A. Gear shoes and trendy clothes. (Let’s pause for a moment of solidarity over how cool L.A. Gear was and mourn the fact that triple-laced shoes no longer exist.) I dreamed of being popular and cool enough to sit with the L.A. Gear crew. I begged my mom for a pair of the stylish sneakers, but I was told time and time again we could not afford them.
I kept hope alive for those shoes, and one magical day at Pic ‘n Save, a discount clearance store, I spotted a pair of white, studded, triple-laced Michael Jackson L.A. Gear shoes on an otherwise empty shelf. These shoes were the living dream of what I imagined cool people wore, and they were my size. It was as though the celestials opened and Michael the archangel moonwalked down from heaven to place the coolest shoes on the clearance rack just for me.
I ran to my mother and told her I would never ask for anything else as long as I lived if she bought the shoes for me. Holding my breath, I silently prayed she would say the shoes were within our budget. That day, I walked out of Pic ‘n Save carrying a white plastic bag and feeling as rich as Michael Jackson himself.
On Sunday, I wore my brand-new shoes and walked over to where all the cool kids hung out. I thought they would accept me, that I’d have the opportunity to hang out with them because I finally had what they had. But the seats weren’t open for me, and the girls said I couldn’t sit with them. I was devastated. I walked in my white, studded, triple-laced Michael Jackson L.A. Gear shoes to an empty table and sat alone, confronted by my greatest fear: I would never have what I needed to be who I wanted to be.
We knew poverty; we knew the sting of not being socially accepted. But God always seemed to provide. One particular day, when the fridge was empty and the pantry bare, my mother pulled out a large piece of butcher paper and taped it to the kitchen door. On the top of the page, she wrote PRAYER LIST in thick, bold letters. With earnest humility and brazen faith, she told us that we serve a God who hears our prayers and answers them in His perfect time.
She gave us each a marker and told us to list what we needed.
That very afternoon, one of our neighbors stumbled onto our front porch with a heavy box of bread, government-issued cheese, yogurt, and butter. My mother graciously received the box of food and thanked our neighbor profusely. As she shut the front door, the heavy box slipped from her weary arms. She pulled us around the dining room table. Pointing to the prayer list, she said, “The Lord has heard our prayers! See? He’s already answered us.” Her belief unwavering, she instilled in us the kind of faith gained through experience, won through battle, and revealed through perseverance.
We watched as our mother slathered butter on slices of bread and placed them in a sizzling hot pan. She cut pieces of cheese from the five-pound block, and placed them atop the grilled bread. The butter bubbled and filled the kitchen with an aroma so delicious, I’m almost positive Jesus Himself would have salivated over her culinary masterpiece. (Note: If you’ve never had a grilled cheese sandwich made with government-issued cheese, you’ve never had a grilled cheese sandwich!) She took the sandwiches from the pan and put them on our plates. The cheese oozed from the corners of the bread’s crispy edges as my mother cut our sandwiches into triangles. Then, holding hands, we sat around our dining room table, across from our prayer list, and thanked God for hearing us in our time of need.
The prayer list (which was eventually answered in full), the faith of my mother, the grilled cheese sandwiches, the kind neighbor, the marked moment of gratitude around our table, it all came together perfectly like the butter, bread, and cheese to form something delicious. Psalm 34:8 says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” And let me tell you, His provision tasted even better than those buttery sandwiches!
Whether through donated food boxes or hand-me- down clothes from people at church, or anonymous cashier’s checks mailed to our house, our needs were always met by a God who heard our cries. I watched as God provided for us in undoubtedly supernatural ways. But still, my young mind missed the message in these miracles: God provides what we need when we need it.
_____________
Taken from Play With Fire: Discovering Fierce Faith, Unquenchable Passion, And A Life-Giving God by Bianca Juarez Olthoff. Learn more at www.PlayWithFireBook.com.
( The above excerpt was published as free content by Zondervan books.)
My Mom's Kind of Faith
by Bianca Juarez OlthoffAugust 30, 2016
I am the reflection of my people, those émigrés who believed in the intrinsic right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. My mother’s family moved to the United States from Puerto Rico. An immigrant herself, my mother fell in love with an immigrant from Mexico, and they committed to creating a life in the concrete jungles of East Los Angeles.
My father supported our family by working multiple jobs. Whether it was laying tile, cutting down trees, or working as a cook in the cafeteria of Azusa Pacific University, he did everything he could to provide. But feeding a family of six on a single income—especially one as meager as my father’s—was hard, and we often needed a straight-up miracle to make ends meet, a Jesus-feeding-the-masses-with-five-loaves-and-two-fishes type of miracle.
The call to ministry runs deep in our family, and when my father planted a church in Los Angeles, the whole family pitched in. His dream became our dream, and we committed to loving people in our community. Most people avoid the ghetto, but my parents desired to create an oasis of hope amid the streets of East L.A. It was difficult and burdensome, but my parents served the church well. I watched them juggle the responsibilities of leading people, providing for their family, teaching God’s Word, and raising their children (and all the other crazy kids who attended the church).
In those early years of church planting, God provided in amazing ways. We didn’t own a house, we didn’t even have a car, but we were in the presence and fullness of God, and knew that what we had was far greater than three gourmet meals a day in a mansion with a Bentley in the garage but without God.
Amidst the tension of want and need, we knew God would provide. Life was beautiful, but difficult; beautifully difficult, I suppose you could say. I was often mocked and marginalized for my lack of stylish clothes. (We were po’. So poor we couldn’t afford a second O, much less the R. Yes, just po’.) I remember being in Sunday school seeing all the cool kids were decked out in their L.A. Gear shoes and trendy clothes. (Let’s pause for a moment of solidarity over how cool L.A. Gear was and mourn the fact that triple-laced shoes no longer exist.) I dreamed of being popular and cool enough to sit with the L.A. Gear crew. I begged my mom for a pair of the stylish sneakers, but I was told time and time again we could not afford them.
I kept hope alive for those shoes, and one magical day at Pic ‘n Save, a discount clearance store, I spotted a pair of white, studded, triple-laced Michael Jackson L.A. Gear shoes on an otherwise empty shelf. These shoes were the living dream of what I imagined cool people wore, and they were my size. It was as though the celestials opened and Michael the archangel moonwalked down from heaven to place the coolest shoes on the clearance rack just for me.
I ran to my mother and told her I would never ask for anything else as long as I lived if she bought the shoes for me. Holding my breath, I silently prayed she would say the shoes were within our budget. That day, I walked out of Pic ‘n Save carrying a white plastic bag and feeling as rich as Michael Jackson himself.
On Sunday, I wore my brand-new shoes and walked over to where all the cool kids hung out. I thought they would accept me, that I’d have the opportunity to hang out with them because I finally had what they had. But the seats weren’t open for me, and the girls said I couldn’t sit with them. I was devastated. I walked in my white, studded, triple-laced Michael Jackson L.A. Gear shoes to an empty table and sat alone, confronted by my greatest fear: I would never have what I needed to be who I wanted to be.
We knew poverty; we knew the sting of not being socially accepted. But God always seemed to provide. One particular day, when the fridge was empty and the pantry bare, my mother pulled out a large piece of butcher paper and taped it to the kitchen door. On the top of the page, she wrote PRAYER LIST in thick, bold letters. With earnest humility and brazen faith, she told us that we serve a God who hears our prayers and answers them in His perfect time.
She gave us each a marker and told us to list what we needed.
- Grandpa’s salvation
- A car
- Food
- A building for church
- Outfits for Easter (This was mine. Obviously.)
That very afternoon, one of our neighbors stumbled onto our front porch with a heavy box of bread, government-issued cheese, yogurt, and butter. My mother graciously received the box of food and thanked our neighbor profusely. As she shut the front door, the heavy box slipped from her weary arms. She pulled us around the dining room table. Pointing to the prayer list, she said, “The Lord has heard our prayers! See? He’s already answered us.” Her belief unwavering, she instilled in us the kind of faith gained through experience, won through battle, and revealed through perseverance.
We watched as our mother slathered butter on slices of bread and placed them in a sizzling hot pan. She cut pieces of cheese from the five-pound block, and placed them atop the grilled bread. The butter bubbled and filled the kitchen with an aroma so delicious, I’m almost positive Jesus Himself would have salivated over her culinary masterpiece. (Note: If you’ve never had a grilled cheese sandwich made with government-issued cheese, you’ve never had a grilled cheese sandwich!) She took the sandwiches from the pan and put them on our plates. The cheese oozed from the corners of the bread’s crispy edges as my mother cut our sandwiches into triangles. Then, holding hands, we sat around our dining room table, across from our prayer list, and thanked God for hearing us in our time of need.
The prayer list (which was eventually answered in full), the faith of my mother, the grilled cheese sandwiches, the kind neighbor, the marked moment of gratitude around our table, it all came together perfectly like the butter, bread, and cheese to form something delicious. Psalm 34:8 says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good.” And let me tell you, His provision tasted even better than those buttery sandwiches!
Whether through donated food boxes or hand-me- down clothes from people at church, or anonymous cashier’s checks mailed to our house, our needs were always met by a God who heard our cries. I watched as God provided for us in undoubtedly supernatural ways. But still, my young mind missed the message in these miracles: God provides what we need when we need it.
_____________
Taken from Play With Fire: Discovering Fierce Faith, Unquenchable Passion, And A Life-Giving God by Bianca Juarez Olthoff. Learn more at www.PlayWithFireBook.com.
( The above excerpt was published as free content by Zondervan books.)
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