Counted Up

The joke goes that there are two seasons in Montana: winter and road construction. Being from Montana, I laugh at this joke’s truth—especially because snow started falling months ago in Montana and also because the main road in my hometown was dug up twice this summer. 

With a little tweaking, I may be able to apply this joke to Moldova, too: change “road construction” to plain “construction,” and you’ll have it just about right.

From almost any vantage point in Chişinău, one can view multiple buildings under construction. I have never taken a car ride during which I did not see unfinished shells of houses or churches. From vineyard homes to apartment complexes to Orthodox basilicas, stone-and-mortar skeletons protrude from the cityscape like vertebrae on backbones.

On several occasions the Raatzes have pointed out uncompleted homes, churches, and businesses and have said, “This was under construction when we moved here ten years ago; who knows how long it’s been ‘in progress.’” Some of these buildings have been worked on little by little, but others have been left alone indefinitely, untouched and unimproved, with apparently no builders’ intentions to finish it. 

This is a house that is being built on the edge of the vineyards in the village of Durlești, where I live.

After hearing short background stories, I look at these buildings with sadness and think, These builders have not counted the cost. 

 This phrase-turned-cliché ("count the cost") has its roots in the book of Luke. 

In Luke 14:28, Jesus says, "But don't begin until you count the cost. For who would begin construction of a building without first calculating the cost to see if there is enough money to finish it?” Rhetorical question. In many translations of Luke’s gospel, this verse is in the middle of a paragraph which extends from verses 25-33. In the NLT and the NIV, biblical scholars have added the heading “The Cost of Being a Disciple” to this paragraph, and nearly all translations commonly used in the U.S. today which title this section include the words cost and disciple.   

In this passage, Jesus is testing the discipleship of the “large crowds that were going along with Him” (Luke 14:25). Disciples are not mere believers. They’re not just good-intentioned people. They are people with follow-through. Jesus’ words here speak not only to the moment in which the decision to follow Him is made; His words here are more about the following that ensues once that decision has been made. And disciples aren’t reckless, headlong launchers; they are careful counters.

The Greek verb rendered in English as counts in Luke 14:28 is transliterated pséphizó and means to reckon, to compute, or to calculate (Strong’s Concordance). The act of counting as illustrated in verse 28 is not only a mathematical tallying. This counting is also qualitative in nature. This act of counting is a cognitive grasping of what Jesus requires of us as disciples. Jesus asks us to recognize the ramifications of discipleship; this isn’t just a day job. This is a life-job.

By talking about builders and their projects, Jesus is using a concrete example to explain his previous statement,  the truth recorded in verse 27: “And anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:27). He says this before carrying His own cross, but He had already counted the cost of being obedient to His God-given mission and was ready to follow through with it. 

During my time in Chişinău I have not yet met even one Moldovan builder, but I believe I am venturing validly when I say that it is possible that some of the builders here who have abandoned their projects simply did not count the cost before they started. Granted, there are far more completed buildings here than unfinished ones, but I have seen many more unfinished buildings here than in America. And this is due in part to the fact that in America, most buildings are built on demand. A church is bursting at the seams with new worshipers. A growing family keeps adding new members. A business is expanding its production line. And for reasons like these, construction ensues while the need is urgent. So in America, if a building takes a Moldovan length of time to be built, people question whether that building is necessary. If it were, it would have gone up right away. Or at least it would have gone up as quickly as it could have within the constraints imposed by size and money. No multi-year gaps. Unless the builders want to become a laughing stock. Laughter in such cases echoes those whom Jesus mentions in Luke 14:29: “[f]or if he lays the foundation and is not able to finish it, everyone who sees it will ridicule him[.]”

However, in the past twelve weeks I have gained glimpses into the Moldovan mindset and Eastern European culture, and although I have only begun my journey of understanding the way of thinking on this side of the globe, I will offer a view of construction through cultural lenses. And this possibility presents a brighter view of the situation in Moldova. 

You see, I’ve asked people why so many building projects take so long. And the most frequent answer I receive is that people here build until they run out of money for supplies; then they leave their project to work for a while, even for years, to get enough money for materials, and they resume building. This initially didn’t make sense to me until I remembered that this is a third-world country and is the poorest country in Eastern Europe.

Due to lack of funding, this is the accepted—or perhaps only— cycle which people have to endure to complete their building project. They have counted the cost, and they are willing to take the time and work the years and halt and do whatever it takes for how long it takes to complete their project. 

So maybe the cost for them is alternating years of construction and years of working to garner enough money to purchase more construction materials. And maybe the cost also includes being misunderstood by foreigners from countries whose economies cause construction to be viewed in an entirely different way.  

When I first saw the unfinished buildings, I thought that people simply didn’t care enough to complete what they started. What I saw with outsider-eyes as neglect, perhaps those on the inside see as dedication. Some builders are dedicated enough to stay with a project even though it will take an exorbitant amount of time. 

To what is God calling you? It may be costly. It may cause you to be misunderstood. But is it worth it? 

Rend Collective Experiment, a group of worship artists from Northern Ireland, wrote a song about counting the cost of following Jesus. Instead of pasting all the verses here, I’ve selected the most pertinent: 

I’m saying "Yes" to You / And "No" to my desires / I’ll leave myself behind / And follow You

[…]

I’ll chase You through the pain / I’ll carry my cross / ‘Cause real love is / Not afraid to bleed

And the chorus:

I’ve counted up the cost / Oh, I’ve counted up the cost / Yes, I’ve counted up the cost / And You are worth it.

Once we “count up” the cost—to borrow UK phraseology—will we see the end from the beginning? In an ultimate sense, yes. The end-all goal of following Jesus in this life is living with Him in the next. But in a specific sense, no. Unless God gives us as individuals specific revelation, we cannot know in detail the ramifications of our choices to follow His call; that is not our burden to bear. The point is not to take everything into account once God has spoken and see if it is worth it; the point is, all things considered, to realize that God is worth it. Rend Collective got it right: I’ve counted up the cost / And You’re worth everything. 

How do we know that we have counted the cost correctly, or even that we have counted the cost at all? First, we can look for biblical patterns. God calls all people to relationship with Him. As daughters and sons of God, we have some universal, shared callings: we are called to follow Jesus. But in what ways we are called to do that—that is where the callings vary. Some are called to make very visible, inspirational sacrifices. Others are not. All callings are equally valid not because of their measurability but because of the One who calls. To use the metaphor of American-builders to Moldovan-builders: Same call (to build). Different means (of fulfilling the call). Equally valid methods (situationally speaking).

What is the cost you’re called to count? What if counting the cost looks different for you than it does for others—much different? Remember that your primary responsibility is to the One who calls, not to those who watch your calling play out. No matter what it looks like to others, be faithful to Christ’s call on your life, for “[He] is your life” (Colossians 3:4), and “[f]aithful is He who calls you, and He also will bring it to pass” (1 Thessalonians 5:24). But this is jumping ahead. Just a little. Because none of this is possible without counting the cost—the cost of His call.

God, help us to finish what we start. Better yet, God, help us to count the cost before we start. And if we don’t count, then don’t let us start it. Because without counting the cost, we cannot finish.

Have you counted?

Having done my math,

Renée

Wet Blood

I knew I shouldn’t have gone downtown by myself that evening. A friend asked me to meet up, and I came to the area at the agreed-upon time. Because it was late evening, people began leaving the building I was in, and pretty soon I was the only one left, waiting for my friend. The red light from the setting sun poured into the windows—a livid red. I felt pinned in and started gasping for air. The room acquired an unnerving silence, and the crimson filter through which I saw the inside of the building somehow left the outside untouched and coated with yellow, waxy light. Through the windows I soon saw the outline of a person running up to the building, but the figure was too tall to be my friend. The approaching man ran full speed toward the part of the window behind which I stood and tried to break through it to get to me, but he couldn’t. I screamed and ran toward the door of the building, but so did he. Uninjured, he had me cornered: I moved left, and he moved right; I moved right, and he moved left. His motions seemed springy, as if he were ready to pounce; his unearthly, enlivened steps sickened me. And suddenly I was somehow thrust up against the window, face to face with him. Scraping at the window, his face grinning, he cackled at my terror. I began shouting prayers which I know he could hear because the glass was thin. He suddenly shot back from the window and I took a breath; but he raced back again. This went on several times; because he had me cornered, I knew he had to be the one to leave, not me. I audibly thanked Jesus that His blood covered me, and once again I found myself smack-up against the window. At that point I didn’t understand what I was praying, but the figure heard and translated in mimicry: “Lord, have mercy! Lord, have mercy!” I kept praying, and he kept up the cycle of fleeing, then returning. 

And then I woke up.

I woke up to someone yelling, actually. I awoke to weakened screams of “Jesus!” and after a few cries of His name, I realized that I was the one hoarsely shouting. 

My friends and family know that when I wake up, my voice is always high-pitched and raspy because I am a mouth-breather, and when they try to talk to me in the morning, my squeaky larynx consistently affords them loads of laughter. That said, I’ve never woken up yelling before. But I couldn’t stop. I continued to shout His name (well, if croaking is a synonym for shouting) for several minutes, and I pleaded the blood of Jesus over my life, over the Raatzes, over my family, over anyone I could think of.  

Soon I lay silent and still in the thin gray light of the morning. I looked at the clock: it was only 5 a.m. I fell back asleep for another hour.

Just a tired daze?

Maybe.

When I awoke to my alarm later that morning, I pondered my nightmare. And I pondered the slew of nightmares I’ve been having over the past few weeks. 

I’m aware that at this point you may be wondering if I’m making a little too much out of a few bad dreams. Have real creeper men come clawing at my windows? No.

Then am I blowing some intangible trivialities out of proportion?

Maybe. But it is ever inappropriate to talk about the hell-shattering power of our God?

The nightmares have caused me to ask myself: What do I fear? And why do I fear it?

And what do you fear? 

I’ve been pondering what makes me scared—really scared. Moments of sheer terror have made their way into not only my dreams but also my real life. In a strain of soul-bearing honesty, allow me to list some things from real life that make/have made me sheerly terrified:

-When I hike off-trail through mountains that are teeming with wildlife

-When I take a wrong turn on an unfamiliar road in the middle of the night

-When I get lost by myself in a foreign country

-When I hear of a family member or close friend having a medical emergency

-When I think of living on earth without the presence and activity of God

-When I ponder of the reality the eternity of hell for people who do not know Jesus

I could probably generate more items to expand that list, but even in those six I notice the power that what-ifs hold over my life. What if an animal attacks? What if I encounter people of ill intent? What if people I love are in danger?

Let’s take this thought a step further: what would be the worst end-result of these? Death. All these possibilities are scary to me because they can lead to death. So do I fear death?

As a Christian, I do not. From childhood, I have been taught that Jesus defeated death and that death holds no power over those who follow Jesus. Matthew 10:28 instructs us to “not fear those who kill the body but are unable to kill the soul; [instead, we should] fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.” So do I fear death? No.

If I do not fear death, then why do these secondary fears sometimes gridlock me? Why does fear sometimes hold such sway over me?

Or over you?

When I am besieged by fear, I am overtaken by an emotion that shows only half the picture. I am afraid of what will happen in the immediate context but not the full reality. I fear when I possess a limited view of reality. And fear limits my view.

So, what do you fear? Death, or something bigger than death?

And what would that be?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Jesus’ death is an eternal fact, a length to which the Trinity went because there was no other way for humankind to come before the presence of God. His holiness and our wretchedness intersected in a profane-turned-holy union at the cross. Instead of being condemned, choiceless, to death, we now have the vital opportunity to choose eternal life. His holiness demanded it, but His love—His undeserved love—brought it to pass. Singer/Songwriter John Mark MacMillan, in the chorus of his song “Dress Us Up,” explains the victory of the cross: The love of God is stronger / The love of God is stronger / The love of God is stronger than the power of death.  

His love has more might than death ever will. And He is love, and “all who live in love live in God, and God in them” (1 John 4:16). If this stronger-than-death love lives in us, and we in it, then what can we legitimately fear?

Romans 8:2 explains that the “power of the life-giving Spirit has freed [us] from the power of sin that leads to death.” This power, the law of the Spirit of life, has canceled sin’s penalty for followers of Christ. Because of Jesus’ death we are forgiven—freed from death’s power—and because of His resurrection, death is defeated.

Byzantine liturgy, crafted and quoted by Eastern Christians in the late 300s AD, says that “He destroyed death by death.” This isn’t poetic redundancy; it’s precise truth.

References to Jesus’ death are often synonymous with references to “the blood of Jesus.” Blood simultaneously symbolizes and is life. To delve into the significance of blood as life and the development of blood as symbol would take up not only multiple blog entries but entire books, and I’ll not attempt to bite off more than I can chew. That said, from religion to medicine, from ancient times to present, blood represents life. And Jesus’ blood at once represents His death and our resulting new life.

The phrase “to plead the blood of Jesus” is not found in the Bible, but this archaic expression is quite common in Protestant circles. Simply put, it means that in faith, we as Christians are applying God’s life-giving power to our lives. We are proclaiming that Jesus’ blood covers us for all situations we face, especially trying ones. This phrase is most commonly used in conjunction with times of distress, fear, or oppression. 

In my own times of what I would call severe distress, I have pleaded the blood of Jesus over my life. In my nightmares, too, I plead it. And there’s been a common theme in my recent nightmares: In all of them, I am threatened but not harmed. I am terrorized, but my fears are never fully realized. Those who come after my life never succeed in taking it. Another common theme in my recent nightmares is that in each one, I remain safe when I pray aloud and plead the blood of Jesus over my life.

But what does “pleading His blood” really mean? And what does it do?

“To plead the blood of Jesus” is not to ask God to go do something additional. We’re not asking Jesus to die again or patch up some work He’s left undone. His blood is applied to our lives, cleansing us from sin, at the moment of our salvation. 

When we plead it, then, we are re-affirming His completed work rather than attempting to add to it, and we are reminding ourselves that His death liberates us from the power of our own.  The writer of Hebrews explains that “without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness” (9:22b). Shed blood forgives sins. Jesus’ blood forgave, forgives, and will forgive our sins. Pleading the blood is re-affirming that Jesus’ salvific work has been applied to our lives. Therefore, we are not under the power of sin—because if we were, we would still be subject to death. 

The second verse of MacMillan’s “Dress Us Up” is both a prayer and a proclamation about the blood of Jesus:

Dress us up in the blood of the Son / Who opened up His veins so that we could overcome / Hell and the grave and the power of His love / After three dark days  He showed us how it’s done / And He still does.

Yesterday while running, I pondered the power of the blood of Jesus. As I did, a new thought about His blood struck me in such a way that I shouted out in a strain of gratefulness, “Thank You that Your blood never dries!”

His blood is still wet. It never dries. I’m not talking about 2000+ year-old blood, dried and caked. I’m talking about a fresh-gushing stream. It is applied to us in our weakness, our fear, our trembling. We will always come up short, always end up needing it. But His blood will never run out.

The blood provides us life in the Son’s kingdom and forgiveness of sins (Colossians 1:14). It grants us access to the Father and eternal redemption (Hebrews 9:12). It offers us freedom from the empty way of life our human nature provides us (1 Peter 1:18). It gives victory over oppression from the devil (Revelation 12:11). 

What a fear-severing force is the lifeblood of Jesus! I’m not talking about a brazen I’m-invincible mindset, nor am I advocating throwing caution to the wind. I’m not lauding a fearlessness that is only glorified foolishness. I am talking about a view of reality in which our minds are not surrendered to terror even in the face of legitimately terrifying circumstances because our Lord, through the shedding of his blood, has the final say on the essence of who we are. 

What do you fear? What plagues you? What have you been tolerating that you’d like freedom from? Recognize who you are in Him. Recognize what His blood does for you. Recognize that this blood bath is one you want to soak in.

And when you do, your trepidation can give way to security.   

Because when you are covered by the blood of Jesus, nothing—in the truest sense—can harm you.

Dripping wet,

Renée

Deluged by Light

I remember it well. The heart was red, semi-transparent, and pieced together with small, circular pieces of flexible plastic:

My last nightlight.

Growing up, I never thought of nightlights as decorations; they were necessities. My collection of nightlights ran the gamut from kiddie to classy, fitting every occasion and outlet. As a young child, I hated the dark and could not sleep in it. When staying overnight at hotels, I would leave the bathroom light on and the bathroom door open so I could garner some shuteye. 

As I grew, I outgrew my need for light at night. In fact, I outgrew it to the point that in college, I could fall asleep in a fully-lit room. But that may not be the most commendable habit.

What’s your sensitivity to light?

I have spent nearly four weeks in Moldova, and I have been trying to keep up my running. The time of day most accessible to me for running is the morning. Just before the sun comes out, I lace up my shoes, leash up Britta (the large, beautifully-furred German Shepherd), and head for a nearby grape vineyard, one of many in the area. Moldova is well-known for its grapes and its wine, and the vineyards span many miles with interlacing dirt paths.

Oh! –Important sidenote: Chișinău is filled with dogs. Whether pets or strays, dogs are everywhere. The first time I ran, I stopped along the hillside and turned toward the city just to listen to the dim roar of barking in the valley below. The second week I was here, I decided to take my camera with me on one of my morning runs to capture a few seconds of cacophony. If you get motion-sick, I won’t ask you to watch this video—just listen rather than watch because I used one hand to hold the camera and the other to repeatedly attempt to pull Britta towards myself as she barked at the neighboring dogs. 

This is average noise-level for the morning walk from house to vineyard. Some mornings, the dogs really get going.

 Consistently, only a few minutes into our run, the sun rises and spills light over the vineyards and into the city. I am often blinded by its brightness, squinting, ducking my head, and shielding my eyes as I try to navigate around ruts and rocks. 

I’ve been thinking about light lately. Not only because I run at a time of day when the sun threatens to sear my retinas but also because I’ve been reading about it in the Bible, praying about it, and feeling that God is stirring me to pray for light to shine on this city and this country—in a spiritual sense. 

I feel like I am surrounded by light-in-darkness. I live in a Christ-centered, love-filled home—across the street from neighbors who have audible, violent, drunken bouts. I visit the home where women’s lives have been transformed, the haven in which they have found restoration—located in the middle of a city in which trafficking is still thriving. I ride the marshrutka (routed taxi van/bus) inches away from people whose faces are darkened with exhaustion and spiritual hunger–and all I can do (due to my currently meager Russian vocabulary), is silently stare into their faces and ask the Holy Spirit to speak to them.   

Are we sensitive to the light? Do we perceive its power?

One morning last week as I ran, I began to pray for the city. I sensed God leading me to pray that His light will be poured out on the city. I prayed that the city will be overwhelmed with light. Flooded by it. Deluged by light.

Scripture makes frequent mention of light, using the word light or a form thereof over 250 times (in the NASB). Light can literally mean light itself; for example, when Psalm 139:12 says, “Darkness and light are alike to you,” the word for light indicates a literal brightness of sky. 

Sometimes light is intended in a nonliteral sense. For example, Psalm 119:30 says that “the unfolding of Your words gives light.” Light here is used in a causative sense, meaning that it illumines both literally and metaphorically, that it cannot only brighten but enlighten.

 Light can symbolize different things. Elsewhere in Psalms, light symbolizes life (36:9); in Isaiah it symbolizes glory (60:1-3); in Matthew, holiness (5:14); in 2 Corinthians, truth (4:6); and in James, love (1:17). The Trinity and the Christian with the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit are also characterized by light. 

So when we pray for light in a Scriptural sense, our prayers are not limited to requests for literal brightness. Light instead entails many of the pure and reviving attributes of God Himself. When we ask for light, we ask God to bestow a portion of His essence.

As I ran and prayed for light to pour on the people of Chișinău, I asked God to give me His heart for the people and to help me understand their plight. At that point, something strange happened. 

Instead of praying in third person (God, help them to…), I began praying in first person:

God, give us hope. God, restore us. God, awaken us. God, give us light.

And as I prayed for light, a faint, recurring melody began to play in my head as three words kept coming up in various forms and different sentences: Hope. Restore. Awake.

God, give us your light. Your light brings hope. Your light restores. Your light awakens.

After my run, I continued to pray for the people of the city to be bathed in the light of Christ. Later that morning, I read chapters 8 and 9 of Isaiah, and verse 2 of chapter 9 caught my attention: “The people who walk in darkness will see a great light; those who live in a dark land, the light will shine on them.” 

This prophecy has been fulfilled through Jesus; He is the light that people see. Do the people of this city know? Do they know the name of Jesus apart from orthodoxy, apart from tradition, and based on His personal history with them? What is their sensitivity to His light?

Reading Isaiah 9:2 that day was the final straw in a series of light-related occurrences that begged expression, so I began writing. What came out was a prayer looking a little like the beginnings of a free-verse poem in which I tried to reconcile the prayer God was praying through me for the people that morning with the content of Isaiah 8 and 9. Although it’s not finished or polished, I’ll share part of it below:

Our feet-palms slap the ruts of dirt, the interlocking sun-cracked roads leading to miles of here.

Our hands grasp the vineyard pails, plucking grape and garbage, wiping sweat-streaked strands of distressed tresses.

Our eyes glint with the blaze of the morning, squinting into the immediate distance.

We are moving to nowhere, and we are shattering.

We gird ourselves; yet we shatter.

We secured ourselves; but we are shattered.

We are broken. We devise plans, but they are thwarted.

We are hard-pressed and famished. We are hungry and we curse.

We have no testimony. We consult the dead on behalf of the living.

We want You to be all we fear. We want You to be all we dread.

We bruise and smolder.

Gardener to our bruised reeds,

Bellows to our smoldering wick,

You un-bend and fuel.

Bring on us Your strong and lasting help.

Hope—hope us, life us, stand us.

Hope us in, life us through, stand us up.

Awaken us.

We walk in darkness.

We run in darkness.

But there will be no more gloom. There will only be One to fear.

We will see a great light.

Join me in praying for the light of life to blaze in Moldova. 

Illumined,

Renée