In The House of God, Forever

hi. are you from his life city church? who is your lifegroup leader? :)

Wed, 02 May 2012 15:30:01 +0800

Ah. Sorry for the late reply. Yep. His Life City Church is my home church and Rai Tuazon is my lifegroup leader.

Opportunity to be Rich.

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 22:41:03 +0800

Faith without work is dead. God has a great plan for us. What we need to do is to obey Him and grab and seize heavenly opportunities. His Life City Church, a Christian church from Pampanga, Philippines, had launched its “iShare a Square” Lot Project last March 18, 2012.

iShare a Square was birthed from the passion to advance God’s Kingdom and the vision of transforming the lives of the multitudes for His glory.

As ONE church, we move together with God’s mighty work and claim the fulfillment of His promise of EXCEPTIONAL HARVEST. We are enlarging our capacity to receive and believing God for more of His amazing grace and overflowing provision.

Adjacent to our existing structure is a 2,800 square meter lot that will pave the way for facilities and amenities that will serve the ever-increasing needs of our growing church.

iShareaSquare heartens each believer to be a part of this EXCEPTIONAL OPPORTUNITY to own a part of the vision, that is, seeing how ONE SQUARE, YOUR SQUARE, completes the big picture in the expansion of God’s Kingdom.
If you want to be part of the advancement of God’s Kingdom, just click the link below:

http://hislifecitychurch.com/ishareasquare.php

The Room by Joshua Harris

Sun, 18 Mar 2012 09:47:12 +0800

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read “Girls I Have Liked.” I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn’t match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named “Friends” was next to one marked “Friends I Have Betrayed.”

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. “Books I Have Read,” “Lies I Have Told,” “Comfort I Have Given,” “Jokes I Have Laughed At.” Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: “Things I’ve Yelled at My Brothers.” Others I couldn’t laugh at: “Things I Have Done in My Anger,” “Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents.” I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked “Songs I Have Listened To,” I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn’t found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked “Lustful Thoughts,” I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: “No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!” In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn’t matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore “People I Have Shared the Gospel With.” The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.

I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn’t bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn’t anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn’t say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

“No!” I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was “No, no,” as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn’t be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, “It is finished.”

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

By Joshua Harris. Orginally published in New Attitude Magazine. Copyright New Attitude, 1995. You have permission to reprint this in any form. We only ask that you include the appropriate copyright byline and do not alter the content.

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bartimaeus

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 11:31:03 +0800

He is a man born without sight. Since Bartimaeus was a little, he has dwelled so much in the shadows that he saw and in the darkness that is all he will ever see. Many scorned him for his incapacity, for many believed that blindness is a punishment for a sin that ran in the family passed on from one generation to another. The blind and the lame and the deaf were of the same descent: sinners. But he is a fine man, really. Unwashed and clothes ragged and torn, yes but Bartimaeus longs for something far greater than all this scrutiny.

He sits there every morning, on a stone bench in the small city of Jericho, where there were many people coming and going. His time-worn walking stick leans nonchalantly beside him and his palm is stretched out, begging for alms. Many walk past the man often throwing him a disgruntled look. Some drop very few coins on his outstretched hand, some on his feet, which he fumbles blindlessly on the dirt road. Some do not even spare him a glance. But Bartimaeus do not mind really; he does not see, nor does he pay attention. And he pretends not to hear the whispers of disgust behind cupped lips either. If all he ever did is to listen in, he will begin to hate himself. So he simply sits there, on his usual spot, waiting earnestly for the coins to come so he can buy himself bread.

But today, so it seems, is not an ordinary day. There is a carpenter from Nazareth who is coming to Jericho. The news spread like fire and the people were up in arms to greet him at the gates of the city. His name is Jesus, a man of great skill, coming to different places to heal the sick, cast out demons, forgive sins. Bartimaeus wanted to meet the man and he strains his ear despite the noise of the busy city, praying silently that Jesus will walk by. And then, he does, Jesus does. He is accompanied by a large crowd who were very loud, singing praises, seeking counsel, thanking him. Bartimaeus hears them come close and immediately, he stands upright and cries, “Jesus! Jesus! Have mercy on me!”

The crowd pacifies the blind man, trying to silence him, but he is relentless, crying even even louder this time, “Jesus! Jesus! Have mercy on me!”

Jesus hears, surprisingly, despite the noise of the crowd that surrounded him. He stops and notices the blind man in a distance, crying his name with tears on his eyes. Instantly, he is moved with compassion and with a gentle smile, he says to the crowd, “Tell him to come.” The crowd obeys and brings the blind man near.

“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asks, leaning down closer to the blind man.

Bartimaeus, in tears replies, “Teacher, I want to see.”

Without touching him, Jesus proclaims, “Very well, your faith has healed you.”

And then, Bartimaeus blinks. It is difficult to adjust with the burst of light that he has never seen. He wipes his tears and soon, his vision clears. And he sees. The blind Bartimaeus sees. The very first thing that comes to view is the light, and then the smiling face of his Healer.

matthew

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 23:12:54 +0800

The man takes a pencil on his hand and twirls it on his lithe fingers. He is a man at mid-age, and as he eyes the four corners of his office downtown with a sad smile, Matthew realized how much he loathed his job. Not that he can do anything about it. He is a man despised by many. People in their ragged clothes stare at him in disgust. Many vandalize the walls of his workplace each night, tossing rocks at the windows, breaking in and messing with the filing cabinets. He is a man quite tired of the cat and mouse chase. One of these days, if he kept at it, one of the riffraff on the streets will mug him down in broad daylight. There was no privacy, no security. Become a tax collector and be hated by society. Though he responds unknowingly with a shrug, pretending not to care, Matthew does. There is a small part of him that desired to change. Why, he has grown weary and worn of it all. He is tired of collecting so much money by charging people double. He is tired of being eyed at with disgust. He is tired of being judged, tired of running away.

And then, he comes right in. He parts the curtain and pokes his head inside the tax collector’s office, his eyes playful as if searching for something. Ah, what is this man’s name again? Matthew does not recognize him at first. The man is a carpenter from Nazareth, adored by many because of the miracles he performs and of course, his uncanny habit to hang around sinners and eat on the same table with fools. Ah, Jesus. Yes, that is the name. Matthew pushes himself from the chair and props his elbows on the table very casually. He puts up his cool but the excitement of meeting the man is evident in his eyes. The man greets him with a smile when he notices Matthew leaning in a little closely.

“Hello,” Jesus prompts in a sing-a-song voice. “Come follow me.”

At once, without a second thought, Matthew drops his pencil on the table, leaves his office and all that is in it and follows Jesus.

Welcome Suffering

Sat, 21 Jan 2012 22:44:22 +0800

It’s ugly. Nasty. It stinks. You’ll know it when it looms on your doorstep like a madman in the night, only it comes often uninvited, and along with it comes your joy, your smile, your security but only if you will allow it.

Why, you may ask that Christ refuse to exempt us from the sufferings of this earth. In fact, he encourages us to welcome it into our lives. Come to think of it, who in the right state of mind would ever want to welcome suffering with open arms? I bet no one does.

But the thing is, it happens and sometimes, it strikes upon the most unwarranted people in the most unexpected timing. And in this, God unleashes not his fury but his power. Not his unforgiveness and punishment but his mercy and unbounded love.

Suffering builds our character and it shapes something within us, or stirs something within that we are often not entirely aware of. Suffering corrects a flaw. It chisels the wood: the knife penetrates deeply but produces the best results from a great Sculptor. Welcome suffering and you welcome beauty.

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Sat, 07 Jan 2012 04:36:05 +0800

You are chosen and you have got a platoon of angels fighting at...

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 04:44:06 +0800

You are chosen and you have got a platoon of angels fighting at your side. You’ve got a big God. What on earth are you still afraid of?

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Rise above it, church. You can make a difference to day.

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 13:07:26 +0800

Rise above it, church. You can make a difference to day.

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