Prophetic Acts, Part 1 of 3

A recent event resulted in my becoming engaged in a prophetic act on the final day of our vacation. My exposure to prophetic acts began a long time ago. They seem normal to me now, but I wonder if perhaps they are still as controversial to others as they were to me when initially exposed to them.

I'm going to use what happened recently as a reason to explain what they are and why Christians do them. In this post I'll take the academic approach by explaining the Scriptural foundation for prophetic acts. On Monday I'll relate something about my earlier exposures to prophetic acts. Later in the week, I'll tell what happened recently.

A Definition -
Prophetic acts are physical activities that have spiritual significance because they are done in faith as a response to a specific instruction or Word from God.

Biblical Perspective -
People of the Old Testament engaged in numerous prophetic acts. For example, early in the Exodus, before the Israelites had become a cohesive group, Amalekite warriors attacked them. Moses told Joshua to select a group of men to fight. As he, Aaron, and Hur watched from a nearby hill, Moses held his rod high—the one he held when the waters parted in the red sea. As long as Moses held up the staff in his hand, the Israelites had the advantage. But where he dropped his hand, the Amalekites gained the advantage. (Ex. 17:11 LT)

The battle dragged on and Moses arms became weak. Then Aaron and Hur found a stone for him to sit on. Then they stood on each side of Moses, holding up his hands. (v. 12b) Moses' prophetic act, along with the help and support of Aaron and Hur, resulted in victory.

The prophetic books contain numerous examples of prophetic acts. Jeremiah bought a field when he was in prison—and when influential people wanted to kill him. Why would he do such a thing? The Babylonians were overrunning Israel and he would never benefit from the purchase. He didn’t even have heirs who would inherit the land.

But after completing the legal transaction in prison, Jeremiah prophesied: Someday people will again own property here in this land and will buy and sell houses and vineyards and fields. (Jer. 32:15b LT) He instructed his servant Baruch to place the deeds in pottery to preserve them—a sign of God’s plan for Israel’s future.

Then there's Ezekiel. If you think John the Baptist was strange, read Ezekiel. God told him to draw a map of the city of Jerusalem as it lay under siege—complete with siege ramps and battering rams. (Ez. 4:2b) Then he was to lie on his left side for many days and on his right side for many days—all the while staring at the map—all the while somehow carrying or representing the sins of the people of Israel—and all the while doing additional strange activities.

Why? To depict the coming judgment—including food and water shortages. Even sinful people had a right to know, and God gave them the information they needed.

In the New Testament, Agabus (also mentioned in Acts 11) met Paul as he traveled to Jerusalem. Agabus bound his own feet and hands with Paul’s belt. Then he prophesied, So shall the owner of this belt be bound by the Jewish leaders in Jerusalem and turned over to the Gentiles. (Acts 21:11b) God demonstrated Paul’s future through a prophetic act.

Something to think about -
Moses, Aaron, and Hur saw immediate results when they responded with a physical act. Agabus at least saw results in the near future. How about Jeremiah and Ezekiel?

Our Month of August

Welcome. Because I haven't posted during all of August, I thought I'd just share a few pictures from our month.

Ken and I went on several trips and, for the most part, took a vacation. We spent time at The Gathering, a spiritual event put on by a group we participated in when we lived at the lake. We attended a Holy Spirit Conference in the greater Twin Cities area. We gathered with Ken’s family for a reunion that lasted several days in Spokane. And on the way home we vacationed in Glacier National Park.

I’ll probably write about aspects of some of these events eventually. And perhaps even of a few sidetrips I didn't mention yet. But today, I want to take it easy and tell you I love road trips. Although I often fall asleep while Ken keeps a steady course—and this has been my pattern for years—I thrill to road trips. They may be inefficient use of energy when the car carries only two people, but what a joy to travel across God’s creation.

When we take major trips, we usually travel west—which means we cross North Dakota—and maybe that’s part of the joy. We have no mountains. Most of our lakes (perhaps all) are artificial. Our trees pale when compared to southern states. But oh, we have vistas. Truly, on a clear day you could see forever. And a glorious sky. Eastern Montana is more of the same.

Unlike Ken and most people, I’m less fond of the mountains—feel hemmed in. And I miss sunsets (usually not up early enough for sunrises). But I marvel at the infinite variety of God’s creation. Here are a few pictures taken during our August. To represent the entire month, I'll start in the Twin Cities area.




Water lilies in Como Park in St. Paul, Minnesota. I thought them breathtaking.

Ken waiting in background while I take pictures in the observatory of Como Park. My focus was the flowers, but I couldn't resist including the entire picture here.






Wild sunflowers near a scenic view overlooking Teddy Rosevelt National Monument. I think this is a fantastic picture, but must admit it's an accident. I simply wanted to isolate individual flowers and could only do so by moving the camera down. That means we can enjoy the glorious sky.




A sampler from Lois's delicate woodland flowers. Across the way, in an area with a full sun exposure, Byron grew the best corn, tomatoes, and zucchini we've ever tasted. I didn't think to take a picture of that. What a shame.




Family members in the pool. The most precious view of all.







Looking through the cedar forest. I'm especially proud of this picture becuase I've captured the lighting. Perhaps I am learning something about photography.








Me in front of an unusual giant cedar.



Ken overlooking the rapids of Avalanche Creek in Glacier Park.

A view of McDonald Valley on the way to Logan Pass in Glacier Park.

On the way home, we stopped at a city park in Havre, Montana. Green grass had just been mowed and a rose garden graced one corner.

Yes, the old cliché, God is good rings true when we spend time wandering around in His creation—whether on a walk in the local park or whether driving across the miles. Man has corrupted much, but God’s grace shines through. He—our living God—is good, indeed.

Sharing a Prophetic "Word"

To continue my narrative from the last posting, the remainder of our time in Phoenix was good. If I missed giving weekly messages, I don’t remember. Although our group no longer functioned officially, we saw each other often and maintained relationships—some more closely than others.

Then our family moved to North Dakota.

Now I love North Dakota. There’s something about getting out on the open road here that thrills me to the core. And the people are the best. But I didn’t feel that way initially. The Red River Valley where we live is flat. Overpasses and underpasses—along with power lines—provide the landmarks.

I thought the area spiritually flat as well. Although we loved the small church we eventually found across the river in Minnesota, the people had little exposure to the larger body of Christ. I felt that they felt threatened when I tried to share our background.

During a quiet interval during worship on a Sunday evening, a song welled up from within. I wanted to share it—and silence lingered—so with all the energy I could muster I began to praise God in a song that expressed itself both in a tongue and in English. When I ran out of strength, I continued by praising God loudly in English before concluding quietly in tongues.

The ice was broken. After that night, God began to give me prophetic messages in English. Sometimes I felt impressed to quote a Bible verse—often verses I’d have trouble reciting by memory but they flowed freely as I spoke prophetically. Sometimes I was impressed to speak ideas I’d thought earlier during the week—thoughts that began burning in my heart. I was always amazed the way they flowed when under the anointing of the Holy Spirit.

And sometimes I just knew something I could not have known on my own. A guest preacher spoke one Sunday evening. During worship God gave me a message unrelated to anything I’d heard—and I didn’t obey the Lord by sharing because it seemed out-of-order. But when the preacher preached, I learned the message God gave me would have supported the Word that night—added strength to the sermon we heard. Another lesson learned.

God occasionally did funny things. On the way to church one Sunday morning, both Ken and I were impressed by the railroad tracks. One of us saw them as a means of adventure—of traveling into the unknown. The other saw them as limiting—a train can’t leave its track. During the worship I began receiving an impulse to speak prophetically—and knew it had to do with railroad tracks. I was nervous because I didn't want to promote a personal viewpoint, but I followed through. Although I know I can't recall the message verbatim, a rough summary would be encouraging people to find the track God had for them—seeking Him until He makes their specific track clear. Then get on track, stay on track, and let Him lead you to unknown destinations in the Spirit. Only God could have brought our seemingly opposite opinions together and shaped them into a message both Ken and I needed to hear!

In retrospect, I’m quite sure I never shared anything wrong in the sense that it was contrary to Scripture. However, I might have shared something wrong in that it wasn’t God’s Word for the moment. There are times when God emphasizes specific messages, and there were probably times when I responded to personal impulses rather than God’s impulses.

I could point to all the events of my life that were distractions—and to my fatigue when stretched beyond what I could have imagined. But God responds to reprentance, not excuses. Perhaps part of the problem was lack of a small, informal support group. A group where each had the same spiritual foundation and where each had a vital role to play as we corrected and encouraged the other.

Marriage is important. I think Ken and I have become each other’s ardent fans. But my marriage was—and is—not the same as a group of women who understand the trials, temptations, and struggles of living life as a woman.

By the time Ken and I retired, I was exhausted. In addition, the responsibility of speaking for God weighed heavily, and I wanted out. In one sense I didn’t walk away from God. I could have joined Peter at any time by saying, Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words that give eternal life. (Mt. 6:68 NLT) In another sense, however, I did walk away from God because I stopped listening to Him in my spirit. It’s been at least twelve years since God used me to speak prophetically.

Blogging has been an important element of my walk back. In the sidebar of the Red, Red Berries blog, I mention that writing is how I process thoughts. Sometimes it’s even the way I identify thoughts. Little by little, writing has turned my thoughts back to Jesus and His written Word. Not that I ever stopped reading. I processed His Word mentally, but not spiritually.

POSTSCRIPT
If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you realize it’s evolved since I began. I sense more changes are coming but don't know what they are. However, God's Word says, You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, . . . (Is. 26:3a ESV) With that in mind, the present seems an opportune time to take a break. Ken and I will be going on several trips in August; I'm trusting we'll have a time of resting in His presence and hearing His call. It's time to find His track!

I’ll be back in September—I think. Meanwhile, Thoughts for Inspiration will continue without interruption.

Blessings.

Prophetic Preaching

While changing the sheets of my children’s beds one day, whispering in tongues as usual, I thought I’d run out of tongues—the sounds stopped coming in my mind. Then, to my amazement, Hallelujah began erupting from my mouth, over and over. And then I began praising God in elevated English. Although I understood the words, they weren’t words I normally used. Standing there, I began to laugh for joy because I realized the expression was genuine—it was the cry of my heart—and I knew I wouldn’t have come up with that type of praise on my own. That was the first time God supernaturally gave me ideas and/or words in English rather than in tongues.

I began meeting with a small group of five friends. We gathered informally in our homes to share life, to pray together, to praise God. Fabulous. It was much fun to be around them. Two were in their mid-40s. I thought they were old—so mature. Three of us were around 30.

A young fellow who had grown up in our church came home briefly. He’d brought the manifestations of the Holy Spirit to the congregation several years earlier and the two older gals knew him. The day before he left—he’d quickly become part of our group—the six of us met in the prayer chapel of our church. It was Wednesday morning, and he encouraged us to make Wednesday morning a time for a regular meeting.

Dutifully, we showed up the following Wednesday. None of us knew quite what to do. Then one of the gals looked directly at me and said, You’re supposed to bring a “Word.” And I knew as she said it—not earlier—that she was right. I even knew the Word meant a formal sermonette of sorts.

I was also mortified. I didn’t know she had received a word of knowledge. I thought she had caught on to me and that my secret desires were exposed. How did she know I desperately wanted to preach? So I brushed off her and the others—they’d joined her—by bringing up prayer requests. Until the gal announced once more that I should share from the Word.

Embarrassed and irritated, I stomped forward, opened my Bible, turned to a passage I’d read that morning, and launched into a Word that lasted over ten minutes. In a wonderful move of grace, God met us that morning.

The following week I did it again. The next week I did it again. And then again and again and again.

Eventually our little Wednesday morning group connected with a Friday evening group and the two meetings became a place in Phoenix where the Holy Spirit moved in the late 60s and early 70s.

But my focus for this writing is not the meetings but prophetic preaching. I have no memory of any specific message. I'm sure they were not deep compared to the revelation coming through God’s people today, but they were deep to us at the time. Some weeks I worried because I hadn’t received anything and Wednesday was imminent. But He always came through. And here’s the kicker: I don’t think I ever became proud of my gifting during that time. I was occasionally jealous of others—of their gifting—but my gifting seemed normal and it didn’t occur to me to be proud.

POSTSCRIPT:
As usual—and it pains me to use that phrase when telling what happened—the enemy made his way into God’s move. The organized meetings fell apart and each of us sought God’s direction as individuals for the next chapter of our lives.

Even sadder—for me, anyway—I still look back to that time as my best time. I didn’t actually know how deeply I felt that until after we retired. Yes, God has been with me and shown me remarkable things since then. He’s used me to bring His Word. He’s answered my prayers. But I’ve also clung to the past. Perhaps one reason is that I knew my heart hasn’t been as pure since those early days—and it’s the heart that matters.

The day I knew by the Spirit that I’d never moved on was a watershed revelation. For some time I tucked the reality away—bringing it out briefly at times to peek at the awful truth. But little by little I began searching, looking for the Way. And the Way always begins with Jesus. And Jesus is the Word.

Paul said, Now I want you all to speak in tongues, but even more to prophesy. (I Cor. 14:5) That’s because vital prophecy points to Jesus. It’s God’s Word brought to life in a specific moment or circumstance. But prophetic preaching is only one type of prophetic utterance, and all are remarkable.

My Personal Pentecost

After I received Jesus and His sacrifice for my sin, I realized salvation was a big topic. Among other things, I learned about Gifts of the Spirit. Information wasn’t plentiful in 1967 and '68 and the focus was tongues, but I researched the subject and concluded it was valid. I visited a small Pentecostal church because I was drawn to the worship and teaching. However, I wasn’t interested in personal involvement because I was insecure and afraid of becoming socially backward.

Meanwhile, I prayed about anything and everything—including my inability to keep a clean house. We had three children at the time, Borgi in first grade, Ted in kindergarten, and Joe at home. But the problem was bigger than the children—I didn’t think right. I either yelled at the kids when they made a mess—or gave up and we lived in chaos.

After almost a year in a rental in Phoenix, we purchased a house situatated between the homes of two women who seemed like the world’s best homemakers. One a North Dakota farm gal—the other of Mexican-Indian descent. Beautiful women, but I felt intimidated.

Because both reached out to me as neighbors, I decided to invite them to a morning coffee on the first day of school after Christmas vacation—so we’d have fewer children underfoot. I planned, invited, and worried. Finally, on the big morning, I saw Borgi on her way to school, took Ted to kindergarden, and sent Joe into the back yard while I finished getting ready.

When all was in order, I went to the bedroom to change clothes. Meanwhile, Joe, a normal four-year-old, decided he wanted Cheerios. Entering my spotless kitchen, he tried to pour them into a bowl from the box—and little “o’s” spilled over the side, rolling into every corner of the kitchen.

Maintaining my composure, I began cleaning them up. As I bent over to reach under the refrigerator, the left sleeve of my dress gave—not a rip in fabric but a rip in the seam. I ran into the bedroom to change and could find nothing else. I returned to the kitchen to the smell of burning cookie-bars. When the doorbell rang, I stood with dress torn, Cheerios on the floor, and burned bars in my hand.

I don’t remember the next hour. I know I made coffee and served store-bought cookies—and didn’t say much. When they left, I picked up Ted and served lunch to my boys before hiding myself in the bedroom to cry. I was stiffling sobs when a friend called to tell me about special meetings where people were receiving their prayer language. Would you be willing to go with me tomorrow morning? Maybe you could pick me up after dropping Ted off?

If my planned event had gone well, I’d probably have said no. But I was desperate—not necessarily for God—but for relief from failure. And if God could help, I was open—even if it meant praying in tongues and being socially isolated.

We arrived during a short worship time. I looked around and saw a young woman about my age wearing a housedress with stockings (seams were still in style) and tennis shoes. Her hair was—well, it might be in style today. No makeup.

A mob converged on this reserved Norwegian Lutheran when I went forward, all praying loudly. Then the guest-preacher, a mild man, laid a hand on my head, quietly prayed, and told me I simply had to open my mouth to speak. Peace came and I closed my eyes. At one point I heard him say, Let her go. I had an idea. I’d heard people sing in tongues and it was beautiful, so I asked—in English—if I could sing. He said, Of course.—and I began singing in tongues.

I’ve sung quite a bit for my own pleasure and before groups, but that day my voice truly soared in the presence of angels.

Suddenly, I remembered Ted. Opening my eyes, I realized I lay prone on the floor. Really. I learned later I had been slain in the Spirit. I’d never heard about it then, but it did not seem strange. I sat up, asked someone what time it was, told them I had to leave immediately, excused my friend and myself, collected Joe from a nursery, and we left. Ted was waiting, but he didn’t seem concerned.

I couldn’t stop praying in tongues that day—either in song or under my breath. The boys and later my daughter laughed and laughed at Mom and her strange Spanish. The next day, however, I couldn’t utter a sound in an unknown tongue.

And yet—I somehow knew it was real and felt it would be wrong to walk away. I decided to try praying in tongues in the shower—so the background noise of running water would muffle the sound—and when I did, a dam broke loose. Since that time I’ve been able to pray in tongues at will. Then and now, I pray in tongues whenever I think of it. Sometimes I’m seeking a specific answer—sometimes I simply want to exercise my gift. After all, Paul said, I would like every one of you to speak in tongues . . . (I Cor. 14:5a NIV)

Of course, he also said, but I would rather have your prophesy. (v. 5b) But that’s another subject. For me, tongues became a gateway.

Of course, some of you will have a few questions.

First, I don’t think I began to dress weirdly andI don't think I adopted a weird hairstyle. But when my immaculate neighbor to the east began giving hints on organization, I listened. And although I never achieved a spotless home, our lives improved as order became the norm.

Did God cause spilled cheerios, a ripped dress, and burned cookie-bars to humble me? No, but He allowed me to struggle on my own and to reach a place of humility where I would receive—both from Him and from a helpful neighbor. But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumph . . . (II Cor. 2:14a RSV)

Time with my Birth Family

This is a story about the older generation. Most of us fairly active. I hope you will find aspects of it interesting.

On Friday Ken and I went on a short road trip that we should have taken last Spring—to Winona, Minnesota, where we visited my sister-in-law Esther. Esther is the widow of my oldest brother Carmen who died about a year a half ago. The basics of their story is that he was a pastor, she was a teacher who went into administration, and they raised five wonderful children. But there’s more to the story than that, of course.

I’ve become our primary photographer—and so often the moment misses me altogether. I didn’t think to take a picture of Esther as she looks today.

I'm not fond of using the word cute to describe older people—it seems to trivialize them. But even with serious problems and although on a great deal of medication, I have to admit Esther is cute.

She became part of our family when I was in high school. She was beautiful, reserved, talented, and competent. She sang solos—with a voice that could fill a large church. Now she’s tiny—even her voice—and shriveled—with hands twisted by arthritis, a complication from the aftermath of lyme disease. She also has Parkinson’s—although that seems under control. But perhaps the most serious condition is the collapsing skeleton—and that she fell just over a week ago and broke several ribs. Her fall meant a move from her daughter's home to an extended-care facility. I was afraid of what I’d find and truthfully, it wasn’t good.

But to my surprise, I wasn’t devastated. Her personality is still evident. Even when we all trooped down to the facility’s dining area for coffee and root beer floats. (My other brother David and his wife Betty had joined us. And Karen, the daughter who lies in Winona and son Mark who flew in from Wshington, D. C. were with us.) The hostess in Esther came alive as she sat in a wheel chair—unable to do anything. Frustrated and embarrassed by what she felt was the poor service she offered her guests, her gracious demeanor was endearing and cute.

She became anxious and confused at times, even telling us in her tiny voice about waking up surprised to realize, I was alive! Ken and I asked each other later if she was happy to be alive—or disappointed. We weren’t sure. We might look at her life as confined, as narrow and small—but she has important things on her mind.

And all the while, through frustration and confusion, hints of irony and humor—and a wry smile. She was herself, and she was cute.

When she grew tired, we left to visit Carmen’s grave before going to Karen’s home where husband Jason had prepared a wonderful meal. Here, from left to right at the table in all our hoary glory: me, David, Betty, and Ken.

We moved into the living room and Karen, who had been going through her parents things, brought out a scrapbook that included pictures from our childhood. David and I paged through, remembering our distant past.

In our hotel room that night, just before 3:30, I woke up rejoicing in bed. Pure joy overwhelmed me, and I wondered why. Considering my personal status, I thought about my hip. It didn’t hurt. But I knew the joy was bigger than that. (You can check the last post to understand why the hip is significant.)

I thought of Esther’s smile. Even in her reduced state—she was herself. What a wonder.

I thought about the scrapbook. As David and I perused, a subject came up that’s painful for me, an ouchie from my childhood. David understood—he had experienced it as well—and he offered an explanation I found comforting.

But I decided the joy encompassed all of the above—plus. For over an hour before going back to sleep, I basked in the overwhelming sense of personally being in God’s will. And, difficult as circumstances are for Esther and her family, I sensed they are also in His care and His will.

We met David and Betty for breakfast in the morning before going to the extended care facility again for another good-bye on Saturday morning. Then I slept during most of our drive home.

An Overturned Truck and a Painful Hip

Ken went with me to Grand Forks for a rheumatologist appointment yesterday. As we drove toward the freeway when the appointment was over, we saw a semi turned on its side in the middle of a busy intersection.

Police had set up barricades and rerouted traffic. People milled around with cameras. Men worked from two additional semis—semis with cranes. They were positioning straps they'd placed around the prone cab and trailer so they could set things right again. I wondered about the driver. What had he done—or not done—just before before the accident or as the accident happened?

But I was personally experiencing a red-letter day and couldn’t feel badly just then. The rheumatologist had asked his usual questions during my appointment and then I told him about my hip. I’ve been nursing it along for about five months, hoping it would get better, avoiding an appointment with an orthopedist for fear he’d recommend surgery.

Well, the rheumatologist began asking questions and he seemed to know my answers before I stated them. Then he poked and probed before saying he thought he could take care of it by giving me a shot. He left the room, his nurse prepped me, he came back to insert the needle, and as he walked out the office door he said I’d know in a day or two if it worked.

Finally, another nurse administered a remicade infusion, and when the procedure was over I found Ken. By then I knew the shot was doing its magic. We had a bite to eat and I was riding high.

This morning, however, reflecting on the difference between the way I was feeling and the way I'd felt yesterday morning, I began making comparisons between my body and that overturned truck. I realized I've been more or less overturned for several months, stuck with a painful hip in the busy intersection of life. God help me, I've cried over and over. What should I do?

And always, that nagging sense of guilt. I’ve had problems with my hips before and yet, in the excitement of one moment several months ago, I threw caution to the wind and ended up in need of a rescue. And perhaps the same is true of the rheumatoid arthritis. I might be free of problems today if I’d taken care of myself when younger. I wasn’t a good driver—I pushed my body beyond its limits.

Those sorts of inner accusations come from Satan and they're difficult because there’s truth to them. Satan knows how to torment. I’m so glad a doctor gave me a shot and fixed me up. I also know that unless God heals me completely, if I do something similar on another occasion, I’ll probably have problems again. Because of my medical history, my body is vulnerable.

Our pastor has been preaching on the book of Romans this summer. Last Sunday he focused on chapter 8. The chapter begins with, There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. (Rom. 8:1 ESV)

The chapter ends with, Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn. . . ? Who shall separate us from the love of Christ. . . ? [W]e are more than conquerors through him who loved us. (Rom. 8:33,34a,35,37)

It was a message I needed. I don’t want to imply sin doesn’t matter. I am, however, emphasizing that Paul reminded the Romans that there’s no condemnation because Jesus’ death justifies sinners.

When my hip hurt, I lived with forgiveness even as I lived with the consequences of sin. I can live with consequences because His presence lives within me.

Then there’s pain caused by sin against others. I’ve been guilty of that, too, and the condemnation I feel over those sins is even worse. But in this same chapter we read, And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good. (Rom. 8:28) That includes the sinner and those sinned against.

It doesn’t seem possible, but God says it is so. If we trust Him, we believe He will do the impossible. I’ve seen it happen, and I'm waiting for it to happen again. Meanwhile, acknowledging and repenting have a refining effect because God begins to work in me. And the fact that God can turn the results of sin into good brings peace. God promises He won’t let anything separate me from His care—not even thoughts of despair or condemnation. It's enough to fill a person with joy.

I may be overturned now and then, in need of rescue. But rescue is His specialty.