I remember the first time I heard mark shout that, into the microphone, at the end of Hornblend, on the boardwalk of Pacific Beach.
33. I was 33.
It was an outreach, California style.
Mark would hook up a car battery, roll it out on a dolly, and plug in his amplifier and a few mikes. We worshipped, that group of San Diego Vineyardites. No permits. Just praise. And mark would shout out things, from time to time, that drew the curious, the seekers. They would ask those on the periphery, who are you? What are you doing?
We did who we are. They came. They drank.
I remember that phrase, he was famous for it.
Less of me.
More of Him.
I remember the phrase, from other places and times. Real death. Later, his death. And the metaphors of death. Dying to me, to my pride, to my ideas, to my ways. For God’s ways to superimpose. Yielding. Beyond just saying yes. Saying no to me, to say yes. This is the fast I have chosen. Because He makes everything beautiful in its time.
That day, on Hornblend, the stretch for me was what He asked me to bring. I was new to the group. Relatively. My sister went there, but I was not good at making friends, so though I had come awhile, I did not know anybody.
And He said, he wanted me to bring two fish and five loaves. To the outreach. As a sign. he wanted to multiply. He emphasized fresh fish. Crap. These people were going to think I was nuts! Suppose the pastor could not receive them. All the reasons were stacking up. fear of man.
I had his email, so I emailed that pastor. Gary Goodell. Can I bring….?
His gracious response. Sure. Go ahead.
I went shopping. Fresh fish was the harder item to find. In the Albertson’s on the package I found the words the Lord had spoke. They were the fish. The bread I got from the Wonder store. And I took it with me to the beach that evening. I set it all down behind the amplifier and went to worship. It has always been an avenue where I find God. No matter who, or where. I enter, He is there, I am lost in Him.
I heard soon after that the fish had been grabbed. Some homeless folk had asked for them and were cooking them over a fire pit on the sand below. Delight filled my heart that the Lord had used me. The bread however, sat. And sat. And remained.
Later Gary told me that he had often bought bread and the homeless there would not take it. For some reason they were bread snobs, he said with a grin.
Perhaps it was food for the birds.
I remember that phrase today. So much has changed yet not very much at all, in a way.
It is a good day to die.
A good day to yield me, in favor of Him.
I am in love.
His life is mine.
Selah.