Relentless Pursuit

Ken Gire

Description

Bestselling Author Reveals God's Heartfor OutsidersEveryone feels like an outsider sometimes. Acclaimed bestselling author Ken Gire lets readers know that they are not alone. He brings them directly into the action of Scripture, telling the stories of foreigners, lepers, prostitutes, and other "outcasts" who found acceptance with God. Alongside the Bible stories, he blends contemporary examples and spiritual insights to paint a picture of a God who relentlessly pursues each of us. Discussion questions are included for individual or small group use.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 15 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781441271051
• Langue: English

Extrait

© 2012 by Ken Gire
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means for example, electronic, photocopy, recording without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7105-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are from The Message by Eugene H. Peterson, copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked P HILLIPS are from The New Testament in Modern English, revised edition J. B. Phillips, translator. © J. B. Phillips 1958, 1960, 1972. Used by permission of Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc.
Scripture quotations marked NASB are from the New American Standard Bible®, copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.lockman.org
Scripture quotations marked NIV are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Scripture quotations marked ASV are from the American Standard Version of the Bible.
Cover design by Gearbox / David Carlson
Author is represented by WordServe Literary Group
To Greg Johnson
for finding me
No matter how many times we fail, God will never fail us. He knows our frailty and loves us still, pursuing us relentlessly as a lover his beloved.
Robert Waldron The Hound of Heaven at My Heels: The Lost Diaries of Francis Thompson
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue : Leaving Home
Wholehearted Thanks
1. The Pursuit
2. The Pursuer
3. The Nature of the Pursuit
4. The Part of Us That Is Lost
5. God’s Passion for the Outsider
6. God’s Provision for the Outsider
7. Jesus’ Mission to the Outsider
8. God’s Mandate to the Insider
9. The Part of Me That Was Found
Epilogue : Coming Home
Appendix : The Hound of Heaven
Notes
About the Author
Back Cover
Prologue
Leaving Home
This pursuit of the whole mankind and of the Jewish folk in particular is but a larger manifestation of God’s way with each individual soul.
Francis Peter Le Buffe The Hound of Heaven: An Interpretation
T he Bible from start to finish is the story of God’s pursuit of the outsider the foreigner, the stranger, the outcast. From Adam and Eve outside the garden of Eden . . . to Hagar outside the camp of Abraham . . . to Lazarus outside the gate of the rich man. From corner prostitutes to colonized lepers to common thieves. From the down-and-out to the demon-possessed, the Bible is filled with outsiders pursued and transformed by God’s relentless love.
The pursuit of the whole of humankind is but a larger manifestation of God’s way with the individual soul. But God doesn’t stop his pursuit when he brings us safely into the fold. He continues keeping watch over us to see when a part of us, however small or seemingly inconsequential, wanders from him. That part may be a thought that breaks from the flock in search of pastures that seem greener, however forbidden; of waters that seem more plentiful, however dangerous. It may be a part of us that is prone to wander, perhaps not far or for long but far enough and long enough not to hear the Shepherd’s voice when he calls. It may be a part that strays one famished night without realizing it, going from one patch of grass to another to another until, finally lifting its head, it sees it is lost. Or it may be a part that feels angry at, even betrayed by, the flock, and, in a headstrong moment, bolts to be free from it.
Even those of us who consider ourselves insiders feel like outsiders at some time or another. Some feel that way all the time. At work and at social gatherings. In their church. Or in their marriage. Each of us, or at least a part of each of us, feels on the outside, looking in. The estranged adolescent. The self-conscious sibling. The abandoned mate. The returning visitor no one remembers, Sunday after awkward Sunday. The man in the wheelchair to whom people nod and smile but don’t talk to or shake hands with. The pregnant teenager. The purple-haired boy with sinister-looking tattoos and tribal-like piercings. Those in chronic pain, out of work, widowed, orphaned; single parents, struggling to keep the electricity on. The down-and-out, the mentally ill, living in the littered alleys off cold and indifferent streets. People who are lonely and depressed. People who are disabled, who are elderly, those living on the tattered margins of society. People holed up in some sagging tenement, surrounded by decay, dying of cancer, dying of AIDS.
This book is about the heart of God and the lengths to which his heart goes to find ours, to bundle it up in his arms and to carry it home. It is written from the perspective of the lost sheep. As such, it’s not a book for the ninety-nine who are safe as much as for the one who is not. That lost part is surely not the whole of who you are or the whole of who I am, but it is a real part nonetheless.
That this lost part is pursued by God reveals our worth.
That it is relentlessly pursued reveals how much.

I have felt an outsider much of my life, though for the life of me I couldn’t tell you exactly why.
Red hair was part of it. (“Hey, carrot top!” “I’d rather be dead than red on the head.”)
Warts that covered my hands one year, inexplicably, then left the next, just as inexplicably that was part of it too. (“Ew, warts!” “What have you been doing, playing with toads?”)
In my old neighborhood I had an identity; I was one of the kids everyone knew and pretty much liked. Though younger than most of the others, I did have a friend my age, which helped. My sister being older gave me some credibility. Finally getting picked for teams secured my insider status.
Status was clear in the old neighborhood. Older kids ruled, but they were pretty good kids, not bullies. Somehow you knew that one day you would be taking their place in the social order and this gave a sense of security.
Then we moved, my dad had a heart attack, my mom went to work, and everything changed. The only stable thing in my life was knowing that my dog, Skipper, would be there to see me when I got home, excited and eager to play. But he got hit by a car. I found him stiff by the side of the road after he’d been missing for three days. I brought him home in a shovel and buried him under my window, marked with a stone that I etched in crayon: “What the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.”
Then, amid all this upheaval, I suddenly found myself in seventh grade the worst year of my life up to that time. Nameless faces in endless hallways. Tough kids with taps on their shoes, toothpicks in their teeth, long black combs in their pockets for running through slicked-back hair. They’d push you aside as they passed in the halls, constantly demonstrating your rung on the social ladder. The clang-clang-clang of lockers with cryptic combinations that had to be entered precisely, perfectly they made you late for class, even though somehow it seemed no one else was late. I still have anxious dreams about that.
And my glasses. (“Hey, four-eyes!”)
My mother bought my clothes. The off-brand jeans didn’t pass muster when all the other boys wore Levi’s. And plain-colored, permanent-press, aerodynamically collared shirts were no match for Madras shirts and Oxford cloth with button-down collars. No-scuff black shoes that could double for Sunday best also were a little self-conscious next to the Bass Weejuns.
You’d think going out for football as a quarterback, no less would have helped make me an insider. But I was fourth-string QB (actually, tied for fourth string), and only because they didn’t have enough linemen to make a fifth string.
I was skinny and small. I remember getting a supplement called Weight On to put in my milk, but it never seemed to work. While I tried to pump up and bulk up, those muscleman ads in the comic books never delivered. I never showered after gym, no matter how sweaty I got. Some who did shaved and had pitted faces and deep voices. I was, well, everything they weren’t.
S. E. Hinton’s novel The Outsiders illustrates the clash between the “Socs” (short for socials ) and the “Greasers.” About the latter she writes: “They grew up on the outside of society. They weren’t looking for a fight. They were looking to belong.” That’s what we’re all looking for, isn’t it? To belong. Preferably somewhere that defines our identity and establishes it with a sense of security.
During those shaky years of developing adolescence we all tried to find our way inside, one way or another. Football. Cheerleading. Band. Basketball. The chess club. The school newspaper. The yearbook staff. Somewhere, anywhere just not on the outside. We tried to find the “in” people to eat lunch with, talk with, hang out with after school. We tried to find and go to the “in” weekend parties.
Except my dad didn’t much let me go to parties. Or wear my hair as long as the other boys. Or have my shirttail out when I left the house in the morning. My dad was a football coach. A Texas football coach. I can assure you, no Beatles music was allowed in our house. While the other kids were playing their albums on their own phonographs, I listened to what my parents chose Glenn Miller, Lawrence Welk, swing music from the war era.
Fort Worth was then a very status-conscious community, with