I am a slave of Jesus Christ. He bought me; I am not my own. I own nothing—everything around me is his. My time is his. I do whatever he wants, right when he wants me to. My life is ordered by his will. Even my wife and children belong to him. He owns me, and it is so good: He provides everything I need. He protects me and cares for me, and does more for me than I could imagine. My Master is so kind, so patient, so loving and good. He is my Guide, my Companion, and my Friend. I lack no good thing. I am safe and at rest with him, even while I am working for him. I have joy, and I have peace. I have love, and I have true life.
P.S. He adopted me; He is my Father and I am His son. (Romans 8:15!)
The other morning I started reading the letter the apostle Paul wrote to the Philippians. I didn’t get past the first verse, and started writing the above paragraph. It struck me that Paul considered himself a slave of Jesus (as did at least a few other apostles). I should really consider myself a slave. I imagined what “slave” meant at that time, and I imagined Kunta Kinte in "Roots" and other stories of slavery. A number of other spots in the New Testament mention this. (Rom 6:22 & 1Pet 2:16, etc.) I am a voluntary slave of God, but bought for a very high price—the death of his Son. When experienced in fullness, this is the most wonderful arrangement possible, because I also become a child of the Father of the Universe!
Yesterday on my way to clinic I passed a couple walking up a steep part of the road. The woman was carrying a child, the size that would normally be walking. I wondered if the boy was ill, or if they needed help. Following God’s prompting, I offered them a ride and they climbed in. The mother had a repaired cleft lip, but her speech revealed that her palate was not repaired. I found out the boy was unwell, and they were planning on heading to the hospital in Antigua. I dropped them off at the clinic and promised to check him a short time later. After I did so, I started him on some antibiotics for pneumonia. It turns out Elvin is 6 years old but can’t walk or speak. He was developing normally until 6 months’ age, when he got meningitis. He has a 12 year old brother who is also disabled, but from birth. This couple has been caring for these boys, as well as three healthy girls, all these years in their home, with little support. I was impressed. They are following Jesus. After we prayed with them, the father was visibly moved—a sight I haven’t seen so far in this country. We plan to visit them in their home. (By the way, only two of the daughters are still at home. The oldest, 15, got married to an 18 year old fellow and moved out of the house just two weeks ago. She’s fine, it’s normal, the father reassured me ...I was partially reassured.)
Would I take time to reach out and help someone at home? I asked myself. Maybe sometimes?
Quite some time ago at night, I received a phone call from a colleague who was requesting my presence while someone else was on call. I can’t remember what I actually said, but I clearly recall thinking “If I start doing that, my life will be over.” After I hung up the phone, I may as well have heard God’s audible voice: “Your life ended long ago, when you gave it to me.” Believe it or not, I felt His joy in me after I changed my mind and was driving to the hospital a few minutes later. The life He has for me is better than any I could live, anyway.
This is the kind of slavery that I choose. The paragraph I wrote helps me remember my identity. More than anything, I'm his chosen child, loved beyond comprehension.
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