Healing the Orphan Spirit- Part 2 - Real Men Aren't Religious
Healing the Orphan Spirit- Part 2
Real Men Aren’t Religious
By Ron Wood
The men Jesus selected weren’t religious. They weren’t preachers, priests, or seminarians. Ordinary men captured by the extraordinary call of Christ, they became the foundation for His new kingdom culture on earth. Nothing has changed, has it?
Growing up, my Dad believed in God but wanted nothing to do with the church. He thought church was for silly women or weak men. My Dad was a man among men; he didn’t have any lace on his drawers. Despite his dislike of church, after many years of resistance, he eventually came to terms with the Lord Jesus and was wonderfully saved.
When I was pastoring a Baptist church in Florida, a man in my congregation invited me to go hunting and fishing with him. I never did get to shoot a buck, but I had some awesome experiences in the lovely wilderness woods and swamps, all familiar turf to me since I grew up in that environment as a boy. We fished on the Suwannee River and caught hundreds of bluegill.
But I had been "citified" on the big streets of Dallas, and needed to get re-oriented to the ways of the wilderness. Delton was patient with me and didn’t make fun of me as I got familiar again with the ways of the woods. Yet he knew novices with guns could be dangerous.
Delton loved his wife, Ena. She was very devoted to the Lord and to church, and Delton was devoted to her. He faithfully sat beside her every Sunday morning, but never was vocal or expressive when it came to the things of God. Delton like beer and he smoked cigarettes. But he never cheated on his wife and I never heard him take the Lord’s name in vain.
He took me hunting one Saturday morning before dawn in an area where he knew we had a good chance for a kill. "Wear your boots," he said. I wondered why he would say that.
At 5:00 am that morning, I opened the truck door, stepped down into a foot of cold black water, and shined my light around me. Our trail led us through fallen cypress trees, brackish water, and dark woods. "Look out for moccasins and alligators," Delton said.
A quarter-mile into the woods, we hit higher ground. "This is your tree," he said. "I’ll be a tenth of a mile further on." He disappeared into the woods leaving me to climb the tree with my gun and to get settled to wait for dawn and hopefully, some deer.
I prepared my two-piece tree stand so I could inch my way up the soft bark of the palm tree. As I did so, my 30.06 rifle slipped from my grasp and speared straight down into the soft wet earth. My rifle stood there like a grave marker on a battlefield. All it needed was a combat helmet to make the picture complete.
I pulled it out of the ground, saw the plug of mud, and knew it was now suicidal to try to shoot it. I broke off a branch, whittled it sharp, and tried to unplug the barrel. No luck… the stick was now broken off in the barrel.
I stood there wondering what to do. Finally, I decided to go back to the truck and get my shotgun. But Delton had the keys. So off I went, lost as a goose in a snowstorm, trying to find my hunting partner.
I was just about to give up when I heard a voice over my head say, "What do you want?" I looked up and saw Delton. "I need the keys. I’ll tell you why later." Without saying a word, he dropped the truck keys to me. "If you go that way," he pointed, "you’ll hit a tram and if you turn right at the corner you’ll see the truck."
I turned and headed for the old logging trail he had indicated. After a while, I saw it, but it was guarded by water along the side of the road. A log had fallen across it and I thought I could make it. Stepping on the wet log, I slipped and landed waste deep in icy water. Determined, I hiked ahead until I saw the truck and retrieved my shotgun. Grimly determined now, I forged ahead. Entering the woods, I miraculously found our original trail and in a few minutes arrived back at the base of the tree where my gear and rifle were waiting.
How to get safely up the tree while carrying my gun?
I hit upon a solution. I tied a cord around the shotgun and left it lying on the ground while I slithered up the tree on my tree stand to about ten feet above the ground, then secured my position, turned around and sat down, and hauled my shotgun up and laid it across my lap.
Finally, I was set. I relaxed, looked around, and saw dawn’s early light starting to break. Leaves drifted down from tall trees in the shaded forest. It felt like a sanctuary, so still, so pristine, so peaceful. I glanced down at the shotgun lying across my lap and saw that the safety was still on. I wondered, How loud is the click if I take it off safety now? Better to do it now before any deer might hear it. So I snicked the safety button off.
BOOM!!! It blasted a load of buckshot and the recoil jetted the gun horizontally six feet out and ten feet down, lying fully loaded on the ground with the safety off, the cord still tied around the trigger guard where I had forgotten to remove it.
I was shocked, scared, embarrassed, and instantly angry! If I had been any good at cussing, I would have done it. I knew I had spoiled the hunt for Delton and myself. The only deer we would see that morning would have to be totally deaf. At that precise moment of utter humiliation and discomfort, God clearly spoke to me: "You’ve been mad a lot lately, haven’t you?"
I instantly became meek from His reproof. I responded, "Yes Sir… I have." That was all He said about that, as though just observing it was enough to help me repent, and it was. Then, as though I could see His face turn toward the direction where Delton was, the Lord asked me, "Do you know how uncomfortable you are in this hunting environment? Delton is just as uncomfortable in your church environment."
I sat there amazed. Immediately, I got it. I realized that the woods are full of men who love God, but are not comfortable with the feminized church world we’ve offered them. We’ve expected them to change their culture in order to adapt to the church. Maybe it’s our religious traditions that need to adapt so men can fit in and follow a manly Savior.
If this is true, then we need to ask ourselves: In our religious structures, what encourages transformation among men? What activities waste our time and energy?
Real Men Aren’t Religious
By Ron Wood
The men Jesus selected weren’t religious. They weren’t preachers, priests, or seminarians. Ordinary men captured by the extraordinary call of Christ, they became the foundation for His new kingdom culture on earth. Nothing has changed, has it?
Growing up, my Dad believed in God but wanted nothing to do with the church. He thought church was for silly women or weak men. My Dad was a man among men; he didn’t have any lace on his drawers. Despite his dislike of church, after many years of resistance, he eventually came to terms with the Lord Jesus and was wonderfully saved.
When I was pastoring a Baptist church in Florida, a man in my congregation invited me to go hunting and fishing with him. I never did get to shoot a buck, but I had some awesome experiences in the lovely wilderness woods and swamps, all familiar turf to me since I grew up in that environment as a boy. We fished on the Suwannee River and caught hundreds of bluegill.
But I had been "citified" on the big streets of Dallas, and needed to get re-oriented to the ways of the wilderness. Delton was patient with me and didn’t make fun of me as I got familiar again with the ways of the woods. Yet he knew novices with guns could be dangerous.
Delton loved his wife, Ena. She was very devoted to the Lord and to church, and Delton was devoted to her. He faithfully sat beside her every Sunday morning, but never was vocal or expressive when it came to the things of God. Delton like beer and he smoked cigarettes. But he never cheated on his wife and I never heard him take the Lord’s name in vain.
He took me hunting one Saturday morning before dawn in an area where he knew we had a good chance for a kill. "Wear your boots," he said. I wondered why he would say that.
At 5:00 am that morning, I opened the truck door, stepped down into a foot of cold black water, and shined my light around me. Our trail led us through fallen cypress trees, brackish water, and dark woods. "Look out for moccasins and alligators," Delton said.
A quarter-mile into the woods, we hit higher ground. "This is your tree," he said. "I’ll be a tenth of a mile further on." He disappeared into the woods leaving me to climb the tree with my gun and to get settled to wait for dawn and hopefully, some deer.
I prepared my two-piece tree stand so I could inch my way up the soft bark of the palm tree. As I did so, my 30.06 rifle slipped from my grasp and speared straight down into the soft wet earth. My rifle stood there like a grave marker on a battlefield. All it needed was a combat helmet to make the picture complete.
I pulled it out of the ground, saw the plug of mud, and knew it was now suicidal to try to shoot it. I broke off a branch, whittled it sharp, and tried to unplug the barrel. No luck… the stick was now broken off in the barrel.
I stood there wondering what to do. Finally, I decided to go back to the truck and get my shotgun. But Delton had the keys. So off I went, lost as a goose in a snowstorm, trying to find my hunting partner.
I was just about to give up when I heard a voice over my head say, "What do you want?" I looked up and saw Delton. "I need the keys. I’ll tell you why later." Without saying a word, he dropped the truck keys to me. "If you go that way," he pointed, "you’ll hit a tram and if you turn right at the corner you’ll see the truck."
I turned and headed for the old logging trail he had indicated. After a while, I saw it, but it was guarded by water along the side of the road. A log had fallen across it and I thought I could make it. Stepping on the wet log, I slipped and landed waste deep in icy water. Determined, I hiked ahead until I saw the truck and retrieved my shotgun. Grimly determined now, I forged ahead. Entering the woods, I miraculously found our original trail and in a few minutes arrived back at the base of the tree where my gear and rifle were waiting.
How to get safely up the tree while carrying my gun?
I hit upon a solution. I tied a cord around the shotgun and left it lying on the ground while I slithered up the tree on my tree stand to about ten feet above the ground, then secured my position, turned around and sat down, and hauled my shotgun up and laid it across my lap.
Finally, I was set. I relaxed, looked around, and saw dawn’s early light starting to break. Leaves drifted down from tall trees in the shaded forest. It felt like a sanctuary, so still, so pristine, so peaceful. I glanced down at the shotgun lying across my lap and saw that the safety was still on. I wondered, How loud is the click if I take it off safety now? Better to do it now before any deer might hear it. So I snicked the safety button off.
BOOM!!! It blasted a load of buckshot and the recoil jetted the gun horizontally six feet out and ten feet down, lying fully loaded on the ground with the safety off, the cord still tied around the trigger guard where I had forgotten to remove it.
I was shocked, scared, embarrassed, and instantly angry! If I had been any good at cussing, I would have done it. I knew I had spoiled the hunt for Delton and myself. The only deer we would see that morning would have to be totally deaf. At that precise moment of utter humiliation and discomfort, God clearly spoke to me: "You’ve been mad a lot lately, haven’t you?"
I instantly became meek from His reproof. I responded, "Yes Sir… I have." That was all He said about that, as though just observing it was enough to help me repent, and it was. Then, as though I could see His face turn toward the direction where Delton was, the Lord asked me, "Do you know how uncomfortable you are in this hunting environment? Delton is just as uncomfortable in your church environment."
I sat there amazed. Immediately, I got it. I realized that the woods are full of men who love God, but are not comfortable with the feminized church world we’ve offered them. We’ve expected them to change their culture in order to adapt to the church. Maybe it’s our religious traditions that need to adapt so men can fit in and follow a manly Savior.
If this is true, then we need to ask ourselves: In our religious structures, what encourages transformation among men? What activities waste our time and energy?
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