A prisoner of Jesus Christ

Where's Daddy going?" Five-year-old Britt leaned against my leg as we both pressed our noses against the window and peered outside. A group of parishioners were gathered in the church parking lot next to our home.

"Daddy's going visiting," I sighed, surveying the crowd out there with the longing of someone on the outside looking in. "He's going to tell people about Jesus."

Meanwhile, I would be home as usual, caring for my four preschoolers. Normally, parenting is a role I find fulfilling, but this day I felt plagued by restlessness. I mused, How nice it would be to tell others about Jesus. But who's going to knock on my door and ask me about Christ?

Actually, the group outside created their own opportunities. Their front line mission was significant. When I married a minister, I pictured myself working side by side with him, doing my part to save the world.

Glumly I returned to the mundane task of folding laundry. Now this, I told myself dryly, is strictly support duty.

Of course, before I became a stay-at-home mom, I saw more action. But as the children came, one by one, I dropped out of active service. Even as the walls of my house closed in tighter, my desire to be actively involved in ministry expanded. Though I had Bible studies with my children and had a role in the church program, I was con fined mostly in the house.

"Lord, how can You use me?" be came my prayer each day as my husband drove away and I tended to my dreary little chores. Support duty had begun to pall. I wasn't jealous of my husband; he was the pastor, and I was his helpmate, I didn't want Barry's job; all I longed for was that what I did for the Lord would count.

In church I often sang about being a soldier of the cross, but I began to feel more like a prisoner of war trapped within my own home. I felt restricted from a mission for Christ because of clawing shackles the tiny hands of my young children. My dilemma was just a twist on a familiar problem a conflict not between family and career, but in balancing family and service for God.

Or was that really the problem? Was my desire for front-line ministry truly God-given, or was it a quest for vain glory? If my motives indeed were pure, how could a God-given desire produce dissatisfaction, especially when I understood my first duty was with my children?

Trying to reconcile my desire with my dilemma, I searched the Scriptures for female role models. Wasn't Priscilla right at Aquila's side? In stead, I found parallels with Paul and John the Baptist, two prisoners of front line war.

Did Paul chafe at being stuck behind bars when he had the enormous task of evangelizing the world? On more than one occasion he wrote of "longing" to be elsewhere. Was then Paul's jail time wasted and fruitless? Or hew about John the Baptist, who paved the way for Christ only to languish in prison till he died?

A prisoner of Christ

Surely my desire to serve God pleased Him but my discontent didn't, since He had ordained my situation. He had entrusted me with children, and the accompanying responsibilities limit front-line ministry. My attitude regained proper perspective when I saw myself not as a stay-at-home mother, but as a "prisoner of Jesus Christ."

Paul as a "prisoner of Jesus Christ" continued to serve Him regardless of who physically shackled him. When imprisoned in Rome, he still had Christ for his Master. The apostle's servitude was never to the Romans; his Jail-keeper was Christ. If I like wise recognize Jesus as Master of my life, I can know that nothing is beyond His attention or control. Although it may seem that binding circumstances waste time, energy, and opportunity, the Scriptures present many examples of godly, chosen people in such situations. Daniel was a captive in a foreign land. Jacob for years was a slave. Seasons of restriction, whether temporary or permanent, mold the clay of our souls. Ultimately, "those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength" (Isa. 40:31).*

Reconciling with restrictions

In my case, recognizing Christ as Master was the first step in accepting my restrictions. This was not one clean sweeping realization, but rather a hard-won process. It was also for John the Baptist. When Jesus first appeared on the scene, the faithful forerunner declared: "He must become greater; I must become less" (John 3:30). It was an unforced act of deference from one who later struggled in accepting the bondage that ended his public minis try. As John rotted in jail, undoubtedly he dreamed about what he could be doing for Christ. Despair and doubt so tormented him that he sent messengers to Christ: "Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?" (Matt. 11:3). Jesus didn't remove his shackles, but He gave John the affirmation He needed to accept his bondage.

Paul too struggled to come to terms with his "thorn in my flesh" (2 Cor. 12:7). Even when reporting God's answer that His grace was sufficient to cover the thorn in his flesh, Paul's wistfulness rings through. He testified that he had learned to be content.

The core question we must ask our selves in binding circumstances is Can Christ receive glory? Restraints some times come that we might glorify Christ: "I must become less," John said. And he did. Perhaps John was naive about the extent of his subjugation, but he understood it was necessary.

How often I prayed that Christ be glorified through my life, only to turn around and chafe at the restraints I faced along my way. The truth is, I didn't always seize opportunities already available. Now I learned to make the most of them. For example, when Jehovah's Witnesses knock on my door, I no longer send them away with a polite spiel about doctrinal differences. I take time to share Jesus as I know Him.

Realizing potential

Once reconciled with his bondage, Paul realized his potential within it. He even declared: "What has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel" (Phil. 1:12). He wrote some great epistles from within a jail cell. He preached to guards and visitors alike. Although he remained imprisoned, one can sense his heart soaring with the feeling of accomplishment.

But what about John the Baptist? Did being marched off the scene to a vicious, cruel death mean he was just a falling star? Jesus didn't think so. "Among those born of women there has not risen anyone greater than John the Baptist" (Matt. 11:11). John, even while isolated in prison, away from the masses to whom he had preached, pleased God and realized his potential. This alone must have made his heart rejoice, even in his dark, dank, dirty dungeon.

As for me, who watched on the sidelines while my husband performed "front-line" ministry, I finally realized the potential within my limitations. At that point I sought ways to share Christ creatively where circumstances had placed me.

Like Paul, I do get opportunities to witness as a prisoner of Jesus Christ. Paul took advantage of his audiences with Felix and Agrippa. He talked to his guards. Sometimes I get an audience with my child's friend or a repairman. I can still invite anyone I choose for a visit. Through prayer I can go all over the world mm" without stepping out the door. It's from my own home, not some elusive place in the world, that I gather food and clothing to give to the poor. The seeds I sow and cultivate in my children constitute my most important ministry. And for those days, weeks, even months, that go by without one recognizable front line opportunity, I remind myself of what Jesus said immediately after his remark about John the Baptist: "Yet he who is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he" (verse 11).

Now, with some of my children in school and a church nursery to care for the others, opportunities are returning for outside ministry. But wherever I' m serving God, I always want to remain a "prisoner of Jesus Christ."