Impossible

Impossible

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 5:3)

She’s in her golden years, but God promises her a son. She’s so excited by the news that she visits the maternity shop and buys a few dresses; she plans her shower and remodels the tent. But no son. She goes through a decade of wall calendars. Still, no son. So, Sarai decides to take matters into her own hands and convinces Abram that time is running out. She commands her maid, Hagar, to go into Abram’s tent and see if he needs anything – and I mean anything. As a result, Hagar goes in a maid, and comes out a mom. And the problems begin. (Genesis 16-18, 21)

Hagar is haughty. Sarai is jealous. And God calls the baby boy a “wild donkey” — an appropriate name for one born out of stubbornness and destined to kick his way into history. It isn’t the cozy family that Sarai had expected. And it isn’t a topic Abram and Sarai bring up very often at the dinner table, either. Finally, fourteen years later, when Abram is pushing a century of years and Sarai’s ninety, when the wallpaper in the nursery is faded and the baby furniture is more than a decade out of date, God pays them a visit and tells them that they’d better select a name for their new son.

Abram and Sarai have the same response. They laugh. Partly because it’s too good to be true, and partly because it might be. They laugh because they’d given up all hope, and hope born anew is always funny before it’s real. They laugh at the lunacy of it all. Abram looks over at Sarai — toothless and snoring in her rocker, head back and mouth wide open; as fruitful as a pitted prune and just as wrinkled. And he cracks up. He tries to contain it, but he can’t. He’s always been a sucker for a good joke. And Sarai is equally amused. When she hears the news, a cackle escapes before she can contain it. She mumbles something about her husband needing a lot more than what he’s got and then laughs again.

They laugh because that’s what you do when someone says He can do the impossible. They laugh a little at God, and a lot with God — because God’s laughing, too. Then, with the smile still on his face, he gets busy doing what he does best — the unbelievable. He changes a few things, beginning with their names. Abram, the father of one, will now be Abraham, the father of a multitude. Sarai, the barren one, will now be Sarah, the mother. But their names aren’t the only thing God changes. He changes their minds. He changes their faith. He changes the number of their tax deductions. He changes the way they define the word “impossible.”

But most of all, he changes Sarah’s attitude about trusting God. Were she to hear Jesus’ statement about being poor in spirit (Matt. 5:3 – our text), maybe she’d give a testimony something like this: “He’s right. I do things my way, I get a headache. I let God take over, I get a son. You figure it out. All I know is I’m the only one in town to pay her pediatrician with a Social Security check.” And two thousand years later, there’s another testimony.

The last thing he wanted to do was fish some more. But that was exactly what Jesus wanted to do. Simon had fished all night: his arms ached, his eyes burned and he was sore all over. All he wanted to do was go home and let his wife rub the knots out of his neck. (Luke 5) It’d been a long night, and he lost count of how many times he’d thrown that net into the blackness and heard it slap against the sea. All night he and his partners had waited for that bump, that tug, that jerk that would tell them to haul in the catch. But it never came. And at daybreak, they were all ready to go home.

But just as he was about to leave the beach, he noticed a crowd coming toward him. They were following a lanky fellow who walked with a broad smile and a confident gait. The fellow saw Simon and called him by name. “Morning, Jesus!” Simon called back. Though he was a hundred yards away, anyone could see his white smile. “Quite a crowd, huh?” he yelled, motioning at the mass behind him. Simon nodded and sat down to watch. Jesus stopped near the edge of the water and began to speak. Though he couldn’t hear much, Simon could see much more. He could see more and more people coming. With all the pressing and shoving, it’s a wonder Jesus didn’t get pushed down into the water, even though he was already knee-deep in it.

Simon didn’t have to think twice. Jesus climbed into his boat, and John followed. They pushed out a bit, and then Simon leaned back against the bow and Jesus began to teach. It seemed like half of Israel was on the beach. Men had left work, women had left their household chores. Even a few priests were in the audience. They scarcely moved, yet their eyes danced as if they were in some way seeing what they could become. When Jesus finished, he turned to Simon, who had begun to pull anchor when Jesus said, “Push out into the deep, Simon. Let’s go fishin’.”

Simon groaned and looked at John. They were thinking the same thing. As long as he wanted to use the boat for a speaker’s platform, that was fine. But to use it for a fishing boat? That was their territory. Simon wanted to tell this carpenter-teacher, “You stick to preaching, and I’ll stick to fishing.” But he was more polite: “We worked all night. We didn’t catch a thing.” Jesus just looked at him. Simon looked at John. John was waiting for his partner’s cue. Maybe he’d wished he’d done it out of love. Maybe he’d wished he’d done it out of devotion. But Simon couldn’t say that, because there’s a time to question and a time to listen. So, as much with a grunt as with a prayer, they pushed out.

With every stroke of the oar, Simon muttered. With every pull of the paddle, he grumbled. “No way! This is impossible. I may not know much, but I do know fishing and all we’re going catch is a cold,” Simon thought. The noise on the beach grew distant, and soon the only sound was the smack of the waves against the hull. Finally they cast anchor. Simon picked up the heavy netting, held it waist-high, and started to throw it. That’s when he caught a glimpse of Jesus out of the corner of his eye.

The net flew high, spreading itself against the blue sky and floating down until it flopped against the surface, then sank. Simon wrapped the rope once around his hand and sat back for the long wait. But there was no wait. The slack rope yanked taut and almost pulled Simon overboard. He set his feet against the side of the boat and yelled for help. John and Jesus sprang to his side. They got the net in just before it began to tear. He’d never seen such a catch. It was like plopping down a sack of rocks in the boat to the point where they began to take on water. John screamed for the other boat to help.

And that’s when Simon realized who He was. And that’s when Simon realized who he was: he was the one who told God what he couldn’t do! “‘Go away from me, Lord; I’m a sinful man,” Simon said. What else he could say? And it was a scene he would see many times over the next couple of years — in cemeteries with the dead, on hillsides with the hungry, in storms with the frightened, on roadsides with the sick. The characters would change, but the theme wouldn’t. When he would say, “No way,” Jesus would say, “My way.”

“My power shows up best in weak people.” God said those words, and Paul wrote them down. (2 Cor. 12:9) God said he was looking for empty vessels more than strong muscles, and Paul proved it. Before he encountered Christ, Paul had been somewhat of a hero among the Pharisees. You might say he was their version of The Lone Ranger. He kept law and order or, stated somewhat differently, revered the Law and gave the orders. Jewish moms held him up as an example of a good Jewish boy. He was given the seat of honor at the Jerusalem Lions’ Club’s Wednesday luncheons. He had a “Who’s Who in Judaism” paperweight on his desk and was selected “Most Likely to Succeed” by his graduating class. He was quickly establishing himself as the heir apparent to his teacher, Gamaliel. If there was such a thing as a religious fortune, Paul had it. He was a spiritual billionaire, and he knew it.

Blue-blooded and wild-eyed, this young zealot was hell-bent on keeping the kingdom pure — and that meant keeping the Christians out. He marched through the countryside like a general demanding that backslidden Jews salute the flag of the motherland or kiss their family and their hopes goodbye. All this came to a halt, however, on the shoulder of a highway. Equipped with subpoenas, handcuffs, and a posse, Paul was on his way to do a little house cleaning in Damascus. That’s when someone slammed on the stadium lights, and he heard the voice.

When he found out whose voice it was, his jaw hit the ground, and his body quickly followed. He braced himself for the worst. He knew it was over. He felt the noose around his neck. He smelled the flowers in the hearse. He prayed that death would be quick and painless. But all he got was silence and the first of a lifetime of surprises. He ended up bewildered and befuddled and convalescing in a borrowed bedroom. God left him there a few days with scales on his eyes so thick that the only direction he could look was inside. And he didn’t like what he saw. He saw himself for what he really was: the worst of sinners. (1 Tim. 1:15) A legalist. A killjoy. A braggart who claimed to have mastered God’s code. Saul was a dispenser of justice who weighed salvation on its scale.

That’s when Ananias found him, and Saul wasn’t much to look at; haggard and groggy after three days of turmoil. Sarai wasn’t much to look at either, neither was Simon. But what the three have in common says more than a volume of systematic theology. For when they gave up, God stepped in and the result was a rollercoaster ride straight into the Kingdom. Paul was a step ahead of the rich young ruler, for instance. He knew better than to strike a deal with God. He didn’t make any excuses; he just pleaded for mercy. Alone in the room with his sins on his conscience and blood on his hands, he asked to be cleansed.

Ananias’ instructions to Paul are worth noting: “What are you waiting for? Get up, be baptized and wash your sins away, calling on his name.” (Acts 22:16) He didn’t have to be told twice. The legalist Saul was buried, and the liberator Paul was born. And he was never the same afterward.

And neither was the world. Stirring sermons, dedicated disciples, and thousands of miles of trails. If his sandals weren’t slapping, his pen was writing. If he wasn’t explaining the mystery of grace, he was articulating the theology that would determine the course of Western civilization. Yet, all of his words can be reduced to one sentence: “We preach Christ crucified.” (1 Cor. 1:23) It wasn’t that he lacked other sermon material; it’s just that he couldn’t exhaust his first outline.

The absurdity of the whole thing kept him going. Jesus should have finished him off on the road. He should have left him for the buzzards. He should have sent him to hell. But he didn’t. He sent him to the lost. Paul himself even said it was crazy. He described it with phrases like “stumbling block” and “foolishness,” but chose in the end to call it “grace.” (1 Cor. 1:23; Eph. 2:8) And he defended his unquenchable loyalty by saying, “The love of Christ leaves [me] no choice.” (1 Cor. 5:14)

Paul never took a course in missions. He never sat in on a committee meeting. He never read a book on church growth. He was just inspired by the Holy Spirit that makes the impossible possible: salvation. And the message is gripping. Show a man his failures without Jesus, and the result will be found in a roadside gutter, like Saul. Give a man religion without reminding him of his filth, and the result will be arrogance in a three-piece suit, just like the rich young ruler. But get the two in the same heart — get sin to meet the Savior and the Savior to meet the sin — and the result just might be another Pharisee turned preacher who promptly set the world on fire.

Four people – the rich young ruler, Sarah, Peter, Paul. A curious thread strings the four together: their names. The final three had their names changed: Sarai to Sarah, Simon to Peter, Saul to Paul. But the first one, the yuppie, is never mentioned by name. Maybe that’s the clearest explanation of the first beatitude. (Matt. 5:3) The one who made a name for himself is nameless, but the ones who called on Jesus’ name got new ones … and a new life.

Impossible.

Grace,

Randy