Lists

Lists

When they came to a place called the Skull, the soldiers crucified Jesus and the criminals—one on his right and the other on his left. Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, because they don’t know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:33-34)

Here's a list of three things you should know about lists: (1) they're everywhere – on TV, in the movies and on the radio; (2) they're getting longer than ever, like "1,000 Places to See Before You Die"; and (3) there's a list for just about everything; it’s becoming an obsession.

For instance, in Men’s Health, a monthly magazine, there’s at least a dozen lists and some 2,000 tips in every issue. But lists are perfect for guys with short attention spans because it tells you right up front how long it's probably going to take you to read the list. If it says, “Five things,” you're like, “Yeah, you know what? I've got a couple minutes. I'll read that.” But if it's a hundred things, or a thousand-and-one things, then it’s “Wow. I need a Fresca, a tuna sandwich and a Barcalounger for that one; I think I’ll take a pass.”

Max Lucado, in his book He Still Moves Stones, tells the story about a woman who nearly missed a flight that he was on. In fact, he thought he had the row all to himself when he looked up and saw her puffing down the aisle, dragging two large bags. “I hate to fly,” she blurted out as she fell into her seat. “I put off getting here as long as I could.” “You almost put it off too long,” Max replied with a smile.

He described her as tall, young, blonde, tan, and talkative. Her jeans were fashionably ripped at the knees, and her black boots boasted silver tips. She really did hate to fly, he learned, and the way she coped was by talking. “I’m going home to see my dad. He’ll really be amazed at my tan. He thinks I’m crazy living in California — me being single and all. I’ve got this new boyfriend, he’s from Lebanon. He travels a lot though, so I only see him on weekends, which is fine with me because that gives me the house to myself which isn’t far from the beach and .…”

Max says that he’s learned what to do when a friendly, attractive woman sits beside him. He says that as soon as possible, he reveals his profession and marital status. It keeps them both out of trouble. “My wife hates to fly, too,” he jumped in when she took a breath, “so I know how you feel. And since I’m a minister, I know a section of the Bible you might like to read as we take off.” So, he pulled his Bible out of his briefcase and opened it to Psalm 23.

For the first time she was quiet. “The Lord is my shepherd,” she read the words then looked up with a broad smile. “I remember this,” she said as the plane was taking off. “I read it when I was young.” She turned to read some more.

The next time she looked up there was a tear in her eye. “It’s been a long time. A long, long time.” She told him how she believed … once. She became a Christian when she was young, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to church. They talked for awhile about faith and second chances and then Max asked if he could ask her a question. She said he could. “Do you believe in heaven?” “Yeah,” she replied. “Do you think you’ll go there?” he said.

She looked away for a minute and then turned and answered confidently, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be in heaven.” “How do you know?” Max asked. “How do I know I’m going to heaven?” She grew quiet as she formulated her response. Somehow, Max knew what she was going to say before she said it; he could see it coming. She was going to give him her “list.” “Well, I’m basically good. I don’t do drugs. I exercise. I’m dependable at work and,” she counted each achievement on a finger, “I made my boyfriend get tested for AIDS.”

Ta-Da! That was her list. Her qualifications. By her way of thinking, heaven could be earned by good health habits and safe sex. Her line of logic was simple — I keep the list on this side, and I get the place on the other side.

Now before we’re too hard on her, let me ask you a question. What’s on your list? Most of us are like the girl on the plane. We think we are “basically good;” that we’re decent, hardworking folk, and most of us have a list to prove it. Maybe ours doesn’t include exercise or AIDS, but we have a list. “I pay my bills.” “I love my spouse and kids.” “I’m better than Hitler.” “I’m basically good.” Most of us have a list, and there’s a purpose for the list: to prove we’re good. But there’s a problem with the list: none of us is good enough.

Paul made this point when he placed two short-fused sticks of dynamite in the third chapter of his letter to the church in Rome. The first is in verse 10. “There is no one who always does what is right,” he wrote, “not even one.” No one. Not you. Not me. Not anyone. The second explosion occurs in verse 23. “All have sinned and are not good enough for God’s glory.”

BOOM! So much for lists. So much for being “basically good.”

Then how do we go to heaven? If no one is good, if no list is sufficient, if no achievements are adequate, how can a person be saved? No question is more crucial. And to hear Jesus answer it, let’s consider the last encounter he had before death. An encounter between Jesus and two criminals. All three are being crucified.

Now, one might like to think that these two thieves were victims. Undeserving of punishment. Good men who got a bad rap. Patriots dying a martyr’s death. But that’s not the case. Matthew dispels any such notion with just one word in one verse: “the robbers who were being crucified beside Jesus also insulted him” (Matt. 27:44).

Tragedy has a way of revealing a person’s character. And the tragedy of this crucifixion reveals that these two thieves had none. They slander Jesus with their last breaths. Can you hear them? Voices, husky with pain, sneer at the Messiah. “Some king of the Jews you are.” “Life is pretty tough on Messiahs these days, eh?” “How about a little miracle, Galilean?” “Ever see nails that size in Nazareth?” “Hey, you’re a carpenter; did you make that thing?”

You’d have expected it from the Pharisees. You’d have expected it from the crowd. Even the mocking of the soldiers isn’t surprising. But from the thieves? Crucified men insulting a crucified man? That’s like two men with nooses on their necks ridiculing the plight of a third on the platform, or two POWs before a firing squad taunting each other’s misfortune. Could anyone be blinder? Could anyone be viler?

No wonder these two were on the cross! Rome deems them worthy of an ugly torture. Their only value to society is to serve as a public spectacle. Strip them naked so all will know that evil cannot hide. Nail their hands so all will see that the wicked have no strength. Post them high so all will tell their children, “That’s what happens to evil men.” Every muscle in their body screams for relief. Nails pulse fire through their arms. Legs contort and twist seeking comfort. But there’s no comfort on a cross. Yet even the pain of the spikes won’t silence their spiteful tongues. These two will die as they lived – attacking the innocent. But in this case, the innocent doesn’t retaliate.

The man they mocked wasn’t much to look at. His body was whip-torn flesh, yanked away from the bone. His face was a mask of blood and spit; eyes puffy and swollen. “King of the Jews” was painted over his head. A crown of thorns had pierced his scalp. His lip was split. Maybe his nose was bleeding or a tooth was loose. The man they mocked was half-dead. The man they mocked was beaten. But the man they mocked was at peace. “Father, forgive them, because they don’t know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34)

After Jesus’ prayer, one of the criminals began to shout insults at him: “Aren’t you the Christ? Then save yourself and us.” (vs. 39) The heart of this thief remains hard. The presence of Christ crucified means nothing to him. Jesus is worthy of ridicule, so the thief ridicules. And he expects his chorus to be harmonized from the cross on the other side of Jesus. But it isn’t. It’s challenged, instead.

“You should fear God! You are getting the same punishment he is. We are punished justly, getting what we deserve for what we did. But this man has done nothing wrong.” (v. 40-41) Unbelievable. The same mouth that cursed Christ now defends Christ. What happened? What’s he seen since he’s been on the cross? Did he witness a miracle? Did he hear a lecture? Was he read a treatise on the trinity? No, nothing of the sort. According to Luke, all he heard was a prayer – a prayer of grace. But that was enough. Something happens to a person who stands in the presence of God. And something happened to the thief.

Read again his words. “We are punished justly, getting what we deserve…. But this man has done nothing wrong.” That’s the core of the gospel in one sentence. The essence of eternity through the mouth of a crook: I’m wrong; Jesus is right. I’ve failed; Jesus hasn’t. I deserve to die; Jesus deserves to live. The thief knew precious little about Christ, but what he knew was precious indeed. He knew that an innocent man was dying an unjust death with no complaint on his lips. And if Jesus can do that, he just might be who he says he is.

So the thief asks for help: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” The heavy head of Christ lifts and turns, and the eyes of these two meet. What Jesus sees is a naked man. I don’t mean in terms of clothes. I mean in terms of charades. He has no cover. No way to hide. His title? Scum of the earth. His achievement? Death by crucifixion. His reputation? Criminal. His character? Depraved until the last moment. Until the final hour. Until the last encounter.

Until now.

Tell me, what has this man done to warrant help? He’d wasted his life. I mean, who’s he to beg for forgiveness? He publicly scoffed at Jesus. What right does he have to pray this prayer? Do you really want to know? The same right we have to pray ours.

You see, that’s you and me on the cross. Naked, desolate, hopeless and estranged. That’s us. That’s us asking, “In spite of what I’ve done, in spite of what you see, is there any way you could remember me when we all get home?” We don’t boast. We don’t produce our list. Any sacrifice appears silly when placed before God on a cross.

It’s more than we deserve. But we’re desperate. So we plead. As have so many others: the cripple at the pool; Mary at the wedding; Martha at the funeral; the demoniac at Geresene; Nicodemus at night; Peter on the sea; Jairus on the trail; Joseph at the stable. And every other human being who has dared to stand before the Son of God and admit his or her need.

We, like the thief, have one more prayer. And we, like the thief, pray. And we, like the thief, hear the voice of grace. Today you will be with me in my kingdom. And we, like the thief, are able to endure the pain knowing he’ll one day take us home.

You can put that one on your list.

Grace,

Randy

Forgiveness

Forgiveness

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times should I forgive my brother when he sins against met? Up to seven times? Jesus answered, "I tell you not seven times, but seventy-seven times. Therefore, the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants. As he began his settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him. Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt. The servant fell on his knees before him, 'Be patient with me,' he begged, 'and I will pay back everything.' The servant's master took pity on him ,canceled the debt and let him go. But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him one hundred denarii. He grabbed him and began to choke him. 'Pay back what you owe me!' he demanded. His fellow servant fell down to his knees and begged him, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back.' But he refused. Instead he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he could pay the debt. When the other servants saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed and went and told their master everything that had happened. Then the master called the servant in, 'You wicked servant,' he said, 'I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to. Shouldn't you have had mercy on your servant just as I had on you?' In anger his master turned him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed. 'This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother from your heart.' Matt. 18:21-35

In his book, Letters to Malcolm, C.S. Lewis wrote, "Last week in prayer, I discovered, or at least I think I did, that I suddenly was able to forgive someone that I had been trying to forgive for over thirty years." How true.

In Ernest Hemingway’s short story, The Capital of the World, he tells about a young man who had wronged his father and had then run away to the city of Madrid to become a bullfighter. Out of great love and compassion for his son, the father took out an ad in the Madrid newspaper which read, “Paco, meet me at the Hotel Montana, Tuesday at noon. All is forgiven. Papa.” At the time, “Paco” was a pretty common name in Spain. So, when the father got to the hotel, he found 800 young men waiting for their fathers. We all long for forgiveness. We want to be able to forgive, and to be forgiven. But if that’s true, why is it so hard? Well, if it’s any consolation, it wasn't any easier for the first followers of Jesus, either.

In the text, Peter – playing the role of spokesman for the disciples – steps forward and plops the problem of forgiveness right there at Jesus’ feet. Maybe he thinks he’s pushing the outer limits of forgiveness. Maybe he thinks he’s pushing the envelope. But whatever he thinks, he comes to Jesus and says, “Lord, when somebody hoses me, how many times should I allow that to happen before I stop forgiving them? Seven times?” (The Rabbinic teaching of that day said that when someone wronged you, you should forgive them up to three times, and then you could stop forgiving. So, to be on the safe side, or maybe on the pious side, Peter doubles the number and adds one for good measure)

Jesus' answer is startling. “No,” he says. “Not seven times. Seventy-seven times.” Now the literal Greek in the text can be translated either seventy-seven or seventy times seven, which would be 490. But we’re missing the whole point if we think that Jesus was talking about a literal number. What Jesus was talking about is grace.

It’s a mistake if we try to understand forgiveness in a clinical way. Because if we try to understand grace (which is at the heart of forgiveness) by dissecting the law, we’re going to miss it altogether. Grace can best be understood by way of a story, or an example. So, Jesus explains the grace of forgiveness to the disciples by telling them a parable. It’s a simple, straight-forward story that doesn’t require a rocket scientist, biblical scholar, or even a great theologian to understand. And therein lies part of the difficulty.

It’s a story about a king and his servants. You see, this king had loaned his servants some money and it was time to call in the loans. Now, servant A had run up an unbelievable tab, e.g., about $2.25 billion. (Yes, that’s “billion” with a capital “B”) And the point of the parable is that this was such an enormous sum that it would have been impossible for the servant to repay. So, the king chooses to cut his losses and orders Servant A, including his wife and kids, into slavery and puts the servant’s house up for sale.

The servant begs for mercy. He’s trying to buy time, and he’s hoping that the king will cut him a little slack. So, he literally pleads for his life. And then the most unexpected, unbelievable thing happens. The king doesn't just give him a little extra time, or even cut him some slack. He totally forgives the debt. He cancels it in its entirety. The servant and his family are off the auction block. They’re debt-free!

Now, put yourself in that servant's shoes for a minute. How would you feel at that moment? How’d you leave the palace? You’d be ecstatic, right? Like when somebody lets you merge into traffic, aren't you more likely to return the favor to another motorist? You know, pay it forward? But that’s the problem with this servant. After all of that forgiveness, he leaves as if nothing’s happened.

Enter servant B. Servant B owes servant A the princely sum of 100 denarii, or about $6,800.00 by today’s standards. And like a scene right out of The Godfather, servant A puts down his violin case and starts choking servant B saying, “I’m going to break your kneecaps unless you pay up.” Servant B begs for mercy, using the same exact words that servant A used with the king. But this time there’s no mercy. Servant A shows him absolutely no mercy. Instead, he has servant B thrown into debtor's prison until he can work off the debt. Nice guy.

But the hills have eyes. Some of the other servants see what servant A does to servant B, and they get royally ticked and squeal to the king. And for the second time, servant A is called on the king's carpet. But where, once before, the king had gone from loan shark to Mr. Generosity, the king’s pity has changed to anger as he lowers the boom and sends servant A to be tortured in prison.

The story’s over for servants A and B. But it’s not over for Peter. It’s not over for the disciples. And it’s not over for us. Because Jesus says at the conclusion of the parable that “Unless you and I forgive our brothers and sisters from the heart, we are going wind up just like servant A.” You see, this is a parable about us and our relationship with God, and our relationships to each other in terms of forgiveness. And my, how God has forgiven the debt that we’ve run up! It’s a LOT bigger than $2.25 billion. Our sin has run up a tab totaling eternal death and infinite separation from God, i.e., hell. Those are the consequences of the debt we owe.

Yet God (don’t you just love those words?), in his unfathomable love and grace, has canceled our sin debt through the life, death and bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ. He has totally forgiven that debt in its entirety. “I – yes I alone – am the one who blots out your sins for my own sake and will never think of them again.” (Isaiah 43:25) And not only that, but you and I come out on the other side with the gift of eternal life. Talk about grace!

In 1935, Fiorello LaGuardia, then Mayor of New York, visited a night court in the poorest ward of the city. He relieved the judge for the evening and took the bench himself. A case came up where a grandmother had been arrested for stealing bread to feed her grandchildren. LaGuardia said, “You’re guilty, and I’ve got to punish you. Ten dollars or ten days in jail.” And then LaGuardia pulled out a $10 bill from his pocket and threw it in his hat. He then fined everybody in the courtroom for living in a city where grandmothers have to steal bread to feed their grandchildren. They passed the hat and the woman left the courthouse that evening not only having her fine paid, but with $47.50 in her pocket.

Now, don't you think it’s more likely that she left that courtroom in a spirit of forgiveness; a greater probability that she would show mercy to those whom she met? Let’s face it, people are going to do us wrong. And some of them are going to come to us and ask us to forgive them. Granted, some of those people are going to be pretty awful – having done some pretty horrible things to us. And we think that most of them, if not all of them, don't deserve to be forgiven. So, we’re confronted with a choice. Are we going to seize on the pain? Are we going to seize on the pride and withhold forgiveness? If so, Jesus says we’re just like servant A, and we’re going to wind up in prison – a prison of anger, hatred, depression and guilt. And it’s a prison that we build ourselves.

God really does have this obsessive thing about forgiveness. So much so that he requires it. He orders it. And just like any other mandate in Scripture, forgiveness is primarily commanded for our own good. Because God knows. He knows that you and I will never really be healed; we will never really move toward wholeness; we will never really get on with our lives until we are able to let go of the resentment; until we can give up gaining revenge and forgive. Forgiveness is not a feeling; it’s a choice.

But what God orders, the Holy Spirit empowers. The mistake we make a lot of times is that we look at who the person is who’s wronged us and what they’ve done. But this parable reminds us that that’s a mistake. When we’ve been wronged, we need to look at who God is and what He’s done for us. “OK, so how far do I have to go with this forgiveness thing?” I don’t know. How far has God gone with you? “But aren’t there limits for crying out loud?” I don’t know. What are the limits to God's grace? You see, it’s all about mercy and grace, and grace says, “I won't give him what he deserves; I will forgive him.”

In fact, this forgiveness thing is so important that it could permanently ruin the “Lord's Prayer” for you. Go to Matthew 6, and look at verse 12. Right in the middle of the Lord's Prayer is a phrase that you and I, if we’re not careful, mindlessly pray when we say it: "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." But have you honestly thought about what you’re asking God to do there? In fact, by the time we get to verse 12 we just want to go silent, or maybe mumble hoping that God won’t hear. Right?

In his book, What’s So Amazing About Grace, Phillip Yancey tells the story of Simon Wiesenthal, a Nazi prisoner-of-war. One day, as Wiesenthal's prison detail was taking out the trash from the hospital for German casualties, a nurse approached him. “Are you a Jew?” she asked hesitantly, then signaled him to accompany her. Apprehensive, Wiesenthal followed her up a stairway and down a hallway until they reached a dark, musty room where a lone soldier lay, covered in bandages. White gauze completely masked the man's face, with openings cut out for only his mouth, nose and ears. The nurse disappeared, closing the door behind her, to leave the young prisoner alone with the soldier.

The wounded man was an SS officer, and he summoned Wiesenthal so that he could make a deathbed confession. “My name is Karl,” said a raspy voice that came from somewhere behind the bandages. “I must tell you of this horrible deed; tell you because you are a Jew.”

Karl began his story by reminiscing about his Catholic upbringing and his childhood faith, which he lost while in the Hitler Youth Corp. Three times, as Karl tried to tell his story, Wiesenthal pulled away as if to leave. But each time the officer reached out to grab his arm with a white, nearly bloodless hand. He begged him to listen.

In a certain town abandoned by the retreating Russians, Karl's unit stumbled upon a booby-trap that killed 30 of their soldiers. As an act of revenge, the SS rounded up 300 Jews, herded them into a three-story house, doused it with gasoline, and fired grenades at it. Karl and his men encircled the house, their guns drawn to shoot anyone who tried to escape. “I saw a man with a small child in his arms. His clothes were afire. By his side stood a woman, doubtless the mother of the child. With his free hand, the man covered the child's eyes, and then he jumped into the street. Seconds later the woman followed. Then from the other windows fell burning bodies. We shot. Oh God.” Karl went on to describe other atrocities, but he kept circling back to the scene of that young boy with the black hair and dark eyes falling from a building who was used as target practice for the SS rifles.

“I am left here with my guilt,” he concluded at last. “In the last hours of my life, you are with me. I do not know who you are. I know only that you are a Jew, and that is enough. I know that what I have told you is terrible. In the long nights while I have been waiting for death, time and time again, I have longed to talk about it to a Jew and beg forgiveness from him. Only I didn't know whether there were any Jews left. I know what I am asking is almost too much for you, but without your answer I cannot die in peace.”

Simon Wiesenthal, an architect in his early 20's, now a prisoner dressed in a shabby uniform marked with a yellow Star of David, felt the crushing burden of his race bearing down upon him. He stared out the window at the sunlit courtyard. He looked at the eyeless heap of bandages lying in the bed. He watched a fly buzzing around the dying man's body, attracted by the smell. “At last I made up my mind,” Wiesenthal writes. “And without a word I left the room.”

How far are we willing to go with this forgiveness business? We’ve been hurt. We’ve been wounded. In little ways. Sometimes in catastrophic ways. And deep down inside, our gut tells us that there’s got to be a limit. So, we play church because we say we know Jesus, and that we’ve surrendered our lives to him. Really?

Well then, please forgive me. Forgive me for asking, “What difference will playing church make the next time you and I run into servant B?” There’s someone who needs to hear us say, “I forgive you.” Will you? And if so, will you really mean it?

Grace,

Randy