Faith

Faith

Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.” “Yes, come,” Jesus said. So Peter went over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted. Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him. “You have so little faith,” Jesus said. “Why did you doubt me?” When they climbed back into the boat, the wind stopped. Then the disciples worshiped him. “You really are the Son of God!” they exclaimed. (Matt. 14:28-33)

Faith is often the child of fear. Fear propelled Peter out of the boat. He’d ridden these waves before. He knew what these storms could do. He’d heard the stories. He’d seen the wreckage. He knew the widows. He knew the storm could kill. And he wanted out. Desperately. All night he wanted out. For nine hours he’d tugged on sails, wrestled with oars, and searched every shadow on the horizon for hope. He was soaked to the soul, and bone weary of the wind’s wail.

Look into Peter’s eyes and you won’t see a man of conviction. Search his face and you won’t find a gutsy grimace. Later on, you will. You’ll see his courage in the garden. You’ll witness his devotion at Pentecost. You’ll behold his faith in his letters. But not tonight. Look into his eyes tonight and you see fear — a suffocating, heart-racing fear of a man who has absolutely no way out.

But out of this fear would be born an act of faith, for faith is often the child of fear. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” wrote the wise man. (Prov. 9:10) Peter could have been his sermon illustration. If Peter had seen Jesus walking on the water during a calm, peaceful day, do you think that he would have walked out to him? Had the lake been carpet smooth and the journey pleasant do you think that Peter would have begged Jesus to take him on a stroll across the top of the water? Doubtful. But give a man a choice between sure death and a crazy chance, and he’ll take the chance . . . every time. Great acts of faith are seldom born out of calm calculation.

It wasn’t logic that caused Moses to raise his staff on the bank of the Red Sea. (Exodus 14:15,16) It wasn’t medical research that convinced Naaman to dip seven times in the river. (2 Kings 5:13-14) It wasn’t common sense that caused Paul to abandon the Law and embrace grace. (Romans 3) And it wasn’t a confident committee that prayed in a small room in Jerusalem for Peter’s release from prison. (Acts 12:6-17) It was a fearful, desperate band of backed-into-the-corner believers. It was a church with no options. A congregation of have-nots pleading for help. And never were they stronger, because at the beginning of every act of faith there’s often a seed of fear.

Biographies of bold disciples begin with chapters of honest terror. Fear of death. Fear of failure. Fear of loneliness. Fear of a wasted life. Fear of failing to know God. Faith begins when you see God on the mountain and you’re in the valley and you know that you’re too weak to make the climb. You see what you need . . . you see what you have . . . and what you have isn’t enough to accomplish anything.

Peter had given it his best. But his best wasn’t enough. Moses had a sea in front and an enemy behind. The Israelites could swim or they could fight. But neither option was enough. Naaman had tried the cures and consulted the soothsayers. Traveling a long distance to plunge into a muddy river made little sense when there were plenty of clean ones in his own backyard. But what option did he have? Paul had mastered the Law. He had mastered the system. But one glimpse of God convinced him that sacrifices and symbols weren’t enough. The Jerusalem church knew that they had no hope of getting Peter out of prison. They had Christians who would fight, but too few. They had clout, but too little. They didn’t need muscle. They needed a miracle.

So does Peter, and he’s aware of two facts: he’s going down, and Jesus is staying up. He knows where he would rather be. And there’s nothing wrong with this response. Faith that begins with fear will end up nearer the Father.

“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter says, “tell me to come to you on the water.” (Matt. 14:28) Peter’s not testing Jesus; he’s pleading with him. Stepping out onto a stormy sea is not a move of logic; it’s a move of desperation. Peter grabs the edge of the boat. Throws out a leg . . . follows with the other. Several steps are taken. It’s as if an invisible ridge of rocks runs beneath his feet, and at the end of the ridge is the face of a never-say-die friend.

We do the same, don’t we? We come to Christ in an hour of deep need. We abandon the boat of good works. We realize, like Moses, that human strength won’t save us. So, we look to God in desperation. We realize, like Paul, that all the good works in the world are puny when laid before the Perfect One. We understand, like Peter, that spanning the gap between us and Jesus is a feat too great for our feet. So we beg for help. Hear his voice. And step out in fear, hoping that our little faith will be enough.

Faith is not born at the negotiating table where we barter our gifts in exchange for God’s goodness. Faith is not an award given to the most learned. It’s not a prize given to the most disciplined. It’s not a title bestowed upon the most religious. Faith is a desperate dive out of the sinking boat of human effort, and a prayer that God will be there to pull us out of the water. Paul wrote about this kind of faith in his letter to the Ephesians: “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast.” (Eph. 2:8-9)

Paul is clear. The supreme force in salvation is God’s grace. Not our works. Not our talents. Not our feelings. Not our strength. Salvation is God’s sudden, calming presence during the stormy seas of our lives. We hear his voice; we take the step. We, like Paul, are aware of two things: we are great sinners in need of a great Savior. We, like Peter, are aware of two facts: we’re going down and God is standing up. So we scramble out. We leave behind the Titanic of our self-righteousness and stand on the solid path of God’s grace. And, surprisingly, we are able to walk on water. Death is disarmed. Failures are forgivable. Life has real purpose. And God is not only within sight, he’s within reach.

With precious, wobbly steps we draw closer to him. For a season of surprising strength, we stand upon his promises. It doesn’t make sense that we’re able to do this. We don’t claim to be worthy of such an incredible gift.

When people ask how in the world we can keep our balance during such stormy times, we don’t boast. We don’t brag. We point unabashedly to the One who makes it possible. Our eyes are on him. “Nothing in my hand I bring; simply to Thy cross I cling,” we sing. (Rock of Ages) “‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved,” we explain. (Amazing Grace)

Some of us, unlike Peter, never look back. Others of us, like Peter, feel the wind and we’re afraid. (Matt. 14:30) Maybe we face the wind of pride: “I’m not such a bad sinner after all. Look at what I can do.” Or, perhaps we face the wind of legalism: “I know that Jesus is doing part of this, but I have to do the rest.” Most of us, though, face the wind of doubt: “I’m too bad for God to treat me this well. I don’t deserve to be rescued.” And downward we plunge. Weighed down by mortality’s mortar, we sink. Gulping and thrashing, we fall into a dark, wet world. We open our eyes and see only blackness. We try to breathe, and no air comes. We kick and fight our way back to the surface. With our heads barely above the water, we have to make a decision.

The prideful ask: “Do we ‘save face’ and drown in pride? Or do we scream for help and take God’s hand?” The legalists ask: “Do we sink under the lead-heavy weight of the Law? Or do we abandon the codes and beg for grace?” The doubters ask: “Do we nurture doubt by mumbling, ‘I’ve really let him down this time?’ Or do we hope that the same Christ who called us out of the boat will call us out of the sea?” We know Peter’s choice. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted. (Matt. 14:30)

We also know the choice of another sailor in another storm. Although separated by seventeen centuries, this sailor and Peter are drawn together by several striking similarities: both made their living on the sea; both met their Savior after a nine-hour battle in a storm; both met the Father in fear and then followed him in faith; and both walked away from their boats and became preachers of the Truth.

You know the story of Peter, the first sailor. But let me tell you about the second sailor, John. He had served on the seas since he was eleven years old. His father, an English shipmaster in the Mediterranean, took him aboard and trained him well for a life in the Royal Navy. But what John gained in experience, he lacked in discipline. He mocked authority. Ran with the wrong crowd. Indulged in the sinful ways of some sailors. Although his training would have qualified him to serve as an officer, his behavior caused him to be flogged and demoted.

So, in his early twenties, he made his way to Africa, where he became intrigued with the lucrative slave trade. At age twenty-one, he made his living on the Greyhound, a slave ship crossing the Atlantic Ocean. John ridiculed the moral, and poked fun at the religious. He even made jokes about a book that would eventually reshape his life: The Imitation of Christ. In fact, he was degrading that book a few hours before his ship sailed into an angry storm.

That night the waves pummeled the Greyhound, spinning the ship one minute on the top of a wave. Plunging her the next into a watery valley. John woke up with his cabin filled with water. A side of the Greyhound had collapsed. Ordinarily such damage would have sent a ship to the bottom in a matter of minutes. The Greyhound, however, was carrying buoyant cargo and remained afloat.

John worked at the pumps all night. For nine hours, he and the other sailors struggled to keep the ship from sinking. But he knew that it was a losing cause. Finally, when his hopes were more battered than the vessel, he threw himself on the saltwater-soaked deck and pleaded, “If this will not do, then Lord have mercy on us all.”

John didn’t deserve mercy, but he received it. The Greyhound and her crew survived. And John never forgot God’s mercy shown on that tempestuous day in the roaring Atlantic. He returned to England where he became a prolific composer. You’ve sung his songs, like: Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.

This slave-trader-turned-songwriter was John Newton. And along with his hymn writing, he also became a powerful preacher. For nearly fifty years, he filled pulpits and churches with the story of the Savior who meets you and me in the storm. A year or two before his death, people urged him to give up preaching because of his failing eyesight. “What!” he explained. “Shall the old African blasphemer stop while he can yet speak?” He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. What had begun as a prayer of fear resulted in a lifetime of faith. During his last years, someone asked him about his health. He confessed that his powers were failing. “My memory is almost gone,” he said, “but I remember two things: I am a great sinner, and Jesus is a great Savior.”

What more do you and I need to remember?

Two sailors and two seas. Two vessels in two storms. Two prayers of fear and two lives of faith. Uniting them is one Savior — one God who’ll walk through hell or high water to extend a helping hand to a child who cries for help.

Grace,

Randy

Improbable

Improbable

For a child is born to us, a son is given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders. And he will be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His government and its peace will never end. He will rule with fairness and justice from the throne of his ancestor David for all eternity. The passionate commitment of the Lord of Heaven’s Armies will make this happen! (Isaiah 9:6-7)

Sometimes I sit at my computer and await the arrival of the Holy Spirit – that impulse that comes and seems to cause my fingers to move over the keyboard. Other times, it’s not so easy or so magical. In fact, there are times when nothing happens at all – I just sit there, waiting for the fingers to move, or the Spirit to prompt, or the mind and heart to jump-start.

But I don’t leave it all up to prompting, mind you. I create computer folders for many of what could be my next messages. I label these folders with a date, assign the broad topic in a question, and file it away, like: “Christmas – 2013.” Then, if I find a verse or a story or an article that seems to approximate the topic, I drop it into the folder. The low moments come when I’m sitting there, staring and listening, and then I look in the folder and it’s empty, too.

But, thankfully, it wasn’t completely empty this week. There were three little tidbits in my folder, “Christmas – 2013.” One was a clipping from the internet: “Did you hear about the teenage girl with chronic bronchitis who was found to have a bit of evergreen lodged in her lung for a dozen years – the result, presumably, of inhaling the aroma of a Christmas tree when she was a toddler? The still-green sprig was removed and she’s now fine. The moral of the story? Celebrate but don’t inhale.” This brief story, in and of itself, had the potential for a pretty good lesson, maybe even saving that last line for a sermon title: “Celebrate, but don’t inhale.” But I thought the image kind of spoke for itself. So, I simply pass along the wisdom of it all.

The second was about a desperate, Massachusetts couple trying to sell their home. And in their efforts, it seems that the husband had succumbed to some peculiar customs of the area. I checked with a real estate agent friend of mine who assured me that this is not California practice, but – apparently – Joseph, besides being a carpenter and the husband of Mary, is also the patron saint of discouraged homeowners desperate to sell. So, in an effort to sell their house, the husband bought a statue of St. Joseph, and then buried it – head down – in the front yard facing his house. Yes, really.

Of course, that was last Christmas. And although it took almost a year, the couple finally received an offer. He and his wife tried not to appear too anxious, but they quickly accepted and left the neighborhood. Of particular interest was the husband’s observations about himself, especially in response to the incredulity of his family and friends at his willingness to bury a saint, head-down in his front yard.

“It’s true,” he says, “that aspects of my behavior sometimes strike me as bizarre. And yet I firmly believe that to be religious is to be ‘not all there’- not stuck in the status quo, not resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.”

And I was thinking to myself that maybe this is what Christmas was all about – a suspension of the world as it appears: the mother, the father, the baby, the angels, the shepherds, the star, the wise men. The improbable story of a virgin birth, and the child becoming the Prince of Peace.

And the improbable becomes Christmas: angels, shepherds, stars, the birth of a baby, animals, a stable, no room in the inn. We’ve heard it all before. It’s a bizarre story. How could there be such things as angels? How could anyone follow a star? To enter into this story is to “be not all there;” a religious person “not stuck in the status quo, not resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.”

So, I got to thinking that the real estate story could have been grist for a pretty good lesson this week, too. However, the “not accepting the world as it appears” message led me to the third note in my “Christmas – 2013” folder, an excerpt from Rebecca Wells’ novel, The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. It’s an exchange of letters between a daughter, Sidda, and her mother, Vivi.

Dear Mama and Daddy,

I have decided to postpone my wedding to Connor. I wanted to tell you before you hear it from someone else. I know how word spreads in Thornton. My problem is, I just don’t know what I’m doing. I just don’t know how to love. Anyway, that’s the news.

Love, Sidda

Siddalee,

Good God, child! What do you mean, you ‘don’t know how to love?’ Do you think any of us know how to love? Do you think anybody would ever do anything if they waited until they knew how to love?! Do you think that babies would ever get made or meals cooked or crops planted or books written or what-have-you? Do you think people would even get out of bed in the morning if they waited until they knew how to love? You have had too much therapy. Or not enough. God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors. Forget love. Try good manners.

Vivi Abbott Walker

If you’re lucky, maybe you’ve received a letter like that. Or, better yet, written one. “God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors. Forget love. Try good manners.” I think Vivi may be onto something. Because what she’s saying is at the heart of the Christmas message of the Incarnation, and at the core of Christian belief: God became human in the form of a baby, and was born in the most humble of places. Immanuel – God with us.

The second verse of Charles Wesley’s “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” says: Christ, by highest heaven adored; Christ, the everlasting Lord! Late in time behold him come, offspring of the Virgin’s womb. Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; Hail the incarnate Deity; Pleased as man with men to dwell, Jesus, our Emmanuel.

“God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors.” It’s all there, isn’t it? Beginning with the story of Jesus’ birth, we read on of his life and teachings, and of his death and resurrection. We don’t have to wait to love perfectly. “For God so loved the world that He gave his only son,” John says. “God knows how to love, Kiddo,” Vivi says.

“The rest of us are only good actors.” And sometimes not so good. We know best our own imperfections. But, most of the time, we manage to get out of bed in the morning. Some of us may have had too much therapy. Some of us may not have had enough. But we can’t wait to get it right. “Forget love. Try good manners.” Which is to say, the kind of love people speak of when they speak of the love of God. That kind of love is bigger than us. So, how about trying good manners, for starters.

Good manners. Like, leaving worship and acting with peace. Acting with courage even when we don’t feel like it. Not giving back evil when evil comes at us. Or, strengthening the faint heart someone else is carrying around. Supporting the weak and helping the suffering through words and deeds. Honoring all, including the grouchy neighbor next door, or the guy who cut you off in traffic this morning.

It’s Christmas. Try good manners. Listen to the story in a new way. Don’t worry about being “not all there.” Don’t be “resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.” Christmas is the story of a miracle, of the birth of peace, of infinite love, of a God of love that comes crashing into our lives in the bizarre story of a baby born in a barn in Bethlehem centuries ago, amidst the turmoil of war and government tyranny.

It’s Christmas. On second thought, don’t forget about love altogether because God so loved the world that He gave his Son. But, if you haven’t finished your shopping yet, and you can’t muster up that kind of love, try good manners, instead. Who knows? The improbable can never happen unless you say “yes” to the God for whom nothing is impossible.

Merry Christmas,

Randy

Mary

Mary

In the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a village in Galilee, to a virgin named Mary. She was engaged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of King David. Gabriel appeared to her and said, “Greetings, favored woman! The Lord is with you!”

Confused and disturbed, Mary tried to think what the angel could mean. “Don’t be afraid, Mary,” the angel told her, “for you have found favor with God! You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be very great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor David. And he will reign over Israel forever; his Kingdom will never end!”

Mary asked the angel, “But how can this happen? I am a virgin.” The angel replied, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the baby to be born will be holy, and he will be called the Son of God. What’s more, your relative Elizabeth has become pregnant in her old age! People used to say she was barren, but she has conceived a son and is now in her sixth month. For nothing is impossible with God.” Mary responded, “I am the Lord’s servant. May everything you have said about me come true.” And then the angel left her. (Luke 1:26-38)

 Here’s what we know about Mary: her father’s name was Eli; she had a sister named Salome; she had a relative named Elizabeth; she’s young; she’s poor; she’s devout; and she’s head-over-heels in love. Mary is a teenager in love. She may have been as young as 12 or 13, or, perhaps, as old as 18 or 19. But if we said 15, let’s say for example, we probably wouldn’t be too far off.

When the story opens, Mary is “pledged” to Joseph. That meant that she said “Yes” when Joseph asked, and was probably very busy preparing for the wedding. But, like most engagements, there’s some time between the “pledge” and the wedding itself, maybe as much as six months or more. In that culture, and during that period of time, the couple was considered to be “married,” and were called husband and wife, but they didn’t live or sleep together. And during this time, Mary probably lived with her parents, and Joseph with his. Then, after the wedding feast, they’d live together as husband and wife and do what husbands and wives do.

Like teenagers everywhere, she probably had a hard time thinking of just about anything else. And if the wedding was four or five months away, her thoughts were probably centered on the same things brides think about today – the guest list, the decorations, the food, the music, what she’ll wear and where they’ll put the people up who come in from out-of-town. Mary had likely never been happier. This was probably the most exciting time of her life.

And then God breaks in.

He’s about to ask an unknown teenage girl to take part in something that’s so shocking that it borders on the absurd. What God asks Mary to do will change her life . . . forever.

Gone are the happy dreams of a beautiful wedding; gone are the days of sweet anticipation; gone are the carefully thought out plans for the wedding feast; gone are the hopes for “the most beautiful wedding to the most wonderful man who ever lived;” gone are all her girlish hopes of a quiet life in the home she would personally decorate. She’ll be married alright, but not before rumors spread throughout the countryside. There’ll be a wedding feast, too, but not the way she’d planned. She’ll have a home, and it’ll be filled with children, but over her family will rest an ever-present dark cloud of suspicion.

So, there’s Mary, just minding her own business and, perhaps, doing some chores around her parent’s house. Maybe it’s 2:00 p.m. or so, and “Dreamboat” is coming over tonight for dinner. She’s excited to see her JoJo; she’s excited because she wants to talk over her newest idea for the wedding feast, and something about a new dress that she thinks he’s just going to love. In her mind, she’s ticking off the things she wants to talk to him about – so many details and so little time. Tonight the two of them will probably take a romantic walk along the road leading to Capernaum. Mary can hardly wait to start getting ready for Joseph’s arrival.

Lost in thought, she steps outside to fetch some water from the well and there he is, standing by the olive tree in the back yard. She wouldn’t have noticed him at all except that she bumped into him. She glanced up at him, started to say, “Excuse me,” when something made her hesitate. It wasn’t fear exactly, more like surprise or puzzlement. Who’s this stranger, and why is he standing in my backyard?

Then he spoke and she got spooked: “Greetings, favored woman! The Lord is with you!” Mary doesn’t know what to make of it. It’d be as if someone you’ve never seen before came up to you and said, “Good news. This is your lucky day. God has chosen you for a special blessing.” How do you respond to that? Understandably, Mary is just a little troubled. And for good reason. She’s 15, about to be married, and dreaming about her future husband. Now some stranger steps into her life and says something so bizarre she could hardly believe what she heard. No wonder she was disturbed.

But that’s not the half of it. Without a pause, Gabriel proceeds to tell her something that completely blows her mind. She’s going to have a baby, but not just any baby. She’s going to give birth to the Son of God. So, how’s that for a conversation starter? What do you say to that? Remember, you’re 15, it’s 2:00 in the afternoon, you’re minding your own business on the way to the well, thinking about Mr. Dreamy and planning your wedding. Your life couldn’t be more perfect. Now, some stranger tells you the most preposterous-sounding thing you’ve ever heard in your life. I mean, what do you do? Do you argue? Do you ask for clarification? Do you call 911? Do you say, “Who are you and how’d you get in my yard?” Do you laugh out loud?

You couldn’t really blame her for any of those responses. But she passes over all the hard stuff, cuts right to the chase and asks a technical question: “But how can this happen? I’m a virgin.” Good question. She’s engaged, but not married, and she hasn’t slept with a man. So, how can she become pregnant and bear a son? In other words, she believed but needed a little clarification from what she’d learned in her biology class. Now that’s faith. That’s believing the impossible. That’s trusting God when the “facts” argue against it.

In the history of the church, Mary has generally been portrayed as a kind of misty, other-worldly figure. For instance, if you look at some of the great paintings of Mary, they make her look so peaceful and beatific that you almost forget she was a real person.

That’s a shame, because Luke makes it clear that she was very real, with very real doubts, very real questions and very real faith. Nowhere is this seen with more clarity than when Mary responds, “I am the Lord’s servant. May everything you have said about me come true.” Then the guy disappears.

Without exaggeration, Mary’s response is one of the greatest testaments of faith in all of the Bible. Unfortunately, we’ve read it so often that we forget how great it really is. But remember, it’s 2:00 in the afternoon, you’re 15 years old and you’re head-over-heels in love. Your mom’s just asked you to fetch some water to do the laundry and you’re on your way to the well. Then, you run into a man you’ve never seen before and he tells you that you’re going to get pregnant and give birth to the Son of God. And when you ask how, he says, “Don’t worry about it. The Holy Spirit will cover you like a cloud and you’ll end up pregnant. That’s all there is to it.” What do you say to that? What?

Mary said, “Yes.” Yes to God. Yes to the impossible. Yes to the plan of God. Did her heart skip a beat when she said “Yes?” Well, what do you think? There she is, teen head tilted high, her hands trembling just a bit, wide-eyed, nervous, open-mouthed, questioning but not afraid, wondering but not terrified, unsure but not uncertain. And when the angel said, “Nothing is impossible with God,” Mary takes a deep breath and says, May everything you have said about me come true.” And with those words Christmas came to the world.

But from that moment on, she’ll face the incredulity of friends who’ll laugh at her virgin “story,” the scurrilous gossip of neighbors who’ll gloat about Joseph getting “lucky,” and the whispers of teenage promiscuity that have continued for 2,000 years. Mary knew – or would soon realize – that saying “Yes” to God meant losing her reputation and with it her dreams of a quiet, happy life in Nazareth. And what about Joseph? What will he be thinking? Will he blow up and walk out on her? Will he humiliate her publicly? Worse yet, “Will he divorce me?” And as it turns out, Mary had good reason to worry about Joseph because although he didn’t blow up or try humiliating her, he was intent on divorcing her. Only an angel’s intervention kept that from happening. By saying “Yes,” she risked losing the man she loved. Her entire future was literally on the line.

And all these things were just the beginning. Mary couldn’t know what the future would hold. But before it was all over, she’d experience heartache, opposition, slander, confusion, anguish, despair and loneliness. After Joseph’s death, she’d be left a single mom with the responsibility of raising a bunch of kids on a carpenter’s pension. And in the end, she’d face the greatest pain a mother can endure when she would watch her son be murdered on a Roman cross. Mary couldn’t have known all those things. But if she had, would she have said “Yes” to God? Maybe it’s better not knowing what the future holds sometimes.

Mary didn’t know the price of saying “Yes,” but having made her decision she never looked back. When God said, “Are you willing to believe the impossible?,” Mary said, “Yes.” And without that “Yes,” there’d be no Christmas.

I have no doubt that Mary at least once, or maybe a million times, asked, “Why me?” Why would God choose an obscure peasant girl in some out-of-the-way village as the chosen vehicle to bring his son into the world? There are many answers that have nothing to do with Mary, but there’s one answer that has everything to do with her: God chose Mary because he trusted her. He knew she was willing to believe the impossible. He also knew she was willing to pay the price for that belief. He knew she was willing to bear a child out of wedlock in order to bring God’s Son into the world.

Saying “Yes” burdened her with 33 years of turmoil and heartache. But saying “Yes” gave her the inexpressible joy of being the mother of the Son of God, including its reward – because among women there has never been anyone greater. I think that if, somehow, Mary could be here today and we could ask her, “Was it worth it?,” she’d once again say, “Yes.” And to all believers she stands as a model of openness to great possibilities, and a model of faith in the face of many natural doubts.

“Nothing is impossible with God.” That’s as true today as it was 2,000 years ago. But you have to say “Yes,” or the impossible will never happen. And that ought to encourage us at this season of the year, because the Christmas story is filled with miracles from beginning to end. The Wise Men see a miraculous star in the sky and travel to Bethlehem. The angels sing to the shepherds. A virgin gets pregnant. A wicked king kills all the babies in Bethlehem … except the one he most wanted. The baby and his parents are warned in a dream of the king’s evil plan and escape to Egypt just in the nick of time. There are miracles galore in the Christmas story.

Christmas and miracles. That’s good news for all of us, and very good news for some of us. Some of us are carrying heavy burdens today. For some, Christmas will be very lonely this year. Some are facing a financial crisis that looks hopeless right now. Some are out of work and don’t have a single lead on a good job. Some are looking at a marriage that seems worse than hopeless. Some are estranged from members of their own family. Some have children who are far away from God. Some feel lonely and far away from God themselves.

The list goes on and on. But all these things have this one thing in common: they seem impossible to solve by human means. And for the most part they are. After all, if human means could have solved those problems, they’d probably been solved a long time ago. But Christmas is about miracles. They happened 2,000 years ago, and they can still happen today.

So, what is it that God wants from us? Total comprehension about the future before we will trust him? No. That’s impossible. A perfect knowledge of the Bible? No. If that were the case, then there would be no need for trust. Spiritual giants on the way to sainthood? No, there’s not a whole lot of giants out there. So what does God want from us? The same thing he wanted from Mary. Simple faith that he will keep his word in unlikely and unexpected ways. So, this Christmas, rather than asking for more faith, maybe we should pray for the courage to exercise the faith we have. To make us more like Mary – willing to believe in spite of our doubts.

What’s on your list this year?

Grace,

Randy