Miraculous

Miraculous

The next day there was a wedding celebration in the village of Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there and Jesus and his disciples were also invited to the celebration. The wine supply ran out during the festivities, so Jesus’ mother told him, “They have no more wine.”

“Dear woman, that’s not our problem,” Jesus replied. “My time has not yet come.”

But his mother told the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”

Standing nearby were six stone water jars, used for Jewish ceremonial washing. Each could hold twenty to thirty gallons. Jesus told the servants, “Fill the jars with water.” When the jars had been filled, he said, “Now dip some out, and take it to the master of ceremonies.” So the servants followed his instructions.

When the master of ceremonies tasted the water that was now wine, not knowing where it had come from (though, of course, the servants knew), he called the bridegroom over. “A host always serves the best wine first,” he said. “Then, when everyone has had a lot to drink, he brings out the less expensive wine. But you have kept the best until now!”

This miraculous sign at Cana in Galilee was the first time Jesus revealed his glory. And his disciples believed in him. (John 2:1-11)

Let’s pretend you’re an angel. (I know, I know. Humor me.) You’re an angel in the era before the Messiah. God has not yet sent his Son to earth, but he soon will and that’s where you come in. You receive notice that you’ve been given a special assignment. A once-in-an-eternity opportunity. You’ve been asked to serve on a special committee. Quite an honor, don’t you think?

Michael chairs the heavenly task force. “Let’s begin by choosing the first miracle,” he says. “The first miracle is crucial. It’s the lead-off proclamation. It’s the forerunner of things to come. It must be chosen carefully.” “It’s gotta be powerful,” another volunteers. “Undeniable.” “Unforgettable,” chimes in yet another. “We are in agreement, then,” Michael says. “The first miracle of God’s son on earth must have clout. Now, do you have any ideas?”

Angelic creativity begins to whir. “Have him raise a person from the dead.” “Or a whole cemetery from the dead!” “Yeah, vacate the place.” “What about feeding every hungry person one meal?” “Too easy. How about removing all disease from the planet?” “Bingo. I like that idea.” “I know,” the voice is yours. All the other angels turn to look at you. “What if he rids the earth of all evil? I mean, with one great swoop all the bad is gone and just the good remains.” The group is silent.

“Not bad,” says one. “Good thinking,” says another. “Get it done once and for all,” agrees Michael. “It’s settled, then. The first miracle will be to obliterate evil from the earth!” Wings rustle with approval and you smile with pride. (Who knows? You could get a promotion out of this.) “Now let’s move on to the second miracle . . . .”

Far-fetched? Sure. But the story is not without a couple of threads of truth. One is that Jesus had a plan. You can tell by some of the phrases he uses. “The right time for me has not yet come.” (John 7:6) “The time has come for the Son of Man to receive his glory.” (John 12:23) “The chosen time is near.” (Matt. 26:18) “The time has come for the Son of Man to be handed over to sinful people.” (Mark 14:41) “He looked toward heaven and prayed, ‘Father, the time has come….” (John 17:1)

Look at those words. “The right time has not yet come.” “The time has come.” “The chosen time.” What do those phrases mean? Well, they seem to imply a schedule. They represent an order of events. The mission of Christ was planned. Now, my hypothetical angel committee never existed, but a plan certainly did. And there’s a second shred of truth in this little scenario. Not only was there a plan in Christ’s ministry, there was also a first miracle.

The plot is almost too simple. Jesus and his disciples are at a wedding. The host runs out of wine. All the stores are closed, so Jesus, at his mother’s encouraging, transforms six jugs of water into six jugs of wine. That’s it. That’s the lead-off hitter. Pretty low key, don’t you think? Certainly doesn’t have the punch of calling a person back from the dead, or the flair of straightening a crippled leg. Or does it? Maybe there’s more to this than we think.

You see, a wedding in the day of Christ was no small event. It usually began with a Wednesday sundown ceremony at the synagogue. People would then leave the synagogue and begin a long, candlelight procession through the city, winding their way through the soft evening sunlight of the city streets. The couple would be escorted past as many homes as possible so everyone could wish them well. After the processional, however, the couple didn’t go on a honeymoon; the honeymoon came to them.

They would go home to a party. And for several days there would be gift-giving, speechmaking, food-eating and — you guessed it — wine drinking. Food and wine were taken very seriously. The host honored the guests by keeping their plates full and their cups overflowing. It was considered an insult to the guests if the host ran out of food or wine. In fact, hospitality at a wedding was a sacred duty. So serious were these social customs that, if they were not observed, lawsuits could be brought by the injured parties.

“Without wine,” said the rabbis, “there is no joy.” Wine was crucial, not for drunkenness, which was considered a disgrace, but for what it demonstrated. The presence of wine stated that this was a special day and that all the guests were special guests. The absence of wine, then, was a social embarrassment. And Mary, the mother of Jesus, is one of the first to notice that the wine’s run out. So, she goes to her son and points out the problem: “They have no more wine.” And Jesus’ response? “Dear woman, why come to me? My time has not yet come.” (v. 4) It’s almost as though Mary said, “Jesus, they are out of wine. We really need to do something,” to which Jesus responds, “Ma’am, what do you mean ‘we’”? It’s kind of like that joke about the Lone Ranger and his faithful Indian companion, Tonto. The Lone Ranger and Tonto are surrounded by a tribe of Indians and greatly outnumbered. Turning to his companion, the Lone Ranger says, “Tonto, I think we’re in trouble.” Tonto looks back at the Lone Ranger and responds, “What do you mean, ‘we,’ White man?”

But, there are those words again. “My time.” Jesus is aware of the plan. He has a place and a time for his first miracle. And this isn’t it. And about now the angelic committee on the miracles of the Messiah lets out a collective sigh of relief. “Whew, for a minute there, I thought he was going to blow it.” “Me, too. Can you imagine Jesus inaugurating his ministry with a water-to-wine miracle?” “That’s it, Jesus, just say no. Stick to the plan.”

Jesus knows the plan. And at first, it appears he’s going to stay with it. But as he hears his mother and looks into the faces of the wedding party he reconsiders. The significance of the plan is slowly eclipsed by his concern for the people. Timing is important, but people are more so. As a result, he changes his plan to meet the needs of his friends. Incredible. The schedule of heaven is altered so some friends won’t be embarrassed. The inaugural miracle is motivated — not by tragedy or famine or moral collapse — but by concern for friends who’re in a bind.

Now, if you’re an angel on the committee of Messianic miracles, you’re not liking this too much. You don’t like this move on the part of Jesus. Everything about it is wrong. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong miracle. “Come on, Jesus. Remember the schedule,” you urge. “Remember the strategy. This isn’t the way we had it planned.” No, if you’re an angel on the committee, you don’t like this move. But if you’re a human who has ever been embarrassed, you like this a lot. Why? Because this miracle tells you that what matters to you matters to God.

Now, you may think that’s true when it comes to the big stuff. You know. When it comes to the major-league difficulties like death, disease, sin, and disaster — you know that God cares. But what about the smaller things? What about grouchy bosses, or flat tires, or lost dogs? What about broken dishes, late flights, toothaches, or a crashed hard drive? Do these matter to God? I mean, he’s got a universe to run. He’s got the planets to keep balanced. He’s got wars to worry with and famines to fix. So, who am I to tell him about my ingrown toenail? I’m glad you asked. Let his Word tell you who you are.

You are an heir of God, and a co-heir with Christ. (Rom. 8:17) You’re eternal, like an angel. (Luke 20:36) You have a crown that will last forever. (1 Cor. 9:25) You’re a holy priest (1 Pet. 2:5), a treasured possession. (Ex. 19:5) You were chosen before the creation of the world. (Eph. 1:4) You are destined for “praise, fame, and honor, and you will be a holy people to the Lord your God.” (Deut. 26:19) But more than any of the above — more significant than any title or position — is the simple fact that you are God’s child. “The Father has loved us so much that we are called children of God. And we really are his children.” (1 John 3:1)

I like that last phrase. “We really are his children.” It’s as if John knew some of us would shake our heads and say, “Naw, not me. Mother Teresa, maybe. Billy Graham, all right. But not me.” If those are your feelings, John added that phrase for you. “We really are his children.” As a result, if something’s important to you, it’s important to God.

If you are a parent you know that. Imagine if you noticed an infected sore on the hand of your five-year-old son. You ask him what’s wrong, and he says that he has a splinter. You ask him when it happened. He says last week! You ask him why he didn’t tell you, and he says, “I didn’t want to bother you. I knew you had all those things to do around the house and all, and I didn’t want to get in your way.” “Get in my way? Get in my way! I’m your dad. You’re my son. My job is to help. I hurt when you hurt.” And because you are God’s child, if it’s important to you, it’s important to God.

Why did Jesus change the water to wine? To impress the crowd? No, they didn’t even know he did it. To get the wedding master’s attention? No, he thought the groom was being generous. So, why did Jesus do it? What motivated his first miracle? His friends were embarrassed, and what bothered them bothered him. If it hurts the child, it hurts the father.

So go ahead. Tell God what hurts. Talk to him. He won’t turn you away. He won’t think it’s silly. “For our high priest is able to understand our weaknesses. When he lived on earth, he was tempted in every way that we are, but he did not sin. Let us, then, feel very sure that we can come before God’s throne where there is grace.” (Heb. 4:15-16)

So, does God care about the little things in our lives? You better believe it, because if it matters to you, it matters to him. I’d say that’s pretty Miraculous.

Grace,

Randy

Enlightened

Enlightened

               

              When Jesus went in the boat back to the other side of the lake, a large crowd gathered around him there. A leader of the synagogue, named Jairus, came there, saw Jesus, and fell at his feet. He begged Jesus, saying again and again, “My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live.” So Jesus went with him….

While Jesus was still speaking, some people came from the house of the synagogue leader. They said, “Your daughter is dead. There is no need to bother the teacher anymore.”

But Jesus paid no attention to what they said. He told the synagogue leader, “Don’t be afraid; just believe.”

Jesus let only Peter, James, and John the brother of James go with him. When they came to the house of the synagogue leader, Jesus found many people there making lots of noise and crying loudly. Jesus entered the house and said to them, “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep.” But they laughed at him. So, after throwing them out of the house, Jesus took the child’s father and mother and his three followers into the room where the child was. Taking hold of the girl’s hand, he said to her “Talitha, koum!” (This means, “Little girl, I tell you to stand up!”) At once the girl stood right up and began walking. (She was twelve years old) Everyone was completely amazed. Jesus gave them strict orders not to tell people about this. Then he told them to give the girl something to eat. (Mark 5:21-24, 35-43)

There I stood at one side of the living while a friend of mine stood at the other. My job was to close my eyes and walk. My friend’s job was to be my eyes and talk me safely across the room. With phrases like, “Take two baby steps to the left,” and “Take four giant steps straight ahead,” my friend successfully navigated me through a treacherous maze of chairs, a vacuum cleaner, and a dog. Then it was my friend’s turn as I guided him past my mom’s favorite lamp, and shouted just in time to keep him from colliding into the wall when he thought his right foot was his left foot. After several treks through the darkness we eventually stopped.

“I didn’t like that,” I said. “It’s scary going where you can’t see.” “I know! I was afraid I was going to fall,” my friend agreed. “I kept taking little steps just to be safe.”

Did you ever do that when you were a kid? Better yet, do you do it now as an adult? We grownups don’t like the dark. But we walk in it. We often complain about how scary it is to walk where we can’t see so we take timid steps so we won’t fall. And we’ve good reason to be cautious: we’re blind. We can’t see the future. We have absolutely no vision beyond the present. For instance, I can’t tell you with certainty that I will live long enough to finish this paragraph any more than you can tell me you’ll live long enough to read the next one.

But I’m not talking nearsightedness or obstructed views, here; I’m talking opaque blindness. I’m not talking about a condition that passes with childhood; I’m describing a condition that passes only with death. We’re blind – blind to the future. It’s one limitation we all share. The wealthy are just as blind as the poor. The educated are just as sightless as the unschooled. And the famous know as little about the future as the not-so-famous.

None of us know how our children will turn out. None of us know the day we’ll die. No one knows whom he or she will marry, or even if marriage is in the cards. We are universally, absolutely, unalterably blind. We are all with our eyes shut, groping through a dark room, listening for a familiar voice — but with one difference. My childhood surroundings were familiar and friendly. Ours as adults can be hostile, even fatal. My worst fear then was a stubbed toe. Our worst fear now is more threatening: cancer, divorce, loneliness, death. And try as we might to walk as straight as we can, chances are a toe is going to get stubbed and we’re going to get hurt. Just ask Jairus. He’s a man who’d tried to walk as straight as he could. But Jairus was a man whose path had taken a sudden turn toward a cave — a dark cave. And he didn’t want to enter it alone.

Jairus is the leader of the synagogue. Now, that may not mean much to us these days, but in the days of Christ the leader of the synagogue was the most important man in the community. The synagogue was the center of religion, education, leadership and social activity. The leader of the synagogue was the senior religious leader, the highest-ranking professor, the mayor, and the best known citizen all in one. And Jairus had it all; job security; a guaranteed welcome at the coffee shop; a pension plan; golf every Friday; and an annual, all-expenses-paid trip to the national leadership convention. Who could ask for more? Yet Jairus does. He has to ask for more. In fact, he would trade his entire package of perks and privileges for just one assurance — that his daughter would live.

The Jairus we see in this story is not the clear-sighted, black-frocked, nicely groomed civic leader. He is, instead, a blind man begging for a gift. He fell at Jesus’ feet, “… saying again and again, ‘My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live.’” (Mk 5:23) He doesn’t barter with Jesus. (“You do me a favor, and I’ll see that you’re taken care of for life.”) He doesn’t negotiate with Jesus. (“The guys in Jerusalem are getting pretty testy about your antics. Tell you what, you handle this problem of mine, and I’ll make a few calls.”) He doesn’t make excuses. (“Normally, I’m not this desperate, Jesus, but I’ve got a little problem here.”) He just pleads.

There are times in life when everything we have to offer is nothing compared to what we are asking to receive. Jairus was at such a point. What could a man offer in exchange for his child’s life? So there were no games. No haggling. No masquerades. The situation was starkly simple: Jairus is blind to the future and Jesus knows what the future holds. So Jairus asks for his help. And Jesus, who loves the honest heart, goes to give it. And God, who knows what it’s like to lose a child, empowers his son.

But before Jesus and Jairus get very far, they are interrupted by emissaries from Jairus’ house. “Your daughter is dead. There is no need to bother the teacher anymore.” (v. 35) How’s that for being blunt? But here’s where the story gets kind of interesting because Jesus goes from being led to leading; from being convinced by Jairus to convincing Jairus; from being admired to being laughed at; from helping out the people to casting out the people. Here’s where Jesus takes control. “But Jesus paid no attention to what they said ….” (v. 36) I love that line. It describes the critical principle for seeing the unseen: Ignore what people say. Block them out. Turn them off. Close your ears. And, if you have to, walk away.

Ignore the ones who say it’s too late to start over. Disregard those who say you’ll never amount to anything. Turn a deaf ear toward those who say that you aren’t smart enough, fast enough, tall enough, or big enough — ignore them. Faith sometimes begins by stuffing our ears with cotton.

Jesus turns immediately to Jairus and pleads: “Don’t be afraid; just believe.” (v. 36) Jesus is compelling Jairus to see the unseen. And when Jesus says, “Just believe …,” he’s imploring, “Don’t limit your possibilities to only what you can see. Don’t listen only for the audible. Don’t be controlled by the logical. Believe there is more to life than meets the eye!” “Trust me,” Jesus is pleading. “Don’t be afraid; just trust.”

There was a father in the Bahamas who issued the same plea to his young son who was trapped in a burning house. The two-story structure was engulfed in flames, and the family — the father, mother, and several children — were on their way out when the smallest boy became terrified and ran back upstairs. His father, standing outside, shouted to him: “Jump, son, jump! I’ll catch you.” The boy cried, “But Daddy, I can’t see you.” “I know,” his father called, “but I can see you.” The father could see, even though the son could not.

A similar example of faith was found on a cellar wall in Cologne, Germany where Jews had hidden during World War II. “I believe in the sun, even though it doesn’t shine; I believe in love, even when it isn’t shown; I believe in God, even when he doesn’t speak.” And I try to imagine the person who etched those words. I try to envision her hand gripping the broken glass or stone that cut into the wall. I try to imagine his eyes squinting through the darkness as he carved each letter. What hand could have cut such a conviction? What eyes could have seen good in such horror? There is only one answer: eyes that chose to see the unseen. Paul wrote: “We set our eyes not on what we see but on what we cannot see. What we see will last only a short time, but what we cannot see will last forever.” (2 Cor. 4:18) The Hebrew writer said much the same: “Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see.” (Heb. 11:1) Jesus is asking Jairus to see the unseen. To make a choice. Either to live by the facts, or to see by faith. When tragedy strikes we, too, are left to choose what we see. We can see either the hurt or the Healer. The choice is ours.

Jairus made his choice. He opted for faith and Jesus … and faith in Jesus led him to his daughter. At the house, Jesus and Jairus encounter a group of mourners and Jesus is troubled by their wailing. It bothers him that they express such anxiety over death. “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep.” (v. 39) And that’s not a rhetorical question. It’s an honest one. From Jesus’ perspective, the girl is not dead — she’s only asleep. From God’s viewpoint, death is not permanent. It’s a necessary step for passing from this world to the next. It’s not an end; it’s a beginning.

As a young boy I had two great loves — playing and eating. Summers were made for afternoons on the baseball diamond and meals at the dinner table. Mom had a rule, however. Dirty, sweaty boys could never eat at the table. Her first words to me as I came home were always, “Go clean up and take off those clothes if you want to eat.” Now, no boy is particularly fond of bathing and dressing, but I never once complained and defied my mom by saying, “I’d rather stink than eat!” In my economy, a bath and a clean shirt were a small price to pay for a good meal.

And from God’s perspective death is a small price to pay for the privilege of sitting at his table. “Flesh and blood cannot have a part in the kingdom of God …. This body that can be destroyed must clothe itself with something that can never be destroyed. And this body that dies must clothe itself with something that can never die.” (1 Cor. 15:50, 53)  God is even more insistent than my mom was. In order to sit at his table, a change of clothing must occur. And we must die in order for our body to be exchanged for a new one. So, from God’s viewpoint, death is not to be dreaded; it is to be welcomed. And when he sees people crying and mourning over death, he wants to know, “Why are you crying?” When we see death, we see disaster; when Jesus sees death, he sees deliverance.

But that’s too much for the people to take. “They laughed at him.” (v. 40) Now, look closely because you aren’t going to believe what Jesus does next. He throws the mourners out. That’s what the text says, “after throwing them out of the house ….” (v. 40) He doesn’t just ask them to leave. He throws them out. He picks them up by collar and belt and sets them sailing. Jesus’ response was decisive and strong. In fact, in the original text, the word used here is the same word used to describe what Jesus did to the moneychangers in the temple. It’s the same verb used thirty-eight times to describe what Jesus did to the demons. Why? Why such force? Why such intolerance?

Perhaps the answer is found by going back to my living room experience. After me and my friend had taken turns guiding each other through the living room, another friend thought he’d be funny. So, on my last trip he snuck up from behind me (as I was walking with my eyes shut) and began whispering, “Don’t listen to him. Listen to me. I’ll take care of you.” I stopped. I analyzed the situation and made my choice between the two voices. “Be quiet,” I said, and then continued on in my other friend’s direction. Undeterred, my diabolical friend then grabbed the lid of a pan, held it next to my ear and banged on it with a spoon. I jumped to a stop. My friend from the other side of the room, seeing that I was in shock, did a great thing. He ran across the room and threw his arms around me and said, “Don’t worry. I’m right here.” He wasn’t about to let the noise distract me from the journey.

And God isn’t going to let the noise distract you from yours. He’s still busy casting out the critics and silencing the voices that could deter you. Some of his work you’ve probably seen. Most of it you haven’t. Only when you get home will you know how many times he has protected you from luring voices. Only eternity will reveal the time he interfered with that transfer, protecting you from a corrupt supervisor, or flattened your tire preventing you from getting into an accident at the intersection just ahead. And only heaven will show the times he protected you by giving you a mate who loves God more than you do, or opening the door for a new business so you could attend the same church.

Mark it down. God knows you and I are blind. He knows living by faith and not by sight doesn’t come naturally. And I think that’s one reason he raised Jairus’ daughter from the dead: not for her sake (she was better off in heaven), but for ours — to teach us that heaven sees when we trust. Oh, and the meaning of Jairus’ name? It’s Hebrew for enlightened, as in “He Enlightens.”

Grace,

Randy

Bethesda

Bethesda

Later Jesus went to Jerusalem for a special Jewish feast. In Jerusalem there is a pool with five covered porches, which is called Bethzatha in the Jewish language. This pool is near the Sheep Gate. Many sick people were lying on the porches beside the pool. Some were blind, some were crippled, and some were paralyzed Sometimes an angel of the Lord came down to the pool and stirred up the water. After the angel did this, the first person to go into the pool was healed from any sickness he had. A man was lying there who had been sick for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw the man and knew that he had been sick for such a long time, Jesus asked him, “Do you want to be well?” (John 5:1-6)

For the longest time this story didn’t make any sense to me. I just couldn’t figure it out. It’s about a man who barely has enough faith to stand on, but Jesus treats him as if he’d laid his son on the altar for God. Maybe martyrs and apostles might deserve that kind of honor, but not some pauper who doesn’t even know Jesus when he sees him. Or at least so I thought.

For the longest time I thought Jesus was too kind. I thought the story was too bizarre. I thought the story was too good to be true. Then I realized something. This story isn’t about an invalid in Jerusalem. This story’s about you. It’s about me. The fellow isn’t nameless. He has a name – yours. He has a face – mine. He has a problem – just like ours.

Jesus encounters this man near a large pool just north of the temple in Jerusalem. It’s 360 feet long, 130 feet wide and 75 feet deep. A colonnade with five porches overlooks the body of water. It’s a monument of wealth and prosperity, but its residents are people of sickness and disease. It’s called Bethesda; it means “House of Mercy.” But it could have been called Central Park, Metropolitan Hospital, or even Joe’s Bar and Grill for that matter. It could be the homeless huddled beneath a downtown overpass, or street people in temporary winter shelters. It could be any collection of hurting people.

An underwater spring caused the pool to bubble occasionally, and the people believed the bubbles were caused by the dipping of angels’ wings. They also believed that the first person to touch the water after the angel did would be healed. Did healing occur? I don’t know. But crowds of invalids came to give it a try. Picture a battleground strewn with wounded bodies and you see Bethesda. Imagine a nursing home overcrowded and understaffed, and you see the pool. Call to mind the orphans in Bangladesh or the abandoned in New Delhi and you will see what people saw when they passed Bethesda. And as they passed, what did they hear? An endless wave of groans. What did they witness? A field of faceless need. What did they do? Most simply walked past, ignoring the hurting.

But not Jesus. He’s in Jerusalem for a feast. He’s alone. He’s not there to teach the disciples or to draw a crowd. The people need him, so he’s there. Can you picture it? Jesus walking among the suffering. What is he thinking? When an infected hand touches his ankle, what does he do? When a blind child stumbles in Jesus’ path, does he reach down to catch the child? When a wrinkled hand extends for alms, how does Jesus respond?

Whether the watering hole is Bethesda or Bill’s Bar. . . how does God feel when people hurt?

It’s worth the telling of the story if all we do is watch him walk. It’s worth it just to know he even came. He didn’t have to, you know. Surely there were more sanitary crowds in Jerusalem. Surely there were more enjoyable activities. After all, this is the Passover feast. It’s an exciting time in the holy city. People have come from miles around to meet God in the temple. Little do they know that God is with the sick. Little do they know that God is walking slowly, stepping carefully between the beggars and the blind. Little do they know that the strong young carpenter who surveys the ragged landscape of pain is God. “When they suffered, he suffered also,” Isaiah wrote. (Isa. 63:9) On this day Jesus must have suffered a lot. On this day Jesus must have sighed often as he walked along the poolside of Bethesda… and he sighs when he comes to you and me.

Remember, I told you this story was about us? Remember, I said I found our faces in the Bible? Well, here we are, filling the white space between the letters of verse 5: “A man was lying there who had been sick for thirty-eight years.” Maybe you don’t like being described like that. Perhaps you’d rather find yourself in the courage of David, or the devotion of Mary. We all would. But before you or I can be like them, we must admit we are like the paralytic. Invalids out of options. Can’t walk. Can’t work. Can’t care for ourselves. Can’t even roll down the bank to the pool to cash in on the angel water.

You may be reading this message with strong eyes and you can’t imagine what you and this four-decade invalid have in common. How could he be you? What do we have in common with him? Simple: our predicament and our hope. What predicament? It’s described in Hebrews 12:14: “Anyone whose life is not holy will never see the Lord.” That’s our predicament – only the holy will see God. Holiness is a prerequisite to heaven. Perfection is a requirement for eternity. We wish it weren’t so, and we act like it isn’t. We act like those who are “decent” will see God. We suggest that those who try hard will see God. We act as if we’re good if we never do anything too bad. And that goodness is enough to qualify us for heaven. Sounds right to us, but it doesn’t sound right to God. And he sets the standard. And the standard is high. “You must be perfect, just as your Father in heaven is perfect.” (Matt. 5:48)

You see, in God’s plan, God is the standard for perfection. We don’t compare ourselves to others; they’re just as messed up as we are. The goal is to be like him; anything less is inadequate. That’s why I say the invalid is you and me. We, like the invalid, are paralyzed. We, like the invalid, are trapped. We, like the invalid, are stuck; we have no solution for our predicament. That’s you and me lying on the ground. That’s us wounded and weary. When it comes to healing our spiritual condition, we don’t have a chance. We might as well be told to pole-vault the moon. We don’t have what it takes to be healed. Our only hope is that God will do for us what he did for the man at Bethesda – that he will step out of the temple and step into our ward of hurt and helplessness. Which is exactly what he has done.

Read slowly and carefully Paul’s description of what God has done for you: “When you were spiritually dead because of your sins and because you were not free from the power of your sinful self, God made you alive with Christ, and he forgave all our sins. He canceled the debt, which listed all the rules we failed to follow. He took away that record with its rules and nailed it to the cross. God stripped the spiritual rulers and powers of their authority. With the cross, he won the victory and showed the world that they were powerless.” (Col. 2:13-15)

As you look at these words, answer this question: Who is doing the work? You or God? Who is active? You or God? Who is doing the saving? You or God? Who is the one with strength? And who is the one paralyzed? Let’s isolate some phrases and see. First, look at your condition. “When you were spiritually dead. . . and. . . you were not free.”

The invalid was better off than we are. At least he was alive. Paul says that if you and I are outside of Christ, then we are dead. Spiritually dead. Corpses. Lifeless. Cadavers. Dead. What can a dead person do? Not much. But look what God can do with the dead. “God made you alive.” “God forgave.” “He canceled the debt.” “He took away that record.” “God stripped the spiritual rulers.” “He won the victory.” “[He] showed the world.” Again, the question: Who is active? You and I — or God? Who is trapped and who comes to the rescue? God has thrown life jackets to every generation.

Look at Jonah in the fish belly surrounded by gastric juices and sucked-in seaweed. For three days God left him there. For three days Jonah pondered his choices. And for three days he has come to the same conclusion: he ain’t got one. From where he sits (or floats) there are two exits — and neither are very appealing. But then again, neither is Jonah. He blew it as a preacher. He was a flop as a fugitive. At best he’s a coward, at worst a traitor. And what he’s lacked all along he now has in abundance — guts. So Jonah does the only thing he can do: he prays. He says nothing about how good he is — but a lot about how good God is. He doesn’t even ask for help, but help is what he gets. And before he can say “Amen,” the belly convulses, the fish belches, and Jonah lands face first on the beach.

Or look at Daniel in the lions’ den – his prospects aren’t much better than Jonah’s. Jonah had been swallowed, and Daniel is about to be. Flat on his back with the lions’ faces so close he can smell their breath. The biggest one puts a paw on Daniel’s chest and leans down to take the first bite and ... nothing happens. Instead of a chomp, there’s a bump. Daniel looks down and sees the nose of another lion rubbing against his belly. The lion’s lips are snarling, but his mouth isn’t opening. That’s when Daniel hears the snickering in the corner. He doesn’t know who the fellow is, but he sure is bright and he sure is having fun. In his hands is a roll of bailing wire and on his face is one of those gotcha-while-you-weren’t-watching expressions.

How ‘bout Joseph in the pit, a chalky hole in a hot desert? The lid has been pulled over the top and the wool has been pulled over his eyes. Those are his brothers up there, laughing and eating as if they did nothing more than tell him to get lost (which is what they’d done for most of his life). Those are his brothers, the ones who have every intention of leaving him to spend his days with the spiders and the snakes and then to die in the pit. Like Jonah and Daniel, Joseph is trapped. He’s out of options. There’s no exit; there’s no hope. But because Jacob’s boys are as greedy as they were mean, Joseph is sold to some southbound gypsies and he changes history. Though the road to the palace takes a detour through a prison, it eventually ends up at the throne. And Joseph eventually stands before his brothers — this time with their asking for his help. And he’s wise enough to give them what they ask and not what they deserve.

Or look at Barabbas on death row. The final appeal has been heard. The execution has been scheduled. Barabbas passes the time playing solitaire in his cell. He’s resigned to the fact that the end is near. Doesn’t appeal. Doesn’t implore. Doesn’t demand. The decision’s been made, and Barabbas is going to die. Like Jonah, Daniel and Joseph, it’s all over but the crying. And like Jonah, Daniel and Joseph, the time to cry never comes. The steps of the warden echo in the chamber. Barabbas thinks the warden’s bringing handcuffs and a final cigarette. Wrong. The warden brings his street clothes. And Barabbas leaves the prison a free man because someone he’d probably never even seen took his place.

Such are the stories in the Bible. One near-death experience after another. Just when the head is on the chopping block, just when the noose is around the neck, Calvary comes: angels pound on Lot’s door (Genesis 190; the whirlwind speaks to Job’s hurt (Job 38-42); the Jordan purges Naaman’s plague (2 Kings 5); an angel appears in Peter’s cell. (Acts 12) God’s efforts are strongest when our efforts are useless.

Now, go back to Bethesda for a moment. Look at the brief but revealing dialogue between the paralytic and the Savior. Before Jesus heals him, he asks him a question: “Do you want to be well?” “Sir, there is no one to help me get into the pool when the water starts moving. While I am coming to the water, someone else always gets in before me.” (v. 7) Is the fellow complaining? Is he feeling sorry for himself? Or is he just stating the facts? Who knows. But before we think about it too much, look what happens next. “Stand up. Pick up your mat and walk.” “And immediately the man was well; he picked up his mat and began to walk.”

I wish we would do that; I wish we would take Jesus at his word. I wish, like heaven, that we would learn that when he says something, it happens. What is this peculiar paralysis that confines us? What is this stubborn unwillingness to be healed? When Jesus tells us to stand, let’s stand. When he says we’re forgiven, let’s unload the guilt. When he says we’re valuable, let’s believe him. When he says we’re eternal, let’s bury our fear. When he says we’re provided for, let’s stop worrying. When he says, “Stand up,” let’s do it.

I love the story of the private who ran after and caught the runaway horse of Alexander the Great. When he brought the animal back to the general, Alexander thanked him by saying, “Thank you, captain.” With one word the private was promoted. When the general said it, the private believed it. He went to the quartermaster, selected a new uniform, and put it on. He went to the officers’ quarters and selected a bunk. He went to the officers’ mess and had a meal. Because the general said it, he believed it. Would that we would do the same.

Is this your story? It can be. All the elements are there. A gentle stranger has stepped into your hurting world and offered you a hand. Now it’s up to you to take it. To enter into The House of Mercy.

Grace,

Randy