Absurd

Absurd

“Now I would remind you, brothers, of the gospel I preached to you, which you received, in which you stand, and by which you are being saved, if you hold fast to the word I preached to you — unless you believed in vain. For I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures . . . .”        (1 Corinthians 15:1–4)

The word gospel simply means “good news.” The central message of the Bible is the gospel, or good news, about the person and work of Jesus Christ. In his letter to the church in Corinth, Paul provided them with a very succinct summary of the gospel: the man Jesus is also God, or Christ, and died on a cross in our place, paying the penalty for our sins; three days later He rose to conquer sin and death and give the gift of salvation to all who believe in Him alone for eternal life. I wish I could be that brief.

The great reformer, Martin Luther, rightly said that, as sinners, we are prone to pursue a relationship with God in one of two ways. The first is through religion/spirituality, and the second is by way of the gospel. The two are polar opposites. Religion says that if we obey God He will love us. The gospel says that it’s because God loved us through Jesus that we can obey. Religion says that the world is filled with good people and bad people. The gospel says that the world is filled with bad people who are either repentant or unrepentant. Religion says that you should trust in what you do as a good moral person. The gospel says that you should trust in the sinless life of Jesus because He alone is the only good and truly moral person who will ever live.

The goal of religion is to get from God things like health, wealth, insight, power and control. The goal of the gospel is not the gifts God gives, but rather God – as the gift – given to us by his grace. Religion is about what I have to do. The gospel is about what I get to do. Religion sees hardship in life as punishment from God. The gospel sees hardship in life as sanctifying affliction that reminds us of Jesus’ sufferings, and is used by God, in love, to make us more like Jesus. Religion is about me. The gospel is about Jesus.

Religion leads to an uncertainty about my standing before God because I never know if I have done enough to please God. The gospel leads to a certainty about my standing before God because of the finished work of Jesus on my behalf on the cross. Religion ends in either pride (because I think I’m better than other people), or despair (because I’m constantly falling short of God’s commands). The gospel ends in humble and confident joy because of the power of Jesus at work for me, in me, through me, and sometimes … in spite of me.

“You mean to tell me God became a baby …

The one asking the questions was clearly puzzled. His thick eyebrows were furrowed in doubt and incredulity; his eyes were squinted in caution, but bordering on bemusement. Though there were plenty of places to sit, he preferred to stand. Apparently, he wanted to stay safely behind the crowd, unsure, yet intrigued by what he was hearing. Throughout the lecture he listened intently, occasionally uncrossing his arms to stroke his chin. Now, however, he stood upright, punching the air with his finger as he queried.

… and that he was born in a sheep stable?”

Truth is, he looked as though he’d just walked in from a sheep stall himself, and sounded as if he honestly didn’t know if the story he was hearing was just an urban legend, or the gospel truth.

“Yes, that’s what I mean to say, “ the lecturer responded.

“And then, after becoming a baby he was raised in a blue-collar home? He never wrote any books or held any offices, yet he called himself the Son of God?”

“That’s right.” The lecturer being questioned was Landon Saunders, the voice of the Heartbeat Radio program. Nobody can tell the story of Jesus like Landon.

“He never traveled outside of his own country, never studied at a university, never lived in a palace, and yet asked to be regarded as the creator of the universe?”

“That’s correct.”

The dialogue was a bit unnerving.

“And this crucifixion story. . . he was betrayed by his own people? No followers came to his defense? And then he was executed like a common junkyard thief?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

The authenticity of the questioner didn’t allow you to regard him as a cynic, or dismiss him as a show-off, or a whacko. To the contrary, he seemed a little nervous about commanding such attention, and his awkwardness betrayed his inexperience at public speaking. But his desire to know was just a little heavier than his discomfort. So, he continued.

“And after the killing he was buried in a borrowed grave?”

“Yes, he had no grave of his own, nor money with which to purchase one.”

The honesty of the dialogue was spellbinding. It was one of those rare events where two people were willing to question the holy; two men standing on opposite sides of a deep chasm, one asking the other if the bridge that stretched between them could actually be trusted. And then there was a hint of emotion in the questioner’s voice as he carefully worded his next query:

“And according to what’s written, after three days in the grave he was resurrected and made appearances to over five hundred people?”

“Yes.”

“And all this was to prove that God still loves his people and provides a way for us to return to him?”

“Right.”

“Doesn’t that all sound rather. . .” He paused a second, searching for the right adjective. “Doesn’t that all sound rather … absurd?”

Christianity . . . absurd? Jesus on a cross . . . absurd? The Incarnation . . . absurd? The Resurrection . . . absurd? That’d be like taking my Sunday school Jesus down from the flannel board. I mean, wouldn’t we rather tell that guy how it made sense? You know, diagram the dispensations; present fulfilled prophecies; explain the fulfillment of the Old Law. That’s right. Covenant. Reconciliation. Redemption. Sure it makes sense. Don’t describe God’s actions as absurd! Are you kidding me?

What God did absolutely makes sense. It makes sense that Jesus would be our sacrifice because a sacrifice was needed to justify man’s presence before God. It makes sense that God would use the Old Law to tutor Israel on their need for grace. It makes sense that Jesus would be our High Priest. What God did makes sense. It can be taught, it can be charted and it can be put in books on systematic theology.

But why? Okay, now that’s absurd. Because when you leave the method and examine the motive, the carefully stacked blocks of religious logic begin to tumble. That type of love isn’t logical; it can’t be neatly outlined in a sermon, or explained in a paper.

Think about it for a minute. For thousands of years, using his wit and charm, man had tried to be friends with God. And for thousands of years he’d let God down more than he’d lifted him up. He’d done the very thing he promised he’d never do. It was a fiasco. Even the holiest of the heroes sometimes forgot whose side they were on. Frankly, some of the scenarios in the Bible sound more like the adventures of Sinbad than stories for vacation Bible school.

For instance, Aaron. Right-hand man to Moses. Witness of the plagues. Member of the “Red Sea Riverbed Expedition.” Holy priest of God. But if he was so saintly, what was he doing leading the Israelites in fireside aerobics in front of the golden calf? Or, how ‘bout the sons of Jacob. The fathers of the tribes of Israel. Great-grandsons of Abraham. But if they were so special, why were they gagging their younger brother and sending him to Egypt?

And then there’s David. The man after God’s own heart. The King’s king. The giant-slayer and songwriter. He’s also the guy whose glasses got steamy as a result of a bath on a roof. Unfortunately, the water wasn’t his, and neither was the woman he was ogling. And the other womanizer? Samson? Yeah, he was swooning on Delilah’s couch, drunk on perfume, soft music and softer lights. He’s thinking, She’s putting on something more comfortable, and she’s thinking, I know I put those scissors in here somewhere.

Adam adorned in fig leaves with stains of forbidden fruit. Moses throwing both a staff and a temper tantrum. King Saul looking into a crystal ball for the will of God. Noah, drunk and naked in his own tent. These are the chosen ones of God? This is the royal lineage of the King? These are the ones who were to carry out God’s mission? It’s easy to see the absurdity. I mean, why didn’t God just give up? Why didn’t he just let the globe spin off its axis into oblivion?

But even after generations of people had spit in his face, he still loved them. After a nation of chosen ones had stripped him naked and ripped his flesh with whips, he still died for them. And even today, after billions have chosen to prostitute themselves before the pimps of power, or fame, or wealth, he still waits for them. It’s completely inexplicable. It doesn’t have a shred of logic or a thread of rationality. And yet, it’s that very irrationality that gives the gospel its greatest defense: only God could love like that.

Sometimes, we just don’t see him, do we? Maybe it’s because we’re expecting someone in a flowing frock with silky-white hands. But Jesus is the lion of Judah, walking out from the dense forest of theology and ritual to lay down in a brief clearing. In his paw – a wound – and in his mane – stains of blood. But there’s a royalty about him that silenced even the breeze in the trees. Bloodstained royalty. A God with tears. A creator with a heart. God became earth’s mockery to save his children. How absurd to think that such nobility would go to such poverty to share a priceless treasure with such thankless souls. But he did.

Come to think of it, I guess the only thing more absurd than the gift is our willful stubbornness to receive it.

Grace,

Randy

Whoever

Whoever

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. (John 3:16)

The hero of heaven is God. Angels don’t worship mansions or golden streets. Gates and jewels don’t prompt the hosts to sing. God does. His majesty stirs the pen of heaven’s poets and the awe of its citizens. They enjoy an eternity-long answer to David’s prayer: “One thing I ask of the LORD . . . to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD.” (Ps. 27:4) What else deserves a look? Inhabitants of heaven forever marvel at the sins God forgives, the promises he keeps and the plans he executes. He’s not the grand marshal of the parade; he is the parade. He’s not the main event; he’s the only event. His Broadway is a single stage and star: himself. He hosts the only production and invites every living soul to see.

He, at this very moment, issues invitations by the millions. He whispers through the kindness of a grandparent, or shouts through the tempest of a tsunami. Through the funeral he cautions, “Life is fragile.” Through a sickness he reminds us, “Days are numbered.” God may speak through nature or nurture, majesty or mishap, but through it all he invites: “Come, enjoy me forever.”

But a lot of people don’t care. They don’t want anything to do with God. He speaks and they cover their ears. He commands and they scoff. They don’t want him telling them how to live their lives. They mock what he says about marriage, money or the value of human life. They regard his son as a joke, and the cross as foolishness. (1 Cor. 1:18) They spend their lives telling God to leave them alone. And at the moment of their final breath, he honors their request: “Get away from me, you who do evil. I never knew you.” (Matt. 7:23) This verse is, perhaps, the most somber of Christian realities: hell.

No topic stirs greater resistance. Who wants to think about eternal punishment? We prefer to dumb down the issue, make jokes about its residents or turn the noun into an adjective. Odd that we don’t do the same with lesser tragedies. For instance, you never hear, “My golf game has gone to prison.” Or, “This is an AIDS of a traffic jam.” It seems like there’s a conspiracy to minimize hell.

Some, on the other hand, prefer to sanitize the subject, dismissing it as a moral impossibility. Bertrand Russell, a self-described atheist, said, “I do not myself feel that any person who is really profoundly humane can believe in everlasting punishment.” Or, as is more typical, “A loving God wouldn’t send people to hell.” It’s as if hell has disappeared and no one noticed.

And it’s easy to understand why. Hell is a hideous topic. Any person who discusses it glibly, or proclaims it gleefully has really failed to consider it deeply. Scripture writers dip quills into gloomy ink to describe its nature. They speak of the “blackest darkness” (Jude 13), “everlasting destruction” (2 Thess. 1:9), and “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Matt. 8:12) And a glimpse into the pit won’t brighten your day, either. But it will enlighten your understanding of Jesus because he didn’t avoid the discussion. To the contrary, he planted a one-word caution sign between you and me and hell’s path: “perish.” “Whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

Jesus spoke of hell a lot. In fact, thirteen percent of his teachings refer to eternal judgment and hell, and two-thirds of his parables relate to resurrection and judgment. Jesus wasn’t cruel or capricious, but he was blunt. His candor even stuns us. He speaks in tangible terms. “Fear Him,” he warns, “who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.” (Matt. 10:28) He quotes Hades’ rich man pleading for Lazarus to “dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue.” (Luke 16:24) Words such as “body,” “finger,” and “tongue” presuppose a state in which a throat longs for water and a person begs for relief — sentient relief.

The apostles said that Judas Iscariot had gone “to his own place.” (Acts 1:25) The Greek word for place is topos, which means a geographical location. And Jesus describes heaven with the same noun: “In My Father’s house are many mansions. . . . I go to prepare a place for you.” (John 14:2) Hell, like heaven, is a location, not a state of mind. It’s not some metaphysical dimension of floating spirits, but an actual place populated by sentient beings. And God has quarantined a precinct in his vast universe as the depository for the hard-hearted.

So exactly where is hell? Jesus gives one chilling clue: “outside.” “Tie him hand and foot, and throw him outside, into the darkness.” (Matt. 22:13) Outside of what? Outside of the boundaries of heaven, for one thing. Abraham, in paradise, told the rich man in torment, “Between us and you there is a great gulf fixed, so that those who want to pass from here to you cannot, nor can those from there pass to us.” (Luke 16:26) In other words, there are no heaven-to-hell field trips. Hell is to heaven what the edge of our universe is to earth: outside the range of a commute.

Hell is also outside the realm of conclusion, too. Oh, that hell’s punishment would have an end, and that God would schedule an execution date. And New Testament language leads some scholars to believe that he will: Fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. (Matt. 10:28) Whoever believes in him shall not perish. (John 3:16)

Destroy. Perish. Don’t these words imply an end to suffering? I wish I could say they do. There’s no point on which I’d more gladly be wrong than the eternal duration of hell. If God, on the last day, extinguishes the wicked, I’ll celebrate my misreading of his words. Yet annihilation seems inconsistent with Scripture. God sobers his warnings with eternal language. Consider John’s description of the wicked in Revelation 14:11: “the smoke of their torment goes up forever and ever, and they have no rest, day or night.” So how then could the euthanized soul “have no rest, day or night”?

Jesus parallels hell with Gehenna, a rubbish dump outside the southwestern walls of Jerusalem, infamous for its unending smoldering and decay. He employs Gehenna as a word picture of hell, the place where the “worm does not die and the fire is not quenched.” (Mark 9:48) A deathless worm and quenchless fire — however symbolic these phrases may be — smack of an ongoing consumption of something. Jesus speaks of sinners being “thrown outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Matt. 8:12) If that’s true, how can a nonexistent person weep or gnash their teeth?

Jesus describes the length of heaven and hell with the same adjective: eternal. “They will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.” (Matt. 25:46) Hell lasts as long as heaven. It may have a back door or graduation day, but I haven’t found one. And a lot perishes in hell. Hope perishes. Happiness perishes. But the body and soul of the God-deniers continue outside. Outside of heaven; outside of hope; outside of God’s goodness.

None of us have seen such a blessingless world. Even the vilest of humanity know the grace of God. People who want nothing of God still enjoy his benefits. Adolf Hitler witnessed the wonder of the Alps. Saddam Hussein enjoyed the blushing sunrise of the desert. The dictator, child molester, serial rapist, and drug peddler — all enjoy the common grace of God’s goodness. They hear children laugh, smell dinner cooking, and tap their toes to the rhythm of a good song. They deny God yet enjoy his benevolence.

But these privileges are confiscated at the gateway to hell. Scofflaws will be “shut out from the presence of the Lord.” (2 Thess. 1:9) Hell knows none of heaven’s kindnesses. There’s no overflow of divine perks. The only laughter the unrepentant hear is evil; the only desires they know are selfish. Hell is society at its worst. Perhaps more tragically, hell is individuals at their worst. It surfaces and amplifies the ugliest traits in people. Cravings will go unchecked. Worriers will fret and never find peace. Thieves will steal and never have enough. None will be satisfied. Remember: “Their worm does not die.” (Mark 9:48)

Death freezes the moral compass. People will remain in the fashion they enter. Revelation 22:11 seems to emphasize hell’s unrepentant evil: “Let the evildoer still do evil, and the filthy still be filthy.” The God-less remain ungodly because hell is not a correctional facility or reform school. Its members hear no admonishing parents, candid sermons, or the Spirit of God. There’s no voice of God or the voice of God’s people. Spend a lifetime telling God to be quiet, and he’ll do just that. God honors our request for silence.

Hell is the chosen home of insurrectionists, the Alcatraz of malcontents. Hell is reserved, not for those souls who seek God yet struggle, but for those who defy God and rebel. For those who say about Jesus, “We don’t want this man to be our king.” (Luke 19:14) So, in history’s highest expression of fairness, God honors their preference. “I take no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but rather that they turn from their ways and live.” (Ezek. 33:11) It is not God’s will that any should perish, but the fact that some do highlights God’s justice because God has to punish sin. “Nothing impure will ever enter [heaven], nor will anyone who does what is shameful or deceitful, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb’s book of life.” (Rev. 21:27) God, inherently holy, must exclude evil from his new universe. God, eternally gracious, never forces his will. He urges mutineers to stay on board but never ties them to the mast. So, how could a loving God send sinners to hell? He doesn’t. They volunteer.

Once there, they don’t want to leave. The hearts of damned fools never soften; their minds never change. “Men were scorched with great heat, and they blasphemed the name of God who has power over these plagues; and they did not repent and give Him glory.” (Rev. 16:9) Contrary to the idea that hell prompts remorse, it doesn’t. It intensifies blasphemy.

Remember the rich man in torment? He could see heaven but didn’t request a transfer. He wanted Lazarus to descend to him. Why not ask if he could join Lazarus? The rich man complained of thirst, not injustice. He wanted water for the body, not water for the soul. Even the longing for God is a gift from God, and where there is no more of God’s goodness, there is no longing for him. Though every knee shall bow before God and every tongue confess his preeminence (Rom. 14:11), the hard-hearted will do so stubbornly and without worship. There won’t be any atheists in hell (Phil. 2:10–11), but there won’t be any God-seekers either.

But still we wonder, is the punishment fair? Such a penalty seems inconsistent with a God of love — overkill you might say. A sinner’s rebellion doesn’t warrant an eternity of suffering, does it? Isn’t God overreacting? But only he knows the full story, the number of invitations the stubborn-hearted have refused and the slander they’ve spewed.

Have you ever accused God of unfairness? But hasn’t he wrapped caution tape on hell’s porch and posted a million and one red flags outside the entrance. To descend its stairs, you’d have to cover your ears, blindfold your eyes, and, most of all, ignore the epic sacrifice of history: Christ, in God’s hell on humanity’s cross, crying out to the blackened sky, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt. 27:46)

It’d be easier to capture the Pacific Ocean in a jar than describe that sacrifice in words. But a description might read like this: God, who hates sin, unleashed his wrath on his sin-filled son. Christ, who never sinned, endured the awful forsakenness of hell. The supreme surprise of hell is this: Christ went there so you won’t have to. Yet hell could not contain him. He arose, not just from the dead, but from the depths. “Through death He [destroyed] him who had the power of death, that is, the devil.” (Heb. 2:14)

Christ emerged from Satan’s domain with this declaration: “I have the keys of Hades and of Death.” (Rev. 1:18) In other words, he’s the warden of eternity and the door he shuts, no one opens, and the door he opens, no one shuts. (Rev. 3:7) Thanks to Christ, this earth can be the nearest you come to hell. But apart from Christ, this earth is the nearest you’ll come to heaven.

“Whoever believes in him shall not perish . . . .” God makes the offer, but we make the choice.

Grace,

Randy

Gardens

Gardens

Knowing everything that would happen to him, Jesus went out and asked, “Who is it you are looking for?” They answered, “Jesus from Nazareth.” “I am he,” Jesus said. (Judas, the one who turned against Jesus, was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, “I am he,” they moved back and fell to the ground. Jesus asked them again, “Who is it you are looking for?” They said, “Jesus of Nazareth.” “I told you that I am he,” Jesus said. “So if you are looking for me, let the others go.” (John 18:4-8)

My grandmother taught me a lesson early on in life: don’t make a wreck of the garden. You can play ball in the front yard; you can have races ‘round the acreage in back; you can even build a fort in the tree. But the garden? Leave it alone.

It was a small garden, about the size of a walk-in closet, and she didn’t grow anything exotic, except maybe for some mint that we’d soak in our summer tea. Though the vegetables were tasty, she didn’t need to grow them; she could’ve bought them at the market. So why did Nana insist on having a garden?

Simple. She loved to see life. And her garden was a place full of life, a place where buds exploded and plants pushed back the soil. A place of turnips and tulips and tomatoes. A place worthy of love and protection because flowers are fragile. Plants are precious. So yank the weeds and scatter the critters, she’d say. Put up a fence. Grow a hedge. Even make a scarecrow if you’d like. But, “Randy, whatever you do, don’t go trampling around in the garden.”

I hate to think that I’ve got anything in common with the devil, but I guess I do. Because Satan learned the same lesson: don’t mess with a garden — especially a garden that belongs to God.

The Bible, in some ways, is the story of two gardens: Eden and Gethsemane. In the first, Adam took a fall. In the second, Jesus took a stand. In the first, God sought Adam. In the second, Jesus sought God. In Eden, Adam hid from God. In Gethsemane, Jesus emerged from the tomb. In Eden, Satan led Adam to a tree that led to his death. From Gethsemane, Jesus went to a tree that led to our life.

Satan was never invited into the Garden of Eden. He didn’t belong there. He wasn’t wanted there. Instead, he slithered like a snake into God’s garden and infected God’s children. That’s all he’s done ever since. And hasn’t he entered a few of your holy gardens?

For instance, we call it “holy matrimony,” where the word “altar” implies the presence of God. Marriage was God’s idea. The first wedding occurred in the first garden. But that doesn’t make any difference to the devil. He snakes his way into every home with one desire — to destroy. Sexual intimacy is God’s gift. Marriage is like a rose plucked from the garden, given by God and intended to be shared with your forever partner. But Satan mocks that kind of loyalty. He’s the father of incest and abuse. He’s the author of immorality. He’s the pimp of the garden.

We give sacred oaths and make solemn promises. We vow to be a good parent, a true companion, and a loyal friend. But Satan’s head turns when he hears a pledge. “We’ll see about that,” the father of lies smirks.

In God’s eyes, a child is holy. The innocence of youth; the freshness of childhood; the joy of an infant. There was never a moment when Jesus turned away a child. But there’s never been a child Satan didn’t despise. He killed babies in an attempt to kill Moses. He destroyed infants to destroy the Christ. And his tactics haven’t changed. Millions of babies are still aborted, and an equal number of children are abused and trafficked. Jesus said of Satan, “He was a murderer from the beginning.” (John 8:44)

So, is there a realm untouched by Satan? Is there a place unscarred by his sword? The church, perhaps? The government? Not likely. Children? We hope. Purity? We pray.

And you? And me? We are called to be holy. We were made to be holy – set apart for his good work. We are the prized flowers of the garden. But is there one person among us who hasn’t felt the foot of the intruder? What Satan did in Eden, he still does today. For that reason we need to know that what Jesus did in Gethsemane, he still does today. He reclaims the holy. He will not sit silent while Satan strip-mines the sacred. At the right moment Jesus stands and speaks. And when he stands and speaks, Satan stumbles and is speechless. That’s exactly what happened in Gethsemane.

John tells us that “Judas came there with a group of soldiers and some guards from the leading priests and Pharisees.” (John 18:3) A bit of study reveals that Satan had masterminded a coup d’état. He’d enlisted the muscle of each significant force in the drama — the Romans, the Jews and the apostles.

First he had a “group of soldiers.” The Greek word is speira, and it has three possible meanings. It can signify a Roman cohort of 300 men. It can refer to a cavalry and infantry totaling 1,900 soldiers. Or, it can describe a detachment known as a maniple, which contained 200 men. Amazing. I always had the impression that only a handful of soldiers arrested Jesus. But I was wrong. At a minimum there were two hundred soldiers dispatched to deal with a carpenter and his eleven friends.

Also present were “some guards.” These guys were the temple police. They were assigned to guard the holiest place during the busiest time of the year. They were probably among Israel’s finest. Yesterday’s version of Seal Team 6.

And then there was Judas. One of the inner circle. Not only had Satan recruited the Romans and the Jews, he’d infiltrated the cabinet. Hell must have been rejoicing. There was no way Jesus could escape. Satan had sealed every exit. His lieutenants anticipated every move, except one.

Jesus had no desire to run. He had no intent of trying to escape. He hadn’t come to the garden to retreat. What they found among the trees was no coward; what they found was a conqueror. And note the dialogue that ensued: “Knowing everything that would happen to him, Jesus went out and asked, ‘Who is it you are looking for?’ They answered, ‘Jesus from Nazareth.’ ‘I am he,’ Jesus said. (Judas, the one who turned against Jesus, was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, ‘I am he,’ they moved back and fell to the ground. Jesus asked them again, ‘Who is it you are looking for?’ They said, ‘Jesus of Nazareth.’ ‘I told you that I am he,’ Jesus said. ‘So if you are looking for me, let the others go.’” (John 18:4-8)

Remarkable. They stand only a few feet from his face and don’t even recognize him. Not even Judas realized who stood before them. What a truth. Apparently, seeing Jesus is more than a matter of the eyes; it’s a matter of the heart. The enemy is next to Jesus and doesn’t even realize it, and so he reveals himself. “I am he.” His voice flicks the first domino, and down they all fall. Were the moment not so solemn it would be almost comic. These are the best soldiers with Satan’s finest plan. Yet, one word from Jesus and they all fall down. The Roman guard becomes the Keystone Cops. The Temple thugs turn into Humpty-Dumpty. Two hundred fighting men, and more, collapse into a noisy pile of shields, swords and lamps. Don’t miss the symbolism here: When Jesus speaks, Satan falls.

It doesn’t matter who the evil one has recruited. It doesn’t matter if he has infiltrated the government. It doesn’t matter if he has seduced the temple. It doesn’t matter if he has enlisted one of the original, handpicked apostles. The best that Satan has melts like wax in the presence of Christ. And Jesus has to ask them again whom they seek. “Who are you after?” When they answer that they’re looking for Jesus of Nazareth, he tells them, “So if you are looking for me, let the others go.”

Did you catch that? Jesus commanding them. A Jew instructing a Roman? A renegade directing the temple guard? So, we turn to the commander, expecting a reply. We look at Judas, awaiting his response. We listen, expecting someone to announce, “You’re not the one in charge here, Nazarene! We’ll take whoever we want.” But not only are they silent, they’re obedient – the apostles are set free.

Many players appear on the stage in Gethsemane. Judas and his betrayal. Peter and his sword. The disciples and their fears. The soldiers and their weapons. And though these are crucial, they aren’t instrumental. The encounter is not between Jesus and the soldiers; it’s between God and Satan. Satan dares to enter yet another garden, but God stands and Satan hasn’t a prayer.

Don’t miss the message: Our fight is not against people on earth but against the rulers and authorities and the powers of this world’s darkness, against the spiritual powers of evil in the heavenly world. (Eph. 6:12) And, The Son of God came for this purpose: to destroy the devil’s work. (1 John 3:8)

Don’t miss the promises, either: Satan falls in the presence of Christ. One word from his lips, and the finest army in the world collapsed. Satan is silent in the proclamation of Christ. Not once did the enemy speak without Jesus’ invitation. Before Christ, Satan has nothing to say. Satan is powerless against the protection of Christ. “I have not lost any of the ones you gave me.” (John 18:9) When Jesus says he’ll keep you safe, he means it. Hell will have to get through him to get to you. Jesus is able to protect you. When he says he’ll get you home, he will get you home.

Has Satan invaded a garden of your life? Has he profaned a holy part of your world? Your marriage? Your peace? Your joy? Has he taken away from you a rose that God gave you? If so, let Jesus claim it back. Today. Now. Satan has no authority over you. If he has invaded a garden of your life, then invite Jesus to reclaim it. Open the gate to God. He will enter and do what he did at Gethsemane. He will pray, and he will protect. Why don’t you do that? Don’t know how? It’s easy. I’ll help you. Let’s pray. You and me. I’ll show you the way, and then you can fill in the blanks.

Precious Father, I praise your name. You have reclaimed so much in my life. I was lost, and you found me. I was confused, and you guided me. I had nothing to offer, but still you loved me. I confess that I still need help. I have a part of my life that needs your touch. Satan is battling for a garden in my heart. Don’t let him win. Drive him out. He’s a liar and has been since the beginning. Please defeat him. I’ll give you the glory. And Father, here is the area where I need your strength ….

And this is the place where I’ll step out to leave you and God in the garden to talk over the details.

Grace,

Randy