Empathy

Empathy

Seeing that we have a great High Priest who has entered the inmost Heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to our faith. For we have no superhuman High Priest to whom our weaknesses are unintelligible — he himself has shared fully in all our experience of temptation, except that he never sinned. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with fullest confidence, that we may receive mercy for our failures and grace to help in the hour of need. (Hebrews 4:14-16)

Chippie the parakeet never saw it coming. One second he was peacefully perched in his cage – the next he was sucked in, washed up and blown over. The problems began when Chippie’s owner decided to clean Chippie’s cage with a vacuum cleaner. She removed the attachment from the end of the hose and stuck it in the cage. Then the phone rang. She turned to pick up the phone and had barely said “hello” when, “Sssopp!” Chippie got sucked in. The bird owner gasped, put the phone down, turned off the vacuum and opened the bag. There was Chippie — still alive, but stunned. But since the bird was now covered with dust and soot, she grabbed him and raced to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and held Chippie under the running water. Then, realizing that Chippie was soaking wet and shivering, she did what any compassionate bird owner would do … she reached for the hair dryer and blasted the pet with hot air. Poor Chippie never knew what hit him.

A few days after the trauma, the Galveston reporter who’d initially written about the event contacted Chippie’s owner to see how the bird was recovering. “Well,” she replied, “Chippie doesn’t sing much anymore — he just sits and stares.” Sucked in, washed up, and blown over … that’s enough to steal the song from the stoutest heart.

Ever felt like Chippie? One minute we’re seated in familiar territory with a song on our lips, then .….. the pink slip comes; the rejection letter arrives; the doctor calls; the check bounces; a policeman knocks on the door. Sssopp! You’re sucked into a black cavern of doubts, doused with the cold water of reality, and stung with the hot air of empty promises. A life that had been so calm is now so stormy. It’s like you’re being hail stormed by demands. Assailed by doubts. Pummeled by questions. And somewhere in the trauma, you lose your joy. Somewhere in the storm, you lose your song.

There’s a day in the life of Christ that you need to know about; aside from the Crucifixion, it’s probably the most stressful day of his life. A roaring sequence of bad news, demanding crowds and doubting friends. 24 hours in which Jesus faces the same gale-force fears that you and I do. Clouds of darkness billow. Yet through it all Jesus remains calm. He endures the day without losing his song. How?

He begins the morning by hearing about the death of John the Baptist: his cousin, his forerunner, his co-worker, his friend. The man who came closer to understanding Jesus than any other is now dead. Imagine losing the one person who knows you better than anyone else. Reflect on the horror of being told that your dearest friend has just been murdered. Consider your reaction if you were told that your best friend had just been decapitated by a people-pleasing, incestuous monarch, and you’ll see how the day begins for Christ. His world is beginning to turn upside down – and the day’s just begun.

The emissaries brought more than news of sorrow, however; they brought a warning: “The same Herod who took John’s head is interested in yours.” Listen to how Luke presents the monarch’s madness: “Herod said, ‘I beheaded John. Who, then, is this I hear such things about?’ And he tried to see him.” (Luke 9:9) Something tells me that Herod wanted to make more than just a social call.

So, with John’s life taken and his own life threatened, Jesus chooses to get away for a while. “When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place.” (Matt. 14:13) But before he can get away, his disciples arrive. Mark’s gospel states that the “apostles gathered around Jesus and reported to him all they had done and taught.” (Mark 6:30) They return exuberant because Jesus had earlier commissioned them to proclaim the gospel and authenticate it with miracles. So, they went out and preached that people should repent. “They drove out many demons and anointed many sick people with oil and healed them.” (Mark 6:13) Can you imagine the excitement? Can you envision the scene? A reunion of twelve friends. A reuniting of disciples with their teacher. A homecoming bubbling with testimonies: Peter describing a lame man he healed. John telling about a crowd he taught. Andrew recounting the deliverance of an epileptic. James relating to Jesus how the crowds followed him wherever he went. Matthew reporting the healing of a blind woman.

Remember, these disciples were ordinary men. They weren’t orators, scholars, kings or saints. They were fishermen and a tax collector; common laborers who, by God’s power, had taken a nation by storm. The emotion? Exuberance. So, in a matter of moments, Jesus’ heart goes from the pace of a funeral dirge to the triumphant march of a ticker-tape parade. And look who follows the disciples to locate Jesus. About five thousand men plus women and children. Rivers of people cascade out of the hills and villages. They swarm around Jesus, each of them with only one desire: to meet the man who had empowered the disciples. What had begun as a mournful morning now buzzes with frenetic activity.

The morning has been a jungle trail of the unexpected. First, Jesus grieves over the death of a dear friend and relative. Then his life is threatened. Next he celebrates the triumphant return of his followers. Then he is nearly suffocated by a brouhaha of humanity. Bereavement … jeopardy … jubilation … bedlam. And the day’s not even half over.

In light of all the commotion, Jesus decides to take the disciples to a quiet place where they can rest and reflect. He shouts a command over the noise of the crowd. “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” (Mark 6:31) So, the thirteen fight their way to the beach and climb into a boat. And, for a few precious moments, the world is quiet again. The din of the crowd grows distant and the only sound is the slap of the water against the hull of the boat. Jesus’ heart is weighed down by sorrow and buoyed by joy. He watches his followers swapping stories of victory. Then he raises his glance and sees on the horizon Tiberias, the city constructed by John the Baptist’s murderer, Herod. Joy suddenly married to indignation causes his fists to clench and his eyes to moisten.

And who would question his desire to get away from the people? He just needs a few hours alone. Just a bit of a respite. A little retreat. A time to pray. A time to ponder. A time to weep. A time without the crowds or their demands. A campfire wreathed with friends. An evening with those he loves. The people can wait until tomorrow.

The people, however, have other ideas. “The crowds learned about it and followed him.” (Luke 9:11) It’s a six-mile walk around the northeastern corner of the Sea of Galilee, so the crowd takes a hike. So when Jesus got to Bethsaida, his desired retreat had become a roaring arena. “Surprise!”

Add to the list of sorrow, peril, excitement and bedlam the word interruption. Jesus’ plans are interrupted. What he has in mind for his day and what the people have in mind for his day are two completely different agendas. What Jesus seeks and what Jesus gets are not the same. Sound familiar? Remember when you sought a night’s rest and got a colicky baby? Remember when you sought to catch up at the office and got even further behind? Remember when you wanted to use your Saturday for leisure, but ended up fixing the neighbor’s sink? It happened to Jesus, too. Jesus knows how you feel.

Ponder this and use it the next time your world goes from calm to chaos. His pulse has raced. His eyes have grown weary. His heart has grown heavy. He’s had to climb out of bed with a sore throat. He’s been kept awake late and had gotten up early. He knows how you feel. But you may have trouble believing that. You probably believe that Jesus knows what it means to endure heavy-duty tragedies. You’re likely convinced that Jesus is acquainted with sorrow and has wrestled with fear. Most people accept that. But can God relate to the hassles and headaches of our lives? For some reason, that’s harder to believe.

Maybe that’s why portions of this day are recorded in all the Gospel accounts. No other event, other than the Crucifixion itself, is told by all four Gospel writers. Not Jesus’ baptism. Not his temptation. Not even his birth. But all four writers chronicle this day. It’s as if Matthew, Mark, Luke and John knew that you’d be wondering if God really understands. And they proclaim their response in four-part harmony: Jesus knows how you feel.

Of the many messages Jesus taught us that day about stress, the first one is this: “God knows how you feel.” Re-read Hebrews 4:15. The writer of Hebrews is adamant, almost to the point of redundancy. It’s as if he anticipates our objections. So he boldly proclaims Jesus’ ability to understand. Look at the wording again. He himself – not an angel; not an ambassador. Not an emissary, but Jesus himself. Shared fully – not partially; not nearly; not to a large degree. Entirely. Jesus shared fully. In all our experience – every hurt; each ache; all the stresses and all the strains. No exceptions. No substitutes. Why? So he could sympathize with our weaknesses.

Every page of the Gospels hammers home this crucial principle: God knows how you feel. From the funeral, to the factory, to the frustration of a demanding schedule. Jesus understands. When you tell God that you’ve reached your limit, he knows what you mean. When you shake your head at impossible deadlines, he shakes his, too. When your plans are interrupted by people who have other plans, he nods in empathy. He’s been there. He knows how you feel.

Let me take you to the operating room of the Kane Summit Hospital, Pennsylvania. A doctor is performing an appendectomy. The patient has complained of severe abdominal pain. The diagnosis is clear: an inflamed appendix. Dr. Evan O’Neill Kane is performing the surgery. In his distinguished thirty-seven year medical career, he has performed nearly four thousand appendectomies, so this surgery will be uneventful in all ways except two.

The first novelty was the use of local anesthesia in major surgery. Dr. Kane was a crusader against the hazards of general anesthesia. He contended that a local application was far safer. Many of his colleagues agreed with him in principle, but in order for them to agree in practice they would have to see the theory applied. So, Dr. Kane searched for a volunteer, a patient who was willing to undergo surgery while under local anesthesia. But a volunteer was not so easily found. Many were squeamish at the thought of being awake during their own surgery. Others were fearful that the anesthesia might wear off too soon. Eventually, however, Dr. Kane found a candidate.

So, on Tuesday morning, February 15, 1921, the historic operation occurred. The patient was prepped and wheeled into the operating room. A local anesthetic was applied. And as he had done thousands of times, Dr. Kane dissected the superficial tissues and located the appendix. He skillfully removed it and concluded the surgery. And during the procedure, the patient had only complained of minor discomfort. The volunteer was taken into post-op, then placed in a hospital ward. He recovered quickly and was discharged the next day. Dr. Kane had proven his theory. Thanks to the willingness of a brave volunteer, Kane had successfully demonstrated that local anesthesia was a viable, and even preferable, alternative. But recall that I had said there were two facts that made the surgery unique. You’ve only heard the first.

The second was the patient. The courageous candidate for surgery by Dr. Kane was Dr. Kane, himself. To prove his point, the 60 year-old had operated on himself using mirrors. The doctor became a patient in order to convince the patients to trust the doctor. But the story of the doctor who became his own patient is mild compared to the story of the God who became human. But Jesus did. So that you and I would believe that the Healer knows our hurts, he voluntarily became one of us. He placed himself in our position. He suffered our pains and felt our fears.

Rejection? He felt it. Temptation? He knew it. Loneliness? He experienced it. Death? He tasted it. And stress? He could write a best-selling book about it. And why did he do it? One reason. So that when you hurt, you will go to him — your Father and your Physician — and let him heal you.

Jesus knows how you feel. That’s empathy. That’s grace. That’s God.

Grace,

Randy