Grace

Grace

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast. (Eph. 2:8-9)

I used to coach T-ball – I emphasize the words, “used to.” Teaching little five-year-olds an organized sport can be rewarding, among other adjectives like “cute,” “funny” and “frustrating.” Frankly, getting a group of kindergartners together presents more than just a single challenge. And if your goal is to get them to act in any sort of organized manner during a practice? Well … good luck. Having a common purpose is virtually impossible for five year olds. Obviously, team concepts elude young minds until they’ve been subjected to a team sport.

It occurred to me, however, that T-ball is the one sport that’s all about grace. Unlike baseball, or pretty much any other team sport, the rules are pretty simple: (1) when it’s your turn at bat, you can't strike out – you just keep swinging until you hit the ball; (2) an inning is over after three outs, or after everyone gets a turn at bat, whichever occurs last; (3) everybody plays the whole game; and (4) when the game's over, everyone gets a snow cone. Those were the days.

But you don’t have to be much older than a kindergartner to know what it’s like to lose. To come up short. To fail. Just ask Peter.

Peter, like that athlete on the old Wide World of Sports, enjoyed the thrill of victory. But he also experienced the agony of defeat. He was a fisherman and lived with his wife in Capernaum where they shared a house with his mother-in-law and his brother, Andrew. He and Andrew had their own boat, and were in the fishing business with a couple of partners named James and John, Zebedee's sons.

The first time Jesus laid eyes on him, he took one look at Peter and said, "So, you're Simon, the son of John." (John 1:42) And then Jesus said that from then on he'd call him Cephas, which is Aramaic for Peter, which is Greek for rock, or pebble. He could stop fishing for fish, Jesus told him. He'd been promoted. From there on out, people were to be his business, and now he could start fishing for people.

And Peter certainly experienced the thrill of victory in this business of being a disciple. For instance, there were all these half-baked theories about who Jesus was. So, Jesus asked his disciples straight out: "Who do you say that I am?" Nobody wanted to stick their neck out and answer that one. Well, nobody that is except for good ol’ Peter. "You’re the Christ, the Son of the living God," Peter said. To which Jesus responded by blessing him, and then telling Peter that it was that very confession upon which Jesus would build his church. Victory.

But Peter also knew the agony of defeat. He didn't always say or do the right thing. One time Jesus was talking about heaven, and Peter wanted to know what sort of special deal he was going to get. You know, the people who'd left home and given up everything the way he'd done to follow Jesus? But Jesus took it easy on him since a “rock” can't help being a little thick sometimes.

And then there was their last supper together. Jesus was explaining that he would have to be going soon. But, Peter didn't quite get it. So, Jesus explained that he was going where nobody on earth could follow him. Peter finally seemed to get it, but then he asked Jesus why he couldn't follow him. "I'll lay down my life for you," Peter said. Then Jesus said something to Peter that rocked his world: "Listen, Peter, the rooster won't crow until you've betrayed me three times."

And Jesus was right, of course. After Jesus was arrested, Peter was sitting out there in the courtyard keeping warm by the fire. Then a girl, and later others, came up to ask him on three separate occasions if he really wasn't one of Jesus’ disciples. And Peter’s response? “What in God’s name are you talking about? I don’t even know the guy.” Then the old rooster crowed at the rising sun, and tears began to rain  - turning the “rock” into a mudslide.

Peter knew what it's like to be a winner. He also knew what it's like to be a loser. But everybody's a winner in T-ball. Do you know why everyone's a winner in T-ball? Because you don't keep score. Most of the time, sports are all about no second chances. There are clear winners and clear losers. There are the ones who start and play most of the time, and there are the ones who almost never get to play. There are the ones who get picked first, and there are the ones who’re picked last. Most of the time, sports are about no second chances.

And a lot of us would like to live in a world where when you go to church you’d never have to hear Christians confessing their pain, or the sin of anything. The problem is that each of us has a story. And all of our stories include the truth that we’re guilty, and that we’ve betrayed our Lord. Just checking here, but if you're at home and keeping score, we’re losing and we won’t be getting a snow cone. But the thing is, we don't have to let our guilt and our shame and our failures destroy us. Peter proves that. Peter, of all people. The disciple with the foot-shaped mouth.

The Sabbath was over. Mary Magdalene and two other women were going to anoint Jesus' body. So, very early on the first day of the week, just before sunrise, they were on the way to the tomb. They were wondering while they walked how they were going to roll the big stone away from the entrance to the tomb. But when they got there, the stone had already been rolled away, and an angel was there who told them that if they were looking for Jesus of Nazareth they’d come to the wrong place. He’d risen. He wasn't there.

And then in Mark 16:7, there’s this great line. The angel tells the women, "But go, tell his disciples, and Peter, that he is going before you to Galilee." In other words, “Don't just stand there, ladies. Get going and tell the disciples – especially Peter – that he’s risen and will meet you in Galilee.

You see, Peter didn't let his despair destroy him. Somehow he kept going. And then we have this great line in Mark’s gospel. The tomb was empty. Jesus was alive. And the angel tells Mary Magdalene and the others to go tell the disciples – and particularly Peter. It's as if even the angels were saying: "Be sure to tell Peter that he's not left out. Tell him that Jesus still wants to see him."

No wonder they call it the gospel of the second chance. Peter betrayed Jesus by something he said, just like you and I sometimes betray Jesus by the things we say and do – or by things we don't say and don't do. But Jesus wanted Peter, in particular, to know that he was alive. Peter got a second chance. Even the angels wanted Peter to know that it wasn't over. The message was loud and clear: Be sure and tell Peter that even though he swung and missed, he didn’t strike out. He gets to swing again. And in less than seven weeks’ time, Peter took another swing. This time, he hit a home run at Pentecost and became one of the leaders of the early Christian church where 3,000 people were saved on that day alone!

The truth is that we live in a world that keeps score. And all of us know what it's like to lose. We also know enough about ourselves – if we're honest – to shudder at the thought of God keeping score with his great scorecard in the sky. That's a pretty scary thought, isn't it? A ground out here, a strikeout there. So, how’s your game going? Not good, if your game is like mine.

Some time ago, rumor had spread that a woman was having visions of Jesus. The reports reached a preacher and he decided to check her out since, in his opinion, there’s a fine line that separates the real from the lunatic fringe. "Is it true, ma'am, that you’ve had visions of Jesus?" “Yes," replied the woman. "Well, the next time you have one of those visions, I want you to ask Jesus to tell you the sins I confessed last night." The woman was stunned. "Did I hear you right? You actually want me to ask Jesus to tell me the sins of your past?" "Exactly. So, please call me if anything happens, alright?" “Alright,” said the woman.

Ten days later, the woman informed the preacher of a recent appearance. "Please come," she said. Within the hour, the preacher arrived. "Now, you just told me over the phone a few moments ago that you actually had a vision of Jesus, right?” “Yes,” she replied. “Well, did you do what I asked?" "Yes, I asked Jesus to tell me the sins you confessed the night before our first visit," she replied. With that, the preacher leaned forward with anticipation, his eyes wide with expectancy. "Well, what did Jesus say?" She took his hand, gazed deep into his eyes and said, “These were Jesus’ exact words: 'I can’t remember.'"

Robert Fulghum, in his book All I Really Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten, listed some things he learned when he was in kindergarten. Things like: share everything; play fair; don't hit people; don't take things that aren't yours; say you're sorry when you hurt somebody; and when you go out in the world, watch out for traffic – hold hands and stick together.

So lately, I’ve been going over what I’d say if I was coaching T-ball again. I think I’d say stuff like, "Honestly, Johnny, I really don't know the score." Or, "Come on Katy, keeping swinging until you hit that ball." Maybe even, "Get out on that field, Evan – everyone gets to play." And, "Don’t you know that everybody's a winner, Crystal?" And definitely, "Snow cones for everyone.” But I’m still working on this one, "It's all about grace, Randy."

And therein lies the problem. You see it, don’t you? Sure you do. Yeah, it’s right there. Right there in that last sentence in the paragraph above this one. The one that says, And I’m still working on this one, “It’s all about grace, Randy.” You see? That’s the problem! Working at grace isn’t going to get me there. But if that’s the problem, then what’s the solution?

It’s seeing grace as a gift, not as a reward.

You see, working at grace is not going to get any of us to heaven. But it is grace that will get us working. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God – not by works, so that no one can boast. (Eph. 2:8-9)

Jesus said, “’I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven.’” (Matt. 18:3)  Kids, schmids. What do kindergartners know, anyway? Well, quite a bit actually.

They know that when you go up to bat, you can't strike out, and that everyone gets to play – all the time. And the score? They don’t care since everybody gets a snow cone at the end of the game anyway. And if you’re a child of God, you can’t strike out, and you’re in the game until it’s over. More importantly, the score’s inconsequential because Jesus settled that one a long time ago.

So, get in the game. You can’t lose.

Grace,

Randy

Stairway from Heaven

Stairway From Heaven

Then Jesus directed them to have all the people sit down in groups on the green grass. So they sat down in groups of hundreds and fifties. Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave them to his disciples to distribute to the people. He also divided the two fish among them all. They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces of bread and fish. The number of the men who had eaten was five thousand.

Immediately Jesus made his disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to Bethsaida, while he dismissed the crowd. After leaving them, he went up on a mountainside to pray. (Mark 6:39-46)

New Mexico is called the “Land of Enchantment.” And in this land of enchantment, there’s a chapel of wonder.

On the corner of Water Street and Old Santa Fe Trail, you’ll find Loretto Chapel. And if you were to step through its iron gate, you’d enter more than just a chapel courtyard. You’d enter another era. The chapel was completed in 1878, during a time when settlers stomped through muddy streets, donkeys brayed and wagon wheels groaned – the early morning sun spotlighting this gothic chapel as it sits against the backdrop of the desert hills of Santa Fe.

Loretto Chapel took five years to complete. Modeled after the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, its delicate sanctuary contains an altar, a rose window, and a choir loft. The choir loft is the reason for its wonder. Because if you were to have stood in that newly-built chapel in 1878, you might have seen the Sisters of Loretto looking forlornly at the balcony. Everything had been completed: the doors had been hung, the pews had been placed and the floor had been laid. Everything was finished. Even the choir loft. Except for one thing. There were no stairs leading up to the loft.

The architect had died suddenly during the chapel’s construction, and it was only after much of the chapel had already been completed that the builders realized – too late – that it was lacking any type of stairway to the loft. Unfortunately, the chapel was too small to accommodate a conventional stairway. The best builders and designers in the region had been summoned and simply shook their heads when consulted. “Impossible,” they murmured. There simply wasn’t enough room. A ladder would serve the purpose, but mar the ambiance. A ladder also presented a trip-and-fall hazard to the nuns who would be forced to scale it with their long habits.

The Sisters of Loretto, whose determination had led them from Kentucky to Santa Fe, now faced a challenge greater than their journey: a stairway that couldn’t be built. What they had dreamed of and what they could do were separated by twenty impossible feet.

So what did they do? Well, they did the only thing they could do. They ascended the mountain. Not the mountains near Santa Fe. They climbed an even higher mountain. They climbed the same mountain that Jesus climbed 1,800 years earlier in Bethsaida. They climbed the mountain of prayer.

“He went up on a mountainside by himself to pray.” (Mark 6:46)

Jesus faced an impossible task that day. More than five thousand people were ready to fight a battle he had not come to fight. How could he show them that he didn’t come to be a king, but to be a sacrifice? How could he take their eyes off an earthly kingdom so that they would see the spiritual one? How could they see the eternal when they only had eyes for the temporal? What Jesus dreamed of doing, and what he seemed able to do, were separated by an impossible gulf. So, Jesus prayed.

The Bible doesn’t tell us what he prayed about. Maybe he prayed that the eyes that had been blinded by power could see God’s truth; or that disciples, dizzied by success, could endure failure; or that leaders longing for power would follow him to a cross; or that the people desiring bread for the body would hunger for the bread of the soul. He prayed for the impossible to happen.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe he didn’t ask for anything. Maybe he just stood quietly in the presence of the Presence and basked in the Majesty. Perhaps he placed his war-weary self before the throne and simply rested. Maybe he lifted his head out of the confusion of earth long enough to hear the solution of heaven. Perhaps he was reminded that hard hearts don’t faze the Father; that problem people don’t perturb the Eternal One. We don’t know what he did, or what he said. But we do know the result. The hill from which he prayed that evening became a steppingstone, and the ensuing storm that night became a path that allowed the disciples to see Jesus as they had never seen him before.

And during the storm that followed, Jesus prayed again. The sky darkened. The winds howled. Yet he prayed. The people grumbled. The disciples doubted. Yet he prayed. When forced to choose between the muscles of men and the mountain of prayer, he prayed. Jesus didn’t try to do it by himself. So why should we?

There are crevasses in our life that we cannot cross alone. There are hearts in our world that we cannot change without help. There are mountains that we cannot climb until we climb His mountain. So, climb it. You’ll be amazed. The Sisters of Loretto were.

As the story goes, the nuns prayed for nine days. On the last day of the novena, a Mexican carpenter with a beard, a donkey and a toolbox appeared at the chapel looking for work. He explained that he’d heard they needed a stairway to a chapel loft, and he thought he could help. At this point, the mother superior had nothing to lose, so she gave him permission.

He went to work with crude tools, painstaking patience, a couple of tubs of water and uncanny skill. For eight months he worked – alone. Only working when the chapel was not in use; only working when no one could see; working only when the eyes who’d see were the eyes of the One who sees everything.

One morning the Sisters of Loretto entered the chapel to find their prayers had been answered. A masterpiece of carpentry spiraled from the floor to the loft. Two complete three-hundred-sixty-degree turns. Thirty-three steps held together with wooden pegs and no central support. The wood is said to be a variety of hard fir, one that is non-existent in New Mexico.

When the sisters turned to thank the craftsman, he was gone. He was never seen again. The nuns even ran ads in the newspaper trying to find him, but no trace of the man could be found. He never asked for money. He never asked for praise. He was a simple carpenter who did what no one else could do so singers could gain access to a choir loft that no one could reach, and sing.

So, if you’re ever in Santa Fe, step into this chapel of amazement and witness the fruit of prayer. Or, if you prefer, talk to the Master Carpenter yourself, right where you are. He’s already performed one impossible feat in your world. He, like the Santa Fe carpenter, built a stairway no one else could build. He, like the nameless craftsman, used material from another place. He, like the visitor to Loretto, came to span the gap between where you are and where you long to be.

Each year of his life is a step. Thirty-three paces, all equally spaced. Each step of the stair is an answered prayer. He built it so you can climb it.

And sing.

Grace,

Randy

Dads

Dads

The Lord made an agreement with Jacob and gave the teachings to Israel, which he commanded our ancestors to teach to their children. Then their children would know them, even their children not yet born. And they would tell their children. So they would all trust God and would not forget what he had done but would obey his commands. (Psalm 78:5-7)

Here’s a letter from one of those children:

Dear God,

Thanks for giving me a daddy. You knew just what I’d need! In case you need to make daddies for other kids, I thought you might like to know what I like best about the one you sent me:

A good dad …(1) knows everything (like how to tie shoes and drive a car); (2) is really smart (he even knows where the wind goes after it blows through the trees); (3) has a forgiving heart (for when I mess up); (4) is loaded with patience, patience, patience (he probably won’t need it, but just in case…); (5) has a comfy lap and a big laugh (you understand about that, don’t you?); and (6) tells me all about you and your son.

Your friend,

Israel

P.S. I almost left out the best part! A good dad has real strong arms (to catch me when I fall. He says you’re just like that, too).

It seems to me that fathers and mothers enter the child-rearing business at two different times. Mothers decide to be mothers long before dads do. A mother carries a baby for nine months, giving her an opportunity to grow content with her decision to parent the new family member.

Dad, on the other hand, goes about his daily routine, pretty much unaffected by what’s going on inside the womb. Oh, he’s supportive and excited, but compared to Mom? He’s an observer. Until delivery time. Then Dad’s world takes on an entirely new meaning. He looks into the face of that new life and is faced with the realization: “I’m the father of this child.” You might call it a “delivery room discovery.”

At this point a good dad makes a big decision. He has to decide to become a father. And that decision sets up dominoes of decisions he will make for the rest of his life. It’s a rational choice to alter his life, schedule, direction and priorities in order to be a good dad to the tiny life in his arms.

Fathering a child, for most, is not difficult. Being a father is. It’s the first and most important decision of fathers: to make a conscientious choice to be a father. The decision to be a father is not just a delivery room decision, though. It’s a daily decision. A century ago, dads were on-site parents, working the farm or running the family store. Children spent a great deal of their time alongside their parents, working together. But in our modern culture, employment distances most dads from their kids.

Some dads leave home before the children are awake. Others arrive home long after the kids are home from school. As a result, it’s possible, even common, for a father to forget about fathering — to emotionally disconnect himself from his kids. Throughout the day, every day, dads need to renew their “dad” decision. “Will I attend this convention?” “Is this meeting essential?” “Can I rearrange these appointments to get home earlier?” On the way home from work, dads have to decide to take off the work hat and put on the “dad” hat. It’s a decision to manage his time, carefully reconciling work with the priority of family.

Being a good dad means making tough, sacrificial decisions. Decisions that tell our children what’s important to us. In his book, Achieving Success Without Failing Your Family, Paul Faulkner describes the decisions of a particular insurance executive. Speaking at a businessmen’s convention, the man stressed the importance of being a father first. The man’s daughter was seated in the audience.

…(i)n the middle of his talk he had turned to her and asked, “Sweetheart, do you remember the time I won the million-dollar roundtable three years in a row?” And she said, “No, Dad, I don’t guess I do.” And then he asked, “Well, do you remember when we used to have those Dairy Queen dates?” And she said, “Oh, yes!” And then he turned to the audience to make the point that daughters don‘t remember when you sell a million dollars’ worth of insurance, but they do remember your special dates.

Not only must dads decide to be involved with their kids, available and interested in what interests them, but dads must decide what kind of role models they’ll be. What an incredible privilege: the task of molding and shaping little children. Kids have a unique set of antennae — not only are they able to see much and hear more, they replay the behavior they see in their parents.

Paul Harvey tells a story that’s a good example of this point. Our “For What It’s Worth Department” knows that when Grey Baker goes golfing in Jackson, Mississippi — he has taken his three-year-old grandson Trevor along as a companion… The boy has been learning the game by watching. Last week Grandpa Baker brought the lad a set of play golf clubs of his own. This past weekend — during a family cookout in the backyard — the little lad who’d learned golf by observing Grandpa announced, “Watch me!” And he said a no-no word and threw his golf club up into the pear tree.

Of all the fathers in the Bible, one stands out in particular for his decision to be a godly father. He intentionally decided to be an adoptive father to his orphaned cousin, Esther. He could be called the father of courage, because he instilled this trait in his daughter. Do you remember the story?

The small book of Esther reveals the story of the beautiful Jewish girl whose clever courage saved her people. Mordecai raised his daughter to take a stand at the right time, and to do the right thing.

Because of her beauty, Esther becomes Queen of Persia. Mordecai wisely advises her to conceal her heritage from King Xerxes. When Mordecai refuses to bow down to the king’s officer, Haman, he placed himself in jeopardy because of his convictions – he would bow before no one other than Jehovah. As a result, Haman conspires to destroy not only Mordecai, but all the Jews as well. Mordecai urges Esther to appeal to the king on behalf of their people. “(Y)ou may have been chosen queen for such a time as this.” (Esther 4:14) Esther must have trusted Mordecai a great deal because she determined to stand before the king for her people, “(a)nd if I die, I die.” (Esther 4:16)

Words of faith, words of courage. Words that a daughter could say because she was raised by a father who made the right decisions. Remember this: a crisis does not develop character; a crisis reveals character. The character Esther revealed must have been learned from observing her father’s character. And as the plot twists and turns, Mordecai and the Jewish nation are saved and Haman is executed.

Usually, when we study the story of Esther, we see her strength and devotion to her people. But God used someone else in this story to accomplish his purpose. God used a faithful father — a father who impressed a young daughter to have courage in her convictions. At the right time, Esther did the right thing, because she had been raised by a godly father. A father who knew that the decisions he would make as his daughter grew up would help her learn to make godly decisions later in life.

 

Remember that time when you dropped your child off for their first day of kindergarten? You knew it was time. You knew it was right. And you knew he or she would be just fine. But you never knew it would be so hard to say, “You’ll be all right. Come on, I’ll walk you to class.” But one step into the classroom, the cat of curiosity pounced on your kindergartner. And you walked away. You gave her up. Not much, but you gave him up as much as you could that day.

It’s events like that which take us from black-and-white theology to Technicolor reality. “What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all — how will he not also, along with him graciously give us all things?” (Romans 8:31-32)

So, is that how God felt, too? Is what we felt that first-day-of-school morning anything like what God felt when He gave up His son? If so, it may explain a lot. It explains the proclamation of the angels to the shepherds outside Bethlehem. (A father announcing the birth of his son) It explains the voice at Jesus’ baptism: “This is my son in whom I’m very pleased ….” (A proud father acknowledging his son) It explains the transfiguration of Moses and Elijah on the mountaintop. (A father sending encouragement to his son) And it explains how God’s heart must have ached as he heard the cracking voice of his son, “Father, take this cup away.”

On that first day of school, we released our children into a safe environment with a compassionate teacher who stood ready to wipe away any tears. God, on the other hand, released Jesus into a hostile arena with cruel soldiers who turned the back of his son into raw meat. We said good-bye to our kids knowing that they would make friends, laugh and draw pictures. God said good-bye to Jesus knowing he would be spat upon, laughed at and killed.

We gave up our kids fully aware that, were they to need us, we would be at their side in a heartbeat. But God said goodbye to his son fully aware that when he would need him the most, when his cry of despair would roar through the heavens, God would sit in silence. The angels, though positioned, would hear no command from God. Jesus, though in anguish, would feel no comfort from God’s hand. “He gave his best,” Paul reasons, “why should we doubt his love?”

Perhaps we should sit in silence, not like we did after we watched our child walk into that classroom on the first day of school, but before our Father. This time not sad over what we had to give, but grateful for what we’ve already received — living proof that God cares.

Grace,

Randy