Calamities

Calamities

“This will happen just as I have described it, for God has revealed to Pharaoh in advance what he is about to do. The next seven years will be a period of great prosperity throughout the land of Egypt. But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Genesis 41:28-32)

About 20 years ago, a German Shepherd/Wolf mix attacked my youngest son who was walking to school one day with a friend. The crazed animal, completely unprovoked, climbed out of his dog run and onto the sidewalk and nearly killed William. The dog left my son with dozens of cuts and gashes, all of which required stitches whose number are far too many to remember. The dog even came back for “seconds.” Fortunately, thanks to some courageous passersby, a second attack was averted. The cur’s name was Cujo, of all things, and this wasn’t his first victim. As you can imagine, William didn’t leave my sight the rest of the day, and neither did my un-Christian thoughts about Cujo. Amidst the trauma, however, I was able to reflect on the goodness of God, since the day’s events could have had a very different outcome. But if things had turned out differently, would God still have been good?

Is God good only when the outcome is? When the cancer is in remission, we say "God is good." When the pay raise comes, we say, "God is good." When the university admits us, like it did for my youngest daughter, or the final score favors our team, "God is good." But would, and do we say the same under different circumstances? In the cemetery as well as the nursery? In the unemployment line as well as the grocery line? In days of recession as much as in days of provision? Is God always good?

Many of us have this kind of quasi-contract with God – the fact that God hasn't signed it doesn't deter us from still believing it. “I pledge to be a good, decent person, and in return God will … save my child; protect my job; heal my friend; or ______ (Fill in the blank). Only fair, right? Yet, when God fails to meet our bottom-line expectations, we’re left spinning in a tornado of questions. Is he good at all? Is God angry with me? Is he stumped? Overworked? Is his power limited? His authority restricted? Did the devil outwit him? When life isn't good, what are we to think of God? Where is he in all of this?

Joseph's words for Pharaoh offer some help in this area. Granted, we don't generally think of Joseph as being much of a theologian – not like Job, the sufferer, or Paul, the apostle. For one thing, we don't have many of Joseph's words. Yet the few we have reveal a man who wrestled with the nature of God. To the king he announced: “But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Gen. 41:30-32) Joseph saw both seasons, the one of plenty and the one of scarcity, beneath the umbrella of God's jurisdiction. Both were "decreed by God." But how could God do that?

Was the calamity God's idea? Of course not. God never creates or parlays evil. "God can never do wrong! It is impossible for the Almighty to do evil." (Job 34:10; see also James 1:17) He is the essence of good. So, how can God, who is good, invent anything bad? Furthermore, he’s sovereign. Scripture repeatedly attributes utter and absolute control to his hand. "The Most High God rules the kingdom of mankind and sets over it whom he will." (Dan. 5:21) So, in summary: God is good, and God is sovereign. Then how do you factor in the presence of calamities in God's world if he’s good and self-determining?

Here’s how the Bible explains it: God permits it. When the demons begged Jesus to send them into a herd of pigs, he "gave them permission." (Mark 5:12-13) Regarding the rebellious, God said, "I let them become defiled . . . that I might fill them with horror so they would know that I am the Lord." (Ezek. 20:26) The Old Law even speaks of the consequence of accidentally killing someone: "If [the man] does not do it intentionally, but God lets it happen, he is to flee to a place I will designate." (Ex. 21:13)

God, at times, permits calamities. He allows the ground to grow dry, and stalks to grow bare. He allows Satan to unleash mayhem, like that Allstate guy. But he doesn't allow Satan to triumph. Isn't that the promise of Romans 8:28? "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." The key is that God promises to render beauty out of "all things," not "each thing." Isolated events may be evil, but the ultimate culmination is good.

We see examples of this all the time. For instance, when you sip a Starbucks and say, "Now, that’s a good cup of coffee," what are you saying? That the bag that held the beans is good? That the beans are good? That hot water is good? That a coffee filter is good? No. “Good” happens when the ingredients work together: the bag is opened, the beans are ground into powder, and the water is heated to just the right temperature. It’s the collective cooperation of the elements that creates good.

Nothing in the Bible would cause us to call a famine good, or a heart attack good, or a terrorist attack good. These are terrible calamities, born out of a fallen earth. Yet every message in the Bible, especially the story of Joseph, compels us to believe that God will mix them with other ingredients and bring good out of them. But we have to let God define “good.” Our definition includes health, comfort and recognition. His definition? In the case of his Son, Jesus Christ, the good life consisted of struggles, storms, and death. But God worked it all together for the greatest of good: his glory and our salvation.

Joni Eareckson Tada has spent most of her life attempting to reconcile the presence of suffering with the nature of God. She was just a teenager when a diving accident left her paralyzed from the neck down. After more than forty years in a wheelchair, Joni has reached this conclusion: “[Initially] I figured that if Satan and God were involved in my accident at all, then it must be that the devil had twisted God's arm for permission . . . I reasoned that once God granted permission to Satan, he then nervously had to run behind him with a repair kit, patching up what Satan had ruined, mumbling to himself, "Oh great, now how am I going to work this for good?" . . . But the truth is that God is infinitely more powerful than Satan . . . While the devil's motive in my disability was to shipwreck my faith by throwing a wheelchair in my way, I'm convinced that God's motive was to thwart the devil and use the wheelchair to change me and make me more like Christ through it all . . . [He can] bring ultimate good out of the devil's wickedness.”

This was the message of Jesus. When his followers spotted a blind man on the side of the road, they asked Jesus for an explanation. Was God angry? Were his parents to blame? Who sinned here? But Jesus' answer provided a higher option: the man was blind so that "the works of God should be revealed in him." (John 9:3) God turned blindness, a bad thing, into a billboard for Jesus' power to heal. Satan acted, God counteracted, and good won. It's a divine jujitsu of sorts. God redirects the energy of evil against its source. God uses evil to ultimately bring evil to nothingness. He is the master chess player, always checkmating the devil's every move.

Our choice really comes down to this: trust God or turn away. The truth is that God will breach that “contract” of ours; he’ll shatter our expectations. And we’ll be left to make a decision. Because at some point we all stand at the intersection of the question, “Is God good when the outcome is not?” During the famine as well as the feast? The definitive answer to that question comes in the person of Jesus Christ.

Jesus is the only picture of God that we have in our photo album. And do you want to know heaven's clearest answer to the question of suffering? Just look at Jesus. He pressed his fingers into the sore of the leper. He felt the tears of the sinful woman who wept. He inclined his ear to the cry of the hungry. He wept at the death of a friend. He stopped his work to tend to the needs of a grieving mother. He doesn't recoil, run or retreat at the sight of pain, or life’s tragedies. Just the opposite, actually. He didn't walk the earth in an insulated bubble, or preach from an isolated, germ-free, pain-free island. He took his own medicine. Trivial irritations of family life? Jesus felt them. Cruel accusations of jealous men? Jesus knew their sting. A seemingly senseless death? Just look at the cross.

He exacts nothing from us that he did not experience himself. Why? Because he is good. God owes us no more explanation than that. Besides, if he gave us one, what makes us think we would actually understand it? Maybe the problem is not so much God's plan, but with our limited perspective.

Suppose the wife of George Frideric Handel came upon a page of her husband's famous work, “The Messiah.” The entire symphony was more than two hundred pages long. But imagine that she discovered a single page lying on the kitchen table one morning. On it her husband had written only one measure in a melancholic, minor key; one that didn't work standing on its own. But suppose Mrs. Handel, armed with this fragment of dissonance, marched into his studio and said, "What are you thinking, George? This music doesn’t make any sense at all. You aren’t a very good composer." What would he think? Maybe something similar to what God thinks when we do the same.

We point to our minor key – our sick child, joblessness, or famine – and say, "This doesn’t make any sense, God. I thought you were supposed to be good?" Yet out of all his creation, how much have we actually seen? And of all his work, how much do we understand? Not very much.

Is it possible, then, that some explanation for suffering exists of which we know nothing about? What if God's answer to the question of suffering requires more gigabytes than our puny minds can comprehend? And isn’t it possible that the wonder of heaven will make the most difficult life a great bargain? That was Paul's conclusion when he wrote, "Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all." (2 Cor. 4:17) And he saw heaven. (2 Cor. 12:2-4)

Suppose I invited you to experience the day of your dreams. Twenty-four hours on an island paradise with your favorite people, food and activities. There’s only one catch: you must experience a millisecond of discomfort. For reasons I choose not to explain, I tell you that you will need to begin the day with a millisecond of distress. Would you accept my offer? Probably. Because a split second is nothing compared to twenty-four hours, right? Similarly, we’re all in the middle of our milliseconds on God’s clock. So, compared to eternity, what’s seventy, eighty, even ninety years? It’s just a vapor. Just a finger snap compared to heaven. Your pain won't last forever, but you will. "Whatever we may have to go through now is less than nothing compared with the magnificent future God has in store for us." (Rom. 8:18) Less than nothing? What?

That’s the same puzzling question that Wilbur asked the lamb in Charlotte’s Web. “What do you mean less than nothing? I don't think there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of nothingness. It's the lowest you can go. It's the end of the line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would be something - even though it's just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it is.” The lamb’s response? “Oh, be quiet. Go play by yourself. I don’t play with pigs.” Wow, that’s pretty harsh.

None of us are exempt from suffering, loneliness, discouragement, or unjust criticism, because God is developing within us the character of Christ. And, in order to do this, he must take us through all of the circumstances in life through which he took Christ. Does this mean God causes tragedies? No. God is good, and he will not cause evil or do evil. But God can use the dark and stressful times of our life for good. He'll use them to teach us to trust him, to show us how to help others and to draw us closer to other believers.

Still think you’re alone? Some 2,000 years ago, Christians, just like you and me, felt the same way: “We were crushed and overwhelmed beyond our ability to endure, and we thought we would never live through it. In fact, we expected to die. But as a result, we stopped relying on ourselves and learned to rely only on God, who raises the dead.” (2 Cor. 4:8-9) We all go through difficult times. The difference for those who believe in Jesus is not the absence of shadows, but the presence of His Light.

What’s coming will make sense of what’s happening now. So, let God finish his work. Let the composer complete his symphony. The forecast is simple: Good days. Bad days. God is in all your days. He’s the Lord of the famine and the feast, and he uses both to accomplish his will.

Even in life’s calamities.

Grace,

Randy

Ballast

Ballast

Pharaoh sent for Joseph at once, and he was quickly brought from the prison. After he shaved and changed his clothes, he went in and stood before Pharaoh. Then Pharaoh said to Joseph, “I had a dream last night, and no one here can tell me what it means. But I have heard that when you hear about a dream you can interpret it.”

“It is beyond my power to do this,” Joseph replied. “But God can tell you what it means and set you at ease.” (Genesis 41:14-16)

Don't hold me to all the details of this particular memory, because I can't recall the name of the birthday boy, or the games we played, or the names of the other guests. I’m not even sure how old I was, but judging from the surroundings I was probably seven or eight years old. But I do remember that bounce-back clown. He was pear-shaped – narrower at the top than the bottom, inflated and looked a lot like Bozo. He was almost as tall as I was, and all his facial features were painted on. His ears didn't protrude. His nose didn't stick out. Even his arms lay flat – if he had arms; I don’t recall. He didn't make music, or recite some phrase when you pulled a string. He didn't do anything except that he always bounced back. If you knocked him down, he’d pop right back up. Clobber him with a bat, punch him in the nose, even give him a swift kick to the ribs and he’d fall down – but not for very long.

Trust me, we did our best to level that clown. One punch after the other, each more vicious than the one before. None of us succeeded. Bozo had more comeback than the '69 Mets. He wasn't strong – he was full of hot air. He couldn't duck or defend himself. He didn't charm us with his good looks, or silence attackers with his quick wit. C’mon, he was a clown. Red lips and yellow hair. Yet there was something about him, or within him, that kept him on his feet. We'd do well to learn his secret.

Life comes at us with a flurry of flying fists – the right-hook of rejection, or the left jab of loss. Enemies sucker-punch below the belt. Calamities stagger us to our corner. It's a slugfest out there, and some people, once knocked down, never get up. They stay on the mat – beaten, bitter and broken. They’re down for the count. Others, however, bounce back like Bozo. Joseph did. The guy was a walking piñata: the angry double cross of brothers that sold him into slavery, the below-the-belt deceit by Potiphar's wife that landed him in prison, and the uppercut of the butler's broken promise that kept him there. Joseph staggered, but recovered. He reminds me of the movie, Rocky. By God's strength, however, Joseph pulled himself to his feet and stood, stronger than ever; in Pharaoh's court, no less.

Pharaoh was the unrivaled ruler of the land. He was his own cabinet and congress. He spoke the word, and it was done. He issued a command, and it was law. He entered a room, and he was worshiped. But on this particular day, Pharaoh didn't feel very worship-worthy. Imagine the prototypical Pharaoh: bare chested and rock jawed, a little saggy in the pecs, but solid for a middle-aged monarch. He wears a cloth on his shoulders, and on his head is a leather cone encircled by a rearing cobra. His beard is false, and his eye makeup is almond shaped. He holds a staff in one hand but rests his chin in the other. Slaves fan the air about him. A bowl of figs and nuts sits within arm's reach on a table. But he isn't hungry. He just frowns. His attendants speak in anxious, subdued voices because when Pharaoh isn't happy, no one’s happy. Crazy dreams had kept him up half the night.

In dream number one, cows were grazing on the riverbank. Seven were fine and fat, just like the ones you see on a Chick-fil-A commercial. But while the healthy bovines weren't looking, seven skinny cows snuck up from behind and devoured them. Pharaoh sat up in bed and broke out into a cold sweat. But after a few minutes, he dismissed the dream as indigestion and fell back asleep. But dream number two was just as bothersome. A stalk of grain with seven healthy heads was consumed by a stalk of grain with seven withered heads. Two dreams with the same pattern: the seven bad devoured the seven good. Pharaoh woke up and was freaking out. He assembled his counselors and demanded an interpretation. Cows consuming cows, stalks gobbling stalks. What did these dreams mean? His advisors had no response; they didn’t have a clue. It was then that the butler remembered Joseph from their days together in prison. So, the butler told Pharaoh about the Hebrew’s skills at dream interpretation.

The king snapped his fingers, and a flourish of activity erupted. Joseph was cleaned up and called in. In a moment of high drama, Jacob's favored son was being escorted into Pharaoh's throne room. What a picture. Pharaoh, the king; Joseph, the ex-shepherd. Pharaoh, urban; Joseph, rural. Pharaoh from the palace; Joseph from the prison. Pharaoh wore gold chains; Joseph wore bruises. Pharaoh had his armies and pyramids; Joseph had a borrowed robe and a foreign accent. The prisoner, however, was unfazed. He heard the dreams and went straight to work. No need to consult seers, or tea leaves, or chicken bones. This was pretty simple stuff, really. Kind of like basic multiplication for a Harvard math professor. "Expect seven years of plenty and seven years of famine." No one, including Pharaoh, knew how to respond because famine was a foul word in the Egyptian dictionary.

The nation didn't manufacture Fords or export T-shirts. Their civilization was built on farming. Crops made Egypt the jewel of the Nile, and agriculture made Pharaoh the most powerful man in the world. A month-long drought would hurt the economy. A year-long famine would weaken the throne of Pharaoh, who owned the fields around the Nile. But a seven-year famine would turn the Nile into a creek and the crops into sticks. A famine to Pharaoh was the equivalent of electric cars to an Arab sheik. The silence in the throne room was so thick you could hear a cough drop. So, Joseph took advantage of the pause in conversation to offer a solution: "Create a department of agriculture, and commission a smart guy to gather grain in the good years and to distribute it during the lean years."

Officials gulped at Joseph's chutzpah. It was one thing to give bad news to Pharaoh, but an entirely different matter altogether to offer unsolicited advice. Yet the guy hadn't shown a hint of fear since he’d entered the palace. He paid no homage to the king. He didn't offer accolades to the magicians. He didn't kiss rings, or polish apples. Lesser men would have cowered, but Joseph didn't blink. And the most powerful person in the room, Pharaoh (ruler of the Nile, deity of the heavens, Grand Pooh-Bah of the pyramid people), was in dire need of a stiff scotch. The lowest person in the pecking order, Joseph (ex-slave, convict, accused sex offender), was cooler than the other side of a pillow. So, what made the difference? Ballast.

Bozo had it. That clown at the birthday party, I came to learn later, was braced by a lead weight – a three-pound plate, hidden at his base, which worked as a counterbalance against the punches. Joseph, as it turns out, had a similar ballast. Not a piece of iron but a deep-seated, stabilizing belief in God's sovereignty.

We sense it in his first sentence: "It is beyond my power to do this, . . . But God can tell you what it means . . . ." (Gen. 41:16) The second time Joseph spoke, he explained, "God has revealed to Pharaoh in advance what he is about to do." (v. 28) Joseph then proceeded to interpret the dreams and explain to Pharaoh that the dreams were "events decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen." (v. 32) Five times in three verses Joseph made reference to God. Sound familiar? It should.

When Potiphar's wife attempted to seduce him, Joseph refused, saying, "How could I do such a wicked thing? It would be a great sin against God." (Gen. 39:9) When fellow prisoners asked for an interpretation of their dreams, Joseph said, "Interpreting dreams is God’s business." (40:8) He rested the gravity of his ballast on the foundation of his immovable God. He lived with the awareness that God was active, able, and up to something significant. And Joseph was right because at that, Pharaoh commanded a stunning turnaround: "Can we find anyone else like this man so obviously filled with the spirit of God?” (41:38) He turned the kingdom over to Joseph. And by the end of the day, the boy from Canaan was riding in a royal chariot, second only to Pharaoh in authority. What a rebound.

In the chaos called "Joseph's life," there’s at least one broken promise, two betrayals, several bursts of hatred, two abductions, more than one attempted seduction, ten jealous brothers, and a textbook case of poor parenting. Then there’s abuse, unjust imprisonment, and 24 months of jail food. Mix it all together, let it simmer for thirteen years, and what do you get? The grandest bounce back in the Bible. Jacob's forgotten boy became the second most powerful man in the world's most powerful country. The path to the palace wasn't quick, and it wasn't painless, but wouldn't you say that God took Joseph’s mess and made it into something good? If so, then can’t he do the same with yours?

Tally up the pain of your past. Betrayals plus anger plus tragedies. Poorly parented? Wrongly accused? Inappropriately touched? Life can be cruel. But consider this: Is the God of Joseph still in control? Can he do for you what he did for Joseph? Might the evil intended to harm you actually help you become the person God created you to be? Yes, he is; yes, he can; and yes, it will. Someday – perhaps in this life, and certainly in the next – you will tally up the crud of your life and write this sum: it’s all good. Captain Sam Brown did.

Two years out of West Point, he was on his first tour of duty in Kandahar, Afghanistan, when an improvised explosive device (“IED”) turned his Humvee into a Molotov cocktail. He doesn't remember how he got out of the truck. He does remember rolling in the sand, slapping dirt on his burning face, running in circles, and finally dropping to his knees. He lifted flaming arms to the air and cried, "Jesus, save me!" In Sam's case, the words were more than just a desperate scream. He is a devoted Christian, and was calling on his Savior to take him home because he assumed he would die. But death didn’t come. His gunnery mate did, instead.

With bullets flying all around them, Sam’s teammate helped them reach cover. Crouching behind a wall, Sam realized that bits of his clothing were fusing to his skin. He ordered the private to rip his gloves off the burning flesh. The soldier hesitated, then pulled. With the gloves came Sam’s index finger. Brown winced at what was the first of thousands of moments of pain. When vehicles from another platoon reached them, they loaded the wounded soldier into a truck.

Before Sam passed out in the medivac, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He didn't recognize himself. That was September 2008. Three years later, he’d undergone 15 painful surgeries. Although 30% of his body had actually been burned, 85% of his body had been affected because the doctors used skin from areas that hadn’t been burned. The pain chart didn't have a number high enough to register the agony he felt. But in the midst of his personal horror, beauty walked into the room.

Dietitian, Amy Larsen. Since Sam's mouth had been reduced to the size of a quarter, Amy monitored his nutrition intake. He remembers the first time he saw her. Dark hair, brown eyes. Nervous. Cute. Perhaps more importantly was the fact that she didn't flinch at the sight of him. After several weeks he gathered up the courage to ask her out. They went to a rodeo. The following weekend they went to a friend's wedding. During the three-hour drive, Amy told Sam how she had noticed him months earlier when he was in ICU, covered with bandages, sedated with morphine, and attached to a breathing machine. When he regained consciousness, she stepped into his room to meet him. But there was a circle of family and doctors, so she turned and left. Nonetheless, the two continued to see each other.

Early in their relationship Sam brought up the name of Jesus. Amy wasn’t a believer at the time. Sam's story, however, stirred her heart for God. Sam talked to her about God's mercy and led Amy to Christ. Soon thereafter they were married. They’re now the parents of two toddlers, Roman and Esther, and Sam directs a program to aid wounded soldiers. He even took a stab at politics, losing in the 2014 Republican primary for Texas House District 102. Amy is now a retired Captain, and a very happy mother to two really cute kids.

No one can minimize the horror of a man on fire in the Afghan desert. And who can imagine the torture of repeated surgeries and rehab? Yet, Sam and Amy have come to believe this: God's math works differently than ours. “War + near death + agonizing rehab = wonderful family and hope for a bright future.” In God's hand, intended evil is eventual good.

Who knows? Your rebound may even happen today. On the morning of his promotion, Joseph had no reason to think that that day would be any different from the 729 days before it. I doubt that he got up that morning and prayed, “God, please promote me to prime minister of Egypt before sunset.” But God exceeded Joseph’s wildest prayer. Joseph began his journey in a prison, and ended it in the palace.

So, where’s your ballast? If it’s resting on the God of Joseph, you can bounce back, too.

Grace,

Randy

Easter Exigency

Exigency

Pilate responded, “Then what should I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” They shouted back, “Crucify him!” “Why?” Pilate demanded. “What crime has he committed?” But the mob roared even louder, “Crucify him!” Pilate saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere and that a riot was developing. So he sent for a bowl of water and washed his hands before the crowd, saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood. The responsibility is yours!” And all the people yelled back, “We will take responsibility for his death — we and our children!” So Pilate released Barabbas[1] to them. He ordered Jesus flogged with a lead-tipped whip, then turned him over to the Roman soldiers to be crucified. (Matt. 27:22-26)

The most famous trial in history is about to begin. The judge is short and aristocratic, with darting eyes and expensive clothes. But he’s apprehensive, nervous about being thrust into an exigent circumstance that he cannot avoid. Two soldiers lead him down the stone stairs of the fortress into the wide courtyard. Shafts of morning sunlight stretch across the stone floor. As he enters, Syrian soldiers dressed in short togas yank themselves, and their spears, bolt upright and stare straight ahead. The floor on which they stand is a mosaic of broad, brown, smooth rocks. On the floor are carved the games the soldiers play while awaiting the sentencing of the prisoner. But in the presence of the procurator, they’re not playing any games.

A regal chair is placed on a landing five steps up from the floor. The magistrate ascends and takes his seat. The accused is brought into the room and placed below him. A covey of robed religious leaders follow, walk over to one side of the room, and stand. Pilate looks at the lone figure. “Doesn’t look like a Christ,” he mutters. Feet swollen and muddy. Hands tan. Knuckles lumpy. Looks more like a laborer than a teacher. Looks even less like a trouble-maker. One eye is black and swollen shut. The other looks at the floor. Lower lip split and scabbed. His hair blood-matted to his forehead. Arms and thighs streaked with crimson. “Shall we remove the garment?” a soldier asks. “No. that’s not necessary.” It’s obvious what the beating has done.

“Are you the king of the Jews?” For the first time, Jesus lifts his eyes. He doesn’t raise his head, but he lifts his eyes. He peers at the procurator from beneath his brow. Pilate is surprised at the tone in Jesus’ voice. “Those are your words.” Before Pilate can respond, the knot of Jewish leaders mocks the accused from the side of the courtroom. “See, he has no respect.” “He stirs up the people!” “He claims to be king!” But Pilate doesn’t hear them. “Those are your words,” Pilate privately reflects. No defense. No explanation. No panic. The Galilean is looking at the floor again.

Pilate looks at the Jewish leaders huddled in the corner across the court. Their insistence angers him. The lashes aren’t enough. The mockery inadequate. “Jealous,” he wants to say to their faces, but doesn’t. “Jealous buzzards, the whole obstinate lot of you. Killing your own prophets,” he mumbles to himself. Pilate wants to let Jesus go. Just give me a reason, he thinks, almost aloud. I’ll set you free.

His thoughts are interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. A messenger leans in and whispers. Strange. Pilate’s wife has sent word to Pilate to not get involved in the case. Something about a dream she had. Pilate walks back to his chair, then sits and stares at Jesus. “Even the gods are on your side,” he mutters to no one in particular. He’s sat in this chair before. It’s a cruel seat: cobalt blue with thick, ornate legs. The traditional seat of judgment. By sitting on it Pilate transforms any room or street into a courtroom. It’s from this place he renders his decisions.

How many times has he sat here? How many stories has he heard? How many pleas has he received? How many wide eyes have stared at him, pleading for mercy, begging for acquittal? But the eyes of this Nazarene are calm and silent. They don’t scream. They don’t dart. Pilate searches them for anxiety . . . for anger. He doesn’t find it. What he finds makes him shift again. “He’s not angry with me. He’s not afraid . . . he seems to understand.”

Pilate’s right, of course. Jesus isn’t afraid. He’s not angry. He’s not on the verge of panic because he’s not surprised. Jesus knows his hour, and the hour has come. And Pilate’s appropriately curious, too. If Jesus is a leader, where are his followers? If he’s the Messiah, what does he intend to do? If he’s a teacher, why are the religious leaders so angry at him? Pilate’s also correct to question, “What should I do with Jesus, the one called Christ?“ These are exigent circumstances requiring an immediate answer.

Perhaps you, like Pilate, are curious about this man called Jesus. Maybe you, like Pilate, are puzzled by his claims and stirred by his passions. You’ve heard all the stories: God descending the stars, cocooning in flesh, placing a stake of truth in the globe. And you, like Pilate, have heard all the others speak, and now you want him to speak. What do you do with a man who claims to be God, but hates religion? What do you do with a man who calls himself the Savior, but condemns entire religious systems? What do you do with a man who knows the place and time of his death, but goes there anyway? Pilate’s question is yours. “What will I do with this man, Jesus?” It’s a question whose answer can’t be avoided. It’s an exigency.

You have two choices. You can reject him. That’s an option. You can, as many have, decide that the idea of God becoming a carpenter is just too bizarre — and simply walk away. Or, you can accept him. You can journey with him. You can listen for his voice amidst the hundreds of voices and follow him. Pilate could have. He heard many voices that day — he could have heard Christ’s. Had Pilate chosen to respond to his bruised Messiah, his story would have been different. But Pilate vacillates. He’s a puppy hearing the voice of two masters.

He steps toward one voice, then stops, and steps toward the other. Four times he tries to free Jesus, and four times he’s persuaded otherwise. He tries to give the people Jesus; but they want Barabbas. He sends Jesus to the whipping post; but they want him sent to Golgotha. He states he finds nothing against this man; but they accuse Pilate of violating the law. Pilate, afraid of who Jesus might be, tries one final time to release him; but the Jews accuse him of betraying Caesar. So many voices that day. The voice of compromise. The voice of expedience. The voice of politics. The voice of conscience. And the soft, firm voice of Christ, “The only power you have over me is the power given to you by God.” (John 19:11)

Jesus’ voice is distinct. Unique. He doesn’t cajole or plead. He just states the case. Pilate thought he could avoid making a choice. So, he washed his hands of Jesus. He climbed up onto the fence and sat down. But in not making a choice, Pilate actually made a choice. Rather than ask for God’s grace, he avoids malevolence. Rather than invite Jesus to stay, he sent him away. Rather than hear Christ’s voice, he heard the voice of the people. Legend has it that Pilate’s wife became a believer. And legend also has it that Pilate’s eternal home is a mountain lake where he daily surfaces, still plunging his hands into the water seeking forgiveness. Forever trying to wash away his guilt . . . not for the evil he did, but for the kindness he didn’t do.

“So what should I do with Jesus?” Pilate asked it first, but we’ve all asked it since. It’s a fair question. Even a necessary question. What do you do with such a man? He called himself God, but wore the clothes of a man. He called himself the Messiah, but never commanded an army. He was regarded as king, but his only crown was twisted thorns. People revered him as regal, yet his only robe was stitched with mockery. Small wonder Pilate was puzzled. How do you explain such a man?

One way may be to take a walk. His walk. His final walk. Follow his steps. Stand in his shadow. From Jericho to Jerusalem. From the temple to the garden. From the garden to the trial. From Pilate’s palace to Golgotha’s cross. Watch him walk — angrily to the temple, wearily into Gethsemane, painfully up the Via Dolorosa. And powerfully out of the vacated tomb. As you witness his walk, reflect on your own because all of us have our own walk to Jerusalem. Our own path through hollow religion. Our own journey down the narrow path of rejection. And each of us, like Pilate, must cast a verdict.

Pilate heard the voice of the people and left Jesus to walk the road alone. Will we? I hope that permanently planted in your soul is the moment the Father stirred you in the darkness and led you down the path to freedom. It’s a memory like no other. Because when he sets you free, you are free indeed. That’s how it happened for me, in a Bible class in a small L.A. suburb.

Thinking back on it, I don’t know what was more remarkable at the time – that a teacher was trying to teach the book of Romans to a bunch of rambunctious teenagers, or that I remember what he actually said. The classroom was mid-sized, one of a half-dozen or so in a small church. My desk had carving on it, and gum under it. Ten or so others were in the room where we all sat in the back, too sophisticated to appear interested.

The teacher was an earnest man. I can still see his flattop – ex-Marine. His skinny tie stops midway down his stomach. He has reddish hair and an orange complexion, a soft voice, and a kind smile. Though he is hopelessly out of touch with 1970’s teens, he doesn’t know it. His notes are stacked on a little table underneath a heavy black Bible. He speaks with genuine passion. He’s not a dramatic man, or even a big man. But that night he was a fervent man. His text was Romans chapter six. The blackboard was littered with long words and diagrams. But somewhere in the process of describing how Jesus went into the tomb and came back out, it happened. I didn’t see a moral code. I didn’t see a church. I didn’t see the Ten Commandments, or hellish demons. I saw my Father enter my teenage night, awaken me from my stupor, and gently guide me — no, carry me — to freedom.

I said nothing to my teacher. I said nothing to my friends. I’m not even sure if I said anything to God. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. But for all I didn’t know there was one fact of which I was absolutely sure: I wanted to be with him. I told my parents that I was ready to give my life to God. Not completely convinced, my parents asked me what I knew. I told them Jesus was in heaven and that I wanted to be with him. And for my folks, that was enough.

To this day I wonder if my love has ever been as pure as it was that first hour. I long for the certainty of my newborn faith. Had you told me that Jesus was in hell, I would have agreed to go. Public confession and baptism came naturally for me. You see, when your Father comes to deliver you from bondage, you don’t ask questions; you obey instructions. You take his hand. You walk the path. You leave bondage behind. And you never forget.

I hope you’ll never forget those first steps of your walk, or Jesus’ final steps from Jericho to Jerusalem – it was that walk that promised you freedom. Or, his final walk through the temple of Jerusalem – it was on that walk that he denounced hollow religion. Or, his final walk to the Mount of Olives – it was there that he promised to return and take you home. Or, his final walk from Pilate’s palace to Golgotha’s cross. Bare, bloody feet struggling up a stony narrow path. But just as vivid as the pain of the beam across his raw back was his vision of you and him walking together. He could see the hour he would come into your life, into your dark place to stir you out of your sleep and guide you to freedom.

So, what will you do with Jesus? C.S. Lewis, in his book, Mere Christianity, had this to say about that very question: “I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

Although the question still remains, the walk isn’t over. The journey’s not complete. There’s one more walk that must be made. “I will come back,” he promised. And to prove it he ripped in two the temple curtain and split open the doors of death so that he could. Jesus is coming back to claim his own.

Will he be coming back for you? I guess that depends on what you will do with Jesus.

Grace,

Randy

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[1] Some ancient manuscripts of Matthew 27:16–17 have the full name of Barabbas as "Jesus bar-Abbas" which, when translated, would read: “Jesus, son of the father.”