Retry

Retry

One day as Jesus was preaching on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, great crowds pressed in on him to listen to the word of God. He noticed two empty boats at the water’s edge, for the fishermen had left them and were washing their nets. Stepping into one of the boats, Jesus asked Simon, its owner, to push it out into the water. So he sat in the boat and taught the crowds from there. ¶When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Now go out where it is deeper, and let down your nets to catch some fish.” ¶“Master,” Simon replied, “we worked hard all last night and didn’t catch a thing. But if you say so, I’ll let the nets down again.” And this time their nets were so full of fish they began to tear! A shout for help brought their partners in the other boat, and soon both boats were filled with fish and on the verge of sinking. ¶When Simon Peter realized what had happened, he fell to his knees before Jesus and said, “Oh, Lord, please leave me — I’m too much of a sinner to be around you.” For he was awestruck by the number of fish they had caught, as were the others with him. His partners, James and John, the sons of Zebedee, were also amazed. (Luke 5:1-10)

Ever seen that look that says, "It's too late"? Probably. You know . . . the eyes rolling, head shaking, lips pursing look? Maybe it was your girlfriend, a day away from divorce, when over coffee you urged, "Can't you try one more time?" And she just shrugs and says, "Done that." Or, maybe it’s your father and brother who don't speak to each other. Haven't for years. "Won't you try again?" you ask your dad. He looks away, takes a deep breath, and then just sighs. Or, maybe five years this side of retirement the economy Titanic’s your husband's retirement. You try to make the best of it, so you say, "You can go back to school, honey. Learn a new trade." But you might as well have told him to swim to Africa. He shakes his head and says, "I'm too old . . . It's too late." Too late to save a marriage. Too late to reconcile. Too late for a new career. Too late to catch any fish. Or so Peter thought.

He’d been fishing all night. He’d seen the sun set, and then the sun rise, and has absolutely nothing to show for his efforts. While other fishermen are cleaning their catch, he’s cleaning his nets. But now Jesus wants him to try again. "One day as Jesus was preaching on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, great crowds pressed in on him to listen to the word of God." (Luke 5:1) The Sea of Galilee, or Gennesaret, is a six-by-thirteen-mile body of water in northern Israel. Today, its shores attract a few tour buses and a handful of fishermen. But during Jesus’ day, the shoreline bustled with people – nine of the seacoast villages boasted populations of 15,000 people, or more. And you get the impression that a fair number of those seashore citizens were present the morning Christ was teaching on the beach.

As more people arrived, more people pressed in. And with every press, Jesus took a step back. Soon he was stepping off the sand and into the water. That's when he had an idea. He saw two boats lying at the edge of the lake – the fishermen had left them there to wash their nets. So, Jesus got into one of the boats, which was Simon Peter's, and asked him to put out a little way from the land. From that vantage point, Jesus sat down in the boat and began teaching the people who’d lined the shore.

"When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, ‘Now go out where it is deeper, and let down your nets to catch some fish.’” (Vv. 2-4) Jesus needs a boat; Peter provides one. Jesus preaches; Peter’s content to listen. Jesus suggests a midmorning fishing trip, and Peter just gives him a look. The “it's-too-late” look. He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, "’Master, we worked hard all last night and didn’t catch a thing." (v. 5)

Can you feel a sense of futility in Peter's words? All night the boat’s been floating, fishless, on the black sheet of the sea. Lanterns from distant vessels bounced like fireflies. Men swung their nets and filled the air with the percussion of their trade: swish, slap . . . silence. Swish, slap . . . silence. Midnight. Maybe excited voices from across the lake had reached the men. Another boat had found a school. Peter considered moving but decided against it. Swish, slap . . . silence. Two o'clock in the morning. Peter rested while his brother fished. Then Andrew rested. James, floating nearby, suggested a move. The others agreed. So, wind billowed the sails and blew the boats to a cove where the rhythm resumed. Swish, slap . . . silence. Every yank of the net was easy. Too easy. The nets were empty.

Most mornings the sunrise inspired the men. Today it only tired them. They didn't want to see it. Who wants to dock an empty boat? Who wants to tie up and clean up, knowing the first question the wife will ask is “So, Baby, how’d you do?” And, most of all, who wants to hear a well-rested carpenter-turned-rabbi say, "Go out where it’s deeper, and let down your nets to catch some fish"? (v. 4) Peter’s probably thinking, “I'm tired. Bone tired. I want a meal and a bed, not a fishing trip. What? Like I’m some sort of tour guide or something? Besides, half of Galilee is watching. I feel like a loser already. Now he wants to put on a mid-morning fishing exhibition? Everyone knows you can't catch fish late in the morning. Count me out.” Whatever thoughts Peter had were distilled into one phrase: "We worked hard all last night and didn’t catch a thing." (v. 5)

Do you have any worn-out, wet, empty nets? Do you know the feeling of a sleepless, fishless night? Maybe. For instance, what have you been casting out there lately? Sobriety? "I've worked so hard to stay sober, but . . ." Or, solvency? "My debt is an anvil around my neck . . ." Maybe faith? "I want to believe, but . . ." How about healing? "I've been sick so long . . ." Perhaps a happy marriage? "No matter what I do . . ." In other words, you’ve worked hard all night and didn’t catch a thing. You've felt what Peter felt. You've sat where Peter sat. And now Jesus is asking you to go fishing. Really?

He knows your nets are empty. He knows your heart is weary. He knows you'd like nothing more than to turn your back on the mess and call it a life. But he urges, "It's not too late to try again." See if Peter's reply won't help you formulate your own. "But if you say so, I’ll let the nets down again." (v. 5) Not much passion in those words. You’d expect a 100 watt smile and some fist pumping – “I’ve got Jesus in the boat; so Baby, warm up the oven!" But Peter shows no excitement. He feels none. Now he has to unfold the nets, pull out the oars, and convince James and John to postpone their rest. He has to work.

If faith is measured in seeds, Peter’s is an angstrom – faith the size of a molecule. Inspired? Hardly. But obedient? Remarkably. And a molecule of obedience is all Jesus wanted. "Go out where it’s deeper," the God-man instructs. Why the deep water? Do you think Jesus knew something Peter didn't? Or do you suppose Jesus is doing with Peter what parents do with their kids on an Easter Sunday?

During a typical Easter-egg hunt, the kids find most of the eggs on their own. But a couple of treasures inevitably survive the first pass. "Look behind the tree," we whisper in the ears of our kids. A quick search around the trunk, and . . . what do you know? Dad was right. And that’s because spotting treasures is easy for the one who hid them. So, it should come as no surprise that finding fish is simple for the God who made them. To Jesus, the Sea of Galilee is a dollar-store fishbowl on the kitchen counter. Peter gives the net a swish, lets it slap, and watches it disappear. Luke doesn't tell us what Peter did while he was waiting for the net to sink, but I think that Peter, perhaps while holding the net, may have looked over his shoulder at Jesus as if to say, “Really?” And maybe Jesus, knowing Peter is about to be nearly yanked into the water, just smiles. “Really.” You know, one of those Mommy-daughter Easter-egg smiles?

“This time their nets were so full of fish they began to tear! A shout for help brought their partners in the other boat, and soon both boats were filled with fish, on the verge of sinking.” (Vv. 6-7) Peter's arm is yanked into the water. It's all he can do to hang on until the other guys can help. Within moments the four fishermen and the carpenter are up to their knees in flopping silver. Amazed at the sight, Peter lifts his eyes off the catch and onto the face of Christ. And in that moment, for the first time, he sees Jesus. Not Jesus the Fish Finder, or Jesus the Multitude Magnet, or Jesus the Rabbi. But Jesus the Lord. And with that realization, Peter falls face-first among the fish. Their stink doesn't bother him. It’s his stink that he's worried about. “Oh, Lord, please leave me — I’m too much of a sinner to be around you.” (v. 8) Of course, Christ had no intention of honoring his request. He doesn't abandon self-confessed schlemiels. To the contrary, he enlists them. "Don’t be afraid! From now on you’ll be fishing for people!” (v. 10)

Contrary to what you may have been told, Jesus doesn't limit his recruiting to stout-hearted saints and seminarians. The beat-up and worn-out are prime prospects in his book, and he's been known to climb into boats, bars and brothels to tell them, "It's not too late to start over." Peter had learned the lesson. But wouldn't you know it? Peter then forgot the lesson.

Two short years later this man who confessed Christ in the boat cursed Christ at a fire. The night before Jesus' crucifixion, Peter told people that he'd never heard of Jesus. He couldn't have made a more tragic mistake. And he knew it. The burly fisherman buried his bearded face in thick hands and spent Friday night in tears. All the feelings of that Galilean morning came back to him. “It's too late.” But then Sunday came. Jesus came. Peter saw him. And Peter was convinced that Christ had come back from the dead. He just wasn't convinced that Christ had come back for Peter.

So he went back to the boat – to the same boat, the same beach, the same sea. He came out of retirement. He and his buddies washed the barnacles off the hull, unpacked the nets and pushed out. They fished all night and, like before, they caught nothing. Poor Peter. He blew it as a disciple. Now he's blowing it as a fisherman. And about the time he wonders if it's too late to take up carpentry, the sky turns orange and they hear a voice from the coastline: "Had any luck?" “No,” they yell back. "Try the right side of the boat!" With nothing to lose and nothing left of their pride to protect, they give it a go. "So they cast, and then they were not able to haul it in because of the great number of fish." (John 21:6)

Déjà vu all over again. And when it finally hits Peter, he cannonballs into the water and swims as fast as he can to see the one who loved him enough to re-create a miracle. And this time the message stuck. Peter never again fished for fish. He spent the rest of his days telling anyone who would listen, "It's not too late to try again."

Is it too late for you? Before you answer, before you fold up the nets and head for the dock – two questions. Have you given Christ your boat? You know. Your heartache? Your dead-end dilemma? Your struggle? Have you really turned it over to him? And have you gone deep? Have you bypassed the surface-water solutions you can see in search of the deep-channel provisions God can give? If not, try the other side of the boat. Go deeper than you've gone. You may find what Peter found.

The payload of Peter’s second effort was not the fish he caught, but the God he saw. The God-man who spots weary fishermen, who cares enough to enter their boats, who will turn his back on the adoration of a crowd to solve the frustration of a friend. The Savior who whispers a word to the owners of empty nets: "Let's try again – this time with me on board."

Happy New Year!

Randy

Desperate

Desperate

A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse. She had heard about Jesus, so she came up behind him through the crowd and touched his robe. For she thought to herself, “If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.” Immediately the bleeding stopped, and she could feel in her body that she had been healed of her terrible condition. Jesus realized at once that healing power had gone out from him, so he turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my robe?” His disciples said to him, “Look at this crowd pressing around you. How can you ask, ‘Who touched me?’” But he kept on looking around to see who had done it. Then the frightened woman, trembling at the realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:25-34)

To see her hand you need to look down. Way down. Down low. That's where she lives. Low to the ground. Low on the priority list. Low on the pecking order. She's low. Very low.

Can you see it? Her hand? Gnarled. Thin. Diseased. Dirt blackens the nails and stains her skin. Look carefully among the knees and the feet of the crowd. They’re scampering after Christ. He walks. She crawls. People bump her, but that doesn’t stop her. Others complain. She doesn’t care. The woman’s desperate. Blood won't stay in her body. “A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding.” (Mark 5:25) Twelve years of clinics. Treatments. Herbs. Prayer meetings. Incantations.

“She had suffered a great deal from many doctors.” (v. 26) Do you smell quackery in those words? Doctors who’d done nothing to heal the disease, but had taken great pains to remove her wallet? She "had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse.” (v. 26)

No health. No money. No family. “Unclean,” according to the Law of Moses. The Law protected women from aggressive, insensitive men during those times of the month. But in this woman's case, the application of the Law had left her not just untouched, but untouchable; ceremonially unclean. The hand you see in the crowd? The one reaching for the robe? No one will touch it.

That wasn't always the case. Surely a husband once took it in marriage. The hand looked different in those days: clean, soft skinned, perfumed. A husband once loved this hand.

A family once relied on this hand. To cook and sew. To wipe tears from cheeks, and tuck blankets under chins. Are the hands of a mother ever still? Only if she’s diseased.

Maybe the husband tried to stay with her, taking her to doctors and treatment centers. Or maybe he gave up quickly, overwhelmed by her naps, nausea and anemia. So he put her out. A change of clothes and a handful of change – that’s it. Closed the door.

She has nothing. No money. No home. No health. Dilapidated dreams. Deflated faith. Unwelcome in the synagogue. Unwanted by her community. For twelve years she’s suffered. She has nothing, and her health is getting worse.

Maybe that's what did it. She “had gotten worse.” (v. 26) This morning she could scarcely stand. She splashed water on her face and was horrified by the skeletal image she saw in the pool’s reflection. What you and I see in Auschwitz photos, she saw in her reflection – gaunt cheeks, tired and taut skin, and two full-moon eyes.

She’s desperate for a miracle. And her desperation births an idea.

"She had heard about Jesus." (v. 27) Every society has a grapevine, even the society of the sick. Word among the lepers and the left out was that Jesus could heal. And Jesus was coming. By invitation of the synagogue ruler, Jesus was coming to Capernaum.

Odd to find the ruler of the synagogue and the woman in the same story. He’s powerful. She’s pitiful. He’s in demand. She’s insignificant. He’s high. She’s low. But his daughter is dying. Tragedy has a way of leveling the social topography. So they find themselves on the same path in the village, and on the same page in the Bible.

As the crowd comes, she thinks, "If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed." (v. 28) At the right time, she crab-scurries through the crowd. Knees bump her ribs. "Move out of the way," someone shouts. She doesn't care; she’s not going to stop. Twelve years on the streets have toughened her.

Jesus' robe is in sight. Four tassels dangle from blue threads. Ornaments of holiness worn by Jewish men. How long has it been since she’s touched anything holy? She extends her hand toward a tassel.

Her sick hand. Her tired hand. The hand the husband no longer wants, and the family no longer needs. She touches the robe of Jesus, and "immediately the bleeding stopped, and she could feel in her body that she had been healed of her terrible condition." (v. 29)

Life rushes in. Pale cheeks turn pink. Shallow breaths become full. There are cracks in the Hoover Dam of her fragile health, and a river floods her soul. The woman feels power enter. And Jesus? Jesus feels power exit. "Jesus realized at once that healing power had gone out from him, so he turned around in the crowd and asked, 'Who touched my robe?'" (v. 30)

Did Jesus surprise even Jesus? Has Christ the divine moved faster than Jesus the human? The Savior outstepped the neighbor? "Who touched my robe?" You can’t steal a miracle from God.

His disciples are incredulous. "'Look at this crowd pressing around you. How can you ask, "Who touched me?"' But he kept on looking around to see who had done it." (vv. 31-32)

Can we fault this woman's timidity? She doesn't know what to expect. Jesus could berate her, embarrass her. Besides, he was her last choice. She sought the help of a dozen others before she sought his. And the people – what will they do? What will the ruler of the synagogue do? He’s upright. She’s unclean. And here she is, lunging at the town guest. No wonder she’s afraid.

But she has one reason to have courage. She is healed. "The woman, knowing what had happened, knowing she was the one, stepped up in fear and trembling, knelt before him, and gave him the whole story." (v. 33 MSG)

"The whole story." How long had it been since someone put the gear of life in Park, turned off the engine, and listened to her story? But when this woman reaches out to Jesus, he does. With the town bishop waiting, a young girl dying, and a crowd pressing, he still makes time for a woman from the fringe. And using a term he gives to no one else, he says, "Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over." (v. 34)

And Christ moves on. But not before acknowledging the results of her faith.

And she moves on. But not before acknowledging the object of her faith. Maybe the Hebrew writer had her in mind when he wrote that, "Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see." (Heb. 11:1)

But we can't. We can’t move on. We can't because we've been there. Been her. Are there. Are her. Desperate. Dirty. Drained.

Illness took her strength. What’s taken yours? Red ink? Hard drink? Late nights in the wrong arms? Long days on the wrong job? Pregnant too soon? Too often? Is her hand your hand? If so, take heart. Your family may shun it. Society may avoid it. But Jesus? He wants to touch it. When your hand reaches through the masses, he knows.

Yours is the hand he made; yours is the hand he loves to hold.

Grace,

Randy

An Impossible Possibility

An Impossible Possibility

That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior — yes, the Messiah, the Lord — has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David! And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.” Suddenly, the angel was joined by a vast host of others — the armies of heaven — praising God and saying, “Glory to God in highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.” When the angels had returned to heaven, the shepherds said to each other, “Let’s go to Bethlehem! Let’s see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.” (Luke 2:8-15)

Some call him Sinterklaas, others Père Noël, or Papa Noël. He’s been known as Hoteiosho, Sonnerklaas, Kanakaloka, Jelly Belly, and to most English speakers, Santa Claus. His original name was Nicholas, which means “victorious.” He was born in AD 280 in present-day Turkey, and was orphaned at the age of nine when his parents died of the plague. Though you’d think that Santa must have majored in toy making and minored in marketing, the original Nicholas actually studied Greek and Christian theology.

He was honored by the Catholic Church by being named the Bishop of Myra in the early fourth century, and held that post until his death on December 6, 343. And although history has recognized him as a saint, he was actually a bit of a troublemaker. He was jailed twice – once by the Emperor Diocletian for religious reasons, and the other for slugging a fellow bishop during a fiery religious debate at the First Council of Nicaea. So much for that naughty and nice stuff, I guess.

Old Nick never married. But that’s not to say he wasn’t a romantic at heart. He was best known for the kindness he showed a poor neighbor who was unable to provide dowries for his three daughters. So one night, Old Saint Nick slipped up to his neighbor’s house and dropped a handful of gold coins through the window so that the eldest daughter could afford to get married. Later, he repeated this act on two other nights for the remaining daughters, as well. The gold coins, it appears, came from the inheritance he received upon his wealthy parents’ passing, who’d encouraged Nicholas, as a young boy, to respond to Jesus’ words to “sell what you have and give to the poor.” This story, then, became the seed that, when watered with the centuries, became the Santa legend. Every generation since has adorned it with another ornament, until the legend today sparkles brighter than a Christmas tree.

For instance, the gift grew from a handful of coins to bags of coins. Instead of dropping them through the window, he dropped them down the chimney. And rather than landing on the floor, the bags of coins landed in the girls’ stockings, which were hanging on the hearth to dry. The centuries have also been as good to Nicholas’ image as to his deeds. Not only have his acts been embellished, but his wardrobe and personality have undergone a pretty remarkable transformation as well.

As Bishop of Myra, he wore the traditional ecclesiastical robes and a mitered hat. He was known to have been slim, sporting a dark beard to go along with his very serious personality. By 1300, however, he was wearing a white beard. Then, by the early 1800’s he was depicted with a rotund belly and an ever-present basket of food over his arm. A little later came the black boots, a red cape and a cheery stocking on his head. In the late nineteenth century his basket of food became a sack of toys. In 1866 he was small and gnomish, but by 1930 he was a robust six-footer with rosy cheeks and a taste for a Coke.

Santa reflects the desires of people all over the world. With the centuries, he’s become the composite of what we all seem to want: a friend who cares enough to travel a long way against all odds to bring good gifts to good people. A sage who, though aware of each act, has a way of rewarding the good and overlooking the bad. A friend of children who never gets sick, and never grows old. A father who lets you sit on his lap and share your deepest desires.

Santa. The culmination of what we want in a hero. The personification of our passions. The expression of our yearnings. The fulfillment of our desires. And yet . . . the betrayer of our meager expectations. Because Santa can’t provide what we really need. For one thing, he’s only around once a year. When January winds chill our souls, he’s history. When December’s requests become February’s payments, Santa’s left the mall. When April demands taxes, or May brings final exams, Santa’s still months from his next visit. And should July find us ill, or October find us alone, we can’t go to his chair for comfort — it’s empty because he only comes once a year. And when he comes, though he gives much, he doesn’t take much away. He doesn't take away the riddle of the grave, the burden of mistakes, or the anxiety of demands. He’s kind and quick and cute; but when it comes to healing hurts — don’t go to Santa.

Now, I don’t mean to be a Scrooge, and I’m not trying to slam the jolly old fellow. I’m just reminded that, as a people, we’re pretty timid when it comes to designing our legends. Frankly, you’d think we could do better. You’d think that over seventeen centuries we’d develop a hero who’d resolve those fears. But we can’t. As a people, we’ve made many heroes – from Martin Luther King to John Fitzgerald Kennedy; Lincoln to Lindbergh; Socrates to Superman. We give it the best we can, every benefit of every doubt, and every supernatural strength. And, for a brief, shining moment, we have the hero we need — the king who can actually deliver Camelot. But then the truth leaks out, the facts surface amid the fiction, and the chinks in the armor begin to appear. And we realize that our heroes, as noble as they may have been, and as courageous as they were, were conceived in the same stained society in which we live. Except One.

There was One who claimed to come from a different place. There was One who, though He had the appearance of a man, claimed to have the origin of God. There was One who, while wearing the face of a Jew, had the image of the Creator. Those who saw Him — really saw Him — knew there was something different about Him. At His touch blind beggars saw. At His command crippled legs walked. At His embrace empty lives filled with vision.

He fed thousands with one basket. He stilled a storm with one command. He raised the dead with one proclamation. He changed lives with one request. He rerouted the history of the world with one life. He lived in one country, was born in one manger, and died on one hill. And after three years of ministry, hundreds of miles, thousands of miracles and innumerable teachings, Jesus asks, “Who?” Jesus asks us to ponder not what He has done but who He is. It’s the ultimate question of the Christ: Whose Son is He? Is He the Son of God, or the sum of our dreams? Is He the force of creation, or a figment of our imagination?

When we ask that question about Santa, the answer is that he’s the culmination of our desires; a depiction of our fondest dreams. But not so when we ask it about Jesus. Because no one could ever dream a person as incredible as He. The idea that a virgin would be selected by God to bear Himself... The notion that God would have a crop of hair, ten toes and two eyes... The thought that the King of the universe would sneeze and burp and get bitten by mosquitoes... It’s just too incredible. It’s too revolutionary. We would never create such a Savior because we aren’t that daring.

When we create a redeemer, we keep him safely distant in his faraway castle. We allow him only the briefest of encounters with us. We permit him to swoop in and out with his sleigh before we can draw too near. And we wouldn’t ever ask him to take up residence in the midst of a contaminated world. In our wildest imaginings we wouldn’t conjure up a king who becomes one of us. But God did.

God did what we wouldn’t dare dream. He did what we couldn’t imagine. He became a man so we could trust Him. He became a sacrifice so we could know Him. And He defeated death so we could follow Him. But it defies logic. It’s a divine insanity; a holy incredibility. Only a God beyond systems and common sense could create a plan so absurd. Yet, it’s the very impossibility of it all that makes it possible. The wildness of the story is its strongest witness. For only a God could create a plan this crazy. Only a Creator beyond the fence of logic could offer such a gift of love. What man can’t do, God does.

So this Christmas, when it comes to goodies and candy, cherub cheeks and red noses, go to Santa. But when it comes to eternity, forgiveness, purpose and truth, go to the manger. Kneel with the shepherds. Worship the God who dared to do what man dared not dream.

An impossible possibility? Not for God – with whom all things are possible. (Matt. 19:26)

Merry Christmas!

Randy

In A Moment

In A Moment

Let me reveal to you a wonderful secret. We will not all die, but we will all be transformed! It will happen in a moment, in the blink of an eye, when the last trumpet is blown. For when the trumpet sounds, those who have died will be raised to live forever. And we who are living will also be transformed. For our dying bodies must be transformed into bodies that will never die; our mortal bodies must be transformed into immortal bodies. Then, when our dying bodies have been transformed into bodies that will never die, this Scripture will be fulfilled: “Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” For sin is the sting that results in death, and the law gives sin its power. But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ. So, my dear brothers and sisters, be strong and immovable. Always work enthusiastically for the Lord, for you know that nothing you do for the Lord is ever useless. (1 Cor. 15:51-58)

Curious, this particular throne room. No tapestries cover the windows; no velvet garments adorn the staff. And instead of a golden scepter, the king holds a crudely whittled olive-wood rattle. Curious, too, the sounds in the court as well. Cows munching, hooves crunching, a mother humming, a baby nursing. It could have begun anywhere, the story of this king. But, curiously, it began in a manger.

The noise and the bustle began earlier than usual in the village. As night gave way to dawn, people were already on the streets. Vendors were positioning themselves on the corners of the most heavily traveled intersections. Store owners were unlocking the doors to their shops. Children were awakened by the excited barking of the street dogs, and the complaints of donkeys pulling carts. The owner of the inn had awakened earlier than most in the town. After all, the inn was full – all the beds were taken. Every available mat or blanket had been put to use. Soon all the customers would be stirring and there would be a lot of work to do.

Did any of the innkeeper’s family mention the arrival of the young couple the night before? Did anyone comment on the pregnancy of the girl on the donkey? Maybe. Maybe someone raised the subject. But, at best, it was raised but not discussed since there was nothing particularly novel about the couple. They were, quite possibly, one of several families who had been turned away that night. Besides, who had time to talk about strangers when there was so much excitement in the air? Augustus had done the economy of Bethlehem a huge favor when he decreed that a census should be taken. Who could remember when this much traffic had hit the village?

No, it’s doubtful that anyone mentioned the couple’s arrival, or wondered about the condition of the girl. They were too busy. The day was upon them. The day’s bread had to be made. The morning’s chores had to be done. There was too much to do to imagine that the impossible had actually occurred. Yet, were someone to chance upon the sheep stable on the outskirts of Bethlehem that morning, what a strange scene they would have seen.

The stable stinks like all stables do. The stench of urine, dung and sheep is pungent in the air. The ground is hard, the hay is scarce. Cobwebs cling to the ceiling, and a mouse scurries across the dirt floor. A more lowly place of birth couldn’t exist. And off to one side is a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, perhaps perplexed, perhaps in awe, but no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. God goes to those who have time to hear him — so on this cloudless night he went to some simple shepherds.

Near the young mother sits the weary father. If anyone is dozing, he is. He can’t remember the last time he sat down. And now that the excitement has subsided a bit, now that Mary and the baby are comfortable, he leans against the wall of the stable and feels his eyes grow heavy. He still hasn’t figured it all out. The mystery of the event remains a puzzle to him. But he hasn’t the energy to wrestle with the questions. What’s important is that the baby’s fine and Mary’s safe. As sleep comes, he remembers the name the angel told him to use . . . Jesus. “We’ll call him Jesus,” he mumbles as he drifts off to sleep.

Mary, on the other hand, is wide awake. She looks so young. Her head rests on the leather of Joseph’s saddle. The pain has been eclipsed by wonder. She looks into the face of the baby. Her son. Her Lord. His Majesty. And at this point in history, the human being who best understands who God is and what he’s doing is a teenage girl in a smelly stable. Somehow, Mary knows she’s holding God. So this is he, she thinks, and then remembers the words of the angel, “His kingdom will never end.” He doesn’t look like a king, though. His face is prunish and red. His cry, although strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry of a baby. And he’s absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being.

Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager, in the presence of a carpenter. But this baby had overlooked the universe. These rags keeping him warm were the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned in favor of a dirty sheep pen. And worshiping angels had been replaced with kind but bewildered shepherds.

Meanwhile, the city hums. The merchants are unaware that God has visited their planet. The innkeeper would never believe that he had just sent God out into the cold. And the people would scoff at anyone who told them the promised Messiah lay in the arms of a teenager on the outskirts of their village. They were all too busy to consider the possibility. But those who missed His Majesty’s arrival that night didn’t miss it because of evil acts or malice; no, they missed it because they simply weren’t looking. And little has changed in the last two thousand years. Because it all happened in a moment, a most remarkable moment – when God appeared to those who are looking for him.

As moments go, that one was no different than any other. If you could somehow pick it up off the timeline and examine it, it would look exactly like the ones that have passed while you have read these words. It came and it went. It was preceded and succeeded by others just like it. It was one of the countless moments that have marked time since eternity became measurable. But in reality, that particular moment was like none other. Because in that segment of time a spectacular thing occurred. God became a man. While the creatures of earth walked unaware, Divinity arrived. Heaven opened herself and placed her most precious one in a human womb.

The Omnipotent, in one instant, made himself vulnerable. He who had been Spirit became human. He who was larger than the universe became an embryo. And he who sustains the world with a word chose to be dependent upon the nourishment of a young girl. God as a fetus. Holiness sleeping in a womb. The creator of life being created. The God-man had eyebrows, elbows, two kidneys, and a spleen. He stretched against the walls and floated in the amniotic fluids of his mother’s womb.

He came, not as a flash of light or as an unapproachable conqueror, but as one whose first cries were heard by a peasant girl and a sleepy carpenter. The hands that first held him were calloused and dirty. No silk. No ivory. No hype. No party. No hoopla. Were it not for the shepherds, there would have been no reception. And were it not for a group of stargazers, there would have been no gifts, either.

So, angels watched as Mary changed God’s diaper. The universe watched with wonder as The Almighty learned to walk. Children played in the street with him. And had the synagogue leader in Nazareth known who was listening to his sermons, well .… Jesus may have had pimples. He may have been tone-deaf. Perhaps a girl down the street had a crush on him, or vice versa. It could be that his knees were bony. But one thing’s for sure, though: He was, while completely divine, completely human.

For thirty-three years he would feel everything you and I have ever felt. He felt weak. He grew weary. He was afraid of failure. He got colds, burped, and had body odor. His feelings got hurt. His feet got tired and his head ached. To think of Jesus in that light is — well, it seems almost irreverent. It’s not something we like to do; it’s uncomfortable because it’s much easier to keep the humanity out of the incarnation. Clean the manure from around the manger. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Pretend he never snored or blew his nose or hit his thumb with a hammer. He’s easier to stomach that way. There’s something about keeping him divine that keeps him distant, packaged, predictable.

But don’t do that this Christmas. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the mire and muck of your world. For only if we let him in can he pull us out. And listen to him. “Love your neighbor,” was spoken by the man whose neighbors tried to kill him. The challenge to leave family for the gospel was issued by the one who kissed his mother goodbye at the doorway. “Pray for those who persecute you,” came from the lips that would soon be begging God to forgive his murderers. “I am with you always,” are the words of a God who, in one instant, did the impossible to make it all possible for you and me. It all happened in a moment. A most remarkable moment. The Word became flesh.

There will be another, mind you. The world will see another instantaneous transformation. You see, in becoming man, God made it possible for man to see God. When Jesus went home he left the back door open. As a result, “we will all be changed — in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.” The first moment of transformation went unnoticed by the world. But the second one won’t. So, the next time you use the phrase “just a moment,” remember that’s all the time it will take to change your world. Instead, take a moment this Christmas and change it now.

Grace,

Randy