Reborn

Reborn

There was a man named Nicodemus, a Jewish religious leader who was a Pharisee. After dark one evening, he came to speak with Jesus. “Rabbi,” he said, “we all know that God has sent you to teach us. Your miraculous signs are evidence that God is with you.” Jesus replied, “I tell you the truth, unless you are born again, you cannot see the Kingdom of God.” “What do you mean?” exclaimed Nicodemus. “How can an old man go back into his mother’s womb and be born again?” Jesus replied, “I assure you, no one can enter the Kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit. Humans can reproduce only human life, but the Holy Spirit gives birth to spiritual life. (John 3:1-6)

As much as I love my dog, True, we don’t always see eye-to-eye. The problem isn’t his personality, because you couldn’t find a bigger love than True – he sees every person as a friend, and every day as a holiday. So, I don’t really have a problem with True’s attitude. My problem is with his habits – eating scraps out of the trash; licking dirty plates in the dishwasher; doing his business in the wrong places. And, occasionally, quenching his thirst in the porcelain water bowl – if you know what I mean. That’s the problem. It’s True’s habits. Dog behaviors. True’s problem is not a True problem. True’s problem is a dog problem.

It’s a dog's nature to do these things, apparently. And it’s his nature that I’d like to change, not just his behaviors. A dog trainer can change his behaviors, but I want to go deeper. I want to change who he is. So, here’s my idea: a me-to-True transfusion. The deposit of a little bit of me into him. I want to give True a kernel of human character. Then, as it grew, wouldn’t he change? His human nature would develop, and his dog nature would diminish. We’d witness not just a change of habits, but a change of essence. In time, True would be less like True and more like me, sharing my disgust for trash snacking, potty slurping, and dish licking. He’d have a new nature. Crazy, right? Perhaps. But not to God.

What I’d like to do with True, God wants to do with us. He wants to change our nature from the inside out. “I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart. And I will put my Spirit in you so that you will follow my decrees and be careful to obey my regulations.” (Ezek. 36:26-27) God doesn't want to send us to obedience school to learn new habits; he wants to send us to the ER to get a new heart. Forget the training. God gives transplants. Bizarre? Well, imagine how that must have sounded to Nicodemus.

Nicodemus is impressive. Not only is he one of the 6,000 Pharisees, he’s a ruler – one of seventy men who serve on the high council. Think of him as a religious blue-blood. What the justices are to the Supreme Court, he was to the Law of Moses. He’s an expert. Credentials trail his name like a bride’s train. Nicodemus, Ph.D., Th.D., M.S., M.Div. Universities want him on their board. Conferences want him on their dais. When it comes to religion, he's loaded. But when it comes to life, he's exhausted. As a leading Jew, he's trying to obey the Talmud, which is no small feat. There are twenty-four chapters on the Sabbath, alone. Things like, “Tailors can carry no needles.” “Kids can toss no balls.” “Don’t carry a load heavier than a fig, but anything half the weight of a fig can be carried twice.” “You can carry enough ink to draw two letters.” “You can’t move a phonebook, unless it’s to be used as a booster seat.” Whew.

Can a scientist study stars and never weep at their splendor, or dissect a rose and never notice its perfume? Can a theologian study the Law until he decodes Moses’ shoe size, but still lack the peace needed for a good night's sleep? Maybe that's why Nicodemus came at night. He’s tired and he can't sleep. Tired of all the rules and regulations, he just can’t rest. Nicodemus is looking for a change, and he has a hunch Jesus can give it. And though Nicodemus doesn’t ask a question, Jesus gives him an answer: I assure you, no one can enter the Kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit. (v. 3)

This is radical language – to see the kingdom of God you need an unprecedented rebirth from God. Nicodemus staggers at the enormity of the thought. "How can a man be born when he is old? He cannot enter a second time into his mother's womb and be born, can he?" (v. 4; NASB) Don't you just love those last two words? “Can he?” Nicodemus knows that a grown man doesn't reenter the birth canal. There’s no Rewind button on the VCR of life . . . is there? We don't get to start over . . . do we? A man can't be born again . . . can he? What made Nicodemus add those two words?

The truth is that Nick should’ve known better. He wasn't born yesterday, but maybe he wishes he were. Maybe he wishes he could be born today. Maybe those last two words “can he?” emerge from that part of Nicodemus that longs for strength and youthful vigor. A fresh start. New legs. A clean page. Nicodemus seems to be saying, "Jesus, my spiritual tank is on empty. So, how do you expect me to be born again when I can't even remember if figs can be eaten (or are they carried?) on the Sabbath? I'm an old man. How can a man be born when he’s old?" According to Christ, the new birth must come from a new place. I assure you, no one can enter the Kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit. Humans can reproduce only human life, but the Holy Spirit gives birth to spiritual life. (vv. 5-6)

Could Jesus be any more direct? "No one can enter the Kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit." Do you want to go to heaven? Well, it doesn't matter how religious you are, or how many rules you keep. You need a new birth; you need to be "born of water and the Spirit." God doesn’t give sponge baths, either. He washes us from head to toe. Paul reflected on his conversion and wrote, "He gave us a good bath, and we came out of it new people, washed inside and out by the Holy Spirit." (Titus 3:5) Your sins don’t stand a chance against the fire hydrant of God's grace and forgiveness.

But God isn’t content to just clean you; he indwells you. God deposits within you "His power, which mightily works." (Col. 1:29) Washing the outside isn't enough for him. He places power on the inside. Stated differently, he places “himself” on the inside. This is the part that stunned Nicodemus. Because working for God wasn’t new – that’s his job; that’s what he does, or at least that’s what he thought he was doing. But God working in him? “I need to chew on that,” he thinks. And maybe you do, too. Because are you like Nicodemus? Religious as Saint Peter's Basilica, but feeling just as old? Pious, but powerless? If so, remember that when you believe in Christ, Christ works a miracle in you.

"When you believed in Christ, he identified you as his own by giving you the Holy Spirit." (Eph. 1:13) You are permanently purified and empowered by God himself. The message of Jesus to the religious person is simple: It's not what you do, child. It's what I do; I’ve moved in. And then, perhaps in time, you can say with Paul, "I myself no longer live, but Christ lives in me." (Gal. 2:20) But if that’s true, and if we’ve been born again, why do we seem to fall so often? Well, consider your physical birth.

For instance, did you exit the womb wearing cross-trainers? Did you do the moonwalk on the day of your delivery? Of course not. And then when you actually started to walk, you probably fell more than you stood. So, should we expect anything different from our spiritual walk? “But I’ve fallen so often that now I’m even questioning my salvation.” Again, go back to your first birth. Didn't you stumble as you were learning to walk? And when you stumbled, did you begin questioning the validity of your birth? Did you, as a one-year-old, face-first on the floor, prop yourself up and think, “Well, that’s it; I’ve fallen again. I guess I’m not human after all”? No, you didn’t. A toddler’s stumbling doesn’t invalidate the toddler’s physical birth any more than a Christian’s failings invalidate the Christian’s re-birth.

See what he’s done? God, through his Spirit, deposited a Christ seed in you. And as it grows, you will change. It's not that sin has no more presence in your life, but rather that sin has no more power over your life. Temptation will pester you, to be sure, but temptation will not master you. So to the Nicodemuses of the world, rejoice. It’s not up to you. Within you abides a budding power. So Trust him. Still struggling with this issue? Alright, then consider this example.

Imagine that for most of your life you’ve had a heart condition. Your ticker restricts your activities. Each morning at work, when the healthy employees take the stairs, you wait for the elevator. But then comes the transplant. A healthy heart is placed within you. After recovery, you return to work and encounter the same flight of stairs you earlier avoided. By habit, you start for the elevator. But then you remember, “I’m not the same person anymore.” That’s because you have a new heart. Within you dwells a new power. So there you stand. You have a choice to make, and you might say, "I can't climb the stairs; I'm too weak." But does your choice negate the presence of a new heart, or dismiss the work of your surgeon? No, it doesn’t.

Choosing the elevator would suggest only one fact – that you haven't learned to trust your new power. It takes time. But at some point you’ll try those stairs. You’ll test that new ticker. You’ll experiment with the new you. Because if you don't, you’ll run out of steam again. That’s why religious rule keeping can sap your strength. It's endless. There’s always another class to attend, another Sabbath command to keep, another holy day to observe. No prison is as endless as the prison of perfection. Its inmates find work, but they never find peace. How could they? They never know when they’re finished.

Christ, however, gifts you with a finished work. He fulfilled the law for you. So, bid farewell to the burden of religion. Gone is the fear that having done everything, you still might not have done enough. You climb the stairs, not by your strength, but his. And, contrary to Ben Franklin’s 1757 observation in Poor Richard’s Almanac, God pledges to help those who stop trying to help themselves. "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." (Phil. 1:6) God will do with you what I only suggested doing with True: change you from the inside out.

And when God’s finished, he'll even invite you to sit at his table – forever.

Grace,

Randy

Tormented

Tormented

When He got out of the boat, immediately a man from the tombs with an unclean spirit met Him, and he had his dwelling among the tombs. And no one was able to bind him anymore, even with a chain; because he had often been bound with shackles and chains, and the chains had been torn apart by him and the shackles broken in pieces, and no one was strong enough to subdue him. Constantly, night and day, he was screaming among the tombs and in the mountains, and gashing himself with stones. (Mark 5:2-5)

A shock of a mop on his head. Maybe a beard, too. Blood-spattered. Furtive eyes, darting in all directions – never able to fix on anything specific. Naked. No sandals to protect his feet from the rocks on the ground. No clothes to protect his skin from the rocks in his hand. He beats himself with those rocks. Bruises blotch his skin like ink stains. Open sores and gashes attract the flies. His home is a limestone mausoleum – a graveyard of caves cut out of the Galilean shoreline. He’s content to live among the dead, and that pleases the living.

Residents in the area are baffled. The shackles in shambles on his legs and the broken chains on his wrists are evidence of the fact that no one can control this guy. Nothing can restrain him. So, how do you manage that kind of chaos? Well, if you’re a traveler, you avoid the area out of fear. (Matt. 8:28) The villagers were left with a problem, and we’re left with a picture – a picture of the work of Satan. How else do we explain his bizarre behavior? Better yet, how do we explain our own? The violent rages of a father. The secret binges of a mother. The sudden rebellion of a teenager. Internet pornography. Sex slavery. Satan never sits still, and a glimpse of this wild man reveals Satan's goal for you and me.

It’s self-imposed pain – the demoniac used rocks, but we’re more sophisticated than that; we use drugs, sex, work, violence, and food because Hell makes us hurt ourselves. It’s obsession with death and darkness – even unchained, the wild man hung out with dead people because evil feels at home there. Communing with the deceased, sacrificing the living, a morbid fascination with death and dying – that’s not the work of God. It’s an endless restlessness – the man on the eastern shore screamed “day and night.” (Mark 5:5) Satan brings about that kind of raging frenzy. "The evil spirit … wanders …," Jesus said, "looking for rest." (Matt. 12:43) And it’s isolation – the man’s all alone in his suffering. Such are Satan's plans because "the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking some one to devour." (1 Pet. 5:8; emphasis mine) In other words, fellowship foils his work. And Jesus? Well, Jesus wrecks his work.

Christ steps out of the boat with both guns blazing. "Come out of the man, unclean spirit!" (Mark 5:8) No chitchat. No niceties. No salutations. Demons don’t deserve political correctness. So they throw themselves at the feet and mercy of Christ. The leader of the horde begs on behalf of the others, "What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I adjure you by God, do not torment me." . . . Jesus asked him, "What is your name?" He replied, "My name is Legion; for we are many." He begged him earnestly not to send them out of the country. (vv. 7, 9-10) “Legion” is a Roman military term which, during Jesus’ time, defined a group of around 5,000 soldiers. To envision that many demons inhabiting this man is frightening. But what bats are to a cave, demons are to hell – too many to count.

But the demons are not only numerous, they’re equipped, too. A legion is an armed battalion, including a small cavalry unit. In other words, Satan and his friends come prepared to fight. That’s why we’re urged to "take up the full armor of God, so that you will be able to resist in the evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm." (Eph. 6:13) And well we should, because Satan and his evil entourage are highly organized. "We are fighting against forces and authorities and against rulers of darkness and powers in the spiritual world." (Eph. 6:12)

Jesus spoke of the "gates of hell" (Matt. 16:18), a phrase that suggests a "council of hell." Our enemy has a complex and conniving spiritual army. So get rid of those images of a red-suited Satan with a pitchfork and pointy tail. The devil is both strong and smart. But, and this is the point of the passage, in God's presence, the devil is a wimp. Satan is to God what a mosquito is to an atom bomb.

Now a large herd of swine was feeding there near the mountains. So all the demons begged Him, saying, "Send us to the swine, that we may enter them." And at once Jesus gave them permission. Then the unclean spirits went out and entered the swine (there were about two thousand); and the herd ran violently down the steep place into the sea, and drowned in the sea. (Mark 5:11-13) Hell's court cowers in Christ's presence. Demons bow before him, solicit him and obey him. They can't even lease a pig without his permission. So then how do we explain Satan's influence?

Natalie must have asked that question a thousand times. In the list of characters for a modern-day exorcism story, her name is near the top. She was raised in a tormented world. The community suspected nothing, however. Her parents put up a friendly facade. Each Sunday they paraded Natalie and her sisters down the church aisle. Her father served as an elder there, and her mom played the organ. The congregation respected them. But not Natalie. She despised them. To this day she refuses to call her parents "Mom" and "Dad." A "warlock" and "witch" don't deserve that distinction.

When she was six months old, Natalie’s parents sexually sacrificed Natalie on hell's altar, pledging her as a sex slave to be exploited by men in any place, and at any time. Cultists bipolarized her world: dressing her in white for Sunday services and, hours later, stripping her at the coven. If she didn't scream or vomit during the attack, Natalie was rewarded with an ice-cream cone. Only by "crawling down deep" inside herself could she survive.

Miraculously, Natalie escaped the cult, but not the memories. Well into her adult years, she wore six pair of underpants as a wall of protection. Dresses created vulnerability, so she avoided wearing them. She hated being a woman; she hated seeing men; she hated being alive. Only God could know the legion of terrors that tormented her. And God did.

Hidden within the swampland of her soul was an untouched island. Small but safe. Built, she believes, by her heavenly Father during the hours she sat as a little girl on that church pew. Words of his love, hymns of his mercy – they all left their mark. She learned to retreat to this island and pray. And God heard her prayers. Counselors came. Hope began to offset horror. Her faith increasingly outweighed her fears. And although the healing process was lengthy and tedious, Natalie – by God’s grace – was victorious, eventually culminating in her marriage to a very godly man.

Of course, Natalie’s deliverance didn't include cliffs and pigs. But make no mistake about it – she was delivered. And thus we’re reminded: Satan can disturb us, but he can’t defeat us. The head of the serpent has been crushed. In fact, I saw a picture of that in my own backyard.

My wife and I have a patio off our bedroom where, during the summers in particular, we like to sit outside with our dogs and enjoy the view. One evening, Sandy asked me if the lawn sprinklers were on. “No,” I said, “I ran them yesterday.” (This was when you could still water your lawn.) The dogs hastily alerted, and that’s when we realized it wasn’t the sprinklers; it was a rattlesnake. We quickly put the dogs in the house (our Cocker is adorable and as smart as a whip, but our Lab, although a huge love, is not the brightest crayon in the box – if you know what I mean), and I ran to grab a shovel.

By this time, the rattler was plenty agitated and acting just like the sprinkler we thought he was – hissing and ready to strike. So, with my wife shining a flashlight on the reptile, I used the shovel to severe its head – an act which, when looking back on it, was probably more bravado than brains. We then stood back and watched as the now-headless rattler writhed and twisted in the soft dirt nearby.

Inspirational? Probably not. Hopeful? Well, maybe. Because that summer’s eve is a parable of where we are in life. Isn’t the devil a snake? John called him "that old snake who is the devil." (Rev. 20:2) And hasn’t he been decapitated? Not with a shovel, mind you, but with the cross. "God disarmed the evil rulers and authorities. He shamed them publicly by his victory over them on the cross of Christ." (Col. 2:15) So how does that leave us? Confident, I hope.

The punch line of the passage, of course, is Jesus' power over Satan. One word from Christ and the demons are swimming with the swine, and the wild man is "sitting there fully clothed and perfectly sane." (Mark 5:15) Just one command. No séance was needed. No hocus-pocus. No chants. No candles. Hell is an anthill against heaven's steamroller. Jesus "commands . . . evil spirits, and they obey him." (Mark 1:27) The rattlesnake in the garden, and Lucifer in the pit – both met their match. And, yet, both stir up dust long after their defeat. Because though confident, we still need to be careful.

Satan, though venomless, still has a bite. He spooks our work, disrupts our activities, and leaves us thinking twice about where we step. Which we need to do. We need to be careful where we step. "Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour." (1 Pet. 5:8) So alertness is needed. But panic is not. The serpent still wiggles and intimidates, but he has no poison. He’s defeated. He knows it. And, “his time is short." (Rev. 12:12)

"Greater is He who is in you than he who is in the world." (1 John 4:4). Believe that. Trust the work of your Savior. "Resist the devil and he will flee from you." (James 4:7) In the meantime, the best Satan can do is squirm. And who likes snakes, anyway?

Grace,

Randy

Grieved

Grieved

A man named Lazarus was sick. He lived in Bethany with his sisters, Mary and Martha. This is the Mary who later poured the expensive perfume on the Lord’s feet and wiped them with her hair. Her brother, Lazarus, was sick. So the two sisters sent a message to Jesus telling him, “Lord, your dear friend is very sick.” But when Jesus heard about it he said, “Lazarus’s sickness will not end in death. No, it happened for the glory of God so that the Son of God will receive glory from this.” So although Jesus loved Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, he stayed where he was for the next two days. Finally, he said to his disciples, “Let’s go back to Judea….”

When Jesus arrived at Bethany, he was told that Lazarus had already been in his grave for four days. Bethany was only a few miles down the road from Jerusalem, and many of the people had come to console Martha and Mary in their loss. When Martha got word that Jesus was coming, she went to meet him. But Mary stayed in the house. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask.” Jesus told her, “Your brother will rise again.” “Yes,” Martha said, “he will rise when everyone else rises, at the last day.” Jesus told her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. (John 11:1-7; 17-25)

We never know what to say at funerals, and this one was no exception. The chapel is library quiet. People acknowledge each other with soft smiles and sympathetic nods. You say nothing because, well, what can you say? There's a dead body in the room. Just last month you took the guy out for lunch and laughed over cheesy nachos. And aside from a cough, you thought he was pretty healthy. But within a week you learned of the diagnosis – the doctor gave him sixty days. He didn't even make it that long. Now you're both at his funeral. He’s in the casket, and you’re in the pew. Death has silenced you both.

The church is full, so you stand at the back. Stained glass prisms the afternoon sun, streaking faces with shafts of purple and gold. You recognize many of the attendees because Bethany’s a small town. The two women on the front pew you know very well. Martha and Mary are Lazarus’ sisters. Quiet, pensive Mary. Bustling, busy Martha who, even now, can't seem to sit still. She keeps looking over her shoulder. “Who for?” you wonder. But in a matter of moments the answer enters. And when he does, Martha rushes up the aisle to meet him. Had you not known his name, the many whispers would have informed you. "It's Jesus." Every head turns.

He's wearing a tie, though you get the impression he rarely does. His collar seems a little tight, and his jacket a bit outdated. A dozen or so men follow him – some stand in the aisle, others in the foyer. They have that well-traveled, wrinkled look to them – as if they’d ridden all night. Jesus embraces Martha and she weeps. And as she weeps, you wonder. You wonder what Jesus is going to do. You wonder what Jesus is going to say. He spoke to the winds and the demons. But death? Does he have anything to say about death?

Your thoughts are then interrupted by Martha's accusation, "Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died." (John 11:21) And you can't fault her frustration because aren’t they friends? When Jesus and his followers had nowhere else to go, "Martha welcomed them into her home." (Luke 10:38) Mary and Martha know Jesus very well, and they know Jesus loved Lazarus. "Lord," they told the courier to tell him, "your dear friend is very sick." (John 11:3)

This is no Facebook friend request. This is a friend needing help. Desperately. Interestingly, the Greek language has two principle words to express sickness: one describes the presence of a disease, the other its effects. Martha uses the latter. So a fair translation of her appeal could well read, "Lord, your dear friend is sinking fast." In other words, friends send Jesus an urgent appeal in a humble fashion, and what does he do? "He stayed where he was for the next two days." (v. 6) Wow. Some kind of friend.

By the time he finally arrives, Martha is so broken up she hardly knows what to say. With one breath she criticizes, "Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died," (v. 21) and with the next she concludes, "But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask." (v. 22) The truth is that every funeral has its Martha’s. Sprinkled among the bereaved are the bewildered. "Help me understand this one, Jesus. Please?"

Grief fogs the heart in like Cape Disappointment, Washington – foggy three and a half months out of the year. The mourner hears the waves but can’t see the water. The griever detects voices but no faces. The life of the brokenhearted becomes like a foot-watcher, walking through shopping malls or the grocery store staring at feet; methodically moving – one foot, then the other – through a misty world. Martha sat in a damp and misty world; fog-shrouded and tearful. And Jesus sat in it with her.

"I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying.” (v. 25) Hear those words in a Superman tone, if you will – like Clark Kent descending from nowhere, ripping his shirt open to reveal the “S” underneath. It’s certainly not a Savior with Terminator tenderness, bypassing the tears of Martha and Mary and, in doing so, essentially telling them and all the gathered grievers to simply get over it and trust. I just don't see the Terminator here. I don't see it that way because of what Jesus does next. He weeps. He sits on the pew between Mary and Martha, puts an arm around each of them, and sobs. Among the three, a tsunami of sorrow is stirred; a monsoon of tears is released. Tears that reduce to streaks the chalky conceptions of a cavalier Christ.

Jesus weeps. He weeps with them. He weeps for them. He weeps with you. He weeps for you. He weeps so we will know that mourning is not disbelieving. Flooded eyes don't denote a faithless heart, because a person can enter a cemetery absolutely Jesus-certain of life after death, and still have a Twin Tower crater in the heart. Christ did. He wept, and he did so despite knowing that within ten minutes he’d see a living, breathing, walking Lazarus. And Jesus’ tears give you permission to shed your own.

Grief doesn’t mean you don't trust; it simply means you can't stand the thought of another day without the Lazarus of your life. And if Jesus gave the love, then he certainly understands the tears when your love is gone. So we can grieve, but don't grieve like those who don't know the rest of this story. Jesus touches Martha's cheek, gives Mary a hug, stands, and turns to face the corpse. The casket lid is closed. He tells Martha to have it opened. She shakes her head and starts to refuse, but then pauses.

Eventually, she turns to the funeral home director. "Oh, alright. Open it," Martha says. And since you’re standing, you can see the face of Lazarus. It's waxy and white. You think Jesus is going to weep again, and you certainly didn’t expect him to speak to his friend. But he does. A few feet from the casket Jesus shouts, "Lazarus, come out!" (v. 43)

Curious. Preachers always address the living. But the dead? One thing is for sure, though. There better be a rumble in that casket, otherwise this crazy preacher yelling at the casket is going to need a straight-jacket, or some serious therapy at a minimum. But you and everyone else hear it. There’s a rumble. There’s movement in the coffin, "and the dead man came out." (v. 44)

But dead men don't do that, do they? Dead men don't come out. Dead men don't wake up. Dead hearts don't beat. Dried blood doesn't rush. Empty lungs don't inhale. No, dead men don't come out – unless they hear the voice of the Lord of life. The ears of the dead may be deaf to your voice and to mine, but not to his. Christ is "Lord of both the dead and the living." (Rom. 14:9) When Christ speaks to the dead, the dead listen. In fact, had Jesus not addressed Lazarus by name, the tenant of every tomb on the planet would have likely jumped out of their graves. So, Lazarus jolts up in the coffin, blinks his eyes, and looks around the room like someone had carted him there during a nap. A woman screams. Another faints. Everyone shouts. And you?

I don’t know, but maybe you’ve learned something from the experience. Maybe you’ve learned what to say at funerals. Maybe we’ve all learned that there’s a time to say . . . nothing. Because your words can't dispel a fog, but your presence can warm it. And your words can't give a Lazarus back to his sisters. But God's can. And it's just a matter of time before he speaks. "The Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout. . . . and all the Christians who have died will rise from their graves." (1 Thess. 4:16)

Till then, we grieve. But not like those who have no hope. And we listen. We listen for his voice. Because we know who has the final say about death. And for those who call him both Savior and Lord, the voice calls us home – forever.

Grace,

Randy

Spit-Therapy

Spit-Therapy

As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man who had been blind from birth. “Rabbi,” his disciples asked him, “why was this man born blind? Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sins?” “It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered. “This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.” Then he spit on the ground, made mud with the saliva, and spread the mud over the blind man’s eyes. He told him, “Go wash yourself in the pool of Siloam” So the man went and washed and came back seeing! His neighbors and others who knew him as a blind beggar asked each other, “Isn’t this the man who used to sit and beg?” Some said he was, and others said, “No, he just looks like him!” But the beggar kept saying, “Yes, I am the same one!” They asked, “Who healed you? What happened?” He told them, “The man they call Jesus made mud and spread it over my eyes and told me, ‘Go to the pool of Siloam and wash yourself.’ So I went and washed, and now I can see!”

The Jewish leaders still refused to believe the man had been blind and could now see, so they called in his parents. They asked them, “Is this your son? Was he born blind? If so, how can he now see?” His parents replied, “We know this is our son and that he was born blind, but we don’t know how he can see or who healed him. Ask him. He is old enough to speak for himself.” His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jewish leaders, who had announced that anyone saying Jesus was the Messiah would be expelled from the synagogue…. And they threw him out of the synagogue.

When Jesus heard what had happened, he found the man and asked, “Do you believe in the Son of Man”? The man answered, “Who is he, sir? I want to believe in him.” “You have seen him,” Jesus said, “and he is speaking to you!” “Yes, Lord, I believe!” the man said. And he worshiped Jesus. (John 9:1-2; 6-11; 18-23; 34-39)

The old guy at the corner hasn't seen him, and the woman selling figs hasn't either. Jesus describes him to the scribes at the gate, and to the kids in the courtyard. "He's about this tall; his clothes are a little ragged." But no one has a clue. For the better part of a day Jesus has been searching up and down the streets of Jerusalem. He didn't stop for lunch; he didn’t even pause to catch his breath. The only time his feet weren’t moving was when he was asking, "Pardon me, but have you seen the blind fellow who used to beg on the corner?"

He searched the horse stable; he even checked out an old shed. Now Jesus is going door-to-door. "He has a homeless look," Jesus tells people. "Unkempt. Dirty. Muddy eyelids." Finally a boy gives him a lead. Jesus takes a back street toward the temple and spots the man sitting on a stump between two donkeys. Christ approaches from behind and places a hand on his shoulder. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you." The fellow turns and, for the first time, sees the one who let him see. And what the man does next, you may find hard to believe. But first, a little review is in order.

John introduces him to us with these words: "As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man who had been blind from birth." (John 9:1) This man has never seen a sunrise. Can't tell purple from pink. The disciples fault the family tree. "Rabbi, why was this man born blind? Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sin?” (v. 2) “Neither,” Jesus replies. Trace this condition back to heaven. The reason the man was born sightless? So that "the power of God could be seen in him." (v. 3)

Talk about a thankless role. This guy’s been selected to suffer. Some sing to God’s glory, and others teach to God's glory. But who wants to be blind for God's glory? And what’s tougher? The condition, or discovering it was God's idea? But the cure proves to be as surprising as the cause. "[Jesus] spat on the ground, made mud with the saliva, and spread the mud over the blind man’s eyes.” (v. 6) You know, the world is filled with various paintings of Jesus: in the arms of Mary, in the Garden of Gethsemane, in the darkened tomb. But I've never seen a painting of Jesus spitting. But there he is – Jesus smacking his lips, gathering a mouth full of saliva, and letting the blob drop to the dirt. And then he squats, stirs up a puddle of . . . what would you call it? Holy putty? Spit therapy? Saliva solution? Whatever the name, Jesus places a fingerful in his palm, and then, like Rembrandt, streaks the mud-miracle onto the blind man's eyes. "Go, wash in the pool of Siloam," Jesus says. (v. 7)

So, the beggar feels his way to the pool, splashes water on his mud-streaked face, and rubs away the clay. The result is the first chapter of Genesis, just for him. Light where there was darkness. Virgin eyes focus. Fuzzy figures become human beings. And John receives the Understatement of the Bible Award when he writes: "He . . . came back seeing." (v. 7) Come on, John. Running a little short on verbs, there? How about "he raced back seeing"? Or, "He danced back seeing"? Maybe, "He roared back whooping and hollering and kissing everyone he could find, for the first time, seeing"? The guy had to be thrilled. And we’d love to leave him that way. But if this man's life were a cafeteria, he just stepped away from the sirloin to jump into the line for the Brussels sprouts.

For instance, look at the reaction of the neighbors: "’Isn’t this the man who used to sit and beg?’ Some said he was, and others said, ‘No, he just looks like him!’ But the beggar kept saying, ‘Yes, I am the one!’” (vv. 8-9) Did you notice that? These folks aren’t celebrating; they’re debating. They’ve watched this man grope and trip since he was a kid. (v. 20) So, you'd think they’d be rejoicing. But they aren’t. Instead, they march him down to the church to have him kosher tested.

Upon arrival, the Pharisees ask for an explanation, and the once-blind beggar says, "He applied clay to my eyes, and I washed, and I see." (v. 15) Again we pause for the applause. Still nothing. No recognition. No celebration. Apparently, Jesus had failed to consult the healing handbook – “Now it was a Sabbath on the day when Jesus made the clay and opened his eyes. . . . The Pharisees were saying, 'This man is not from God, because He does not keep the Sabbath.'" (vv. 14, 16) Pause. Did you hear that? Did you hear that noise? That’s the beeping of the absurdity Geiger counter. The religious leaders' verdict bounces the needle off the chart. Here, let me give you an example of what I’m talking about.

Suppose the swimming pool where you swim has a sign on the fence that reads, “Rescues Performed by Certified Lifeguards Only.” Of course, you never give the sign a thought until one day you bang your head on the bottom of the pool. You black out, ten feet under. Next thing you know you're belly-down on the side of the pool, coughing up water. Someone rescued you. And when the lifeguards appear, the fellow who pulled you out of the pool has since disappeared. But as you come to your senses, you tell the lifeguards your story. However, rather than rejoice, the lifeguards and the bystanders shout, "Doesn't count! Doesn't count!" They’re acting like referees waving off a basketball that cleared the net after the clock had expired. "It wasn't official. Wasn't legal. Since the rescuer wasn't certified, consider yourself drowned." Absurd, right? So, won’t anyone rejoice with this man?

The neighbors didn't. The preachers didn't. Oh, but wait. Whew. Finally. Here come the parents. But the reaction of the formerly blind man's parents is even worse. “‘Is this your son? Was he born blind? If so, how can he now see?’ His parents replied, ‘We know this is our son and that he was born blind, but we don’t know how he can see or who healed him. Ask him. He is old enough to speak for himself.’ His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jewish leaders, who had announced that anyone saying Jesus was the Messiah would be expelled from the synagogue.” (vv. 18-22)

How could the parents do that? Granted, to be put out of the synagogue was a big deal. But isn't refusing to help your child even worse? And who was really blind that day, anyway? The neighbors didn't see the man – they saw a novelty. The church leaders didn't see the man – they saw a technicality. The parents didn't see their son – they saw a social difficulty. In the end, no one saw him. So, “they threw him out of the synagogue." (v. 34) And now, here he is on the back streets of Jerusalem. The fellow’s got to be just a little bewildered. Born blind only to be healed. Healed only to be kicked out. Kicked out only to be left alone. From Mt. Whitney to the Mojave Desert, all in one Sabbath. Now he can't even beg anymore. How would that feel? Maybe you know how that feels. Do some people seem to be dealt more than their share of bad hands? If so, Jesus knows. He knows how they feel, and he knows where they are. "Jesus heard that they had thrown him out, and went and found him." (v. 35)

If three decades of earth walking and miracle working aren’t sufficient, or if there’s any doubt in your mind about God's full-bore devotion, he goes and does something like this. He goes Columbo and tracks down a troubled pauper. And when he arrives, the beggar lifts his eyes to look into the face of the one who’d started it all. Is he going to criticize Christ? Complain to Jesus? You couldn't blame him for doing both, frankly. After all, he didn't volunteer for the disease, or the deliverance. But he does neither. "He worshiped Jesus," instead. (v. 38) And don't you think he probably knelt? And wouldn’t you think he probably wept? And if so, how could he keep from wrapping his arms around the waist of the one who gave him sight? And so he worshiped him. And when you see Jesus, you will too.

Some of your legs may be wheel-chaired, and some of your hearts may be hope-starved. But "these hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us." (2 Cor. 4:17 MSG) The day you see your Savior you will experience a million times over what Joni Eareckson Tada experienced on her wedding day. You see, a diving accident had left Joni paralyzed at the age of seventeen. All of her nearly fifty years since have been spent in a wheelchair. Her handicap doesn't keep her from writing or painting or speaking about her Savior. Nor did her handicap keep her from marrying Ken. But it almost kept her from the joy of the wedding.

She'd done her best, mind you. Her gown was draped over a thin wire mesh covering the wheels of her wheelchair. With flowers in her lap and a sparkle in her eye, she felt a "little like a float in the Rose Parade." A ramp had been constructed, connecting the foyer to the altar. Unfortunately, while waiting her turn to motorize over it, Joni made a discovery. Across her dress was a big, black grease mark courtesy of the chair. And the chair, though "spiffed up . . . was still the big, clunky thing it always was." Then the bouquet of daisies on her lap slid off center, and her paralyzed hands were unable to rearrange them. She felt anything but the picture-perfect bride in Bride's Magazine. Nevertheless, she inched her chair forward and looked down the aisle. And that's when she saw her groom.

“I spotted him way down front, standing at attention and looking tall and elegant in his formal attire. My face grew hot. My heart began to pound. Our eyes met and, amazingly, from that point everything changed. How I looked no longer mattered. I forgot all about my wheelchair. Grease stains? Flowers out of place? Who cares? No longer did I feel ugly or unworthy; the love in Ken's eyes washed it all away. I was the pure and perfect bride. That's what he saw, and that's what changed me. It took great restraint not to jam my ‘power stick’ into high gear and race down the aisle to be with my groom.”

When she saw her groom, she forgot about herself. And when you see Jesus, you will too. I'm sorry about that greasy gown. And your flowers? They tend to slide, don't they? Who has an answer for the diseases, drudgeries and darkness of this life? I don't. But we do know this: everything changes when you look at the groom. And yours is coming.

Just as he came for the blind man, Jesus is coming for you. The hand that touched the blind man's shoulder will touch your cheeks. The face that changed his life will change yours, as well. And when you see Jesus, you will bow in worship, too.

Grace,

Randy