Where?

Where?

Immediately after this, Jesus insisted that his disciples get back into the boat and cross to the other side of the lake, while he sent the people home. After sending them home, he went up into the hills by himself to pray. Night fell while he was there alone.

Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land, for a strong wind had risen, and they were fighting heavy waves. About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!” But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. I am here!”

Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.” “Yes, come,” Jesus said. So Peter went over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted.

Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him. “You have so little faith,” Jesus said. “Why did you doubt me?” When they climbed back into the boat, the wind stopped. Then the disciples worshiped him. “You really are the Son of God!” they exclaimed. (Matthew 14:22-33)

On a September morning in 2001, Frank laced up his boots, pulled on his hard hat and headed out the door of his New Jersey home. As a construction worker, he’d made a living building things. But as a volunteer at the World Trade Center wreckage, he was just trying to make sense of it all. He’d hoped to find a live body. He didn’t. He found forty-seven dead ones, instead. Amid the carnage, however, he stumbled upon a symbol – a twenty-foot-tall steel-beam cross. The collapse of Tower One onto Building Six had created a crude kind of chamber in the clutter.

It was in this chamber, through the dusty sunrise, that Frank spotted the cross. No winch had hoisted it; no cement was securing it. The iron beams stood independent of any human help at all. It was standing there alone. But, then again, not completely alone. Other crosses rested randomly at the base of the large one. Different sizes, different angles, but all crosses. Several days later engineers realized the beams of the large cross had actually come from two different buildings. When one crashed into another, the two girders bonded into one and were forged together forever by the ensuing fire. A symbol in the shards. A cross found in the crisis. "Where’s God in all this?" Frank pondered. We wondered ourselves; perhaps even now. But the discovery dared us to hope that God was right there in the middle of it all. Can the same be said about our tragedies?

When the ambulance takes our child or the disease takes our friend, when the economy takes our retirement or the two-timer takes our heart – can we, like Frank, find Christ in the crisis? The presence of troubles doesn't surprise us, but the absence of God absolutely undoes us. We can deal with the ambulance if God is in it. We can stomach the ICU if God is in it. We can face the empty house if God is in it. But is he? Is God in it? Well, Matthew would like to answer that question for you.

The walls falling around Matthew were made of water. No roof or building had collapsed, but it felt like the world was crashing in. A storm on the Sea of Galilee is like a sumo wrestler belly-flopping into a kiddy pool. The northern valley acts like a wind tunnel – compressing and then blasting squalls of terror onto the lake. Waves as tall as ten feet are common. And this is a lake, mind you, not the ocean. His account begins at nightfall. Jesus is on the mountain in prayer, and the disciples are in the boat in fear. They are "far away from land . . . fighting heavy waves." (Matt. 14:24) And when does Christ come to them? At three o'clock in the morning. (v. 25)

Now, if “evening” began at six o’clock and Christ came at three in the morning, the disciples had been alone in the storm for nine hours. Nine tempestuous hours. Long enough for more than one of the disciples to wonder, “Where’s Jesus? He knows we’re in the boat for heaven’s sake – it was his idea to begin with! Is God anywhere near?” And from within the storm comes an unmistakable voice: “I am.” Wet robe, and soaked hair. Waves slapping his waist, and rain stinging his face. Jesus speaks to them at once. “Courage. I am. Don’t be afraid!” (vs. 27)

That wording sounds a little odd, I know. Because if you’ve read the story, you’re accustomed to a different shout from Christ. Something like, “Take courage! It is I” (NIV), or “Don’t be afraid … I am here” (NLT), or “Courage. It’s me.” (MSG) However, a literal translation of his announcement results in, “Courage! I am. Don’t be afraid.” But translators like to tinker with words for obvious reasons because “I am” sounds a bit truncated. “I am here,” or “It is I” feels more complete. But what Jesus shouted in the storm was simply the magisterial, “I am.” And those words should ring like the cymbals clashing in the 1812 Overture because we’ve heard them before.

Speaking from the burning bush to a knee-knocking Moses, God announced, “I AM WHO I AM.” (Exod. 3:14) Double-dog daring his enemies to prove him otherwise, Jesus declared, “Before Abraham was born, I am.” (John 8:58) Determined to say it often enough and loud enough to get our attention, Christ chorused: “I am the bread of life;” (John 6:48) “I am the Light of the world;” (John 8:12) "I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved." (John 10:9) "I am the good shepherd;" (John 10:11) "I am God's Son;" (John 10:36) "I am the resurrection and the life;" (John 11:25) "I am the way, and the truth, and the life;" (John 14:6) "I am the true vine." (John 15:1)

The present-tense Christ. He never says, "I was." But we do, don’t we? We do because "we were." We were younger, faster, lighter, prettier, etc. Prone to be people of the past tense, we tend to reminisce. But not God. Unwavering in strength, he never has to say, "I was" because heaven has no rearview mirrors. Or crystal balls because our "I am" God never sighs, "Someday I will be." But we do. Dream-fueled, we reach for horizons. "Someday I will . . . . (Pick your dream.)" But not God. Can water be wetter, or wind be windless? Can God be more God? No. He doesn’t change.

He is the "I am" God. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever." (Heb. 13:8) From the center of the storm, the unwavering Jesus shouts, "I am." He’s tall in the Trade Tower wreckage. He’s bold against the Galilean waves, or the ICU, or the battlefield, or the boardroom, or the prison cell, or the maternity ward – whatever your storm, "I am." Right there in the middle of it; right there in the middle of the storm. And the actual construction of this passage echoes that point.

Matthew’s narrative is made up of two acts, each six verses long. The first act, verses 22-27, centers on the power walk of Jesus. The second, verses 28-33, centers on the faith walk of Peter. In the first act, Christ comes alongside the waves and declares the words engraved on every wise heart: "Courage! I am! Don't be afraid!" And in the second, a desperate disciple takes a step of faith and – for a moment – does what Christ does. He waterwalks. Then he takes his eyes off of Christ and does what we do. He sinks.

Two acts. Each with six verses. Each set of six verses contains 90 Greek words. And right in middle of the two acts, and the two sets of verses, and the 180 words is this two-word declaration: "I am." Matthew, a former tax collector who’s really good with numbers, reinforces his point. It comes layered like a great sub sandwich: Graphically: Jesus – soaked but strong. Linguistically: Jesus – the "I am" God. Mathematically: whether in the number of words or the weathered world, Jesus – in the midst of it all. That’s because God gets into things. He gets into Red Seas, and big fish, and lions’ dens and furnaces. God gets into bankrupt businesses and jail cells; Judean wildernesses, weddings, funerals, and Galilean tempests. Look and you'll find what everyone from Moses to Martha has discovered. God right there in the middle of our storms. And that includes your storms, too.

A while ago, a young woman, recently married and the mother of an eighteen-month-old, tragically passed away. Her life abruptly cut short – abbreviated. And the shelves of help and hope are barren at those times. But at her funeral the officiating priest, a close friend, shared a memory in his eulogy that gave those in attendance both help, and hope.

For several years she had lived and worked in New York City. Due to their long-standing friendship, the priest had stayed in frequent contact with her via e-mail, and late one night he received a message indicative of God's persistent presence in her young life. It seems that his friend had missed her station while on the subway. And by the time she realized her mistake, she didn't know what to do. She prayed for safety and some sign of God's presence because this was neither the hour nor the place for a young, attractive woman to be passing through a rough New York neighborhood, especially alone.

At that moment the doors opened, and a homeless, disheveled man came on board and plopped right down next to her. Terrific. “God? Are you near?” she prayed. The answer came in a song. The man pulled out a harmonica and played, "Be Thou My Vision" – her mother's favorite hymn. The song convinced her. Christ was there, in the midst of it all.

Frank saw him in the rubble. Matthew saw him in the waves. The young woman saw him in a stranger. And you? Look closer. He's there. Right in the middle of it all.

Grace,

Randy

Epitaph

Epitaph

Jesus, tired from the long walk, sat wearily beside the well about noontime. Soon a Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Please give me a drink.” The woman was surprised, for Jews refuse to have anything to do with Samaritans. She said to Jesus, “You are a Jew, and I am a Samaritan woman. Why are you asking me for a drink?” Jesus replied, “If you only knew the gift God has for you and who you are speaking to, you would ask me, and I would give you living water….”

“I know the Messiah is coming – the one who is called Christ. When he comes, he will explain everything to us.” Then Jesus told her, “I Am the Messiah!”… The woman left her water jar beside the well and ran back to the village, telling everyone, “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?” (John 4:6-7; 8-10; 25-26; 28-29)

The property is like a lot of others – an island of history that holds its own against a river of progress and single-family homes. It’s a cemetery, where hundreds of tombstones stand, many alive with yesterday. One of them announces the location of Grace Llewellyn Smith. No date of birth is listed; no date of death. Just the names of her two husbands, and this epitaph: Sleeps, but rests not. Loved, but was loved not. Tried to please, but pleased not. Died as she lived – alone. Words of futility.

Makes you wonder about her life. For instance, did she write the words, or did she live them? Did she deserve the pain? Was she bitter? Was she beaten? Was she plain, or was she beautiful? Why are some lives so fruitful, while others so futile? For Grace, it probably meant long nights, empty beds and the sound of silence. No response to her countless messages and letters; no love returned in exchange for a love she had given; tried to please and utterly failed. In fact, if you listen carefully, you can hear the hatchet of disappointment coming down on her life. “How many times do I have to tell you?” Chop. “You’ll never amount to anything!” Chop. Chop. “Why can’t you do anything right?” Chop, chop, chop.

How many people will die in loneliness? Maybe it’s the homeless person, or the happy hour hopper. Maybe the bag lady at the local grocery store. It could be anyone who doubts whether the world needs them. It’s anyone who’s convinced that nobody really cares. Someone who’s been given a ring, but not a heart; criticism instead of a chance; a bed but no rest. These are the victims of futility. And unless someone intervenes, unless something happens, Grace’s epitaph will be theirs, too. That’s why John’s story is so significant. It’s the story of another epitaph, of a sort. This time, however, the tombstone doesn’t mark the death of a person – it marks her birth.

Her eyes squint against the noonday sun. Her shoulders stoop under the weight of a water jug. Her feet trudge along the path stirring up the dust. She keeps her eyes down so she can dodge the stares of others. She’s a Samaritan and knows the sting of racism; she’s a woman who’s bumped her head on the ceiling of sexism. She’s been married to five men. Five different beds. Five different rejections. She knows the sound of slamming doors. She knows what it means to love and receive no love in return. In fact, her current partner won’t even give her his name, just a place to sleep.

On that particular day, she came to the well at noon. Why she hadn’t gone in the early morning with the other women we’ll never know. But maybe it was the other women she was trying to avoid. For her, a walk in the hot sun was a small price to pay to escape their sharp tongues. “Shhhhhh, here she comes, but they say she’ll sleep with anyone.” So, she came to the well at noon. She expected silence; she expected solitude. Instead, she found someone who knew her better than she knew herself. He was seated on the ground – maybe with his legs outstretched, hands folded, back resting against the well. His eyes were closed. She stopped and looked at him, and then looked around. No one was near. Again, she looked back at him. He was obviously Jewish, so what was he doing here? Then his eyes opened and hers ducked in embarrassment. She went quickly about her task, trying to ignore Him.

Sensing her discomfort, Jesus asked her for water. But she was too streetwise to think that was all he wanted. She wanted to know what he really had on his mind. And, her intuition was correct – sort of. He was interested in more than water, alright. He was interested in her heart. And so they talked. Who could remember the last time a man had spoken to her with respect? He told her about a spring of water that would quench her soul, not her throat. That kind of water intrigued her. “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming back here to draw water.” Jesus responded, “Go, call your husband and come back.” (John 4:15-16)

Her heart must have sunk with that request. Here was a Jew who didn’t care if she was a Samaritan. Here was a man who didn’t look down on her as a woman. Here was the closest thing to gentleness she’d ever seen. And now? Now he was asking her about … that. Anything but that. Maybe she thought about lying. “Oh, my husband? He’s at the office.” Or, maybe she wanted to change the subject. Or then again, maybe she simply wanted to turn and run away. But she didn’t. She stayed. And, she told the truth. “I have no husband.”

Aren’t there times when we want to take our masks off? Don’t we sometimes want to stop pretending? Don’t we occasionally wonder what God would do if we opened up and revealed who we really are, even though he knows already? This woman did, but she probably wondered what Jesus would do when he heard. She must have wondered if the kindness would cease when the truth was out. “He’ll be angry and leave me, just like all the others. “He’ll think I’m worthless.” And Jesus’ response? “You’re right. You’ve had five husbands and the man you’re with now won’t even give you his name.”

What? No criticism? No anger? No what-kind-of-a-mess-have-you-made-of-your-life lecture? No, none of that. It wasn’t perfection that Jesus was seeking. It was honesty. The woman was amazed. “I can see that you’re a prophet,” she says. Translation? “There’s something different about you. Do you mind if I ask you something?” And then she asked the question that revealed the gaping hole in her soul: “Where’s God? My people say He’s on the mountain. Your people say He’s in Jerusalem. I’m confused. I don’t know where He is.” (vs. 20)

Of all the places to find a hungry heart – Samaria. Of all the Samaritans to be searching for God – a woman. Of all the women to have an insatiable appetite for God – a five-time divorcé. And of all the people to be chosen to personally receive the secret of the ages – an outcast among outcasts and the most insignificant person in the region. Jesus must have smiled when he said, “I Am the Messiah.”

The most important phrase in this story is easily overlooked. “The woman left her water jar beside the well and ran back to the village, telling everyone, ‘Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?’” (John 4:28-29) And don’t miss the drama of the moment. Look at her eyes, wide with amazement. Watch as she scrambles to her feet, takes one last look at the grinning Nazarene, turns and probably runs right into Peter just returning from the Sychar McDonald's with food for the boys.

Did you notice what she forgot? She forgot her water jar. She left behind the jug that had caused the sag in her shoulders. She left behind the burden that she’d brought. Suddenly the shame of her tattered romances disappeared. Suddenly the insignificance of her life was swallowed up by the significance of the moment. “God is here! God has come! God cares . . . for me! That’s why she forgot her water jar. That’s why she ran to the city. That’s why she grabbed the first person she saw and announced her discovery, “I just talked to a man who knows everything I ever did … and he loves me anyway!”

For some, the story of these two women may be touching but distant. Distant because maybe you belong; you’re needed. You’ve got more friends than you can visit. Insignificance will not be chiseled on your tombstone. And if that’s you, be thankful. But for others, it may be different. We’ve paused at the epitaph because, well . . . maybe it’s ours. We see the face of Grace Llewellyn Smith when we look into the mirror. We know why the Samaritan woman was avoiding people. We know what it’s like to have no one sit by us at the cafeteria, or at the bus stop, or just about any place. We’ve wondered what it would be like to have just one really good friend. We’ve been in love and wonder if it’s worth the pain to do it again. And we’ve sometimes wondered, “Where’s God in all of this?” That was Barbara’s question.

Joy teaches Sunday school to underprivileged children in an inner city church. Her class was a lively group of nine-year olds who loved life and weren’t afraid of God. There was one exception, however – a timid girl by the name of Barbara. Her difficult home life had left her afraid and insecure. For the many weeks that Joy taught the class, Barbara never spoke. Never. While the other children talked, she sat. While the other children sang, Barbara was silent. While the others giggled and joked and wrestled with each other, Barbara was quiet. Always present. Always listening. Always speechless.

That was until one day when Joy taught a lesson on heaven. She talked about seeing God. She talked about tearless eyes, and deathless lives. Barbara was fascinated and wouldn’t release Joy from her penetrating stare. She listened with a hunger that Joy had never seen before. Then she raised her 9 year old hand. “Ms. Joy?” Joy was stunned. Barbara had never asked a question. “Yes, Barbara?” “Is heaven for girls like me?”

A tiny prayer that had reached the throne of God. An earnest prayer that a good God in heaven would remember a forgotten soul on earth. A prayer that God’s grace would seep through the cracks and cover someone the church had let slip through. A prayer to take a life that no one else could use and use it like no one else could. Not a prayer from the pulpit, but one from a bed in a convalescent home. Not a prayer prayed confidently by a preacher, but one whispered fearfully by a recovering addict. A prayer to do what God does best – taking the common and making it spectacular.

Taking the rod and dividing the sea; taking a pebble and killing a Goliath; taking water and making sparkling wine; taking a peasant boy’s lunch and feeding a multitude; taking mud and restoring sight; taking three spikes and a wooden beam and making them the hope of humanity; taking a rejected woman and making her the first missionary.

There are two graves in the story. The first is the lonely one belonging to Grace Llewellyn Smith. She apparently didn’t know love. She probably didn’t know gratification. She likely knew only the pain of the chisel as it carved the epitaph of her life. The second is near a well with a water jug for a tombstone. It has no words, but has great significance – it’s the place where insignificance was laid to rest.

Grace,

Randy

Ordinary

Ordinary

Jesus left that part of the country and returned with his disciples to Nazareth, his hometown. The next Sabbath he began teaching in the synagogue, and many who heard him were amazed. They asked, “Where did he get all this wisdom and the power to perform such miracles?” Then they scoffed, “He’s just a carpenter, the son of Mary and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon. And his sisters live right here among us.” They were deeply offended and refused to believe in him. Then Jesus told them, “A prophet is honored everywhere except in his own hometown and among his relatives and his own family.” And because of their unbelief, he couldn’t do any miracles among them except to place his hands on a few sick people and heal them. And he was amazed at their unbelief. (Mark 6:1-6)

You probably woke up this morning to just another, ordinary day. A butler didn’t draw your bath. A maid didn’t lay out your clothes. Your eggs weren't Benedict, and your orange juice wasn't fresh-squeezed. But that's okay; there's nothing particularly special about the day. It's not like it’s your birthday, or Christmas or something; it's like most every other day – just an ordinary day. So you went to the garage and climbed into your ordinary car. You've heard about executives and sheiks that are helicoptered to their offices. But you? A stretch limo may have taken you to your wedding reception, but since then it's been sedans and minivans – ordinary cars that take you to your ordinary job.

You take it seriously, mind you, but you wouldn’t call your job extraordinary. You're not exactly clearing your calendar for Jimmy Fallon, or making time to appear before Congress. You're just making sure you get your work done before the evening rush turns the Interstate into a parking lot. And if you are delayed, be ready to wait in line at the freeway on-ramp. Or the line at the grocery store, or the line at the gas station. Now, if you were the governor, or had an Oscar on your mantel, you could probably avoid the crowds. But you’re not the governor, and you don’t own an Oscar. You’re ordinary. You lead an ordinary life punctuated by occasional weddings, job transfers, bowling trophies, and graduations. Generally speaking, your ordinary, day-to-day rhythm is pretty much like the rest of humanity.

As a result, you could probably use a few tips, because you need to know how to succeed at being ordinary. Ordinariness has its perils, you know. A face in the crowd can feel lost in the crowd. You might tend to think you’re unproductive, wondering if you'll leave any kind of lasting contribution when you’re gone. Maybe you feel insignificant, too. “Do the ordinary rate in heaven?” you think. “Does God love ordinary people like me?” you wonder. Well, God answers those questions in a most uncommon way. Because if the word “ordinary” describes you, then take heart. It also described Jesus.

Christ ordinary? Come on. Since when is walking on water "ordinary"? Speaking to the dead "ordinary"? Being raised from the dead "ordinary"? Can we call the life of Jesus "ordinary"? Well, nine-tenths of it we can. For instance, when you list the places Christ lived, draw a circle around the town called Nazareth – a blip on the edge of boredom. Home to maybe 400 people, or about the size of present-day Bowlegs, Oklahoma. For thirty of his thirty-three years, Jesus lived an ordinary life.

Aside from that one incident in the temple at the age of twelve, we have no record of what he said or did for the first thirty years that he walked on this earth. And were it not for a statement in Mark's gospel, we wouldn’t know anything about Jesus' early adult life. It's not much, really; just enough thread to weave a thought or two for those who suffer from the ordinary life. Now, if you hang out with NFL superstars and subscribe to Yachting Monthly, you can probably tune out. However, if you wouldn't know what to say to Peyton Manning, and have never heard of Yachting Monthly, then this is for you. Here’s the verse: “He’s just a carpenter.” (Mark 6:3) See, I told you it wasn't much. And it was Jesus' neighbors that spoke those words, not his disciples or even his family. Apparently, amazed at his latter-life popularity, the townspeople were basically asking, "Isn’t this the guy who fixed my roof?"

Note, too, what the neighbors didn’t say: "Isn’t this the carpenter who owes me money?" "Isn’t this the carpenter who swindled my father?" "Isn’t this the carpenter who never finished my table?" No, those words were never said. The lazy have a hard time hiding in a small town, and hucksters move from city to city to survive. Jesus didn't need to. Need a plow repaired? Christ could do it. In need of a new yoke? "Well, my neighbor’s a carpenter; he’ll give you a fair price." The job may have been ordinary, but Jesus’ diligence to the job at hand was not. Jesus took his work seriously. And although the town where he lived may have been ordinary, his attention to it was not.

The city of Nazareth rests in a bowl created by a nearby mountain range, and no Nazarene boy could likely resist an occasional hike to the crest to look out over the valley below. Sitting 1,600 feet above sea level, the young Jesus could examine the world he’d made. Mountain flowers in the spring. Simmering sunsets. Pelicans winging their way along the streams of Kishon to the Sea of Galilee, some 11 miles away – as the crow, or pelican flies. Fields and fig trees in the distance. Do you suppose moments like those inspired his words later? "Observe how the lilies of the field grow" (Matt. 6:28), or "Look at the birds of the air." (Matt. 6:26) The words of Jesus the rabbi were born in the thoughts of Jesus the boy.

And to the north of Nazareth lay the wood-crowned hills of Naphtali. Conspicuous on one of them was the village of Safed, known in the region as "the city set upon the hill." Was Jesus thinking of that city when he said, "A city set on a hill cannot be hidden"? (Matt. 5:14) The maker of yokes later explained, "My yoke is easy." (Matt. 11:30) The one who brushed his share of sawdust from his eyes would say later, "Why do you look at the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?" (Matt. 7:3) He saw how a seed on the path took no root (Luke 8:5), and how a mustard seed produced a great tree. (Matt. 13:31-32) He remembered the red sky at morning (Matt. 16:2), and the lightning in the eastern sky. (Matt. 24:27) Jesus listened to his ordinary life. Have you?

Rain pattering against the window. The giggle of a baby in a crowded mall. Seeing a sunrise while the world sleeps. Aren’t these personal epistles? Can't God speak through a Monday commute, or a midnight diaper change? Take notes on your life. There’s no event so ordinary but that God isn’t present within it, always leaving you room to recognize him – or not. But the next time your life feels ordinary, take your cue from Christ. Pay attention to your work and to your world. Jesus' obedience began in a small town carpentry shop, but his unordinary approach to his ordinary life groomed him for his unordinary call. "When Jesus entered public life he was about thirty years old." (Luke 3:23)

In order to enter public life, you have to leave private life. In order for Jesus to change the world, he had to say good-bye to his world. He had to give Mary a kiss. Have a final meal in the kitchen; a final walk through the streets. Did he ascend one of the hills of Nazareth and think of the day he would ascend the hill near Jerusalem? He knew what was going to happen. "God chose him for this purpose long before the world began." (1 Pet. 1:20) Every ounce of suffering had been scripted – it just fell to him to accept his part. Not that he had to. Nazareth was a cozy town. So why not build a carpentry business and keep his identity a secret? Or, return in the era of guillotines or lethal injections and take a pass on the cross? To be forced to die is one thing, but to willingly take up your own cross so you can be murdered on it is something else altogether. It reminds me of a story about the McIlroy’s.

The fact that they adopted two children is commendable, but not uncommon. The fact that they adopted special needs children is significant, but not unique. It's the severity of the health problems that set the McIlroy’s story apart. Saleena was a cocaine baby. Her birth mother's overdose left Saleena unable to hear, see, speak or even move. Penny and Alan McIlroy adopted her at seven weeks old. The doctor gave her a year. Ruffling her hair or squeezing her cheeks won’t get a response, because Saleena will never be able to respond. Neither will her sister, Destiny.

In an adjacent bed, one-year-old Destiny lays equally motionless and vegetative. Penny will never hear Destiny's voice. Alan will never know Saleena's kiss. They'll never hear their daughters sing in a choir, and they’ll never play in a soccer game. They'll bathe them, change them, adjust their feeding tubes, and rub their limp limbs, but this mom and dad will never hear more than gurgled breathing.

What kind of love is that? What kind of love adopts disaster? What kind of love looks into the face of children, knowing full well the weight of their calamity, and says, "I'll take them"? When you come up with a word for that kind of love, give it to Jesus. For the day he left Nazareth is the day he declared his devotion for you and me. We were just as helpless – in a spiritually vegetative state from sin. According to Peter, our lives were a "dead-end, empty-headed life." (1 Pet. 1:18) But God, "immense in mercy and with an incredible love . . . embraced us. He took our sin-dead lives and made us alive in Christ. He did all this on his own, with no help from us." (Eph. 2:4-5) Jesus left Nazareth in pursuit of the spiritual Saleena’s and Destiny’s of the world and brought us to life.

On second thought, maybe we’re not so ordinary after all.

Grace,

Randy