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