Evil

Evil

“So do not be afraid of them, for there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs. Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell. (Matt. 10:26-28)

The greatest golfer in the history of the sport sat down to eat his breakfast, never suspecting that it would be his last. Byron Nelson had slept well the night before, better than he had in days, in fact. He was ninety-four years old, living with his wife on their ranch near Fort Worth, Texas, where he resided peacefully until God called him home. After washing the dishes, he sat down to listen to a favorite Christian radio broadcast. His wife, Peggy, left for a Bible study at church. She returned a few hours later to find Byron on the floor. No sign of pain or struggle. His good heart had just stopped.

Then, there’s Boris Kornfeld. Russia in the early 1950’s needed no excuse to imprison its citizens. Question the Communist regime and you’d find yourself walking the frozen tundra behind the barbed wires of a concentration camp. Boris did. No known record of his crime survives, only the sketchy details of his life. Born a Jew. Trained as a physician. Befriended by a believer in Christ who helped Kornfeld connect the promised Messiah of the old covenant with the Nazarene of the new. Following Jesus went against every fiber of his ancestry, but in the end that’s what he chose to do. And it cost him his life.

He saw a guard stealing bread from a dying man. Now, prior to his conversion, Kornfeld would have ignored the crime. This time, his conscience compelled him to tell someone about it. And it was only a matter of time before the other guards would get even. But Kornfeld, even though in danger, was at complete peace. His only desire was to tell someone about his discovery before he lost his life. And that opportunity came in the form of a cancer patient – a fellow prisoner who was recovering from abdominal surgery. Left alone with him in the recovery room, Kornfeld urgently whispered his story. He poured out every detail. The young man was stirred but so groggy from the anesthesia that he fell asleep. When he awoke, he asked to see the physician. But it was too late. During the night someone had dealt the doctor eight blows to the head with a plasterer's hammer.

Byron Nelson and Boris Kornfeld embraced the same convictions. They anchored their hope to the same rock. They set their sights on the same heaven. They trusted in the same Savior. Yet one passed into heaven on a pathway of peace, the other through a maelstrom of brutality. Frankly, if given the choice, I'd like to go out like Mr. Nelson.

Contrary to what we'd like to hope, good people aren't exempt from violence. Murderers don't give the godly a pass. Rapists don't vet their victims based upon their spiritual resumes. The bloodthirsty and wicked don't skip over the heaven-bound. We aren't insulated. But neither are we intimidated. Jesus has a word or two to say about this brutal world: "Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul." Matt. 10:28)

The disciples needed that affirmation, too, because Jesus had just told them to expect scourging, trials, death, hatred and persecution. (Matt. 10: 17-23) Not the kind of locker room pep talk that rallies the team, I’m afraid. To their credit, however, none defected. Maybe that’s because of the fresh memory of Jesus' flexed muscles in a Gadarene graveyard. Because just two chapters earlier, Jesus had taken his disciples to "the other side into the country of the Gadarenes, [where] two men who were demon-possessed met Him as they were coming out of the tombs. They were so extremely violent that no one could pass by that way. And they cried out, saying, 'What business do we have with each other, Son of God? Have You come here to torment us before the time?'" (Matt. 8:28-29)

The most dramatic and immediate reactions to the presence of God on earth emerged from demons like these. These two men were demon possessed and, consequently, "extremely violent." People walked wide detours around the cemetery to avoid them. But not Jesus. He marched in like he owned the place. The stunned demons never expected to see Jesus in the devil's playground on the foreign side of Galilee – the region of pagans and pigs. Jews avoided such haunts. Jesus didn't.

And the contest between good and evil lasted a matter of seconds. Christ is fire, and demons are rats on the ship. They scurried overboard at first heat. "Please send us into those pigs!" (v. 31) Jesus did. "Go," he exorcised. No shout, scream, incantation, dance, incense, or demand. Just one small word. Because the one who sustains the worlds with a word directs demonic traffic the same way. And that’s the account on which Jesus writes the check of courage: "Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul." (Matt. 10:28) Courage emerges, not from increased police security, but from enhanced spiritual maturity. Martin Luther King exemplified that. He chose not to fear those who meant him harm.

On April 3, 1968, he spent hours in a plane, waiting on the tarmac, due to bomb threats. When he arrived in Memphis later that day, he was tired and hungry but not afraid. "We've got some difficult days ahead," he told the crowd. "But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.” He would be dead in less than twenty-four hours. But the people who meant him harm fell short of their goal. Although they took his breath, they couldn’t take his soul.

Evildoers have less chance of hurting you if you aren't already a victim. "Fearing people is a dangerous trap, but trusting the Lord means safety." (Prov. 29:25) And don’t forget, "his angels . . . guard you." (Ps. 91:11) He is your "refuge." (Ps. 62:8) He is your "hiding place." (Ps. 32:7) And he’s your "fortress." (2 Sam. 22:2-3) David said, "The Lord is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do to me?" (Ps. 118:6) Satan cannot reach you without passing through God. And that sounds all well and good, but if that’s true then what are we to make of the occasions when Satan does reach us? Or, how are we supposed to understand the tragic end of good people like Boris Kornfeld? Better yet, how are we to understand the suffering of Jesus? Ropes. Whips. Thorns. Nails. These trademarked his final moments.

Do you hear the whip slapping against his back, ripping sinew from bone? Thirty-nine times the leather slices, first the air, then the skin. Jesus clutches the post and groans, battered by wave after wave of violence. Soldiers force a thorny wreath over his brow, sting his face with their fists, and then coat it with their spit. They load a beam on his shoulders and force him to march up a hill. This is the condemned sharpening his own guillotine, or tying his own noose, or wiring his own electric chair. Jesus shouldered his own tool of execution. The cross.

In polite Roman society the word “cross” was an obscenity, not to be uttered in conversation. Roman soldiers were exempt from crucifixion except in matters of high treason. It was ugly and vile, harsh and degrading. And it was the manner by which Jesus chose to die. "He humbled himself and became obedient to death – even death on a cross!" (Phil. 2:8)

A calmer death would have sufficed, don’t you think? A single drop of blood could have redeemed humankind. Shed his blood, silence his breath, still his pulse, but be quick about it. Plunge a sword into his heart, or take a dagger to his neck. But did the atonement for sin really require six hours of violence? No, but his triumph over sadism did. Jesus once and for all displayed his authority over savagery. Evil may have its moments, but they will be brief. Satan unleashed his meanest demons on God's Son. He tortured every nerve ending and inflicted every kind of misery. Yet the master of death could not destroy the Lord of life. Heaven's best took hell's worst and turned it into hope. And I pray God spares you such evil. May he grant you the long life and peaceful passage of a Byron Nelson. But if he doesn't, if you "have been given not only the privilege of trusting in Christ but also the privilege of suffering for him," (Phil. 1:29) remember, God wastes no pain. Consider, again, Boris Kornfeld.

Though the doctor died, his testimony survived because the man with whom he spoke never forgot the conversation. There, in the quiet camp hospital recovery room, the doctor sat by his patient's bedside, dispensing compassion and peace. Dr. Kornfeld passionately related the story of his conversion to Christianity, his words flavored with conviction. The patient may have been hot and feverish, but alert enough to ponder Dr. Kornfeld's words. He’d later write that he sensed a "mystical knowledge" in the doctor's voice. And that "mystical knowledge" transformed the young patient. He embraced Kornfeld's Christ and later celebrated in verse with this joyous affirmation: God of the Universe! I believe again!

One of the fortunate few, the patient survived the camps and began to write about his prison experiences, disclosing the horrors of the gulag in one exposé after another: One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, The Gulag Archipelago, and Live Not by Lies, just to name a few. Some attribute the collapse of Eastern Communism, in part, to his writings. But were it not for the suffering of Boris Kornfeld, we'd have never known the brilliance of his young convert: Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

What man meant for evil, God, once again, used for good. And if you’ll let him, he’ll use you, too.

Grace,

Randy

Obsessed

https://youtu.be/v6NFrU7ICIw

Obsessed

They came to an area called Gethsemane. Jesus told his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” He took Peter, James, and John with him. He plunged into a sinkhole of dreadful agony. He told them, “I feel bad enough right now to die. Stay here and keep vigil with me.” Going a little ahead, he fell to the ground and prayed for a way out: “Papa, Father, you can—can’t you?—get me out of this. Take this cup away from me. But please, not what I want—what do you want?” (Mark 14:32-36 MSG)

The next time an octopus traps you on the ocean floor, don't panic. Just tumble into a flurry of somersaults. Unless you're wrapped in the grip of a fearfully strong arm or two, you'll escape with only a few suction marks. More good news. You can foil your next UFO abduction by going straight for the invader's eyes. But watch your thoughts – some aliens can actually read minds. And although gorillas can't read minds, they can grab you like a vice. For instance, the grip of a silverback is padlock tight. Your only hope of escape is to stroke your captor’s arm while loudly smacking your lips. Primates are fastidious groomers. So, hopefully, the gorilla will interpret your actions as a spa treatment. If not, things could be worse. You could be falling from the sky in a malfunctioning parachute, trapped in a plummeting elevator, or buried alive in a steel casket. You could be facing your worst-case scenario.

We all have them, don’t we? Situations of ultimate desperation. That's why The Complete Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook was such a huge success in 2007. And, thanks to the book, I know how to react to a grabbing gorilla or an abducting alien. But the odds of those things happening are so remote that I haven’t lost a lot of sleep over them. I ponder other gloomy possibilities. Growing senile is one of them. The thought of growing old doesn't trouble me. I don't mind losing my youth, or my hair because that’s already happening. But the thought of losing my mind? I don't want to end up that way.

Lurking fears. Uninvited Loch Ness monsters. Not your pedestrian anxieties of daily deadlines and common colds, but the lingering horror of some inescapable situation. Illogical and inexplicable, perhaps, but undeniable nonetheless. What's your worst fear? The fear of unemployment, or heights? The fear that you'll never find the right spouse or enjoy good health? The fear of being trapped, abandoned, or forgotten? These are very real fears, born out of legitimate concerns. But left unchecked, they metastasize into obsessions because the difference between prudence and paranoia is razor thin. Prudence wears a seat belt. Paranoia avoids cars. Prudence washes with soap. Paranoia avoids human contact. Prudence saves for old age. Paranoia hoards even trash. Prudence prepares and plans. Paranoia panics. Prudence calculates the risk and takes the plunge. Paranoia never enters the water.

That was Jesus’ choice. But he did more than just speak about fear; he faced it. The decisive acts of the gospel drama were played out on two stages – Gethsemane’s garden and Golgotha's cross. Friday's cross witnessed the severest suffering; Thursday’s garden staged the profoundest fear. It was there, among the olive trees, that Jesus "fell to the ground. He prayed that, if it were possible, the awful hour awaiting him might pass him by. 'Abba, Father,' he cried out, 'everything is possible for you. Please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.'" (Mark 14:35-36)

Mark paints the picture of Jesus as pale-faced and trembling. "Horror . . . came over him." (Mark 14:33) The word “horror” is used for a man who’s rendered helpless, disoriented, and who’s agitated and anguished by the threat of some approaching event. And Matthew agreed. He described Jesus as depressed and confused (Matt. 26:37); or sorrowful and troubled (RSV); or anguish[ed] and dismay[ed] (NEB). We've never seen Jesus like this. Not in the Galilean storm, at the demoniac's necropolis, or on the edge of the Nazarene cliff. We've never heard such screams or seen eyes so wide. And never, ever, have we read a sentence like this: "He plunged into a sinkhole of dreadful agony." (Mark 14:33) This is a weighty moment. God has become flesh, and Flesh is feeling fear full bore. Why? What could frighten the Christ? It had something to do with a cup. "Please take this cup of suffering away from me." (v. 36)

“Cup,” in biblical terms, was more than a drinking utensil. “Cup” equaled God's anger, judgment and punishment. When God took pity on apostate Jerusalem, he said, "See, I have taken out of your hand the cup that made you stagger . . . the goblet of my wrath." (Isa. 51:22) Through Jeremiah, God declared that all nations would drink of the cup of his disgust: "Take from my hand this cup filled to the brim with my anger, and make all the nations to whom I send you drink from it." (Jer. 25:15) According to John, those who dismiss God "must drink the wine of God's anger. It has been poured full strength into God's cup of wrath. And they will be tormented with fire and burning sulfur in the presence of the holy angels and the Lamb." (Rev. 14:10)

In other words, the cup was Jesus' worst-case scenario: to be the recipient of God's wrath. He had never felt God's fury; he didn't deserve to. He'd never experienced isolation from his Father; the two had been one for eternity. He'd never known physical death; he was an immortal being. Yet within a few short hours, Jesus would face them all. God would unleash his sin-hating wrath on the sin-covered Son. And Jesus was afraid. Deathly afraid. And what he did with his fear shows us what to do with ours. He prayed.

He told his followers, "Sit here while I go and pray over there." (Matt. 26:36) But one prayer wasn’t enough. "Again, a second time, He went away and prayed . . . and prayed the third time, saying the same words." (vv. 42, 44) He even requested the prayer support of his friends. "Stay awake and pray for strength," he urged. (v. 41) Jesus faced his ultimate fear with a simple, honest prayer.

Unfortunately, we prescribe words for prayer, places for prayer, clothing for prayer, and postures for prayer; durations, intonations, and incantations. Yet Jesus' garden appeal had none of that. It was brief (twenty-six English words), straightforward ("Please take this cup of suffering away"), and trusting ("Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.") Low on slick and high on authentic. Less a silver-tongued saint in the sanctuary; more a frightened child in a father's lap. And maybe that’s the answer. Jesus' garden prayer was a child's prayer. “Abba,” he prayed, using the homespun word a child would use while scampering up onto the lap of his Papa. And anyone can pray from that perspective.

Prayer is the practice of sitting calmly in God's lap, placing our hands in his and asking God to "take this cup away." This cup of disease, or betrayal, or financial collapse, or joblessness, or conflict, or even senility. Prayer isn’t complicated. It was never intended to be. And such a simple prayer equipped Christ to stare down his deepest fear. We would do well to model the same.

Fight your dragons in Gethsemane's garden. Those persistent, ugly villains of the heart – talk to God about them. “I have to fly tomorrow, Lord, and I can't sleep for fear that some terrorist will put a bomb on board and blow the plane out of the sky. Please remove this fear.” Or, “The bank just called and is about to foreclose on our home. What's going to happen to my family? Teach me to trust you.” “I'm scared, Lord. The doctor just called, and the news isn’t good. You know what's ahead for me. I give my fear to you.” Be specific about your fears. Identify what "this cup" is and talk to God about it.

Putting your worries into words disrobes them. Logic doesn't talk fear off the ledge or onto the airplane. So what does? How can we avoid that towel-in-the-ring surrender to the enemy? By pulling back the curtains and exposing those fears – each and every one. Like vampires, they can't stand the sunlight. Financial fears, relationship fears, professional fears, safety fears – call them out in prayer. Drag them out by the hand of your mind and make them stand before God and take their comeuppance. Jesus made his fears public. He "offered up prayers and petitions with loud cries and tears to the one who could save him from death." (Heb. 5:7) He prayed loudly enough to be heard and recorded.

I had a client who was dreading a letter from the IRS. According to their calculations, he owed the IRS money – money my client didn’t have. He was told to expect a letter detailing the amount. When the letter arrived, his courage failed him. He couldn't bear to open it, so the envelope sat on his desk for five days while he twisted in dread. How much could it be? Where would he get the money? How long would he spend in prison? Finally he summoned the gumption to open the envelope. To his profound relief, he found not a bill to be paid, but a check to be cashed. Turns out, the IRS had made a mistake. Go figure. They owed him money, and he’d wasted five days in needless fear dreading something that never happened.

Truth is, there are very few monsters that warrant the fear we have of them. As followers of God, you and I have a huge asset – we know that everything is going to turn out alright. Christ hasn't budged from his throne, and Romans 8:28 hasn't evaporated from the Bible. Our problems have always been his possibilities. The kidnapping of Joseph resulted in the preservation of his family. The persecution of Daniel led to a cabinet position. Christ entered the world by a surprise pregnancy and redeemed it through his unjust murder. The Bible teaches us that no disaster is ultimately fatal.

Paul penned his final words in the bowels of a Roman prison, chained to a guard and within earshot of his executioner's footsteps. Worst-case scenario? Not from Paul's perspective. "God's looking after me, keeping me safe in the kingdom of heaven. All praise to him, praise forever!" (2 Tim. 4:18) Paul chose to trust his Father.

Will you?

Grace,

Randy

Focused

https://youtu.be/iQf59brJJk8

Focused

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!” (Matt. 14:22-27)

As lakes go, the Sea of Galilee is a pretty small and moody one. Only thirteen miles at its longest, seven and a half at its widest, its diminutive size makes it vulnerable to the winds that howl out of the Golan Heights. They turn the lake into a blender, shifting suddenly, blowing first from one direction, then another. Winter months bring these kind of storms every two weeks or so, churning the waters for two to three days at a time. And Peter and his fellow storm riders knew they were in serious trouble. What should have been a sixty-minute cruise became a nightlong battle. The boat lurched and lunged like a kite in a March wind. Sunlight was a distant memory. Rain fell from the night sky in buckets. Lightning sliced the blackness with a silver sword. Winds whipped the sails, leaving the disciples "in trouble far away from land . . . fighting heavy waves."

Does that describe your stage in life? Sometimes, all we need to do is substitute a couple of nouns – in the middle of a divorce, tossed about by guilt; in the middle of debt, tossed about by creditors. The disciples fought the storm for nine cold, skin-drenching hours. And then, about 3:00 a.m., the unspeakable happened. They spotted someone coming on the water. "'A ghost!' they said, crying out in terror." (v. 26) They didn't expect Jesus to come to them that way. And neither do we.

We expect him to come in the form of peaceful hymns, or Easter Sundays, or quiet retreats. We expect to find Jesus in morning devotionals, church suppers or in meditation. We never expect to see him in a bear market, or on a pink slip, or in a lawsuit, or when a foreclosure is knocking on the door. We never expect to see him in a storm. But it’s in the storms that he does his finest work, because that’s when he has our keenest attention. Jesus replied to the disciples' fear with an invitation worthy of inscription on every church cornerstone and residential doorway: "'Don't be afraid,' he said. 'Take courage. I am here!'" (v. 27)

There’s power in those words. To wake up in an ICU and hear your wife say, "I’m here." To lose your retirement yet feel the support of your family in the words, "We’re here." Or, when a Little Leaguer spots Mom and Dad in the bleachers watching the game, the words "I am here" changes everything. Maybe that's why God repeats the "I am here" pledge so often. The Lord is near. (Phil. 4:5) I am with you always, to the very end of the age. (Matt. 28:20) I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my hand. (John 10:28) Nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow – not even the powers of hell can separate us from God's love. (Rom. 8:38)

We cannot go where God is not. Look over your shoulder – that’s God following you. Look into the storm – that’s Christ coming toward you. Much to Peter's credit, he took Jesus at his word. "'Lord, if it is You, command me to come to You on the water.' So He said, 'Come.' And when Peter had come down out of the boat, he walked on the water to go to Jesus." (Matt. 14:28-29) Peter probably would have never made that request on a calm sea. Had Christ strolled across a lake that was as smooth as glass, Peter would have applauded, perhaps, but I doubt he would have stepped out of the boat. Storms prompt us to take unprecedented journeys. And for a few historic steps and heart-stilling moments, Peter did the impossible. He defied every law of gravity and nature. "He walked on the water to go to Jesus." Pretty scant on detail, however, don’t you think? We’re talking about walking on water here.

Don’t we want to know how quickly Peter exited the boat, or what the other disciples were doing? Maybe the expression on their faces, or if Peter stepped on any fish. But Matthew didn’t have time for those kinds of questions. He moves us quickly to the major message of the event: where to stare in a storm. "But when [Peter] saw that the wind was boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink he cried out, saying, 'Lord, save me!'" (v. 30) A wall of water eclipsed his view. A wind gust snapped the mast with a crack and a slap. A flash of lightning illuminated the lake and the watery mountain it had become. Peter shifted his attention away from Jesus and toward the squall, and when he did, he sank like a rock. Give the storm waters more attention than the Storm Walker, and get ready to do the same.

We can’t choose whether storms will come. But we can choose where we stare when they do. I discovered that truth while sitting in my cardiologist's office. My heart rate was misbehaving, so I was referred to a specialist. After reviewing my tests and asking me some questions, the doctor nodded knowingly and told me to wait in his office. I didn't like being sent to the principal's office as a kid, and I really don't like being sent to the doctor's office as a patient. But I went in, took a seat, and quickly noticed the doctor's harvest of diplomas. They were everywhere. Degrees from universities. Others from residencies. The more I looked at his accomplishments, the better I felt. “I'm in pretty good hands,” I thought.

Then, just about the time I leaned back in the chair to relax, his nurse entered and handed me a sheet of paper. "The doctor will be in shortly," she explained. "In the meantime, he wants you to acquaint yourself with this information. It summarizes your condition." I lowered my gaze from the diplomas to the summary of my disorder. And as I read, stormy winds began to blow. Unwelcome words like “arrhythmia” and “enlarged” caused me to sink into my own Sea of Galilee. What happened to my peace? I was feeling much better a moment ago. So I changed strategies. I counteracted diagnosis with diplomas. In between paragraphs of bad news, I looked at the wall for reminders of good news.

That's what God wants us to do. His call to courage is not a call to naiveté or ignorance. We aren't to be oblivious to the overwhelming challenges that life brings. We're to counterbalance them with long looks at God's accomplishments. "We must pay much closer attention to what we have heard, so that we do not drift away from it." (Heb. 2:1) Do whatever it takes to keep your gaze on Jesus. Memorize scripture. Read biographies of great lives. Ponder the testimonies of faithful Christians. Make the deliberate decision to set your hope on him. Courage is always a possibility.

C. S. Lewis wrote a great paragraph on this thought: Faith . . . is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted, in spite of your changing moods. For moods will change, whatever view your reason takes. I know that by experience. Now that I am a Christian I do have moods in which the whole thing looks very improbable: but when I was an atheist I had moods in which Christianity looked terribly probable. . . . That is why Faith is such a necessary virtue: unless you teach your moods "where they get off," you can never be either a sound Christian or even a sound atheist, but just a creature dithering to and fro, with its beliefs really dependent on the weather and the state of its digestion.

Feed your fears, and your faith will starve. Feed your faith, and your fears will. Jeremiah did this, and talk about a person caught in a storm. "I am the man who has seen affliction under the rod of [God's] wrath; he has driven and brought me into darkness without any light; surely against me he turns his hand again and again the whole day long." (Lam. 3:1-3) Jeremiah was depressed because Jerusalem was under siege, and his nation was under duress. His world had collapsed and he faulted God for his emotional distress. He also blamed God for his physical ailments. "He [God] has made my flesh and my skin waste away, and broken my bones." (v. 4) His body ached. His heart was sick. His faith was puny.

Jeremiah could tell you the height of the waves and the speed of the wind. But then he realized how fast he was sinking. So he shifted his gaze. "But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is thy faithfulness. 'The Lord is my portion,' says my soul, 'therefore I will hope in him.'" (vv. 21-24) "But this I call to mind . . . ." Depressed, Jeremiah altered his thoughts and shifted his attention. He turned his eyes away from the waves and looked into the wonder of God and recited a quintet of promises. The storm didn't cease, but his discouragement did. So did Peter's.

After a few moments of flailing in the water, he turned back to Christ and cried, "'Lord, save me!' Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. 'You of little faith,' he said, 'why did you doubt?' And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down." (Matt. 14:30-32) Jesus could have stilled this storm hours earlier. But he didn't. He wanted to teach the followers a lesson. And Jesus could have calmed your storm long ago, too. But he hasn't. Maybe he wants to teach you a lesson, too. And if so, could that lesson read something like this: "Storms are not an option, but fear is"?

God has hung his diplomas in the office of his universe. Rainbows, sunsets, horizons and star-sequined skies. He’s recorded his accomplishments in Scripture. His resume includes Red Sea openings. Lions' mouths closings. Goliath topplings. Lazarus raisings. Storm stillings and strollings. His lesson is clear. He's the commander of every storm.

We can’t choose whether storms will come. But we can choose where to focus when they do.

Grace,

Randy

Kids

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6taadBE52dk

Kids

Then a man named Jairus, a leader of the local synagogue, came and fell at Jesus’ feet, pleading with him to come home with him. His only daughter, who was about twelve years old, was dying…. While he was still speaking to her (a woman with an issue of blood), a messenger arrived from the home of Jairus, the leader of the synagogue. He told him, “Your daughter is dead. There’s no use troubling the Teacher now.” But when Jesus heard what had happened, he said to Jairus, “Don’t be afraid. Just have faith, and she will be healed.” (Luke 8:41-42; 49-50)

No one told me that newborns make nighttime noises – all night long. They gurgle; they pant. They whimper; they whine. They smack their lips and sigh. They keep Dads awake. At least mine did. I wanted my wife to sleep, so we took turns – I was the first responder during the graveyard shift. But I didn't know what to make of the baby noises. When breathing slowed, I leaned my ear to see if he was alive. When her breathing hurried, I looked up "infant hyperventilation" in the family medical encyclopedia. When he burbled and panted, so did I. After a couple of hours I realized, “I have no clue how to behave.” And that’s when it hit me like a tsunami of sobriety: "I’m in charge of a human being."

I don't care how tough you are. You may be a Navy SEAL who specializes in high-altitude skydiving behind enemy lines. You might spend each day making million-dollar, split-second stock market decisions. It doesn't matter. Every parent melts the moment he or she feels the full force of parenthood. I did. “How did I get myself into this?” I retraced my steps. First came love, then came marriage, then the discussions of a baby carriage. Of course I was open to the idea. Especially when I considered my role in launching the effort. But somehow during the nine-month expansion project, the reality of fatherhood never really dawned on me. Moms, on the other hand, have a bit of an advantage: thirty-six weeks of reminders elbowing around inside them. A Dad’s kick in the gut comes later.

The semi-truck of parenting comes loaded with fears. We fear failing the child, forgetting the child. Will we have enough money? Enough answers? Enough diapers? Enough drawer space? Vaccinations. Educations. Homework. Homecoming. And even though we learn to cope, an apiary of dangers buzzes in the background. Like the custody battle raging around a mother’s ten-year-old son. The courts, the father, the mother, the lawyers – they’re stretching the boy like taffy. She wonders if her child will survive the ordeal. So do the parents of the teenage daughter who collapsed on a volleyball court. No one knew about her heart condition, or knows how she'll fare in the future. But at least they know where she is. Another mother doesn’t. Her daughter, a high school senior, ran away with a boyfriend. He's into drugs. She's into him. Both are into trouble. The mother begs for help because no parent can sit still while his or her child suffers. Jairus couldn't, either.

“On the other side of the lake the crowds welcomed Jesus, because they had been waiting for him. Then a man named Jairus, a leader of the local synagogue, came and fell at Jesus' feet, pleading with him to come home with him. His only daughter, who was about twelve years old, was dying. As Jesus went with him, he was surrounded by the crowds.” (Luke 8:40-42)

Jairus was a Capernaum community leader, "one of the rulers of the synagogue." (Mark 5:22) Mayor, bishop, and ombudsman, all in one. The kind of man a city would send to welcome a celebrity. But when Jairus approached Jesus on the Galilean shoreline, he wasn't representing his village; he was pleading on behalf of his child. Urgency stripped the formalities from his greeting. He issued no salutation or compliment, just a panicked prayer.

Jairus isn't the only parent to run onto the gospel pages on behalf of a child. A mother stormed out of the Canaanite hills, crying, "Mercy, Master, Son of David! My daughter is cruelly afflicted by an evil spirit." (Matt. 15:22) A father of a seizure-tormented boy sought help from the disciples, then Jesus. He cried out with tears, "Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!" (Mark 9:24) The Canaanite mother. The epileptic boy’s father. Jairus. Three parents who form an unwitting New Testament society: struggling parents of stricken children. But in each case Jesus responded. He never turned one away. And his consistent kindness issues a welcome announcement: Jesus heeds the concern of a parent's heart.

After all, our kids were his kids first. "Don't you see that children are God's best gift? The fruit of the womb his generous legacy?" (Ps. 127:3) Before they were ours, they were his. Even as they are ours, they’re still his. We tend to forget this fact, regarding our children as "our" children, as though we have the final say in their health and welfare. We don't. All people are God's people, including the little people who sit at our tables.

Jairus was hoping for a miracle. He begged Jesus to come to his home. (Luke 8:41) The father wasn't content with long-distance assistance; he wanted Christ under his roof, walking through his hallways and standing at the bedside of his daughter. He wanted the presence of Christ to permeate his house. He was a stubborn intercessor, taking his parenting fears to Christ. Yet Jesus says so little about parenting; he makes no comments about spanking, breast-feeding, sibling rivalry, or schooling. Yet his actions speak volumes about prayer. Each time a parent prays, Christ responds. His big message to moms and dads? Bring your children to me. The truth is that we can't protect our children from every threat in life, but we can take them to the Source of life.

Even then, however, our appeals may be followed by a difficult choice. As Jairus and Jesus were going to Jairus' home, "a messenger arrived from the home of Jairus, the leader of the synagogue. He told him, 'Your daughter is dead. There's no use troubling the Teacher now.' But when Jesus heard what had happened, he said to Jairus, 'Don't be afraid. Just have faith, and she will be healed.'" (Luke 8:49-50) Jairus was whipsawed between the contrasting messages. The first, from the servants: "Your daughter is dead." The second, from Jesus: "Don't be afraid." Horror called from one side. Hope compelled from the other. Tragedy, then trust. Jairus heard two voices and had to choose which one he would heed. Don't we all?

The hard reality of parenting reads something like this: you can do your best and still stand where Jairus stood. You can protect, pray, and keep all the bogeymen at bay and still find yourself in an ER at midnight, or a drug rehab clinic on visitors' Sunday, choosing between two voices: despair or belief. Jairus could have chosen despair. Who would have faulted him for deciding "Enough is enough"? He had no guarantee that Jesus could help. His daughter was dead. Jairus could have walked away.

As parents, we're so glad he didn't. Because we need to know what Jesus will do when we entrust our kids to him. "When Jesus went to the house, he let only Peter, John, James, and the girl's father and mother go inside with him." (Luke 8:51) Jesus included the mother. He united the household. Until this point the mother had been, for whatever reason, out of the picture. Maybe she was at her daughter's bedside. Or maybe she was at odds with her husband. Crisis can divide a family. The stress of caring for a sick or troubled child can drive a wedge between parents. But Christ united them. He wanted Mom and Dad to stand together in the struggle. So, Jesus gathered the entire, albeit small, household in the presence of the daughter. And there he banished unbelief. “He said, 'Do not weep; she is not dead, but sleeping.' And they ridiculed Him, knowing that she was dead. But He put them all outside." (vv. 52-54) He commanded doubt to depart and permitted only faith and hope to remain.

God has a heart for hurting parents. Should that surprise us? After all, God himself is a father. What parental emotion hasn’t he felt? Are you separated from your child? So was God. Is someone mistreating your child? They mocked and bullied his. Is someone taking advantage of your children? The Son of God was set up by false testimony and betrayed by a greedy follower. Are you forced to watch while your child suffers? God watched his son on the cross. Do you find yourself wanting to spare your child from all the hurt in the world? God did. But because of his great love for us, "he did not spare his own Son but gave him for us all. So with Jesus, God will surely give us all things." (Rom. 8:32)

"All things." I think that includes courage and hope. But some of you may find the story of Jairus difficult to hear. You prayed the same prayer he did, yet you found yourself in a cemetery facing every parent's darkest night. What hope does the story of Jairus offer you? Jesus resurrected Jairus' child. Why didn't he save yours? God understands. He buried a child too. He hates death more than you do. That's why he killed it. He "abolished death and brought life and immortality to light." (2 Tim. 1:10) For those who trust God, death is nothing more than a transition to heaven. Your child may not be in your arms, but your child is safely in his.

Others of you have been standing for a long time where Jairus stood. You've long since left the water's edge of offered prayer, but haven't yet arrived at the household of answered prayer. You've wept a monsoon of tears for your child. At times you've felt that a breakthrough was near, that Christ was following you to your house. But you're not so sure anymore. You find yourself alone on the path, wondering if Christ has forgotten you and your child. He hasn't. He never dismisses a parent's prayer.

Keep giving your child to God, and in the right time and the right way, God will give your child back to you.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Randy