Keep Rowing

Keep Rowing
Keep Rowing - Audio/Visual

It was dark now, and Jesus had not yet come to them. (John 6:17)

Here are some thoughts from a young missionary, excerpted from his journal during his first month on the mission field. On the flight to the field he writes: “The next time this plane touches down, I will be a missionary. To God be the glory.” The second day he reflects: “I keep reminding myself that the homesickness is temporary — it comes with the weariness and adjustments. I must remember the reason I’m here. Not for my own joy or gain, but for the growth of God’s kingdom.” By day three his spirits are up: “God, it’s a grand blessing to serve you.” But on the fourth day, his spirits sag: “It’s difficult for us to think about home. We cried this morning.” On the fifth day he doesn’t rebound: “Today is not so clear. The clouds have buried the mountains. The sky is gray.”

By day six, the storm is coming in: “Yesterday was the toughest day thus far. The newness is gone. I’m tired of this language. We could hardly think of our family and friends without weeping.” On the eighth day, the waves have crested and the winds are blowing: “This hotel room which has been our home is cold and impersonal. I held my wife as she wept, and we both confessed the ugliness of the thought of spending the rest of our lives in this foreign country. We’re so far from home.” By the tenth day the gales are at full force: “Doggone it, I know God is guiding us, I know He has a plan for us, but it’s so hard. How will we learn this language? Lord, forgive my sorry attitude.” And just when you’d think it couldn’t get any darker: “I wish I could say I’m thrilled to be here. I’m not. I’m only willing to be here. My commitment to be a missionary feels like a prison sentence.”

Perhaps the disciples had the same expectation. They only did what they were told. They didn’t question the order; they simply obeyed it. They could have objected. After all, it was evening and darkness was only minutes away. But Jesus told them to get into the boat, so they did. And what was the result of their obedience? John’s crisp description tells you: “That evening Jesus’ followers went down to Lake Galilee. It was dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The followers got into a boat and started across the lake to Capernaum. By now a strong wind was blowing, and the waves on the lake were getting bigger.” (John 6:16-18)

What a chilling phrase, “Jesus had not yet come to them.” They were caught in the storm of the “not yet.” They did exactly what Jesus said, and look what it got them – a night on a storm-tossed sea with their Master somewhere on the shore. It’s one thing to suffer for doing wrong, but it’s an entirely different matter to suffer for doing what’s right. But it happens. And when the storm bursts, it washes away the naive assumption that if I do right, I will never suffer. Just ask the faithful couple whose crib is empty and whose womb is barren. Just ask the businessman whose hard and honest work was rewarded with financial ruin and bankruptcy. Or the student who took a stand for the truth and got mocked, and the coed who took a chance on love and was raped. And so the winds blow. And so the boat bounces. And so the disciples wonder, “Why the storm, and where’s Jesus?”

It’s bad enough to be in the storm, but to be in the storm alone? The disciples had been on the sea for about nine hours, and John tells us they had been rowing for four miles. (John 6:19) That’s a long night, and how many times had they searched the darkness for their Master? How many times did they call out his name? Why did he take so long? Better yet, why does he take so long?

It reminds me of my children taking piano lessons. Many years ago we purchased a piano, and fearing that it would become just an expensive piece of furniture I told my kids that they were to take piano lessons for one year; after that, they were on their own. Even now I can hear my children playing the piano. And by the time they had begun their last six months, their teacher had upped the ante. No more rinky-dink songs; no more nursery rhymes. It was time to move on. The rhythm varied, the notes sharpened, and the key changed. I remember thinking that it would be pleasant to the ear … someday.

But the notes came slowly and the fingers dragged, and the kids would have quit if I’d given them the chance. So, was I a cruel father for urging them to continue? Was I unfair in prodding them to practice? I wasn’t oblivious to their struggles; I could hear them. And I wasn’t blind to their tears; I could see them. I knew they’d be much happier swimming, or reading, or watching television. So why then did I let them suffer? Because I loved them then, and love them still. And I knew their struggles then would result in music tomorrow.

Mark tells us that during the storm Jesus “saw his followers struggling.” (Mark 6:48) Through the night he saw them. Through the storm he saw them. And like a loving father he waited. He waited until the right time – until the right moment. He waited until he knew it was time to come, and then he came. So what made it the right time? I don’t know. Why was the ninth hour better than the fourth or fifth? I can’t answer that one either. Why does God wait until the money’s gone, or the sickness has lingered? Why does he choose to wait until the other side of the grave to answer the prayers for healing? Again, I don’t know. I only know that his timing is always right. All I can say is that God will do what’s best. “God will always give what is right to his people who cry to him night and day, and he will not be slow to answer them.” (Luke 18:7)

Though you hear nothing, he’s speaking. Though you see nothing, he’s acting. With God there are no accidents. Every incident is intended to bring us closer to him. It’s like the story of the two maestros who attended a concert to hear a promising young soprano. One commented on the purity of her voice. The other responded, “Yes, but she’ll sing better once her heart is broken.” There are certain passions learned only by the pain. And there are times when God, knowing that, allows us to endure the pain for the sake of the song.

So what does God do then while we’re enduring the pain? What does he do while we’re in the storm? You’ll love this. He prays for us. Remember, Jesus wasn’t in the boat with the disciples because he had gone to the hills to pray. (Mark 6:46) Jesus was praying for them. That’s remarkable. It’s even more remarkable that Jesus didn’t stop praying when his disciples were struggling. When he heard their cries, he remained in prayer. Why? Two possible answers.

Either Jesus didn’t care, or he believed in prayer. I think you know the correct choice. And you know what? Jesus hasn’t changed. He still prays for his disciples. “Because Jesus lives forever, he will never stop serving as priest. So he is able always to save those who come to God through him because he always lives, asking God to help them.” (Heb. 7:24-25) But if that’s true, where does that leave us? While Jesus is praying and we’re in the storm, what are we to do? Simple. We do what the disciples did. We keep rowing. The disciples rowed most of the night. Mark says that they were “struggling hard” to row the boat. (Mark 6:48) The word “struggle” is elsewhere translated as the word “tormented.” In other words, it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t glamorous.

Much of life is spent rowing. Getting out of bed. Fixing lunches. Turning in assignments. Changing diapers. Paying bills. Routine. Regular. More struggle than strut. More wrestling than resting. You thought marriage was going to be a lifelong date. You thought having kids was going to be like babysitting. You thought the company who hired you wanted to hear all about the great ideas you had in college. Then you learned otherwise. The honeymoon ended. The IRS called, and the boss wanted you to spend the week in Screamer, Alabama. Sure, there are moments of glamour, and days of celebration. We have our share of feasts, but we also have our share of baloney. And to have the first we must endure the second.

At the right time, God comes. In the right way, he appears. So don’t bail out. Don’t give up. Don’t lay down the oars. He’s too wise to forget you, and too loving to hurt you. When you can’t see him, trust him. He’s praying a prayer that he himself will answer. So stay in the boat with Jesus and keep rowing; without him, you’ll just be rowing in circles.

Happy New Year!

Randy

Wise Eyes

Wise Eyes
Wise Eyes - Audio/Visual

Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the reign of King Herod. About that time some wise men from eastern lands arrived in Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the newborn king of the Jews? We saw his star as it rose, and we have come to worship him.” ¶King Herod was deeply disturbed when he heard this, as was everyone in Jerusalem. He called a meeting of the leading priests and teachers of religious law and asked, “Where is the Messiah supposed to be born?”

“In Bethlehem in Judea,” they said, “for this is what the prophet wrote: ‘And you, O Bethlehem in the land of Judah, are not least among the ruling cities of Judah, for a ruler will come from you who will be the shepherd for my people Israel.’”

After this the wise men went their way. And the star they had seen in the east guided them to Bethlehem. It went ahead of them and stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were filled with joy! They entered the house and saw the child with his mother, Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasure chests and gave him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. (Matt. 2:1-6; 9-11)

Holiday time, for many, is highway time. Ever since the magi packed their bags for Bethlehem, the birth of Jesus has caused people to hit the road. And those Christmas trips have a lot in common with the one of the wise men. We don’t camp with camels, of course, but we’ve been known to bump into a knobby-kneed in-law on the way to the dining room. We don’t keep an eye out for star lights, but flashing lights of the highway patrol? We watch for them at every curve. And we don’t ride in a spice-road caravan, but six hours in a minivan with kids might have made the wise men thankful for animals.

It’s not always ho ho ho on the high, highway. Extended time in the car reveals human frailties. For instance, dads simply refuse to stop. They apparently hearken back to the examples of their forefathers. Did the pioneers spend the night at a Holiday Inn? Did Lewis and Clark ask for directions? Did Joseph allow Mary to stroll through a souvenir shop on the road to Bethlehem? Of course not. Men drive as if they have a biblical mandate to travel far and fast, stopping only for gasoline.

And children? Road trips do to kids what a full moon does to the wolf man. If one child says, “I like that song,” you’d like to hear the other one say, “That’s nice.” But that won’t happen. Instead, the other child replies, “That song stinks, and so do your feet.” And then there’s the issue of bathroom stops. A child can go weeks without going to the bathroom at home. But once on the road, the kid starts leaking like secrets in Washington, D.C.

The best advice for traveling with young children is to be thankful they aren’t teenagers. Teens are embarrassed by what their parents say, think, wear, eat and sing. So for their sakes, and if you ever want to see your future grandchildren, don’t smile at the wait staff, don’t breathe, and don’t sing with the window either up or down. Frankly, it’s probably wiser to just simply postpone traveling with children until they’re a more reasonable age — like thirty something.

Christmas and travel. The first has a way of prompting the second, and it’s been that way since the delegation from the distant land came searching for Jesus. “Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the reign of King Herod. About that time some wise men from eastern lands arrived in Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the newborn king of the Jews?’” (Matt. 2:1-2)

Matthew loved the magi. He gave their story more square inches of text than he gave the narrative of Jesus’ birth. He never mentions the shepherds or the manger, but he didn’t want us to miss the star and the seekers. It’s easy to see why. Because their story is our story. We’re all travelers; all sojourners. And in order to find Jesus, every one of us needs direction. And God gives it. The story of the wise men shows us how. “We have seen His star in the East and have come to worship Him.” (Matt. 2:2) God uses the natural world to get our attention. The heavens declare the glory of God. (Psalm 19:1)

God led the wise men to Jerusalem with a star. But to lead them to Jesus, He used something else: “King Herod was deeply disturbed when he heard this, as was everyone in Jerusalem. He called a meeting of the leading priests and teachers of religious law and asked, ‘Where is the Messiah supposed to be born?’ ‘In Bethlehem in Judea,’ they said, ‘for this is what the prophet wrote: “And you, O Bethlehem in the land of Judah, are not least among the ruling cities of Judah, for a ruler will come from you who will be the shepherd for my people Israel.” (Matt. 2:3-6) The star sign was enough to lead the magi to Jerusalem, but it took Scripture to lead them to Jesus.

People see signs of God every day. Sunsets that steal the breath. Newborns that bring tears. But not everyone who sees the signs draws near to God. Many are content to just simply see the signs. They don’t realize that the riches of God are intended to turn us toward Him. “Perhaps you do not understand that God is kind to you so you will change your hearts and lives.” (Romans 2:4) The wise men, however, understood the purpose of the sign. They followed it to Jerusalem, where they heard about the scripture. The prophecy told them where to find Christ. It’s interesting to note that the star reappeared after they learned about the prophecy. The star “came and stood shining right over the place where the Child was.” (Matt. 2:9) It’s as if the sign and word worked together to bring the wise men to Jesus. That’s because the ultimate aim of all of God’s messages is to shed the light of Heaven on His Son.

“They came to the house where the Child was and saw Him with His mother, Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped Him. They opened their gifts and gave Him treasures of gold, frankincense and myrrh.” (Matt. 2:11) A simple dwelling became a cathedral, and the seekers of the Christ-child found Him and knelt in His presence. They gave Him gifts: gold for a king, frankincense for a priest, and myrrh for his burial. They found the Christ because they heeded the sign and believed the scripture.

Noticeably absent at the manger were the scholars of the Torah; the religious know-it-alls. They reported to Herod that the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem. So didn’t they read the prophecy? Yes, but they didn’t respond to it. You’d think at a minimum they would have accompanied the magi to Bethlehem. The village wasn’t far away, and the risks were small. At worst they’d have been out a little effort, but at best they’d have seen the fulfillment of prophecy. But the priests showed no interest whatsoever. The wise men, on the other hand, earned their moniker because they did.

Their hearts were open to God’s gift, and the men were never the same. After worshiping the Christ child, “they departed for their own country another way.” (Matthew 2:12) Matthew uses the word “way” in other places in his gospel to suggest a direction in life. He speaks of the narrow “way” (Matt. 7:13-14), and “the way of righteousness.” (Matt.21:32) Maybe he’s telling us that the wise men went home as different men. Called by a sign. Instructed by Scripture. And directed home by God. It’s as if all the forces of heaven cooperated to guide the wise men. And God uses every possible means to communicate with you and me. The wonders of nature call to you. The promises and prophecies of Scripture speak to you. God Himself reaches out to you. He wants to help you find your way home.

Many years ago I watched the television adaptation of the drama The Miracle Worker, the compelling story of two females with great resolve: Helen Keller and Anne Sullivan. Helen was born in 1880. She wasn’t yet two when she contracted an illness that left her blind, deaf and mute. When Helen was seven years old, Annie, a young, partially blind teacher, came to the Kellers’ Alabama home to serve as Helen’s teacher. Helen’s brother James tried to convince Annie to quit, but the teacher wouldn’t consider it. She was committed to helping Helen function in a world of sight and sound; and Helen was as stubborn as her teacher.

Locked in a frightening, lonely world, Helen misinterpreted Annie’s attempts. The result was a battle of wills. Over and over again Annie pressed sign language into Helen’s palm, but Helen would pull back. Annie persisted. Helen resisted. Finally, in a moment of high drama, a breakthrough. During a fevered exchange near the water pump, Annie placed one of Helen’s hands under the spout of flowing water. Into the other hand she spelled out w-a-t-e-r. Over and over, w-a-t-e-r. Helen pulled back. Annie kept signing. W-a-t-e-r. All of a sudden Helen stopped. She placed her hand on her teacher’s and repeated the letters w-a-t-e-r. Annie beamed. She lifted Helen’s hand onto her own cheek and nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, yes! W-a-t-e-r.” Helen spelled it again: w-a-t-e-r. Helen pulled Annie around the yard, spelling out the words. G-r-o-u-n-d. P-o-r-c-h. P-u-m-p. It was a victory parade of sorts.

Christmas celebrates a similar moment for us — God breaking through our world, and in a feeding stall of all places. He will not leave us in the dark. He is the pursuer, the teacher. He won’t sit back while we miss out. So He entered our world. He sends signals and messages: H-o-p-e. L-i-f-e. He cracks the shell of our world and invites us to peek into His. And every so often a seeking soul looks up.

May you be one of them. When God sends signs, be faithful. Let them lead you to Scripture. And as Scripture directs, be humble. Let it lead you to worship. And as you worship the Son, be grateful. He will lead you home.  This Christmas, may God give you eyes wise to see, and a heart humbled by the babe in the manger. This Christmas, may you be changed by the Christ who gave his life so that you may find yours – forever.

Merry Christmas!

Randy

Pursued

Pursued
Pursued - Audio/Visual

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 about him," 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? 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. 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, eight 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 guy has got to be just a little bewildered. Born blind only to be healed. Healed only to be kicked out of church. 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’ll worship him, too.

Grace,

Randy

Conundrum

Conundrum
Conundrum - Audio/Visual

About eight days later Jesus took Peter, John, and James up on a mountain to pray. And as he was praying, the appearance of his face was transformed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly, two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared and began talking with Jesus. They were glorious to see. And they were speaking about his exodus from this world, which was about to be fulfilled in Jerusalem. ¶Peter and the others had fallen asleep. When they woke up, they saw Jesus’ glory and the two men standing with him. As Moses and Elijah were starting to leave, Peter, not even knowing what he was saying, blurted out, “Master, it’s wonderful for us to be here! Let’s make three shelters as memorials — one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” But even as he was saying this, a cloud overshadowed them, and terror gripped them as the cloud covered them. Then a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, my Chosen One. Listen to him.”(Luke 9:28-35)

Summer, 1966. The Pomona Fair. A big place and a bigger day for a wide-eyed 8 year-old whose week generally peaked out at the local Dairy Queen on Saturday. The sights and sounds of the midway left me like Dorothy – “Toto, I don’t think we're in Kansas anymore." The carnival rumbled with excitement. Roller coasters. Ferris wheels. Candied apples. Cotton candy. And, the voices. "Step right up and try your luck, sonny!" "This way, young man. Three shots for a dollar." "Come on, little fella’. Win Mom a teddy bear." And there I stood – one bewildered little boy. Do I listen to the skinny lady with the pointy objects in the dart booth, or answer the call of the carny and heave a ball at the milk bottles? The guy in top hat and tails dares me to explore the haunted house: "Come on in. What's wrong? Afraid?"

A gauntlet of barkers – each taking their turn. Dad had warned me about them. He knew all about the midway. I can't recall his exact instruction, but I remember its impact. So, I stuck next to him, my hand lost in his. And every time I heard the voices, I looked at dad’s face. He gave either protection or permission. Dad rolling his eyes meant, "Move on," because he smelled a huckster. A smile and a nod said, "Go on – no harm here." My father helped me handle the conundrum. Could you use the same?

Because when it comes to your faith, do you ever feel as if you’re walking through a religious midway? The Torah sends you to Moses. The Koran sends you to Muhammad. Buddhists invite you to meditate; spiritists, to levitate. A palm reader wants your hand. The TV evangelist wants your money. The agnostic believes no one can know. The hedonist doesn't care to know. And atheists believe there’s nothing to know. "Step right up. Try my witchcraft." Or, "Psssst! Over here. Interested in some New Age crystals?" Or, "Hey, you! Ever tried Scientology?" What do you do? Where's a person to go? Mecca? Salt Lake City? Rome? Therapy? Aromatherapy? All those voices. They can’t all be right, can they?

If that's your conundrum, then Luke 9 is your chapter – the day God isolated the authoritative voice of history and declared, "Listen to him." It's the first scene of the final act in the earthly life of Christ. Jesus has taken three of his followers on a prayer retreat. "Jesus took Peter, John, and James up on a mountain to pray. And as he was praying, the appearance of his face was transformed, and his clothes became dazzling white." (Luke 9:28-29)

Wow, to have heard that prayer. What words so lifted Christ that his face was changed? Did he see his home? Was home calling? Maybe Jesus needed some comfort. Maybe knowing that his road home would pass through Calvary, he put in a call. And God was quick to answer. "Suddenly, two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared and began talking with Jesus." (v. 30) The perfect comfort givers – Moses understood tough journeys, and Elijah could relate to an unusual exit. So Jesus and Moses and Elijah discuss "his exodus from this world, which was about to be fulfilled in Jerusalem." (v. 31) Peter, James, and John, meanwhile, are taking a good nap. But suddenly, they woke up and saw how glorious Jesus appeared. They also saw the two men who were with him. And just when Moses and Elijah were about to leave, Peter says to Jesus, "Master, it’s wonderful for us to be here! Let’s make three shelters as memorials — one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” (vv. 32-33)

What would we do without Peter? The guy has no idea what he’s saying, but that doesn't keep him from talking. He has no clue what he’s doing but offers to do it anyway. And this is his bright idea: build three monuments for the three heroes he sees. Great plan? Maybe for Peter, but not in God's book. Even as Peter is speaking, God starts clearing his throat: “Even as (Peter) was saying this, a cloud overshadowed them, and terror gripped them as the cloud covered them. Then a voice from the cloud said, ‘This is my Son, my Chosen One. Listen to him.’”(vv. 34-35) Peter's error is not that he spoke, but that he spoke heresy. Because three monuments would equate Moses and Elijah with Jesus. But no one shares the platform with Christ. God comes with the suddenness of an earthquake and leaves Peter shaking. "This is My Son." Not "a son," as if he was clumped in with the rest of us. Not "the best son," as if he was valedictorian of the human race. Jesus is, according to God, "My Son, My Chosen One." Absolutely unique and unlike anyone else. "Listen to Him."

In the synoptic Gospels, God speaks only twice – at Jesus’ baptism and then here at the Transfiguration. In both cases he begins with, "This is My beloved Son." At the river he concludes with affirmation: "in whom I am well pleased." (Matt. 3:17) But on the hill he concludes with clarification: "Listen to Him." He does not command, "Listen to them." Sure, he could have because has there ever been a more austere group assembled? Moses, the lawgiver. Elijah, the prophet. Peter, the eventual Pentecost preacher. James, the apostle. John, the eventual gospel writer and revelator. The Bible's first and final authors all in one place. So, God could have said, "These are my priceless servants; listen to them." But that’s not what God said.

Whereas Moses and Elijah comfort Christ, God crowns Christ. "Listen to Him . . . ." The definitive voice in the universe belongs to Jesus. He’s not one among many voices; he’s the One Voice over all voices. But you cross a line when you make that kind of claim and lots of people have recoiled at the distinction. They say, “Call Jesus godly, godlike, or even God-inspired. Call him ‘a voice’ but not ‘the voice;’ a good man but not God-man.” But a good man is precisely the terminology we can’t use because a good man wouldn’t say what Jesus said, or claim what he claimed. A liar would. Or God would. But call him anything in between and you have a real dilemma; a conundrum. The truth is that no one believed that Jesus was equal with God more than Jesus. His followers worshiped him, and he didn't tell them to stop. Peter and Thomas and Martha called him the Son of God, and he didn't tell them they were wrong. At his own death trial, his accusers asked, "'Are You the Son of God, then?' And He said to them, 'Yes, I am.'" (Luke 22:70)

His purpose, in his words, was to "give his life as a ransom for many." (Matt. 20:28) And, according to Jesus, no one could kill him because when speaking of his life, he said, "I lay it down on My own initiative. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again." (John 10:18) And could he speak with more confidence than he did in John 14:9? "He who has seen Me has seen the Father." Or, could his words have been more blasphemous than John 8:58? "Before Abraham was, I AM." The claim infuriated the Jews and "they picked up stones to throw at Him." (v. 59) Why? Because only God is the great I AM. And in calling himself I AM, Christ was equating himself with God. "I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me." (John 14:6)

Make no mistake, Jesus saw himself as God. And in doing so, he leaves us with two options. Accept him as God, or reject him as a megalomaniac. There is no third alternative. Here’s what I mean. Suppose you saw me standing on the side of the road. I can go either north or south. You ask me which way I'm going, and I say, "I'm going sorth." Thinking you didn't hear me correctly, you ask me to repeat the answer. "I'm going sorth. I can't choose between north and south, so I'm kind of going both ways. I'm going sorth." "You can't do that," you reply. "You have to choose." "Okay," I concede, "then I'll head nouth." "Nouth is not an option, either!" you insist. "It's either north or south. When it comes to this particular road, you’ve got to pick; it’s one way or the other." And when it comes to Christ, we’ve got to do the same.

Call Jesus crazy, or crown him as king. Dismiss him as a fraud, or declare him to be God. Walk away from him, or bow before him. But don't play games with him. Don't call him a great man. Don't list him among decent folk. Don't clump him in with Moses, Elijah, Buddha, Joseph Smith, Muhammad, or Confucius. He didn't leave us that option. He is either God or godless. Heaven-sent or hell-born. All hope or all hype. But nothing in between.

C. S. Lewis summarized it classically when he wrote: “A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic – on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg – or else he would be the Devil of Hell. . . . You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

Jesus won't be diminished. And besides, do you want him to be? Don't you need a distinctive voice in your noisy world? We all do. So, don't walk the midway alone. Keep your hand in his and your eyes on him. And when he speaks, "Listen to him." He knows all about the midway, and the hucksters whose voices create a conundrum and try to steal your soul.

Grace,

Randy

Unmasked

Unmasked

Unmasked - Audio/Visual

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. Grace - unmasked.

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. 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 In-N-Out 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. Ever. While the other children talked, she sat. While the other children sang, Barbara was silent. While the others giggled and joked with each other, Barbara was quiet. Always present. Always listening. But 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 unmasked.

Grace,

Randy

Gratitude

Gratitude
Gratitude - Audio/Visual

While Jesus and his followers were traveling, Jesus went into a town. A woman named Martha let Jesus stay at her house. Martha had a sister named Mary, who was sitting at Jesus' feet and listening to him teach. But Martha was busy with all the work to be done. She went in and said, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things. Only one thing is important. Mary has chosen the better thing, and it will never be taken away from her." (Luke 10:38-42)

I love milk. One of the saddest days of my life was when I learned that whole milk was actually unhealthy. So, with great reluctance I’ve adapted to the watered-down version. But in my years of milk appreciation I’ve also learned that a high price is paid for leaving milk out of the refrigerator. That happened a while ago when I spit the spoiled stuff all over the kitchen floor. I’ve learned that sweet milk turns sour from being left too warm for too long. And, it occurred to me, sweet dispositions can turn sour for the same reason. Let aggravation stew without a period of cooling down, and the result? A bad, bitter, clabberish attitude. Kind of like buttermilk – I’m not really a fan of a drink with lumps in it.

The tenth chapter of Luke describes the step-by-step process of the sweet becoming sour. It's the story of Martha. A dear soul with a talent for hospitality and organization. More frugal than frivolous; more practical than pensive, her household is a tight ship and she’s a stern captain. Ask her to choose between a book and a broom, she'll take the broom. Mary, on the other hand, will take the book. Mary is Martha's sister. Same parents, but different priorities. Martha has things to do. Mary has thoughts to think. The dishes can wait. Let Martha go to the market; Mary will go to the library.

Two sisters. Two personalities. And as long as they understand each other, life’s fine. But when the one resents the other, it’s like flint against stone. And the picture I get from Luke is that Martha’s probably the one standing by the table, wearing the apron and commanding the kitchen. Stirring with one hand and cracking eggs with the other, she doesn’t spill a drop. She knows what she's doing, and there must be a big crowd coming because there’s a whole lot of food. And then she hears them laughing in the next room, and it sounds like they're having fun. Martha isn't having fun.

"Stupid sister,” you can almost hear her mumble. "Stupid Mary. Here I am alone in the kitchen while she's out there. And if I’d known that Jesus was going to bring his entire posse with him, I probably wouldn’t have invited him over in the first place. Those guys eat like horses. Yeah, that sweet little darling sister of mine . . . always ready to listen and never ready to work. I wouldn't mind sitting down myself. But all I do is cook and sew, cook and sew. Well, enough is enough!" And at this point, you get the sense that someone’s gonna get it. "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." (v. 40) Suddenly the room goes deathly quiet, except for the tap-tap-tapping of Martha's foot on the stone floor, and the slapping of a wooden spoon in her palm. She looms above the others with flour on her cheeks and fire in her eyes.

At this point, the disciples are probably staring wide-eyed at this fury that hell hath not known. And poor Mary, flushed red with embarrassment, sighs and sinks lower to the floor. Only Jesus speaks. Because only Jesus understands the problem. The problem is not the large crowd. The problem is not Mary's choice to listen. The problem is not Martha's choice to host. The problem is Martha’s heart – a heart soured with anxiety. "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things." (v.41)

The truth is that Martha wanted to do right, but her heart was wrong. Her heart, Jesus said, was worried. As a result, she turned from a happy servant into a beast of burden. She was worried: worried about cooking; worried about pleasing; worried about too much. I like what Erma Bombeck had to say about worrying: I've always worried a lot and frankly, I'm good at it. I worry about introducing people and going blank when I get to my mother. I worry about a shortage of ball bearings; a snake coming up through the kitchen drain. I worry about the world ending at midnight and getting stuck with three hours on a twenty-four hour cold capsule. I worry what the dog thinks when he sees me coming out of the shower; that one of my children will marry an Eskimo who will set me adrift on an iceberg when I can no longer feed myself. I worry about salesladies following me into the fitting room, oil slicks, and Carol Channing going bald. I worry about scientists discovering someday that lettuce has been fattening all along.

Apparently, Martha worried too much, too. So much so that she started bossing God around. A lack of gratitude will do that to you. It makes you forget who’s in charge. What makes this case interesting though is that Martha’s worried about doing something good: she’s having Jesus over for dinner. She’s literally serving God. Her aim was to please Jesus. But she made a common, but dangerous, mistake – as she began to work for him, her work became more important than her Lord. What began as a way to serve Jesus, slowly and subtly became a way to serve herself.

I’m guessing that the process went something like this. As she began to prepare the meal, she anticipated the compliments she’d get on the food. And as she set the table, she imagined the approval of her guests. She could just picture it. Jesus would enter the house and thank her for all her hard work. He would tell the disciples to give her a standing ovation. John would cite her as an example of hospitality and dedicate an entire chapter in the Bible to her. Then women would come from miles around to ask her how she learned to be such a kind and humble servant. And the rest of her days would be spent directing a school of servanthood – with Jesus as the director, and Martha as the professor.

But things didn't turn out quite like she'd planned. She didn't get the attention she sought. There were no standing ovations. No compliments. No adulation. No school. No one even noticed. And that irritated her. But Martha is long on anxiety and short on memory. She’s forgotten that the invitation was her idea in the first place. She’d forgotten that Mary has every right to be with Jesus. And most of all, she’d forgotten that the meal was to honor Jesus, not Martha.

It's easy to forget who’s the servant and who’s to be served. Satan knows that. This tool of distortion is one of Satan's slyest. You see, he didn't take Martha out of the kitchen; he took away her purpose in the kitchen. The adversary won't turn you against the church; he will turn you toward yourself in the church. He won’t take you away from your ministry; he'll disillusion you in your ministry.

And when the focus is on yourself, you do what Martha did — you worry. You become anxious about many things. You worry that your co-workers won't appreciate you; your leaders will overwork you; and your superintendent won't understand you. With time, your agenda becomes more important than God's because you’re more concerned with presenting self than pleasing him. And then you start doubting God's judgment: "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." (v. 40) I think Martha probably regretted saying that. I bet that after she cooled down a bit, she would have loved to have had those words back. She probably wished she'd heeded Solomon's counsel: "A rebel shouts in anger; a wise man holds his temper in and cools it." (Prov. 29:11)

There’s a principle here. To keep an attitude from souring, treat it like you would a cup of milk: cool it off. Martha’s life was cluttered. She needed a break. "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things," the Master explained to her. "Only one thing is important. Mary has chosen [it]." (Vv. 41-42) What had Mary chosen? She’d chosen to sit at the feet of Christ. And it seems to me that God is probably more pleased with the quiet attention of a sincere servant, than the noisy service of a sour one. By the way, this story could have easily been reversed.

Mary could have been the one to get angry and upset. The sister on the floor could have resented the sister at the sink. Mary could have grabbed Jesus by the arm, dragged him into the kitchen and said, "Jesus. Would you please tell Martha to quit being so productive and to get a bit more reflective. Why do I have to do all the thinking and praying around here, anyway?"

What matters more than the type of service is the heart behind the service – a grateful heart. A bad attitude spoils the gift we leave on the altar for God. It reminds me of a story about a guy who prayed with a bad attitude. "Why," he asked God, "has my brother been blessed with wealth and me with nothing at all? All my life I’ve never missed a single day without offering morning and evening prayers to you. My church attendance has been spotless – it’s perfect! I’ve always loved my neighbor, and given them my money and my help. Yet now, as I have more life behind than ahead of me, I can hardly afford to pay my rent. My brother, on the other hand, drinks and gambles and plays all the time. Yet he has more money than he can count. I’m not asking you to punish him, but tell me, please God, why has he been given so much and I’ve got squat?" "Because," God replied, "you're such a self-righteous pain in the neck."

So guard your attitude. God has gifted you with talents. He has done the same to your neighbor. If you concern yourself with your neighbor's talents, you’ll neglect your own. But if you concern yourself with your own, you could inspire both.

Gratitude – it’s a choice.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Randy