Thankful

Thankful
Thankful - Audio/Visual

It happened that as he made his way toward Jerusalem, he crossed over the border between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten men, all lepers, met him. They kept their distance but raised their voices, calling out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” Taking a good look at them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.”

They went, and while still on their way, became clean. One of them, when he realized that he was healed, turned around and came back, shouting his gratitude, glorifying God. He kneeled at Jesus’ feet, so grateful. He couldn’t thank him enough — and he was a Samaritan. Jesus said, “Were not ten healed? Where are the nine? Can none be found to come back and give glory to God except this outsider?” Then he said to him, “Get up. On your way. Your faith has healed and saved you.” (Luke 17:11-19)

It’s a tribute to modern medicine that most of us, fortunately, don’t know much about leprosy. In fact, for many of us, what we know about the disease we only know from what we’ve read in the Bible. But if we had lived during those times, we probably would have known a whole lot more because it was the most feared disease in its time. It was deadly, incurable and hopeless. The ancients feared it so much that anyone suspected of having the disease was banished from society. In fact, in the rabbinic writings of the time, there are remedies for all kinds of diseases, but there’s nothing listed for leprosy. The rabbis said that curing leprosy was like “raising the dead.”

So, there’s Jesus, traveling near the border of Samaria and Galilee, and it’s there where he meets a group of lepers. We don’t know precisely where this encounter took place because you can’t even find the small town on a map. But it was somewhere south of Nazareth and north of Sychar.

And it’s no surprise that Jesus would encounter these unfortunate men between Galilee and Samaria. Galilee was Jesus’ home base. He was raised there. He had family and boyhood friends there. He made his headquarters at Capernaum on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Most of his miracles, and much of his teaching, was done in Galilee. It was the land of his greatest popularity. But Samaria? Well, that was another matter altogether.

You see, observant Jews avoided Samaria at almost all costs. The story goes back hundreds of years to the Assyrian captivity which began in 722 B.C. Some of the Jewish people had intermarried with the Assyrians and had become, in the eyes of their former countrymen, half-breeds and traitors. In other words, they were unclean. Over the centuries, then, the Samaritans had become a mixed race with a mixed religion. The Jewish people hated the Samaritans, and the Samaritans’ feelings were mutual.

And it’s here, on the frontier between Galilee and Samaria, in the DMZ between the Jews and the Samaritans, that Jesus meets ten lepers. And, frankly, where else could they go? The Jews didn’t want them, and neither did the Samaritans. So, here’s a colony of lepers joined by their common misfortune and misery. Their only uniting characteristic is the foul disease that had cast them out of society. And, as Jesus enters the village, these men stand a long way off and cry out to him for mercy.

Apparently, word had spread. "He’s here,” said one of the lepers. “Who’s here?” said the other. “Jesus of Nazareth,” said the first. “Naw, I don’t believe it,” said his friend. “It’s true. He’s really here,” said the first. “Do you think he could heal us?” said another. “I don’t know. But let’s find out.” So, there they stand, the most ragged choir in all of Israel – ten lepers crying out to Jesus for mercy. “Have mercy. Have Mercy,” came the cry from lips that had seen too little mercy, and too much condemnation.

So, what’s Jesus’ response? Will he heal them right then and there on the spot? That was certainly within his power, and no doubt was what the lepers had probably hoped he would do. But, instead, Jesus said something that, well … seems a little unexpected. When he saw them, he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”

Now, at first glance, you might think that Jesus was simply putting them off. You might even think that he didn’t intend to heal them at all. And if you were to come to that conclusion, you could probably infer that Jesus meant to impress upon them the utter hopelessness of their condition. But all of those inferences would be wrong. As a matter of fact, Jesus fully intended to heal them, but he also intended to do it in keeping with the demands of the Law of Moses. You see, if Jesus hadn’t sent the lepers to the priest, no one would have ever believed that the miracle had really taken place.

But that’s not the whole story here. The last part of verse 14 says that “They went, and while still on their way, became clean.” In other words, they were healed as they went to go see the priest. Not before. Not after. That means that when they left to go see the priest, they still had leprosy. Now how do you suppose they felt when Jesus said, “Go show yourselves to the priest?” Go show what to the priest? That they were still lepers? Really? They didn’t have anything to show the priest that the priest wanted to see. In fact, the last thing the priest wanted to see was ten smelly, disheveled and deformed lepers. In fact, I wonder if one of them may have even said, “Why bother? After all, once a leper, always a leper.” But off they went, this shuffling band of sufferers marching off to see the priest, perhaps doubting their healing the entire way.

They take one step; they’re still lepers. They take two steps; nothing happens. They take a third step; the leprosy still clings to their skin. But on that fourth step, or maybe the fifth, or maybe the hundredth, something wonderful, something unbelievable, something they never dreamed possible happened. With that next step, they were healed. Instantly. Miraculously. All ten. All at once. They were healed as they went. Not before. Not after. But in the act of going they were healed. Why? Because it was the act of going that was an act of their faith. And it didn’t matter how they felt about it. God honored their going in spite of what may have been some pretty serious doubts along the way.

Like the lepers, our faith moves mountains when our faith moves us. When Jesus said, “Go show yourselves to the priest,” he was really saying, “Act as if you’re already healed.” What a great piece of advice. So many times we pray and pray and pray and nothing seems to happen. But when our faith, shaky though it may be, finally moves us to action, God honors it and answers begin to come.

Unfortunately, too many of us are trapped by the curse of passive religion. You know what that is, don’t you? It’s the view that says trusting God means letting him do it all. So, for instance, we pray, “Lord, I need money,” but we refuse to go out and look for a job. Passive religion uses God as an excuse to do nothing. But trusting God does not equal doing nothing. Remember: the ten lepers were healed as they went. It’s a marvelous miracle, but it’s not the end of the story. Because another miracle is about to happen.

Ten were healed and only one came back to give thanks. Luke says he fell on his face before the Lord. He’s been healed of leprosy. For who knows how many years he’s been a leper living in his remote, little corner of the world, separated from his family, forgotten by his friends, cut off from his own people. But, suddenly, the disease vanishes and with it the twisted limp, the crooked fingers and the atrophied muscles.

Then Luke adds, “He was a Samaritan.” The shock and amazement in that statement is such that we ought to read it this way: “Think of it! A Samaritan of all people!” Remember, Jesus was a Jew and the Jews thought Samaritans were half-breeds and traitors. To make matters worse, he was a Samaritan and a leper. To a Jew, you couldn’t find a more repulsive combination. He was from the wrong race, with the wrong religion, and the worst-possible disease. In religious speak, this Samaritan knew almost nothing, and what he knew was mostly wrong. But he knew Jesus had healed him, and he knew enough to be thankful to God.

Now, Luke doesn’t say so directly, but I think he may have also been insinuating that the other nine were Jews. And if that’s true, then what this story really means is that those who should have been the most thankful weren’t; and the one man who shouldn’t have come back did. And this story pictures life as it is. It’s a picture of the abundant grace of God. This is a wholesale cure – a whole hospital’s healed with only a word. Ten at a time. It’s a huge miracle. It’s also a picture of the prevalence of ingratitude. Nine out ten people will probably forget every blessing that they’ve ever received. But it’s also a picture of unexpected grace. Grateful hearts, it seems, pop up where you least expect them.

Jesus then asks the Samaritan three questions. “Were not ten healed? Yes. “Where are the nine?” Gone. Can none be found to come back and give glory to God except this outsider?” No one. And if you listen carefully, you can even sense a tinge of sadness in Jesus’ voice. He wanted to know about the others. Where are they? Weren’t they healed? Why didn’t they come back and say, “Thank You"? Good question. So, why didn’t they come back?

Well, maybe they were in a hurry to see the priest. Or, maybe they thought Jesus would be gone when they got back. Perhaps they assumed Jesus knew how grateful they were and they didn’t need to tell him what he already knew. I mean, he’s God after all. Or, maybe they were just too busy. So where are they now? Gone off with their blessings. Gone to see the priest. Gone to see their families. Gone with no word of thanks. Gone.

But when you really look at these ten lepers, they’re all alike aren’t they? All had leprosy. All were outcasts from society. All were determined to do something about it. All had heard about Jesus and believed he could help them. All appealed to him. All obeyed his word. All were healed. So, on the surface they appear to be identical. Yet what a difference. One returned. Nine went on. One was thankful. Nine were not. One man found forgiveness. Nine didn’t. One man got two miracles. Nine got one. All ten were healed. (That’s one miracle) But the Samaritan was healed and forgiven. (That’s two miracles) And I think that’s what Jesus meant when he said to the one, “Your faith has made you well.”

So, the question remains: “Where are the nine?” The answer is they got what they wanted and then promptly left the building. Jesus performed a mighty miracle for them and they said, “Thanks, Lord. We can take it from here.” Sadly, that kind of attitude can still be found today. The reason? Because we have so little appreciation for what God has done for us. We just don’t love the Lord that much, or just not enough to express gratitude for his blessings.

But isn’t gratitude and thankfulness the highest duty of the believer and the supreme virtue – the fountain from which all other blessings flow? Yes. But its corollary, ingratitude, or thanklessness, is the leprosy of the soul. It eats away from the inside. It destroys our happiness, cripples our joy, withers our compassion, paralyzes our praise and renders us completely numb to all the blessings of God.

Every good thing in the Christian life flows from gratitude, or thankfulness. And when we realize the goodness of God – not in the abstract or in the theoretical, but personally – then we are free to go, free to pray, free to tell, free to do, free to be. We don’t need to be coerced. We don’t need to be pressured. When we can finally look and see what God has done …. When we can count our many blessings and name them one by one .… When we can understand that every good and perfect gift comes down from the Father above .… When we can see that life itself comes gift-wrapped from on high …. When we know, really know, that all of life is God’s grace … then we begin to praise; we begin to give; we begin to sing; we begin to tell; we begin to serve; we begin to enter into the “Abundant Life.”

When we finally understand that we were born lepers, and then we see what Jesus has done for us, and when it finally breaks through that only by the grace of God do we have anything valuable at all, only then does life really begin to change. At that point, wonderful things begin to happen to us. What was duty is now privilege. What was law is now grace. What was demanded is now volunteered. What was forced is now free. What was drudgery is now joy. What was taken for granted is now offered up in praise to God. When it finally breaks through to us, then we come running to Jesus, just like the leper.

Ten men were healed that day, but only one came back to give thanks. Which one are you? Far too many of us take our blessings for granted and groan about duties. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Praise is a choice. A thankful heart is a choice. No one is forced into bitterness. You choose the way you live. The one who returned to give thanks chose not to forget what Jesus had done for him. The secret of a thankful heart is making a conscious choice not to forget what God has done – for each of us.

Grace,

Randy

Gethsemane

Gethsemane

Gethsemane - Audio/Visual

Knowing everything that would happen to him, Jesus went out and asked, “Who is it you are looking for?” They answered, “Jesus from Nazareth.” “I am he,” Jesus said. (Judas, the one who turned against Jesus, was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, “I am he,” they moved back and fell to the ground. Jesus asked them again, “Who is it you are looking for?” They said, “Jesus of Nazareth.” “I told you that I am he,” Jesus said. “So if you are looking for me, let the others go.” (John 18:4-8)

My grandmother taught me a lesson early on in life: don’t make a wreck of her garden. You can play ball in the front yard; you can have races‘round the acreage in back; you can even build a fort in the tree. But the garden? Leave it alone.

It was a small garden, about the size of a walk-in closet. She didn’t grow anything exotic, except for maybe some mint that we’d soak in our summer tea. Though the vegetables were tasty, she didn’t need to grow them; she could’ve bought them at the market. So why did Nana insist on having a garden?

Simple. She loved to see life. And her garden was a place full of life; a place where buds exploded and plants pushed back the soil. A place of turnips and tulips and tomatoes. A place worthy of love and protection because flowers are fragile. Plants are precious. So yank the weeds and scatter the critters, she’d say. Put up a fence. Grow a hedge. Even make a scarecrow if you’d like. But “Randy, whatever you do, don’t go trampling around in the garden.”

And I hate to think that I’ve got anything in common with the devil, but I guess I do. Because Satan learned the same lesson: don’t mess with a garden — especially a garden that belongs to God.

The Bible, in some ways, is the story of two gardens: Eden and Gethsemane. In the first, Adam took a fall. In the second, Jesus took a stand. In the first, God sought Adam. In the second, Jesus sought God. In Eden, Adam hid from God. In Gethsemane, Jesus emerged from the tomb. In Eden, Satan led Adam to a tree that led to his death. From Gethsemane, Jesus went to a tree that led to our life.

Satan was never invited into the Garden of Eden. He didn’t belong there. He wasn’t wanted there. Instead, he slithered like a snake into God’s garden and infected God’s children. And that’s all he’s done ever since. In fact, has he entered a few of your holy gardens?

For instance, we call it “holy matrimony,” where the word “altar” implies the presence of God. Marriage was God’s idea. The first wedding occurred in the first garden. But that doesn’t make any difference to the devil. He snakes his way into every home with one desire — to destroy. Sexual intimacy is God’s gift. Marriage is like a rose plucked from the garden, given by God and intended to be shared with your forever partner. But Satan mocks that kind of loyalty. He’s the father of incest and abuse. He’s the author of immorality. He’s the pimp of the garden.

We give sacred oaths and make solemn promises. We vow to be a good parent, a true companion and a loyal friend. But Satan’s head turns when he hears a pledge. “We’ll see about that,” the father of lies smirks.

In God’s eyes, a child is holy. The innocence of youth; the freshness of childhood; the joy of an infant. There was never a moment when Jesus turned away a child. But there’s never been a child Satan didn’t despise. He killed babies in an attempt to kill Moses. He destroyed infants to destroy the Christ. And his tactics haven’t changed. Millions of babies are still aborted, and an equal number of children are abused and trafficked. Jesus said of Satan, “He was a murderer from the beginning.” (John 8:44)

So, is there a realm untouched by Satan? Is there a place unscarred by his sword? The church, perhaps? The government? Not likely. Children? We hope. Purity? We pray.

And you, or me? We are called to be holy. We were made to be holy – set apart for his good work. We are the prized flowers of the garden. But is there one person among us who hasn’t felt the foot of the intruder? What Satan did in Eden, he still does today. For that reason we need to know that what Jesus did in Gethsemane, he still does today. He reclaims the holy. He will not sit silent while Satan strip-mines the sacred. At the right moment Jesus stands and speaks. And when he stands and speaks, Satan stumbles and is speechless. That’s exactly what happened in Gethsemane.

John tells us that “Judas came there with a group of soldiers and some guards from the leading priests and Pharisees.” (John 18:3) A bit of study reveals that Satan had masterminded a coup d’état. He’d enlisted the muscle of each significant force in the drama — the Romans, the Jews and the apostles.

First, he had a “group of soldiers.” The Greek word is speira, and it has three possible meanings. It can signify a Roman cohort of 300 men. It can refer to a cavalry and infantry totaling 1,900 soldiers. Or, it can describe a detachment known as a maniple, which contained 200 men. Now, I always had the impression that only a handful of soldiers arrested Jesus. But I was wrong. At a minimum there were at least two hundred soldiers dispatched to deal with a carpenter and his eleven friends.

Also present were “some guards.” These guys were the temple police. They were assigned to guard the holiest place during the busiest time of the year. They were probably among Israel’s finest. Yesterday’s version of Seal Team 6.

And then there was Judas. One of the inner circle. Not only had Satan recruited the Romans and the Jews, he’d infiltrated the cabinet. Hell must have been rejoicing. There was no way Jesus could escape. Satan had sealed every exit, and his lieutenants anticipated every move. Except one.

Jesus had no desire to run. He had no intent of trying to escape. He hadn’t come to the garden to retreat. What they found among the trees was no coward; what they found was a conqueror. And note the dialogue that ensued: “Knowing everything that would happen to him, Jesus went out and asked, ‘Who is it you are looking for?’ They answered, ‘Jesus from Nazareth.’ ‘I am he,’ Jesus said. (Judas, the one who turned against Jesus, was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, ‘I am he,’ they moved back and fell to the ground. Jesus asked them again, ‘Who is it you are looking for?’ They said, ‘Jesus of Nazareth.’ ‘I told you that I am he,’ Jesus said. ‘So if you are looking for me, let the others go.’” (John 18:4-8)

Remarkable. They stand only a few feet from his face and don’t even recognize him. Not even Judas realized who stood before them. What a truth. Apparently, seeing Jesus is more than a matter of the eyes; it’s a matter of the heart. The enemy is next to Jesus and doesn’t even realize it, and so he reveals himself. “I am he.” His voice flicks the first domino, and down they all fall. Were the moment not so solemn it would be almost comic. These are the best soldiers with Satan’s finest plan. Yet, one word from Jesus and they all fall down. The Roman guard becomes the Keystone Cops. The Temple thugs turn into Humpty-Dumpty. Two hundred fighting men, and perhaps more, collapse into a noisy pile of shields, swords and lamps. Don’t miss the symbolism here: When Jesus speaks, Satan falls.

It doesn’t matter who the evil one has recruited. It doesn’t matter if he has infiltrated the government. It doesn’t matter if he has seduced the temple. It doesn’t matter if he has enlisted one of the original, handpicked apostles. The best that Satan has melts like wax in the presence of Christ. And Jesus has to ask them again whom they seek. “Who are you after?” When they answer that they’re looking for Jesus of Nazareth, he tells them, “So if you are looking for me, let the others go.”

Did you catch that? Jesus commanding them. A Jew instructing a Roman? A renegade directing the temple guard? So, we turn to the commander, expecting a reply. We look at Judas, awaiting his response. We listen, expecting someone to announce, “You’re not the one in charge here, Nazarene! We’ll take whoever we want.” But not only are they silent, they’re obedient because, as you may have noted, the apostles are set free.

Many players appear on the stage in Gethsemane. Judas and his betrayal. Peter and his sword. The disciples and their fears. The soldiers and their weapons. And though these are crucial, they aren’t instrumental. The encounter is not between Jesus and the soldiers; it’s between God and Satan. Satan dares to enter yet another garden, but God stands and Satan hasn’t a prayer.

So don’t miss the message: Our fight is not against people on earth but against the rulers and authorities and the powers of this world’s darkness, against the spiritual powers of evil in the heavenly world. (Eph. 6:12) And, The Son of God came for this purpose: to destroy the devil’s work. (1 John 3:8)

And don’t miss the promises, either: Satan falls in the presence of Christ. One word from his lips, and the finest army in the world collapsed. Satan is silent in the proclamation of Christ. Not once did the enemy speak without Jesus’ invitation. Before Christ, Satan has nothing to say. Satan is powerless against the protection of Christ. “I have not lost any of the ones you gave me.” (John 18:9) When Jesus says he’ll keep you safe, he means it. Hell will have to get through him to get to you. Jesus is able to protect you. When he says he’ll get you home, he will get you home.

Has Satan invaded a garden of your life? Has he profaned a holy part of your world? Your marriage? Your peace? Your joy? Has he taken away from you a rose that God gave you? If so, let Jesus claim it back. Today. This moment. Satan has no authority over you. If he has invaded a garden of your life, then invite Jesus to reclaim it. Open the gate to God. He will enter and do what he did at Gethsemane. He will pray, and he will protect. Why don’t you do that? Don’t know how? It’s easy. Pray. Maybe something like this:

Precious Father, I praise your name. You have reclaimed so much in my life. I was lost, and you found me. I was confused, and you guided me. I had nothing to offer, but still you loved me. I confess that I still need help. I have a part of my life that needs your touch. Satan is battling for a garden in my heart. Don’t let him win. Drive him out. He’s a liar and has been since the beginning. Please defeat him. I’ll give you the glory. And Father, here is the area where I need your strength ….

And this is the place where I'll step out to leave you and God in the garden to talk over the details.

Grace,

Randy

Value

Value - Audio/Visual

Value

As soon as Jesus heard the news, he left in a boat to a remote area to be alone. But the crowds heard where he was headed and followed on foot from many towns. Jesus saw the huge crowd as he stepped from the boat, and he had compassion on them and healed their sick.

That evening the disciples came to him and said, “This is a remote place, and it’s already getting late. Send the crowds away so they can go to the villages and buy food for themselves.” But Jesus said, “That isn’t necessary — you feed them.” “But we have only five loaves of bread and two fish!” they answered. “Bring them here,” he said.

Then he told the people to sit down on the grass. Jesus took the five loaves and two fish, looked up toward heaven, and blessed them. Then, breaking the loaves into pieces, he gave the bread to the disciples, who distributed it to the people. They all ate as much as they wanted, and afterward, the disciples picked up twelve baskets of leftovers. About 5,000 men were fed that day, in addition to all the women and children! (Matthew 14:13-21)

Theresa Briones is a tender, compassionate, loving mother. She also has a wicked left hook that she used to punch a woman in a Laundromat. As reported in the Victoria Advocate, some kids were apparently making fun of Theresa’s daughter, Alicia. Alicia is bald. Her knees are arthritic. Her nose is pinched. Her hips are creaky. Her hearing’s bad. She’s missing teeth. She has the stamina of a seventy-year-old. And she’s only ten.

“Mom,” the kids taunted, “come and look at the monster!” Alicia weighs only twenty-two pounds and is shorter than most preschoolers. She suffers from progeria — a genetic aging disease that strikes 1 in 8,000,000 children. Kids with progeria seldom live beyond their mid-teens, and there are only 100 known cases of the disease in the world. “She’s not an alien. She’s not a monster,” Theresa defended. “She’s just like you and me.” Mentally, Alicia is a bubbly, fun-loving third grader with a long list of friends. She watches television in a toddler-sized rocking chair, and plays with Barbie dolls and teases her younger brother. Theresa has grown accustomed to the glances and questions. She’s patient with the constant curiosity. Genuine inquiries she accepts. Insensitive slanders she does not.

The mother of the finger-pointing children came to investigate. “I see ‘it,’” she told the kids. “My child is not an ‘it,’” Theresa stated. Then she decked the woman. That’s the nature of parental love. Mothers and fathers have a God-given ability to love their children regardless of imperfections. Not because the parents are blind. It’s just the opposite, really – they see vividly. Theresa sees Alicia’s inability as clearly as anyone. But she also sees Alicia’s value.

So does God. God sees us with the eyes of a Father. He sees our defects, errors and blemishes. But he also sees our value. He knows that each human being is a treasure. And because he does, people aren’t a source of stress but a source of joy. And when Jesus lands on the shore of Bethsaida, he steps into a sea of humanity. Keep in mind, he crossed the Galilee to get away from the crowds because he needed to grieve alone, and then be with his disciples. The last thing he needed was another crowd of thousands to teach and heal.

But his love for people overcame his need for rest, and when Jesus landed and saw a large crowd he had compassion on them and healed their sick. He had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. He welcomed them and spoke to them about the kingdom of God, and healed those who needed healing. It’s doubtful that anyone in the crowd thought to ask Jesus how he was doing, however. There’s no indication that anyone was concerned with how Jesus felt. The truth is, no one came to give; all had come to take.

It was like 5:00 p.m. on most weekdays in a lot of homes. The time of day when everyone wants a piece of Mom. One’s hungry, and the other wants her to read him a book. Another needs help with her homework, and the husband wants to tell her about his day. All at once. It’s Piranha Hour. When’s yours? When do people in your world demand a lot and offer little? Every boss has had a day in which the requests outnumber the results. There’s not a businessperson alive who hasn’t groaned as an armada of assignments docks at his or her desk. For the teacher, the piranha hour often begins when the first student arrives and ends when the last student leaves. Piranha hours: parents have them, bosses endure them, assistants dread them, teachers are besieged by them, and Jesus taught us how to live through them – successfully.

When hands extended and voices demanded, Jesus responded with love. He did so because the code within him disarmed the alarm. The code is worth noting, too: People are precious.“ Sure,” you say, “but that was a piece of cake for Jesus. He’s God. He could do things like that; I can’t. After all, he was divine.” True, Jesus was equally God and man. But don’t be too quick to dismiss what he did. Consider his loving response from another perspective. Consider that, along with his holy strength, he also had a holy awareness. There weren’t any secrets on the mountain that day; Jesus knew the hearts of each person. He knew why they were there and what they would do.

Matthew writes that Jesus “healed their sick.” Not some of their sick. Not the righteous among the sick. Not the deserving among the sick. But “the sick.” Surely, among the many thousands, there were a few people unworthy of good health because the same divinity that gave Jesus the power to heal also gave him the power to perceive. For instance, I wonder if Jesus was tempted to say to the rapist, “Heal you? After what you’ve done?” Or to the child molester, “Why should I restore your health?” Or to the bigot, “Get out of here, and take your arrogance with you.”

And he could see not only their past, but their future as well. Undoubtedly, there were those in the multitude who would use their newfound health to hurt others. Jesus gave voice to the speechless who would curse. He gave sight to eyes that would lust. He healed hands that would kill. Many of those he healed would never say, “Thank you.” But he healed them anyway. Most were probably more concerned with being healthy than being holy. But he healed them anyway. Some of those who asked for bread that day would cry for his blood a few months later. But he healed them anyway.

Jesus chose to do what you and I seldom, if ever, choose to do. He chose to give gifts to people, knowing full well that those gifts could be used for evil. So, don’t be too quick to attribute Jesus’ compassion to his divinity. Remember both sides. For each time Jesus healed, he had to overlook the future and the past. (Something, by the way, that he still does) Have you noticed that God doesn’t ask you to prove that you’ll put your salary to good use? Have you noticed that God doesn’t turn off your heart when you misuse his gifts? Aren’t you glad that God doesn’t give you only that for which you remember to thank him?

God’s goodness is spurred by his nature, not by our worthiness. God does it daily, for millions of people. So, what did Jesus know that allowed him to do what he did? What internal code kept his calm from erupting into chaos? He knew the value of people.

Interestingly, the stress seen that day is not on Jesus’ face, but on the faces of the disciples. “Send the crowds away,” they demanded. Fair request. “After all,” they’re saying, “you’ve taught them. You’ve healed them. You’ve accommodated them. Now they’re getting hungry. And if we don’t send them away, they’ll want you to feed them, too!” I wish I could have seen the expression on the disciples’ faces when they heard the Master’s response. “That isn’t necessary. You feed them.”

I used to think that that was a rhetorical statement. I used to think that Jesus knew the disciples couldn’t feed the crowd, but that he asked them anyway. I used to think that it was a “test” to teach them to rely on God for what they couldn’t do. I don’t see it quite like that anymore. I still think it was a test, but not a test to show them what they couldn’t do, but a test to demonstrate what they could do. After all, they’d just come back from a road trip achieving the impossible. Jesus was asking them to do it again. “You give them something to eat.”

And I wish I could tell you that the disciples did it. I wish I could say that they knew God wouldn’t ask them to do something he wouldn’t empower them to do, so they fed the crowd. I wish I could tell you that the disciples miraculously fed the five thousand men plus women and children. But I can’t. Because they didn’t. Rather than looking to God, they looked in their wallets: “That would take eight months of a man’s wages! Are we to go and spend that much on bread and give it to them to eat?” (John 6:7) It’s as if they were saying, “You’re kidding me, right?” “He can’t be serious.” “It’s one of Jesus’ jokes, right?” “Do you know how many people are out there?”

Eyes big as saucers. Jaws dangling open. One ear hearing the din of the crowd, the other the command of God. Don’t miss the contrasting views. When Jesus saw the people, he saw an opportunity to love and affirm them because they had value. But when the disciples saw the people, they saw thousands of problems. And don’t miss the irony, either. The disciples tell the “Bread of Life” that there’s no bread. How silly we must appear to God.

And here’s where Jesus should have given up. This is the point in the pressure-packed day where Jesus should have exploded. The sorrow, the life threats, the exuberance, the crowds, the interruptions, the demands, and now this. His own disciples can’t do what he asks them. In front of five thousand men, they let him down. “Beam me up, Father,” should have been Jesus’ next words. But they weren’t. Instead he inquires, “How many loaves do you have?” The disciples bring him a little boy’s lunch. And a lunch pail becomes a banquet; all are fed. No word of reprimand is given. No furrowed brow of anger is seen. No “I-told-you-so” speech is delivered. The same compassion Jesus extends to the crowd is extended to his closest friends.

Look at this day one more time. Review what our Lord faced. Intense sorrow — the death of a dear friend and relative. Immediate threat — his name is on the Most Wanted poster. Immeasurable joy — a homecoming with his followers. Immense crowds — a Niagara of people followed him everywhere. Insensitive interruptions — he sought rest and got people. Incredible demands — crowds of thousands clamored for his touch. Inept assistance — the one and only time he asked for help, he got a dozen “you’re-pulling-my-leg” expressions.

But the calm within Christ never erupted. The alarm never sounded. What did Jesus know that enabled him to do what he did? He knew the incredible value of people. As a result, he didn’t stomp his feet and demand his own way. He didn’t tell the disciples to find another beach where there were no people. He didn’t ask the crowds why they hadn’t brought their own food. He didn’t send the apostles back into the field for more training. Most importantly, he stayed calm in the midst of chaos. He even paused, in the midst of it all, to pray a prayer of thanks.

A boy went into a pet shop, looking for a puppy. The store owner showed him a litter in a box. The boy looked at the puppies. He picked each one up, examined it and then put it back into the box. After several minutes, he walked back to the owner and said, “I picked one out. How much will it cost?” The man gave him the price, and the boy promised to be back in a few days with the money. “Don’t take too long,” the owner cautioned. “Puppies like these sell quickly.” The boy turned and smiled knowingly, “I’m not worried,” he said. “Mine will still be here.”

The boy went to work — weeding, washing windows, cleaning yards. He worked hard and saved his money. When he had enough for the puppy, he returned to the store. He walked up to the counter and laid down a pocketful of wadded bills. The storeowner sorted and counted the cash, and after verifying the amount, he smiled at the boy and said, “All right, son, you can go get your puppy.” The boy reached into the back of the box, pulled out a skinny dog with a limp leg, and started to leave.

The owner stopped him. “Don’t take that puppy,” he objected. “He’s crippled. He can’t play. He’ll never run with you. He can’t fetch. Get one of the healthy pups.” “No thank you, sir,” the boy replied. “This is exactly the kind of dog I’ve been looking for.” And as the boy turned to leave, the store owner started to speak but kept silent. He suddenly understood. You see, extending from the bottom of the boy’s pants was a brace — a brace for his leg that had been “crippled” in an accident.

Why did the boy want that particular dog? Because he knew how it felt, and he knew the dog was very special. And what did Jesus know that enabled him to do what he did? Because he knew how the people felt, and he knew that they were very special. Don’t forget that. Jesus knows how you feel.

Under the gun at work? Jesus knows how you feel. You’ve got more to do than is humanly possible? So did he. You’ve got children who make a “piranha hour” out of your dinner hour? Jesus knows what that’s like. People take more from you than they give in return? Jesus understands. Your teenagers won’t listen? Your students won’t try? Your employees give you blank stares when you assign tasks? Believe me, Jesus knows how you feel.

You are precious to him. So precious that he became like you so that you would come to him. When you struggle, he listens. When you ache, he responds. When you question, he hears. He’s been there. You’ve heard that before, but you need to hear it again. He loves you with the love of a Theresa Briones. He understands you with the compassion of the “crippled” boy. And like Theresa, he battles with hell itself to protect you.

And, like the boy, he paid a great price to take you home.

Grace,

Randy

Prideful

Prideful

Prideful - Audio Visual

Pride precedes destruction; an arrogant spirit before a fall. (Prov. 16:18)

As Brazilian jail cells go this one wasn’t too bad. There’s a fan on the table, and the twin beds each have a thin mattress and a pillow. There’s a toilet and a sink, and Hector’s there to stay. The tattooed anchor on his forearm symbolizes his personality — cast-iron. His broad chest stretches his shirt, and the slightest movement of his arm bulges his biceps. His face is as leathery in texture as it is in color. His glare could laser through an enemy. His smile’s an explosion of white teeth. But today, the glare’s gone and the smile’s forced. Hector isn’t on the street where he’s the boss; he’s in a jail where he’s a prisoner.

He’d killed a man, a “neighborhood punk” as Hector told it; a restless teenager who sold marijuana to kids on the street and made a nuisance of himself with his mouth. One night the drug dealer had used his mouth one time too many times, and Hector had decided to silence it. He’d left the crowded bar where the two of them had been arguing, gone home, grabbed a pistol out of a drawer, and walked back to the bar. Hector re-entered the bar and called the punk’s name. The drug dealer turned around – just in time to take a bullet to his chest.

Hector’s guilty. Period. His only hope is that the judge might agree that he’d done society a favor by getting rid of a neighborhood problem. He’d be sentenced within the month. So, it’s no surprise that he was at least open to the idea of becoming a Christ-follower, and the eyes of the murderer softened slightly at the thought that the one who knows him best loves him most. His heart appeared touched as he listened about heaven, a hope that no executioner could take away from him.

But as the conversation turned to conversion, Hector’s face began to harden. The head that had leaned forward with interest was now erect with caution. Hector didn’t like the statement that the first step in coming to God was an admission of guilt. He was uneasy with words like, “I’ve been wrong,” and “Forgive me.” Saying “I’m sorry” was out of character for him. He’d never backed down to anyone, and he wasn’t about to start now — even if the man was God.

“Don’t you want to go to heaven?” “Sure,” he grunted. “Well then, are you ready?” Earlier he might have boasted yes, but now he’d heard too many verses from the Bible. He knew better. He stared at the concrete floor for a long time, meditating on the question. Maybe his stony heart would crack. And, for a second, it seemed like burly Hector would, for the first time, admit his failures. But the eyes weren’t tear-filled; they were angry, instead. They weren’t the eyes of a repentant prodigal; they were the eyes of an angry prisoner.

“All right,” he shrugged. “I’ll become one of your Christians. But don’t expect me to change the way I live.” “But you don’t get to draw up the rules, Hector. It’s not a contract you negotiate before you sign. It’s a gift—an undeserved gift. But to receive it, you have to admit that you need it.” “OK, but don’t expect to see me at church on Sundays.” Hmmm.

How many hits to the head and blows to the heart does a guy need before he’ll ask for help? Hector’s prison is not just bricks and mortar; it’s pride. The fact is, he’s twice imprisoned: once because of murder, and the other because of stubbornness; once by his country, and once by himself.

The prison of pride. For most of us it isn’t as blatant as Hector’s, but the characteristics are the same. The upper lip is just as stiff. The chin is jutted upward, and the heart’s just as hard. The prison of pride is filled with self-made men and women determined to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, even if they land on their backside. It doesn’t matter what they did, or to whom they did it, or even where they’ll end up; it only matters that, like Frank Sinatra crooned, “I did it my way.”

And we’ve seen the prisoners, haven’t we? The addict who won’t admit his drug problem. The woman who refuses to talk to anyone about her fears. The businessman who adamantly rejects help, even when his dreams are falling apart. The truth is, maybe all we have to do to see the prisoner is simply look in the mirror.

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)You know, the biggest word in Scripture just might be that two-letter one: “If.” Because confessing sins (admitting failure) is exactly what prisoners of pride refuse to do. You know the lingo, don’t you? Something like, “Well, I may not be perfect, but I’m better than Hitler and certainly nicer than Mussolini!” Or, “Me a sinner? Oh, sure, I get a little carried away every once in a while, but I’m a pretty good person.” And, “Listen, I’m just as good as the next guy. I pay my taxes. I coach the Little League team. I even make donations to the Red Cross. Why, God’s probably proud to have somebody like me on his team.”

Justification. Rationalization. Comparison. These are the tools of the jailbird. They sound good. They sound familiar. They even sound American. But in the kingdom, they sound hollow.

“Blessed are those who mourn….” (Matthew 5:4) To mourn for our sins is the natural outflow of a poverty of spirit, and that’s why the second beatitude about mourning should follow the first, i.e., “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” (Matthew 5:3) But that’s not always the case. Many of us deny our weaknesses. Many of us know we’re wrong, yet pretend we’re right. As a result, we never taste the exquisite sorrow of repentance. Perhaps of all the paths to joy, this one has got to be the strangest: true blessedness, Jesus says, begins with deep sadness.

In Frederick Bruner’s commentary on Matthew, he says “God helps those who cannot help themselves and he helps those who try to help others, but he does not in any beatitude help those who think they can help themselves—an often ungodly and antisocial conception.” p. 152

Joy through mourning? Freedom through surrender? Liberty through confession? Looking for an example? OK, here’s one. He was nitroglycerin in a bottle; if you bumped him the wrong way, he blew up. He made a living with his hands, and got into trouble with his mouth. In some ways, he had a lot in common with Hector. And if he’d had a tattoo, it would have been a big, black anchor on his forearm, too. If they’d had bumper stickers back then, his would have read, “I don’t get mad; I get even.”He was a man among men on the Galilean sea. His family called him Simon, but his master called him “Rocky.” You know him as Peter.

And though he might not have known everything about self-control, he knew one thing about being a fisherman: he knew better than to get caught in a storm. And this night, Peter knows he’s in trouble. The winds have roared down onto the Sea of Galilee like a hawk on a field mouse. Lightning zigzags across the pitch-black sky. The clouds reverberate with thunder. The rain taps, then pops, then slaps against the deck of the boat until everyone aboard is soaked and shaking. Ten-foot waves pick them up and slam them down again with bone-jarring force. These drenched men don’t look like a team of apostles who’re only a decade away from changing the world. They don’t look like an army that will march to the ends of the earth and re-route history. They don’t look like a band of pioneers who’ll soon turn the world upside down. No, they look more like a handful of shivering sailors who’re wondering if the next wave will be their last.

And you can be sure of one thing. The one with the widest eyes is the one with the biggest biceps—Peter. He’s seen these storms before. He’s seen the wreckage and bloated bodies float to shore. He knows what the fury of both wind and wave can do. And he knows that times like these are not times to make a name for yourself; they’re times to get some help. That’s why, when he sees Jesus walking on the water toward the boat, he’s the first to say, “Lord, if it’s you . . . tell me to come to you on the water.” (Matt. 14:28)

Now, some say this statement was simply a request for verification. Peter, they suggest, wants to prove that the one they see is really Jesus and not just anyone who might be on a stroll across a storm-tossed sea in the middle of the night, like a ghost. (I guess you can’t be too careful, you know)So, Peter consults his notes, removes his glasses, clears his throat, and asks a question any good lawyer would ask: “Ahem, Jesus, if you would kindly demonstrate your power and prove your divinity by calling me out on the water with you, I would be most appreciative.”

But I don’t buy that. I don’t think Peter is seeking clarification; I think he’s trying to save his neck because he’s aware of two facts: he’s going down, and Jesus is staying up. And it doesn’t take him too long to decide where he would rather be. Perhaps a better interpretation of his request would be, “Jeeeeeeeesus. If that’s you, then get me out of here!”

“Come on,” is the invitation. And Peter doesn’t have to be invited twice, because it’s not every day that you can walk on water through waves that are taller than you are. But when faced with the alternative of sure death or possible life, Peter knows which one he wants. And the first few steps go pretty well. But a few strides out onto the water, and he forgets to look to the One who got him there in the first place, and down he plunges.

And at this point we see the major difference between Hector and Peter—the difference between a man who hides his problems and the one who admits them. Hector’s more concerned about his image than about his neck. He would prefer to go under rather than let his friends hear him ask for help. He would rather go down “his way” than get out “God’s way.”Peter, on the other hand, knows better than to count the teeth in the mouth of a gift horse. He knows better than to bite the hand that can save him. His response may lack class but it gets him out of some deep water: “Help me!”And since Peter would rather swallow pride than water, a hand reaches down through the rain and the water and pulls him up.

I think the message is pretty clear. As long as Jesus is one of many options, he’s no option. As long as we can carry our burdens alone, we don’t need a burden-bearer. As long as our situation brings us no grief, we’ll receive no comfort. And as long as we can take him or leave him, well, we might as well leave him because he won’t be taken halfheartedly.

But when we mourn, when we get to the point of sorrowing for our sins, when we admit that we have no other option but to cast all of our cares on him, and when there’s truly no other name that we can call, then cast all your cares on him, for he’s waiting in the midst of the storm. I think that’s what Peter meant when, through inspiration of the Spirit, he later wrote, “Cast all your cares on him, because He cares for you.” (1 Peter 5:7)

Grace,

Randy