Admission

Admission
Admission - Audio/Visual

The Lord is compassionate and merciful, very patient, and full of faithful love. God won’t always play the judge; he won’t be angry forever. He doesn’t deal with us according to our sin or repay us according to our wrongdoing, because as high as heaven is above the earth, that’s how large God’s faithful love is for those who honor him. As far as east is from west — that’s how far God has removed our sin from us. (Psalm 103:8-12)

What would the Vatican give for the pope’s name? That was Rogers’ question. Because upon the death of Pope John Paul, Rogers Cadenhead, a self-described “domain hoarder,” registered www.BenedictXVI.com before the new pope’s name was even announced. In other words, Cadenhead had secured the domain name before Rome even knew they needed it. And a sought-after domain name can prove lucrative. For instance, another name, www.PopeBenedictXVI.com, sold for more than $16,000.00 on E-bay. Cadenhead, however, didn’t want the money. A Catholic himself, he was happy for the church to own the name. “I’m going to try and avoid angering 1.1 billion Catholics and my grandmother,” he quipped. He did want something in return, however. In exchange for the domain name, Cadenhead asked for: (1) “one of those hats;” (2) “a free stay at the Vatican hotel;” and (3) “complete absolution, no questions asked, for the third week of March, 1987.” Makes you wonder what happened that third week of March. Must have been Spring Break.

Does it remind you of a week of your own like that? Most of us have one … or more. A folly-filled summer, a month off-track, days gone wild. If a box of tapes existed that documented every second of your life, which one of those tapes would you burn? Do you have a season in which you indulged, imbibed, or inhaled? King David did.

Could a collapse be more complete than his? He seduces and impregnates Bathsheba, murders her husband, and deceives his general and soldiers. Then he marries her, and she bears the child. The cover-up appears complete. The casual observer has no cause for concern. David has a new wife, and a happy life. All seems well on the throne. But all is not well in his heart. Guilt simmers. He later describes this season of secret sin in pretty graphic terms: When I kept it all inside, my bones turned to powder, my words became daylong groans. The pressure never let up; all the juices of my life dried up. (Ps. 32:3–4)

David’s a wreck. His “third week of March” stalks him like a pack of wolves. He can’t escape it. Why? Because God keeps bringing it up. Underline the last verse of 2 Samuel chapter 11: “The thing that David had done displeased the Lord.” (v. 27) With these words the narrator introduces a new character into the David and Bathsheba drama: God. Because thus far, God’s been completely absent from the text, and unmentioned in the story. David seduces – no mention of God. David plots – no mention of God. Uriah buried, Bathsheba married – no mention of God. God is not spoken to, nor does he speak. And the first half of verse 27 lures us into a false “happy ending” because Bathsheba “became David’s wife and gave birth to his son.” In other words, they’d decorated the nursery and picked names out of a magazine. Nine months pass. A son is born. And we conclude, “Well, it looks like David dodged a bullet.” Apparently the story got dropped in the “Boys Will Be boys” file. But just when we think so (and David hopes so), someone steps from behind the curtain and takes center stage. “The thing that David had done displeased the Lord.”

God won’t be silent any more. The name not mentioned until the final verse of 2^nd Samuel chapter 11, dominates chapter 12. David, the guy usually giving the orders, sits while God takes control. First step? God sends Nathan to David. Nathan is a prophet, a preacher, a White House chaplain of sorts. The man probably deserved a medal for going to the king because he knew what happened to Uriah – David had killed an innocent soldier. So, what’s he going to do with a confrontational preacher?

Still, Nathan goes. However, rather than declaring the deed, he relates a story about a poor man with one little sheep. David instantly connects. He shepherded flocks before he led people. He knows poverty. He’s the youngest son of a family that was too poor to hire a shepherd. Nathan tells David how the poor shepherd loved this sheep – holding her in his own lap, feeding her from his own plate. She was all he had. And then enters, as the story goes, the rich jerk. A traveler stops by his mansion, so a party’s in order. But rather than slaughtering a sheep from his own flock, the rich man sends his bodyguards to steal the poor man’s little lamb. So, they Hummer onto his property, snatch the lamb, and fire up the barbecue.

As David listens, the hair on the back of his neck starts to stand on end. He grips the arms of the throne and renders a verdict without even a trial: “As surely as the Lord lives, the one who did this is demonic! He must restore the ewe lamb seven times over because he did this and because he had no compassion.” (12:5–6) David, David, David. You never saw it coming, did you? You never saw Nathan erecting the gallows, or throwing the rope over the beam. You never felt him tie your hands behind your back, lead you up the steps, and stand you squarely over the trap door. Only when he squeezed the noose around your neck, did you gulp. Only when Nathan tightened the rope with four three-letter words: “You are the man!” (12:7)

David’s face pales. A bead of sweat forms on his forehead. He slinks back in his chair. He makes no defense. He utters no response. He has nothing to say. God, however, is just getting warmed up. Through Nathan, God said: I made you king over Israel. I freed you from the fist of Saul. I gave you your master’s daughter and other wives to have and to hold. I gave you both Israel and Judah. And if that hadn’t been enough, I’d have gladly thrown in much more. So why have you treated the word of God with brazen contempt, doing this great evil? You murdered Uriah the Hittite, then took his wife as your wife. Worse, you killed him with an Ammonite sword! (12:7–9) Gulp.

But these words reflect hurt, not hate, don’t they? Bewilderment, not belittlement. Your flocks fill the hills, David. So why rob? Beauty populates your palace. So, why take from someone else? Why would the wealthy steal? David has no excuse. So God levies the sentence: Now, therefore, the sword will never depart from your house, because you despised me and took the wife of Uriah the Hittite to be your own. This is what the Lord says: “Out of your own household I am going to bring calamity upon you. Before your very eyes I will take your wives and give them to one who is close to you, and he will lie with your wives in broad daylight. You did it in secret, but I will do this thing in broad daylight before all Israel.” (12:10-12) And from that day forward, turmoil and tragedy marked David’s family. The child born of his adultery dies (12:18), and the surrounding nations begin to question the holiness of David’s God. David had soiled God’s reputation, blemished God’s honor. And God, who jealously guards his glory, punishes David’s public sin in a public fashion. And the king of Israel discovers the harsh truth of Numbers 32:23: “. . . you can be sure that your sin will track you down.”

Ever found that to be true? Does your week of March, 1987 hound you? Infect you? Failures and colossal collapses just won’t leave us alone. Unconfessed sins sit on our hearts like festering boils – poisoning, expanding. And God applies the pressure to remove the seed of the boil from our lives: “The way of the transgressor is hard.” (Prov. 13:15) “Those who plow evil and sow trouble reap evil and trouble.” (Job 4:8) God takes your sleep, your peace. He takes your rest. Want to know why? Because he wants to take away your sin.

Can a mom sit idly by as sickness ravages her child? Well then, can God sit idly as sin poisons his? He will not rest until we do what David did: admit our faults. “Then David said to Nathan, ‘I have sinned against the Lord.’ Nathan replied, ‘The Lord has taken away your sin. You are not going to die.’” (2 Sam. 12:13) Interesting. David said the imaginary sheep stealer was worthy of death because that’s what they did with the demon-possessed. But God is more merciful. He put away David’s sin. Rather than cover it up, he lifted it up and put it away. “As far as east is from west — that’s how far God has removed our sin from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him.” (Ps. 103:12–13)

It didn’t happen overnight, however. It took David a year. It took a surprise pregnancy, the death of a soldier, the persuasion of a preacher, and the probing and pressing of God, but David’s hard heart finally softened and he made is admission: “I have sinned against the Lord.” (2 Sam. 12:13) And God did with the sin what he does with yours and mine – he put it away.

Is there some sin in your past that you’ve yet to admit, confess and abandon? If so, there’s no better time than now to get before the Lord and name that sin for what it is — spiritual rebellion, a slap in God’s face, a dark stain on the holy person God has made you to be. And then thank God that he has removed your guilt as far as the east is from the west, and ask him for strength to not only avoid that sin in the future, but to gladly obey his counsel and his Word.

Maybe it’s time for you to put your “third week of March, 1987” to rest. And you can do that by assembling a meeting of three parties: you, God, and your memory. Place the mistake before the judgment seat of God. Let him condemn it, let him pardon it, and then let him put it away. Forever. He will. He said so. Because since when does east ever meet west?

Grace,

Randy

Discouragement

Discouragement
Discouragement - Audio/Visual

They stopped, their faces drawn with misery, and the one called Cleopas replied, “You must be the only stranger in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard all the things that have happened there recently!” “What things?” asked Jesus. “Oh, all about Jesus, from Nazareth. There was a man — a prophet strong in what he did and what he said, in God’s eyes as well as the people’s. Haven’t you heard how our chief priests and rulers handed him over for execution, and had him crucified? But we were hoping he was the one who was to come and set Israel free…. (Luke 24:18-21)

Phineas was up before the sun. He'd hardly slept the night before, and long before a sound was heard in the house he was racing downstairs with his bag packed, ready to climb into the wagon. It was the summer of 1820, and Phineas was about to see an island. His island. The island promised to him by his grandfather and presented to him – by Gift Deed – on his second birthday. It was a sizable portion of Connecticut land called Ivy Island. And today, for the first time, Phineas was going to see it.

Of course, not every boy is born a land baron, and Phineas' parents were always quick to remind their son of that fact. They urged him not to forget them when he came of age. But Phineas was different from his playmates. While they dreamed of dragons and knights, his fantasies were of Ivy Island. Someday he would be lord of his own territory. He'd build a house. Start a farm. Raise cattle. Rule his own domain. Because when you own an island you feel important. When you own an island, you want to see it. And Phineas had yet to see his, so he pleaded with his father to take him to the island.

Three sleepless nights preceded the expedition. Then, early that eventful morning, Phineas, his father and a hired hand climbed into the buggy and began the long-anticipated journey. Finally, Phineas would get to see his island. He could barely sit still. At the top of each hill he’d ask, "Are we there yet? Can I see it from here?” His father would encourage him to be patient, and assured him that they were getting close. Finally, his dad pointed north beyond a meadow to a row of tall trees stretching into the sky. "There," he said. "There’s Ivy Island." Phineas was overcome with emotion. He jumped out of the wagon and sprinted through the meadow leaving his father and companion far behind. He raced to the row of trees into an opening from which Ivy Island was visible.

When he saw the land, however, he stopped. His heart sank. Ivy Island was five acres of snake-infested marshland. His grandfather had called it the most valuable land in Connecticut. But it was worthless. His father had told him it was a generous gift. But it wasn't. It was a joke; a cruel joke. And as a stunned Phineas stared, the father and the hired hand roared with laughter. Phineas was not the fortunate beneficiary of his immediate family; he was the laughingstock of his entire family. Grandfather Taylor had played a joke on his heir. But Phineas wasn’t laughing. And he never forgot. That disappointment shaped his life. He made a lifestyle out of deception. The little boy fooled made a career out of fooling others. You probably don't know him as Phineas. You know him as P.T. You don't know him as a landowner; you know him as a promoter. You know him as the one who coined the phrase, "There's a sucker born every minute." He spent his life proving it. Such was the life of P.T. Barnum.

And such is the life of many others who’ve been told they'd be taken to the “Promised Land,” only to find themselves taken to a swamp. The businessman who, a decade ago, had an income ten times what he has today. But that was before his industry slumped. That was before he went bankrupt. Or, the husband who cares more about his golf game than he cares about his wife. Maybe even the cute couple who had to file suit against their contractor who never finished the house of their dreams.

Is there anything wrong with these people? No, their desires are healthy. One wants a strong business; another a husband who'll honor his promise; or a family who wants a builder who'll keep his word. Who can fault them for their expectations? Who’d blame them for dreaming? Who’d have thought their dreams would be crushed? They certainly didn't. But now they’re faced with a decision. What do they do with their disillusionment? What do they do with their broken hearts? And we're not talking mere inconveniences or hassles. We're not talking about long lines, or red lights, or a bad game of golf. We're talking heart-break. We're talking about what two friends of Jesus were feeling a couple of days after his death. Their world had caved in on them. It's obvious by the way they walk. Their feet shuffle, their heads hang, their shoulders droop. The seven miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus must have felt like seventy. And as they walk, they talk "about everything that had happened." (John 24:14)

It's not hard to imagine their words. "Why did the people turn against him?" "He could have come down from the cross. Why didn't he?" "He just let Pilate push him around." "What do we do now?" And as they walk, a stranger comes up behind them. It’s Jesus, but they don't recognize him. Discouragement will do that to you. It will blind you to the very presence of God. Discouragement turns our eyes inward. God could be walking right next to us, but despair clouds our vision.

Despair does something else. It hardens our hearts. We get cynical. We get calloused. And when good news comes, we don’t accept it for fear of being disappointed again. That's what happened to these two disciples. Later on they say these words: “Yes, and as if that weren’t enough, it’s been three days since all this happened; and some of the women from our group have really disturbed us. They said they went to the tomb at dawn, and then when they couldn’t find his body they said that they had a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of our people ran out to see, and sure enough, his body was gone, just as the women had said!” (Luke 24:22-24)

When reading Scripture we can't always tell in what tone the words were actually spoken. Sometimes we don't know if the speaker meant to be happy or sad or peaceful. This time, however, there’s no question about what they're thinking: “As if it's not bad enough that Jesus was killed, now some grave robber has taken the body and duped our friends.” These two followers aren't about to believe the women. Cleopas and his friend are putting their hearts in a shell. They won't take another risk. They won't be hurt again.

Ever been hurt by love? Then don't love. Had your heart broken? Then don't give it away. Do like P. T. Barnum – settle the score by blaming the world and hardening your heart. However, there’s a fine line which, once crossed, can be fatal. It's the line between discouragement and anger. Between hurt and hate, between bitterness and blame. And if that line’s near, step back for a moment and ask yourself: “How long am I going to pay for my discouragement? How long am I going to nurse my hurt?”

At some point we have to move on. At some point we have to heal. At some point we have to let Jesus do for us what he did for these men. First, he came to them. He didn’t sit back and cross his arms and say, “Why can’t these two guys get with the program?” He didn’t complain to the angel and say, “Why won’t they believe the empty tomb? Why are they so hard to please?" Instead, he met them at their point of pain. Though death had been destroyed and sin annulled, Jesus hadn’t retired. The resurrected Lord had once again wrapped himself in flesh, put on human clothes and searched out hurting hearts.

See if you can find their hurt. “Jesus said to them, ‘What are you talking about?’ They said, ‘About Jesus of Nazareth. He was a prophet who said and did many powerful things before God and all the people. Our leaders and the leading priests handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him. But we were hoping that he would free Israel.’" (Luke 24:19-21) There it is. "But we were hoping . . . ." The disciples had hoped Jesus would free Israel. They had hoped he'd kick out the Romans. They'd hoped Pilate would be out and Jesus would be in. But Pilate was still in, and Jesus was dead.

Unfulfilled expectations. God didn't do what they wanted him to. They knew what they expected of Jesus. They knew what he was supposed to do. They didn't have to ask him. If Jesus is the Messiah, he won't sleep in my storm. He’ll never die. He won't defy tradition. He'll do what he’s supposed to do. But that's not what he did. And aren't we glad the prayer of Cleopas and his friend went unanswered? Aren't we glad God didn't adjust his agenda to fulfill the requests of these two disciples? They were good disciples. With good hearts. And sincere prayers. They just had the wrong expectations.

God knows more about life than we do. People wanted him to redeem Israel, but he knew better. He would rather his people be temporarily oppressed than eternally lost. When forced to choose between battling Pilate and battling Satan, he chose the battle we couldn't win. He said “No” to what they wanted and “Yes” to what they needed. He said “No” to a liberated Israel and “Yes” to a liberated humanity. And once again, aren't we glad he did? And aren't we glad he does? But let’s be honest. Are we glad he says “No” to what we want and “Yes” to what we need? Not always. If we ask for healing, and he says learn through the pain, we aren't happy. If we ask for more money, and he says treasure the unseen, we’re probably not doing any cartwheels.

When God doesn't do what we want, it's not easy. But faith is the conviction that God knows more than we do about this life and he will get us through it. Remember, discouragement is caused by unmet expectations. But discouragement can be cured by revising our expectations. It’s like the story about a guy who went to the pet store in search of a singing parakeet. The store owner had just the bird for him, so the man bought it. The next day he came home from work to a house full of music. He went to the cage to feed the bird and noticed for the first time that the parakeet had only one leg. He felt cheated that he'd been sold a one-legged bird, so he called to complain. "What do you want," the store owner responded, "a bird who can sing or a bird who can dance?"

Good question for times of discouragement. What do we want? That's what Jesus asks the disciples. What do you want? Do you want temporary freedom, or eternal freedom? Jesus sets about the task of restructuring their expectations, and he did it by telling them a story. But not just any story.

He told them the story of God and God's plan for his people. "Then starting with what Moses and all the prophets had said about him, Jesus began to explain everything that had been written about himself in the Scriptures." (v. 27) Interesting. Jesus' cure for the discouraged and broken-hearted was the story of God – beginning with Moses, and finishing with himself.

Why’d he do that? Why did he give them a history lesson? Why did he go all the way back two thousand years to the story of Moses? Maybe it’s because what they heard is what we all need to hear when we’re discouraged: we need to hear that God is still in control. We need to hear that it's not over until he says so. We need to hear that life's mishaps and tragedies are not a reason to bail out. They’re simply a reason to sit tight.

Corrie ten Boom used to say, "When the train goes through a tunnel and the world gets dark, do you jump out? Of course not. You sit still and trust the engineer to get you through." Why did Jesus tell the story? So we'd know that the engineer still controls the train. So how do we deal with discouragement? And what’s the cure for disappointment? Go back to the story. Read it again and remember that their story is yours.

For instance, is the challenge too great? Read the story because that's you crossing the Red Sea with Moses. Too many worries? Well, that's you receiving heavenly food with the Israelites. Are your wounds too deep? Read the story because that's you, Joseph, forgiving your brothers for betraying you. Your enemies too mighty? Picture yourself marching with Jehoshaphat into a battle you’ve already won. Is your discouragement too great? Read the story of the Emmaus-bound disciples. The Savior they thought was dead now walked right there beside them. He entered their house and sat at their table and ate with them. And something happened in their hearts. "It felt like a fire burning in us when Jesus talked to us on the road and explained the Scriptures to us." (v. 31)

So, the next time you're discouraged, don't panic. Don't jump out. Don't give up. Just be patient and let God remind you that he's still in control. Or as Yogi Berra would say, “It ain't over till it's over.”

Grace,

Randy

Prayers

^Prayers

So they brought the boy. But when the evil spirit saw Jesus, it threw the child into a violent convulsion, and he fell to the ground, writhing and foaming at the mouth. “How long has this been happening?” Jesus asked the boy’s father. He replied, “Since he was a little boy. The spirit often throws him into the fire or into water, trying to kill him. Have mercy on us and help us, if you can.” “What do you mean, ‘If I can’?” Jesus asked. “Anything is possible if a person believes.” The father instantly cried out, “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:20-24)

Some people pray like a jet fighter – their words are smooth, sleek, high and mighty. Their prayers seem to reverberate in the clouds, sending sonic booms throughout the heavens. Others, like me, are more like a crop duster. We’re not flashy, we fly low, we cover the same ground over and over and, frankly, sometimes it’s a challenge just to crank up the engine. I think many of us are like that, and that most of our prayer lives could probably use a tune-up. For instance, some prayer lives lack consistency. They're either a desert or an oasis. Long, arid, dry spells interrupted by brief plunges into the waters of communion with God. We go for days or weeks without consistent prayer, but then something happens – we hear a sermon, read a book, experience a tragedy – something leads us to pray, so we dive in. We submerge ourselves in prayer and leave refreshed and renewed. But as the journey resumes, our prayers don't seem to travel so well.

Others need some sincerity. Their prayers are a little hollow, memorized and rigid. More liturgy than life. More form over substance. And though they’re daily, they’re dull. Still others lack, well...… honesty. We honestly wonder if prayer makes a difference because why on earth would God in heaven want to talk to me? I mean, if God knows everything, who am I to tell him anything? And if God’s in control, who am I to do anything?

If you, like me, struggle with your prayer life, I've got just the guy for you. You’ll like him. He's not a saint, or some knobby-kneed apostle. He’s not a prophet whose middle name is “Meditation,” or a too-holy-to-be-you reminder of how far you need to go in your prayer life. He's just the opposite, actually. He’s a fellow crop duster. He’s a parent with a sick son in desperate need of a miracle. And this guy’s prayer isn't much of a prayer, but the answer certainly is. And the result reminds us that the power is not in the prayer; it's in the one who hears it.

This dad prayed out of desperation. His son, his only son (Luke 9:38), was demon-possessed. Not only was he a deaf mute and an epileptic, he was also possessed by an evil spirit. And ever since the boy was young, the demon had thrown him in fires and water of any source. Imagine the pain of that father. Other dads watched their children grow and mature; he could only watch his child suffer. While others were teaching their sons an occupation, he was just trying to keep his son alive. What a challenge. And he couldn't leave his son alone for a minute because who knew when the next attack would come? The dad had to remain on call, on alert twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He was desperate and tired, and his prayer reflected both:"If you can do anything for him, please have pity on us and help us."

Listen to that prayer. Does that sound courageous to you? Confident? Strong? Hardly. One word would have made a lot of difference. Instead of “if,” what if he'd said “since”? "Since you can do anything for him, please have pity on us and help us." But that's not what he said. He said “If.” The Greek is even more emphatic. The Greek tense implies doubt. It's as if the man was saying, “This one's probably above your pay grade, Jesus, but if you can . . . ." A classic crop-duster approach. More meek than mighty. More timid than towering. More like a crippled lamb coming to a shepherd, than a proud lion roaring in the jungle. And if his prayer sounds like yours, then don't be discouraged because that's where prayer starts. It begins as a yearning. An honest appeal. Ordinary people staring at their personal Mount Everest. No pretense. No boasting. No posturing. Just prayer. Feeble prayer, but prayer nevertheless.

Sometimes we’re tempted to wait to pray until we know how to pray. Even the disciples asked Jesus how to pray. But we’ve heard the prayers of the spiritually mature, and we know we don’t measure up. Not by a long-shot. We've read of the rigors of the religiously disciplined, and we’re absolutely convinced that we've got a long way to go. And since we'd rather not pray than pray poorly, we just don't pray. Or, we pray infrequently. So, we just wait until we learn how to pray. Good thing this man didn't make that same mistake. He wasn't much of a prayer, mind you, and his prayer wasn't much of a prayer at all. The guy even admits it: "I do believe," he quickly responded, just "help me to believe more." (Mark 9:24) That kind of prayer certainly isn't destined for a worship manual. No Psalm will ever be written about that one. His was a simple prayer. In a word? “Help.” No incantation. No chant. No flowery language. Fewer than ten words. But Jesus responded. And he didn’t respond because of the eloquence of the man, but to his pain, instead. Now mind you, Jesus had a bunch of reasons why he could have simply ignored this man's feeble request.

For one thing, Jesus was just returning from the mountain, the Mount of Transfiguration. While there his face had changed and his clothes had become as bright as a flash of lightning. (Luke 9:29) A roaring radiance had poured out from him. The burdens of earth were replaced with the splendors of heaven. Moses and Elijah came, and angels encouraged the gathered. He was transfigured. And while the journey up that mountain was exhilarating, the journey down was downright disheartening.

For instance, look at the chaos that greets him as he returns. The disciples and the religious leaders are arguing. A crowd of bystanders is gawking. A boy, who has suffered his entire life, is on public display. And a father who'd come for help is despondent and confused as to why no one can do anything about it. No wonder Jesus says, "You people have no faith. How long must I stay with you? How long must I put up with you?" (v. 19) Never has the difference between heaven and earth been so stark. Never has the arena of prayer been so poor. Because where’s the faith in this picture? The disciples have failed, the scribes are amused, the demon is victorious, and the father is desperate. You'd be hard-pressed to find a needle of belief in that haystack. And maybe that’s true for you, too. Maybe you’re hard-pressed to find the needle in your own haystack of a life. Your world seems a long way from heaven: a noisy house with screaming kids instead of singing angels; problems so overwhelming that you can't even begin to remember the last time when you didn't wake up to those particular demons. And yet out of the din of doubt comes your timid voice, "If you can do anything for me . . . ."

But does that kind of prayer really make a difference? Well, let Mark answer that question. “When Jesus saw that a crowd was quickly gathering, he ordered the evil spirit, saying, ‘You spirit that makes people unable to hear or speak, I command you to come out of this boy and never enter him again.‘ The evil spirit screamed and caused the boy to fall on the ground again. Then the spirit came out. The boy looked as if he was dead, and many people said, ‘He is dead!’ But Jesus took hold of the boy’s hand and helped him to stand up.” (Mark 9:25-27) This troubled the disciples, because as soon as they got away from the crowds they asked Jesus, “Why couldn't we force that evil spirit out?" And Jesus’ answer? "That kind of spirit can only be forced out by prayer." But what prayer? What’s Jesus talking about? Whose prayer made the difference?

Was it the prayer of the apostles? No, they didn't pray. Jesus had just confirmed that. Well, maybe it was the prayers of the religious know-it-alls. Maybe they went to the temple and interceded for the boy. No. The scribes didn't pray either. Who has time to pray when you’re busy interpreting and enforcing God’s law? Well, then, it must have been the crowd. Perhaps they held a prayer vigil for the child. Nope. The people didn't pray, either. They never bent a knee. They were too busy gawking at the freak show. Then what prayer could possibly have led Jesus to deliver the demon? Well, there’s only one prayer in the story, right? It's the honest prayer of a hurting man. And since God is moved by our hurt rather than our eloquence, he responded. That's what fathers do.

That's exactly what Jim Redmond did. His son Derek, a twenty-six-year-old Briton, was favored to win the 400 meter race in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. With 120 meters to go in his semifinal heat, a fiery pain suddenly seared through Derek’s right leg. He crumpled to the track with a torn hamstring. As the medical attendants were approaching, Derek fought to his feet. He set out hopping and pushing away the coaches in a desperate attempt to finish the race. When he reached the final turn, a big man pushed through the crowd. He was wearing a t-shirt that read "Have you hugged your foot today?" and a hat that challenged anyone who cared to "Just Do It." The man was Jim Redmond, Derek’s father.

"You don't have to do this," he told his weeping son. "Yes, I do," Derek declared. "Well, then," Jim said, "we're going to finish this race together." And they did. Jim wrapped Derek's arm around his shoulder and helped him hobble to the finish line. Fighting off security men, and with his son’s head, at times, buried in his father's shoulder, they stayed in Derek’s lane to the very end. The crowd clapped, then stood, then cheered, and then wept as the father and son finished the race – together. So, what in the world made Jim do that? What made a dad leave the stands, race past security like a mad man, fend off coaches and then medical attendants just so that he could meet his son on the track in a race he had already lost? Was it the strength of his child? No, it was the pain of his child. His son was hurt and fighting just to finish the race. So the father came to help him finish. And God does the same.

Your prayers may be awkward. Your attempts may be feeble. Your words may be few. They may lack confidence, much less courage. But since the power of prayer is in the one who hears it and not in the one who says it, your prayers – my prayers – do make a difference.

Grace,

Randy

Prayers - Audio/Visual

Vengeance

Vengeance

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. (Romans 12:17-19)

In 1882, a New York City businessman named Joseph Richardson owned a narrow strip of land on Lexington Avenue. It was 5 feet wide and 104 feet long. Another businessman, Hyman Sarner, owned the normal-sized lot adjacent to Richardson's little, skinny one, and wanted to build apartments that fronted Lexington Avenue. So, he offered Richardson $1,000.00 for his lot. Richardson was deeply offended by the amount and demanded $5,000.00. Sarner refused. Richardson then called Sarner a “tightwad,” and slammed the door in his face. Sarner assumed Richardson’s land would remain vacant, so he told his architect to design the apartment building so that the windows would overlook Lexington.

When Richardson saw the finished building, however, he was determined to block its view – no one was going to enjoy a “free” view over his lot. So, at age 70, Richardson built a house on his lot; it was 5’ wide, 104’ long and 4 stories high, with two suites on each floor. He also took advantage of a clause in the building code that allowed him to build bay window extensions on the building, which allowed him to extend its maximum width 2' 3" beyond the boundary of his lot. The bedrooms of the house were in these bay window extensions. Upon completion, he and his wife moved into one of the “suites.” Of course, only one person at a time could ascend the stairs, or pass through the hallway. The largest dining table in any suite was only 18” wide. The stoves were the very smallest made. A robust newspaper reporter once got stuck in the stairwell, and after two tenants were unsuccessful in pushing him free, he extricated himself by stripping down to his underwear. The building was dubbed the "Spite House," and Richardson spent the last fourteen years of his life in the narrow residence that seemed to fit his very narrow state of mind. It was eventually torn down in 1915.

Spite builds a very lonely house: space enough for only one person. The lives of its tenants are reduced to one goal: making someone miserable. And they do – themselves. No wonder God insists that we "keep a sharp eye out for weeds of bitter discontent. A thistle or two gone to seed can ruin a whole garden in no time." (Heb. 12:15) God’s healing, on the other hand, moves us out of the spite house – away from the cramped world of grudges – toward his spacious ways of grace and forgiveness. He moves us forward by healing our past. But can he really do that with you, or me? With my mess? This history of sexual abuse? This raw anger at the father who left my mother? This seething disgust I feel every time I think of the person who treated me like yesterday's garbage? Can God really heal this ancient hurt in my heart? The Old Testament character of Joseph asked those very same questions.

Truth is you never outlive the memory of ten brothers giving you the heave-ho. They walked away and never came back. So Joseph gave them a taste of their own medicine. When he saw them in the breadline, he snapped at them, accused them of being spies and threw them in jail. Ah, revenge. And isn't it just a little comforting to know that Joseph was actually human? The guy was so good it hurt. Joseph endured slavery, succeeded in a foreign land, mastered a new language, and resisted sexual seductions. He was the model prisoner and the perfect counselor to the king. We expect him to levitate, or when he saw his brothers say, "Father, forgive them, for they knew not what they did." (Luke 23:34) But he didn't. He didn't because forgiving jerks is hard to do. We’ll feed the poor and counsel the king. We'll even memorize the book of Numbers if God says to. But . . . "Don't let the sun go down while you are still angry" (Eph. 4:26)? "Let all bitterness, wrath, anger, clamor, and evil speaking be put away from you, with all malice." (Eph. 4:31)? "As Christ forgave you, so you also must do." (Col. 3:13)? Really?

The truth is that God cares about justice even more than we do. Paul admonished the church in Rome to "Never pay back evil for evil . . . never avenge yourselves. Leave that to God, for he has said that he will repay those who deserve it." (Rom. 12:17; 19) Our problem is that we fear the evildoer will slip into the night, unknown and unpunished. But don’t worry. Scripture says, "God will repay," not "might repay." God will execute justice on behalf of truth and fairness. Case in point? Consider the most surprising turnaround in the Joseph story.

After three days Joseph released all but one brother from jail. They returned to Canaan to report to Jacob, their father, who was then but a shadow of himself. The brothers told him how Simeon was kept in Egypt as assurance that they would return with Benjamin, their youngest brother. Jacob had nothing to say except, “You’ve taken my children from me. Joseph’s gone. Simeon’s gone. And now you are taking Benjamin. All this can’t really be happening to me!” (Gen. 42:36) Such a louse. Jacob played favorites, refused to discipline, had multiple wives, and upon hearing of the imprisonment of his son, had a pity party. What a prima donna. No wonder the family was screwed up. But as we read further, a light breaks through. Judah, who once wanted to get rid of Joseph, steps forward: "Send the boy with me, and we will be on our way. Otherwise we will all die of starvation — and not only we, but you and our little ones. I personally guarantee his safety. You may hold me responsible if I don’t bring him back to you. Then let me bear the blame forever. If we hadn’t wasted all this time, we could have gone and returned twice by now." (43:8-9) Is this the same Judah? The same man who said, "Let’s sell him to the Ishmaelites" (37:27)? The same brother who helped negotiate the slave trade? Well, yes . . . and no.

Judah, as it turns out, had had his own descent into the pit. After Joseph's abduction, Judah went on to have three sons. He arranged for the eldest to marry a girl named Tamar. But the son died. So, following the proper protocol of his day, Judah arranged for his second son to marry Tamar. But the son didn't manage the situation well and he died, too. Judah, by now, assumed that Tamar was somehow jinxed, and afraid that his third son would meet the same fate as his older brothers, put the marital matter on hold, leaving Tamar with no husband. Sometime later, Judah's wife died, too.

One day, Tamar heard that Judah was coming into town. Apparently, she hadn't been able to get Judah to reply to her texts, so she got creative. She disguised herself as a prostitute and made him an offer. Judah took the bait, and exchanged his ring and walking stick for sex, totally unaware that he was sleeping with his daughter-in-law. As “luck” would have it, she conceived, and three months later she reappeared in Judah's life as Tamar – pregnant Tamar. Judah went all high and mighty on her and demanded that she be burned. That’s when she produced Judah’s ring and walking stick, and Judah realized the child was his. He was caught in his own sin, disgraced in front of his own family.

Things had come full circle. Judah, who had deceived Jacob, was deceived. Judah, who had trapped Joseph, was trapped. Judah, who had helped humiliate Joseph, was humiliated. God gave Judah his comeuppance, and Judah came to his senses. “She has been more righteous than I,” he later declared. (Gen. 38:26)

For years I wondered why Judah’s exploits were included in the Joseph narrative because they interrupt everything. We just get started in chapter 37 with the dreams and drama of Joseph, when the narrator dedicates chapter 38 to the story of Judah, the hustler, and Tamar, the escort. Two dead husbands. One clever widow. An odd, poorly placed story, I thought. But now I see how it fits. Because for anything good to happen to Jacob’s family, someone in the clan had to grow up. And if it wasn’t going to be their dad, then one of the boys had to mature to the point where he took responsibility for his actions. God activated that change in Judah. He gave the guy a taste of his own medicine, and the medicine worked. Judah championed the family cause. He spoke sense into his father's head. He was willing to take responsibility for Benjamin's safety and bear the blame if he failed. Judah got his wake-up call, and Joseph didn't have to lift a finger or swing a fist.

Vengeance is God's. He will repay – whether ultimately on the Day of Judgment, or intermediately in this life. The point of the story is that God handles all the Judah’s of the world. He can discipline your abusive boss, or soften your angry parent. He can bring your ex to his knees or her senses. Forgiveness doesn't diminish justice; it just entrusts it to God. He guarantees the right retribution. We give too much, or too little. But the God of justice has the precise prescription. Unlike us, God never gives up on a person. Never. Long after we’ve moved on, God is still there, probing the conscience, stirring conviction, always orchestrating redemption. Fix your enemies? That's God's job. Forgive your enemies? Ah, that's where you and I come in. We forgive. "Do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity." (Eph. 4:26-27)

The word translated “opportunity” is the Greek word topos, the same term from which we get the English noun, “topography.” It means territory or ground. Interesting. Anger gives ground to the devil. Bitterness invites him to occupy a space in your heart, like renting a room. And he will. Gossip, slander, temper – anytime you see these things, Satan’s claimed a bunk. So what do we do? Evict him. Don't give him the time of day. Begin the process of forgiveness. Keep no list of wrongs. Pray for your antagonists rather than plot against them. Hate the wrong without hating wrongdoers. Turn your attention away from what they did to you, and concentrate on what Jesus did for you. Outrageous as it may seem, Jesus died for them, too. And if he thinks they’re worth forgiving, they are.

Does that make forgiveness easy? No. Quick? Seldom. Painless? Hardly. And it wasn't for Joseph, either. The brothers returned to Egypt from Canaan, Benjamin in tow. Joseph invited them to a dinner. He asked about Jacob, spotted Benjamin, and all but came undone. "God be gracious to you, my son," he blurted out before he hurried from the room to ball his eyes out. (Gen. 43:29) Eventually, he returned to eat and drink and share pleasantries with the brothers. Joseph even sat them according to birth order, oldest to youngest. He singled out Benjamin for special treatment – every time the brothers got one helping, Benjamin got five. The brothers noticed this, but said nothing. Later, Joseph loaded their sacks with food and hid his personal cup in the sack of Benjamin.

The brothers were barely down the road when Joseph's steward stopped their caravan, searched their sacks, and found the cup. The brothers tore their clothes (the ancient equivalent of tearing their hair out) and soon found themselves back in front of Joseph, fearing for their lives. Why did Joseph do that? Well, apparently, Joseph couldn't make up his mind. He welcomed them, wept over them, ate with them, and then pranked them. He was at war with himself. These brothers had peeled the scab off his oldest and deepest wound, and he wasn’t about to let them do it again. On the other hand, these were his brothers, and he wasn’t going to lose them again, either.

Forgiveness vacillates like that. It has fits and starts; good days and bad. Anger intermingled with love. Call it irregular mercy. We make progress only to make a wrong turn. Step forward and then fall back. But that’s okay. When it comes to forgiveness, all of us are amateurs. No one owns a secret formula. And as long as you are trying to forgive, you are forgiving. It's when you no longer try that bitterness sets in and Satan takes up shop. So, try spending less time in the spite house and more time in the grace house. Having walked the hallways of both, I can tell you that the space of grace is preferred over getting stuck in your underwear in a narrow hallway called “vengeance.”

Grace,

Randy

Vengeance - Audio/Visual