Exorbitant

Exorbitant
Exorbitant - Audio/Visual

Now the tax collectors and “sinners” were all gathering around to hear him. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent. Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’ In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents. (Luke 15:1-10)

Luke tells us that Jesus told not one, but actually three, separate parables to the Pharisees and the scribes, or teachers, that day who were complaining about the fact that not only did Jesus welcome “sinners,” but he ate with them, too. The first parable is called the Parable of the Lost Sheep, and it’s the story of a man who was tending a flock of one hundred sheep when one goes wandering off. Maybe it was just a matter of sheep-inattentiveness. However, instead of simply writing the sheep off as a loss, the shepherd went searching until he found that lost sheep. And after finding it, he called everyone around to “Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost sheep.” (Verse 6)

The second parable is called the Parable of the Lost Coin. In this story, a woman has ten silver coins in her house but somehow manages to lose one of them. Maybe it was just a matter of being a little careless. But, like the shepherd, she’s not going to write it off as a loss either. So she “lights a lamp, sweeps the whole house, and searches diligently until she finds it.” (Verse 8) And when she does, just like the shepherd, she calls her friends and neighbors over and says, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost coin.” (She was probably happy that her house was clean, too) The third story is The Parable of the Prodigal Son, a story with which most of you are likely familiar.

There are some obvious similarities in the three stories. For instance, in each parable something is lost, i.e., a sheep, a coin and a son. And, in each, the one who loses something gets it back, i.e., the shepherd, the woman and the father. And, finally, each of the narratives ends on a festive note, and we see people rejoicing and celebrating when the lost have been found. But with all their similarities, there’s one glaring difference between the last parable and the first two. In the first two parables, the shepherd and the woman go out and search frantically for the lost sheep and the lost coin. Nothing gets in the way of these determined “searchers.” So, by the time we get to the last story, and we hear about the deplorable conditions in which the younger son is living, we kind of expect that someone will go out and search for him, too. But no one does. It’s kind of surprising, maybe even a little disquieting, but I think it was intentional.

You see, by placing the three parables side-by-side-by-side, Jesus is inviting us to think, and perhaps ask ourselves, “Shouldn’t someone have gone out looking for that lost boy, just like in the first two parables?” (Probably) “But, if so, who would that be? The father? The older brother, maybe? How about a search party?” Of course, Jesus knew his Word like the back of his hand, and he knew that at its very beginning (Genesis 4) it tells another story of an elder and younger brother – Cain and Abel. And in that story, God tells the resentful and proud older brother, “You are your brother’s keeper.”

The late Edmund Clowney, a one-time Escondido resident and professor at Westminster Theological Seminary, recounted in a sermon he once gave the true life story of Daniel Dawson, an Army Lieutenant, whose reconnaissance plane had been shot down over the Vietcong jungle. When his older brother, Donald, heard the report, he sold everything he had, left his wife with $20, and went to Vietnam. When he arrived, he got his hands on some soldier’s gear and wandered through the guerilla-controlled jungle, looking for his brother. He carried leaflets with pictures of the plane, and offered a reward to anyone who could provide him with news of the missing pilot. He became known as Anh toi phi-cong — the brother of the pilot, or just “the brother.”

And isn’t that what the older brother in the parable should have done? I mean, this is what a true elder brother would have done, don’t you think? He would have said something like, “Look, Dad, my younger brother was a fool for demanding his inheritance and then simply disappearing. But it’s been months since we’ve heard from him, and I’m getting a little concerned – just like you. Fact is, he’s probably broke and in a gutter somewhere. So, I’m gonna go look for him and when I find him, I’ll bring him back. And if his inheritance has been wasted, as I expect, I’ll bring him back at my expense.” Wait. At the older brother’s expense? Yes, at the brother’s expense.

You see, the father had divided his property between the two boys before the younger one left town. Everything had been divvied up. The younger brother had gotten his share and, we know from the story, his share was completely gone. So, when the father says to the older brother, “My son, everything I have is yours,” he’s not kidding. It’s the literal truth. Every penny that remained of the family estate now belonged to the older brother – every robe, every ring, every sandal, every fattened calf was the older brother’s by right.

It’s tempting to believe that the restoration of the younger brother didn’t involve a cost. We get there by pointing out the fact that the younger brother wanted to make restitution, but his father wouldn’t let him. So, we conclude, his acceptance back into the family was without cost. And we use this conclusion to support the proposition that forgiveness and love should always be free and unconditional. But that’s an oversimplification. For instance, if someone breaks your cell phone, you could demand that they buy you a new one. The alternative, of course, is to forgive them and pay for the replacement yourself, or simply go without your cell phone. Right. But now imagine something more serious – someone has maliciously damaged your reputation. Again, like the phone scenario, you have two options. The first would be to make that person pay by going to others who know him and then ruining his name as a way of restoring your own. On the other hand, you could forgive him and take on the much more difficult task of attempting to set the record straight without vilifying him in the process. The forgiveness is free and unconditional to the perpetrator, but it’s costly to you.

Mercy and forgiveness must be free and unmerited to the wrongdoer, because if the wrongdoer has to do something to merit it, then it’s not mercy. But forgiveness always comes at a cost to the one who forgives. And while the parable of the prodigal son showed us how free the father’s forgiveness was, it also gives us insight into its costliness. You see, the younger brother’s restoration was free to him, but it came at an enormous cost to the older brother because the father could not reinstate him except at the expense of his older son. There was no other way.

But Jesus doesn’t put a true elder brother in the story, does he? One who was willing to pay whatever it cost to go on a search and rescue mission looking for his derelict, younger brother. The younger son gets a Pharisee for an older brother, instead. And maybe that’s why the parable leaves us hanging – we’re never told what the elder brother eventually decided. But by putting a flawed elder brother in the story, Jesus is inviting us to imagine what a true older brother would’ve done, or what he’d look like. In other words, to get us to think of the kind of brother we need. We need one who doesn’t just go to the next country to find us, but one who’ll move heaven and earth to do so. We need a brother who is willing to pay not just money, but the cost of his own life to bring us into God’s family. We’ve all rebelled against God. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a “younger brother” or an “older brother,” because we all deserve rejection.

One of the points of the parable is that forgiveness isn’t free. It always involves a price. Someone has to pay. Again, there was no way for the younger brother to return to the family unless the older brother paid the price, himself. And Jesus, our true “older brother,” paid for our redemption with his life – on a cross. We need to soften our hearts and be moved by the sight of what it cost to bring us home. Jesus emptied himself of his glory and became a servant. (Phil. 2:5-9) He laid aside the omnipotence of his being and, at the cost of his life, paid the debt for our sin and purchased us the only place our hearts can truly find rest – in his Father’s house. And once we begin to comprehend this staggering truth, it can transform us from the inside out because why wouldn’t you want to offer yourself to someone like that?

So, here’s the dilemma: we either turn from God and pursue our heart’s desires, like the younger brother, or we repress our desires and perform our moral obligations, like the older brother. But the sacrificial, costly love of Jesus on the cross changes all of that. Because when we see the beauty of what Jesus has done for us, it attracts us to him. We realize that the love we’ve been seeking in other things is really in Jesus. It also eliminates our fear, because if the Lord of the universe loves us enough to die for us, then what do we have to fear?  We will never stop being younger brothers or elder brothers until we acknowledge our need for him, and then rest in faith and gaze with awe at the work of our true elder brother, Jesus Christ. Then, we won’t need religion, because we’ll have a relationship, instead.

Grace,

Randy

What Will You Do?

What Will You Do?

Pilate responded, “Then what should I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” They shouted back, “Crucify him!” “Why?” Pilate demanded. “What crime has he committed?” But the mob roared even louder, “Crucify him!” Pilate saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere and that a riot was developing. So he sent for a bowl of water and washed his hands before the crowd saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood. The responsibility is yours!” And all the people yelled back, “We will take responsibility for his death — we and our children!” So Pilate released Barabbas[1] to them. He ordered Jesus flogged with a lead-tipped whip, then turned him over to the Roman soldiers to be crucified. (Matt. 27:22-26)

The most famous trial in history is about to begin. The judge is short and aristocratic, with darting eyes and expensive clothes. But he’s apprehensive – nervous about being thrust into an exigent circumstance that he simply can’t avoid. Two soldiers lead him down the stone stairs of the fortress into the wide courtyard. Shafts of morning sunlight stretch across the stone floor. As he enters, Syrian soldiers dressed in short togas yank themselves, and their spears, bolt upright and stare straight ahead. The floor on which they stand is a mosaic of broad, brown, smooth rocks. On the floor are carved the games the soldiers play while awaiting the sentencing of the prisoner. But in the presence of the procurator, they’re not playing any games.

A regal chair is placed on a landing five steps up from the floor. The magistrate ascends and takes his seat. The accused is brought into the room and placed below him. A covey of robed religious leaders follow, they walk over to one side of the room where they stand. Pilate looks at the lone figure. “Doesn’t look like a Christ,” he mutters. Feet swollen and muddy. Hands tan. Knuckles lumpy. Looks more like a laborer than a teacher. Looks even less like a trouble-maker. One eye is black and swollen shut. The other looks at the floor. His lower lip is split and scabbed. His hair blood-matted to his forehead. Arms and thighs streaked with crimson. “Shall we remove the garment?” a soldier asks. “No. that’s not necessary.” It’s obvious what the beating has done.

“Are you the king of the Jews?” For the first time, Jesus lifts his eyes. He doesn’t raise his head, but he lifts his eyes. He peers at the procurator from beneath his brow. Pilate is surprised at the tone in Jesus’ voice. “Those are your words.” Before Pilate can respond, the knot of Jewish leaders mocks the accused from the side of the courtroom. “See, he has no respect.” “He stirs up the people!” “He claims to be king!” But Pilate doesn’t hear them. “Those are your words,” Pilate privately reflects. No defense. No explanation. No panic. The Galilean is looking at the floor again.

Pilate looks at the Jewish leaders huddled in the corner across the court. Their insistence angers him. The lashes aren’t enough. The mockery inadequate. “Jealous,” he wants to say to their faces, but doesn’t. “Jealous buzzards, the whole obstinate lot of you. Killing your own prophets,” he mumbles to himself. Pilate wants to let Jesus go. Just give me a reason, he thinks, almost aloud. I’ll set you free.

His thoughts are interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. A messenger leans in and whispers. Strange. Pilate’s wife has sent word to Pilate to not get involved in the case. Something about a dream she had. Pilate walks back to his chair, then sits and stares at Jesus. “Even the gods are on your side,” he mutters to no one in particular. He’s sat in this chair before. It’s a cruel seat: cobalt blue with thick, ornate legs. The traditional seat of judgment. By sitting on it Pilate transforms any room or street into a courtroom. It’s from this place he renders his decisions.

How many times has he sat here? How many stories has he heard? How many pleas has he received? How many wide eyes have stared at him, pleading for mercy, begging for an acquittal? But the eyes of this Nazarene are calm and silent. They don’t scream. They don’t dart. Pilate searches them for anxiety . . . for anger. He doesn’t find it. What he finds makes him shift again. “He’s not angry with me. He’s not afraid . . . he seems to understand.”

Pilate’s right, of course. Jesus isn’t afraid. He’s not angry. He’s not on the verge of panic because he’s not surprised. Jesus knows his hour, and the hour has come. And Pilate’s appropriately curious, too. If Jesus is a leader, where are his followers? If he’s the Messiah, what does he intend to do? If he’s a teacher, why are the religious leaders so angry at him? Pilate’s also correct to question, “What should I do with Jesus, the one called Christ?“ These are urgent circumstances requiring an immediate answer.

Perhaps you, like Pilate, are curious about this man called Jesus. Maybe you, like Pilate, are puzzled by his claims and stirred by his passions. You’ve heard all the stories: God descending from the stars, cocooning in flesh, placing a stake of truth in the globe. And you, like Pilate, have heard all the others speak, and now you want him to speak. What do you do with a man who claims to be God, but hates religion? What do you do with a man who calls himself the Savior, but condemns entire religious systems? What do you do with a man who knows the place and time of his death, but goes there anyway? Pilate’s question is yours. “What will I do with this man, Jesus?” It’s a question whose answer can’t be avoided.

You have two choices. You can reject him. That’s an option. You can, as many have, decide that the idea of God becoming a carpenter is just too bizarre — and simply walk away. Or, you can accept him. You can journey with him. You can listen for his voice amidst the hundreds of voices and follow him. Pilate could have. He heard many voices that day — he could have heard Christ’s. Had Pilate chosen to respond to his bruised Messiah, his story would have been different. But Pilate vacillates. He’s a puppy hearing the voice of two masters.

He steps toward one voice, then stops, and steps toward the other. Four times he tries to free Jesus, and four times he’s persuaded otherwise. He tries to give the people Jesus; but they want Barabbas. He sends Jesus to the whipping post; but they want him sent to Golgotha. He states he finds nothing against this man; but they accuse Pilate of violating the law. Pilate, afraid of who Jesus might be, tries one final time to release him; but the Jews accuse him of betraying Caesar. So many voices that day. The voice of compromise. The voice of expedience. The voice of politics. The voice of conscience. And the soft, firm voice of Christ, “The only power you have over me is the power given to you by God.” (John 19:11)

Jesus’ voice is distinct. Unique. He doesn’t cajole or plead. He just states the case. Pilate thought he could avoid making a choice. So, he washed his hands of Jesus. He climbed up onto the fence and sat down. But in not making a choice, Pilate actually made a choice. Rather than ask for God’s grace, he avoids malevolence. Rather than invite Jesus to stay, he sent him away. Rather than hear Christ’s voice, he heard the voice of the people. Legend has it that Pilate’s wife became a believer. And legend also has it that Pilate’s eternal home is a mountain lake where he daily surfaces, still plunging his hands into the water seeking forgiveness. Forever trying to wash away his guilt . . . not for the evil he did, but for the kindness he didn’t do.

“So what should I do with Jesus?” Pilate asked it first, but we’ve all asked it since. It’s a fair question. Even a necessary question. What do you do with such a man? He called himself God, but wore the clothes of a man. He called himself the Messiah, but never commanded an army. He was regarded as king, but his only crown was twisted thorns. People revered him as regal, yet his only robe was stitched with mockery. Small wonder Pilate was puzzled. How do you explain such a man?

One way may be to take a walk. His walk. His final walk. Follow his steps. Stand in his shadow. From Jericho to Jerusalem. From the temple to the garden. From the garden to the trial. From Pilate’s palace to Golgotha’s cross. Watch him walk — angrily to the temple, wearily into Gethsemane, painfully up the Via Dolorosa, and powerfully out of the vacated tomb. As you witness his walk, reflect on your own because all of us have our own walk to Jerusalem. Our own path through hollow religion. Our own journey down the narrow path of rejection. And each of us, like Pilate, must cast a verdict.

Pilate heard the voice of the people and left Jesus to walk the road alone. Will you? I hope that permanently planted in your soul is the moment the Father stirred you in the darkness and led you down the path to freedom. It’s a memory like no other. Because when he sets you free, you are free indeed. That’s how it happened for me, in a Bible class in a small L.A. suburb.

Thinking back on it, I don’t know what was more remarkable at the time – that a teacher was trying to teach the book of Romans to a bunch of rambunctious teenagers, or that I remember what he actually said. The classroom was mid-sized, one of a half-dozen or so in a mid-sized church. My desk had carvings on it, and gum underneath it. Ten or so others were in the room where we all sat in the back, too sophisticated to appear interested.

The teacher was an earnest man. I can still see his flattop – ex-Marine. His skinny tie stops midway down his stomach. He has reddish hair and an orange complexion, a soft voice, and a kind smile. Though he is hopelessly out of touch with 1970’s teenagers, he doesn’t know it. His notes are stacked on a little table underneath a heavy black Bible. He speaks with genuine passion. He’s not a dramatic man, or even a big man. But that day he was a fervent man. His text was Romans chapter six. The blackboard was littered with long words and diagrams. But somewhere in the process of describing how Jesus went into the tomb and came back out, it happened. I didn’t see a moral code. I didn’t see a church. I didn’t see the Ten Commandments, or hellish demons. I saw my Father enter my teenage life, awaken me from my stupor, and gently guide me — no, carry me — to freedom.

I said nothing to my teacher. I said nothing to my friends. I’m not even sure if I said anything to God. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. But for all I didn’t know there was one fact of which I was absolutely sure: I wanted to be with him. I told my parents that I was ready to give my life to God. Not completely convinced, my parents asked me what I knew. I told them Jesus was in heaven and that I wanted to be with him. And for my folks, that was enough.

To this day I wonder if my love has ever been as pure as it was that first hour. I long for the certainty of my newborn faith. Had you told me that Jesus was in hell, I would have agreed to go. Public confession and baptism came naturally for me. You see, when your Father comes to deliver you from bondage, you don’t ask questions; you obey instructions. You take his hand. You walk the path. You leave bondage behind. And you never forget.

I hope you’ll never forget those first steps of your walk, or Jesus’ final steps from Jericho to Jerusalem – it was that walk that promised you freedom. Or, his final walk through the temple of Jerusalem – it was on that walk that he denounced hollow religion. Or, his final walk to the Mount of Olives – it was there that he promised to return and take you home. Or, his final walk from Pilate’s palace to Golgotha’s cross. Bare, bloody feet struggling up a stony narrow path. But just as vivid as the pain of the beam across his raw back was his vision of you and him walking together. He could see the hour he would come into your life, into your dark place to stir you out of your sleep and guide you to freedom.

So, what will you do with Jesus? C.S. Lewis, in his book, Mere Christianity, had this to say about that very question: “I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

Although the question still remains, the walk isn’t over. The journey’s not complete. There’s one more walk that must be made. “I will come back,” he promised. And to prove it he ripped in two the temple curtain and split open the doors of death so that he could. Jesus is coming back to claim his own.

Will he be coming back for you? I guess that depends on what you will do with Jesus.

Happy Easter,

Randy

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[1] Some ancient manuscripts of Matthew 27:16–17 have the full name of Barabbas as "Jesus bar-Abbas" which, when translated, would read: “Jesus, son of the father.”

Saturdays

Saturdays
Saturdays - Audio/Visual

Early on Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. She ran and found Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved. She said, “They have taken the Lord’s body out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!”

Peter and the other disciple started out for the tomb. They were both running, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He stooped and looked in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he didn’t go in. Then Simon Peter arrived and went inside. He also noticed the linen wrappings lying there, while the cloth that had covered Jesus’ head was folded up and lying apart from the other wrappings. Then the disciple who had reached the tomb first also went in, and he saw and believed — for until then they still hadn’t understood the Scriptures that said Jesus must rise from the dead. Then they went home. (John 20:1-10)

Let’s talk about grave clothes for a minute. Fun stuff, huh? Hardly. Make a list of depressing subjects, and burial garments would be somewhere between an IRS audit and long-term dental care. No one likes grave clothes. No one discusses grave clothes. For instance, have you ever tried to spice up the conversation at the dinner table with, “So, what are you planning to wear to your funeral?” Probably not. Or, have you ever seen a store specializing in burial garments, like “Clothes to Die For”? Most people don’t talk about grave clothes.

The apostle John, apparently, was an exception to this rule. Ask him, and he’ll tell you how he came to see burial garments as a symbol of triumph. Mind you, he didn’t always see them that way. A tangible reminder of the death of his best friend, Jesus, they used to seem like a symbol of tragedy. But on that first Easter Sunday, God took the clothing of death and made it a symbol of life. Could God do the same for you?

We all face tragedy. What’s more, we’ve all received the symbols of tragedy. Yours might be an ID bracelet from the hospital, a scar, or a summons from a process server. For a few with whom I’m acquainted, it’s an ash heap that was once called “Home.” We don’t like these symbols, nor do we want these symbols. Like wrecked cars in a junkyard, they clutter up our hearts with memories of bad days. But could God use these things for something good? I mean, how far can we really go with verses like, “In everything God works for the good of those who love him.” (Rom. 8:28) Does “everything” include tumors and tests and tempers and terminations? John would say, “Yes.” John would tell you that God can turn any tragedy into a triumph, if only you will wait and watch. And, to prove his point, he would tell you about one Friday in particular:

Later, Joseph from Arimathea asked Pilate if he could take the body of Jesus. (Joseph was a secret follower of Jesus, because he was afraid of some of the leaders.) Pilate gave his permission, so Joseph came and took Jesus’ body away. Nicodemus, who earlier had come to Jesus at night, went with Joseph. He brought about seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. These two men took Jesus’ body and wrapped it with the spices in pieces of linen cloth, which is how they bury the dead. (John 19:38–40)

Reluctant during Christ’s life, but courageous at his death, Joseph and Nicodemus came to serve Jesus. They came to bury him. They ascended the hill bearing the burial clothing. Pilate had given his permission. Joseph of Arimathea had given a tomb. Nicodemus had brought the spices and linens. In fact, John states that Nicodemus brought seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. The amount is worth noting because a quantity like that was typically used only for a king. John also comments on the linens because, at least to him, they were a picture of a Friday tragedy. As long as there were no grave clothes, as long as there was no tomb, as long as there was no coroner, there was hope. But the arrival of the hearse triggered hope’s exit. And to this apostle, the grave clothes symbolized tragedy.

And could there have been a greater tragedy for John than a dead Jesus? Because three years earlier John had turned his back on his career and threw his lot in with the Nazarene carpenter. Earlier in the week John had enjoyed a ticker-tape parade as Jesus and the disciples entered Jerusalem. But how quickly things had turned. The people who had called Jesus “King” on Sunday were calling for his torture and death the following Friday, and these linens were a tangible reminder that his friend and his future were wrapped in cloth and sealed behind a rock.

Of course, John didn’t know on that Friday what you and I know now. He didn’t know that Friday’s tragedy would be Sunday’s triumph. John would later confess that he “did not yet understand from the Scriptures that Jesus must rise from the dead.” (John 20:9) That’s why what he did on Saturday is so important. But the truth is that we don’t know anything about that particular Saturday; we don’t have a verse to read, or even a little bit of knowledge to share. All we know is that when Sunday came, John was there because when Mary Magdalene came looking for him, she found him. Jesus was dead. The Master’s body was lifeless. John’s friend and future were buried. But John hadn’t left. Why? Was he waiting for the resurrection? No. As far as he knew, the lips were forever silent, and the hands forever still. He wasn’t expecting a Sunday surprise.

Then why was he there, because you’d think he would have left. Who was to say that the men who crucified Christ wouldn’t come after him as well? The crowds were pleased with one crucifixion, so maybe the religious leaders would call for more. So why didn’t John get out of town? Perhaps the answer was pragmatic: maybe he was taking care of Jesus’ mother. Or, perhaps, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or, maybe he didn’t have any money or energy or direction … or all of the above. Or, maybe he lingered because he loved Jesus. To some, Jesus was a miracle worker. To others, Jesus was a master teacher. And to the masses, Jesus was the hope of Israel. But to John, he was all of these and much more. To John, Jesus was a friend. And you don’t abandon a friend — even when that friend is dead. John stayed close to Jesus.

He had a habit of doing that, too. For instance, he was close to Jesus in the upper room. He was close to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He was at the foot of the cross at the crucifixion, and he was a quick sprint from the tomb at the burial. Did he understand Jesus? No. Was he glad Jesus did what he did? No. But did he leave Jesus? No. What about you? When you’re in John’s position, what do you do? When it’s Saturday in your life, how do you react? When you are somewhere between yesterday’s tragedy and tomorrow’s triumph, what do you do? Do you leave God, or do you linger near him? John chose to linger. And because he lingered on Saturday, he was around on Sunday to see the miracle.

As we learn from the narrative, Peter and John were given the news very early on Sunday morning: “Jesus’ body is missing!” And you get the distinct impression that Mary was urgent, both with her announcement and her opinion. She thought Jesus’ enemies had taken his body away. So, being typical guys, the two disciples take off for the hewn-rock sepulcher, John outrunning Peter and arriving first. What he saw, however, so stunned him that he froze at the entrance. But what was so stunning? “Strips of linen cloth,” apparently. He saw “the cloth that had been around Jesus’ head … folded up and laid in a different place from the strips of linen.” He saw “cloth lying.” So?

Well, the original Greek provides some insight. John employs a term that means “rolled up,” or “still in their folds.” In other words, these burial wraps had not been ripped off and thrown on the ground. They were, instead, still in their original state, i.e., the linens were undisturbed. The grave clothes were still rolled and folded. But how could that be? Because if friends had removed the body, wouldn’t they have taken the clothes too? But if enemies had taken the body, wouldn’t they have done the same? And if not, if for some reason friends or enemies had unwrapped the body, would they have been so careful to dispose of the clothing in such a neat and tidy fashion? Not likely. But if neither friend nor foe took the body, who did?

That was John’s question, and that question led to John’s discovery. “He saw and believed.” (John 20:8) Through the rags of death, John saw the power of life. Odd, don’t you think, that God would use something as sad as a burial wrap to change a life? But God’s like that. In his hand a bunch of empty wine jugs at a wedding become a symbol of power; the coin of a widow becomes a symbol of generosity; a crude manger in Bethlehem becomes a symbol of devotion; and a tool of death becomes a symbol of love. So, should we be so surprised that he takes the wrappings of death and makes them the picture of life? No, not hardly.

Which takes us back to my question. Could God do something similar in your life? Could he take what today is a token of your tragedy and turn it into a symbol of your triumph? Yes, he can. And all you have to do is what John did – don’t leave; hang around and remember the second half of that Romans passage: “God works for the good of those who love him.” (Rom. 8:28) That’s how John felt about Jesus. He loved him. He didn’t understand him or even always agree with him, but he loved him. And because he loved him, he stayed near him.

The Bible says that “in everything God works for the good of those who love him.” But if you’re having a hard time believing his word, try this. Remove the word everything, and replace it with the symbol of your own tragedy. For instance, for John, the verse would read: “In burial clothing God works for the good of those who love him.” So, how would Romans 8:28 read in your life? In hospital stays God works for the good. In divorce papers God works for the good. In a prison cell God works for the good. If God can change John’s life through a tragedy, could he use a tragedy to change your own? As hard as it may be to believe, you could be only a Saturday away from a resurrection.

Grace,

Randy

Second Chances

Second Chances
Second Chances - Audio/Visual

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast. (Eph. 2:8-9)

I used to coach T-ball, emphasis on the words “used to.” Teaching little five-year-olds an organized sport can be rewarding, among other adjectives like “cute,” “funny” and “frustrating.” Frankly, getting a group of kindergartners together presents more than just a single challenge. And if your goal is to get them to act in any sort of organized manner during a practice, then good luck. Having a common purpose is virtually impossible for five year olds. Obviously, team concepts elude young minds until they’ve been subjected to a team sport. It occurred to me, however, that T-ball is the one sport that’s all about second chances. Unlike baseball, or pretty much any other team sport, the rules are pretty simple: (1) when it’s your turn at bat, you can't strike out – you just keep swinging until you hit the ball; (2) an inning is over after three outs, or after everyone gets a turn at bat, whichever occurs last; (3) everybody plays the whole game; and (4) when the game's over, everyone gets a snow cone. Those were the days. But you don’t have to be much older than a kindergartner to know what it’s like to lose. To come up short. To fail. Just ask Peter.

Peter, like that athlete on the old Wide World of Sports, enjoyed the thrill of victory, but he also experienced the agony of defeat. He was a fisherman and lived with his wife in Capernaum where they shared a house with his mother-in-law and his brother, Andrew. He and Andrew had their own boat, and were in the fishing business with a couple of partners named James and John, Zebedee's sons. The first time Jesus laid eyes on him, he took one look at Peter and said, "So, you're Simon, the son of John." (John 1:42) And then Jesus said that from then on he'd call him Cephas, which is Aramaic for Peter, which is Greek for rock, or pebble. He could stop fishing for fish, Jesus told him. He'd been promoted. From there on out, people were to be his business, and now he could start fishing for people.

And Peter certainly experienced the thrill of victory in this business of being a disciple. For instance, there were all these half-baked theories about who Jesus was. So, Jesus asked his disciples straight out: "Who do you say that I am?" Nobody wanted to stick their neck out and answer that one; nobody except Peter. "You’re the Christ, the Son of the living God," Peter said, to which Jesus responded by blessing him, and then saying that upon that very confession Jesus would build his church. Victory.

But Peter also knew the agony of defeat. He didn't always say or do the right thing. One time Jesus was talking about heaven, and Peter wanted to know what sort of special deal he was going to get since he’d left his business, and had given up everything to follow Jesus. But Jesus took it easy on him since a “rock” can't help being a little dense sometimes. And then there was their last supper together. Jesus was explaining that he would have to be going soon, but Peter didn't quite get it. So, Jesus explained that he was going where nobody on earth could follow him. Peter finally seemed to get it, but then he asked Jesus why he couldn't follow him. "I'll lay down my life for you," Peter said. Then Jesus said something to Peter that rocked his world: "Listen, Peter, the rooster won't crow until you've betrayed me three times." And Jesus was right, of course because after Jesus was arrested, Peter was sitting out there in the courtyard keeping warm by the fire. Then a girl, and later others, came up to ask him on three separate occasions if he really wasn't one of Jesus’ disciples. Peter’s response? “What in God’s name are you talking about? I don’t even know the guy.” Then the old rooster crowed at the rising sun, and tears began to rain – turning the “rock” into a mudslide.

Peter knew what it's like to be a winner. He also knew what it's like to be a loser. But everybody's a winner in T-ball. Do you know why everyone's a winner in T-ball? Because you don't keep score. Most of the time, sports are all about no second chances. There are clear winners and clear losers. There are the ones who start and play most of the time, and there are the ones who almost never get to play. There are the ones who get picked first, and there are the ones who’re picked last. Most of the time, sports are about no second chances. And a lot of us would like to live in a world where when you go to church you’d never have to hear Christians confessing their pain, or the sin of anything. The problem is that each of us has a story. And all of our stories include the truth that we’re guilty, and that we’ve betrayed our Lord. So if you're keeping score, we’re losing and we won’t be getting a snow cone. But the thing is, we don't have to let our guilt and our shame and our failures destroy us. Peter proved that. Peter, of all people. The disciple with the foot-shaped mouth.

The Sabbath was over. Mary Magdalene and two other women were going to anoint Jesus' body. So, very early on the first day of the week, just before sunrise, they were on the way to the tomb. They were wondering while they walked how they were going to roll the big stone away from the entrance to the tomb. But when they got there, the stone had already been rolled away, and an angel was there who told them that if they were looking for Jesus of Nazareth they’d come to the wrong place. He’d risen. He wasn't there. And then in Mark 16:7, there’s this great line. The angel tells the women, "But go, tell his disciples, and Peter, that he is going before you to Galilee." In other words, “Don't just stand there, ladies. Get going and tell the disciples – especially Peter – that he’s risen and will meet you in Galilee.”

You see, Peter didn't let his despair destroy him. Somehow he kept going. And then we have this great line in Mark’s gospel. The tomb was empty. Jesus was alive. And the angel tells Mary Magdalene and the others to go tell the disciples – particularly Peter. It's as if even the angels were saying: "Be sure to tell Peter that he's not left out. Tell him that Jesus still wants to see him." No wonder they call it the gospel of the second chance. Peter betrayed Jesus by something he said, just like you and I sometimes betray Jesus by the things we say and do – or by things we don't say and don't do. But Jesus wanted Peter, in particular, to know that he was alive. Peter got a second chance. Even the angels wanted Peter to know that it wasn't over. The message was loud and clear: Be sure and tell Peter that even though he swung and missed, he didn’t strike out. He gets to swing again. And in less than seven weeks’ time, Peter took another swing. This time, he hit a grand slam at Pentecost and became one of the leaders of the early Christian church where 3,000 people were saved on one day alone.

The truth is that we live in a world that keeps score. And all of us know what it's like to lose. We also know enough about ourselves – if we're honest – to shudder at the thought of God keeping score with his great scorecard in the sky. A ground out here, a strikeout there. So, how’s your game going? Not good, if your game is like mine.

Some time ago, rumor had spread that a woman was having visions of Jesus. The reports reached a preacher and he decided to check her out since, in his opinion, there’s a fine line that separates the real from the lunatic fringe. "Is it true, ma'am, that you’ve had visions of Jesus?" “Yes," replied the woman. "Well, the next time you have one of those visions, I want you to ask Jesus to tell you the sins I confessed last night." The woman was stunned. "Did I hear you right? You actually want me to ask Jesus to tell me the sins of your past?" "Exactly. So, please call me if anything happens, alright?" “Alright,” said the woman.

Ten days later, the woman informed the preacher of a recent appearance. "Please come," she said. Within the hour, the preacher arrived. "Now, you just told me over the phone a few moments ago that you actually had a vision of Jesus, right?” “Yes,” she replied. “Well, did you do what I asked?" "Yes, I asked Jesus to tell me the sins you confessed the night before our first visit," she replied. With that, the preacher leaned forward with anticipation, his eyes wide with expectancy. "Well, what did Jesus say?" She took his hand, gazed deep into his eyes and said, “These were Jesus’ exact words: 'I can’t remember.'"

Robert Fulghum, in his book All I Really Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten, listed some things he learned when he was in kindergarten. Things like sharing everything, playing fair, not hitting people, not taking things that aren’t yours, saying you’re sorry when you hurt somebody, and when you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together. So lately, I’ve been going over what I’d say if I was coaching T-ball again. I think I’d say stuff like, "Honestly, Johnny, I really don't know the score." Or, "Come on Katy, keeping swinging until you hit that ball." Maybe even, "Get out on that field, Evan – everyone gets to play." And, "Don’t you know that everybody's a winner, Crystal?" And definitely, "Snow cones for everyone.” But I’m still working on this one, "It's all about grace, Randy."

And therein lies the problem. You see it, don’t you? It’s right there. Right there in that last sentence in the paragraph above this one. The one that says, And I’m still working on this one, “It’s all about grace, Randy.” You see it? Well, that’s the problem. Working at grace isn’t going to get me there. But if that’s the problem, then what’s the solution? It’s seeing grace as a gift, not as a reward.

You see, working at grace is not going to get any of us to heaven. But it is grace that will get us working. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God – not by works, so that no one can boast. (Eph. 2:8-9) Jesus said, “’I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven.’” (Matt. 18:3)  Kids. What do kindergartners know, anyway? Well, quite a bit actually.

They know that when you go up to bat, you can't strike out, and that everyone gets to play – all the time. And the score? They don’t care since everybody gets a snow cone at the end of the game anyway. And if you’re a child of God, you can’t strike out, and you’re in the game until it’s over. More importantly, the score’s inconsequential because Jesus settled that one a long time ago. So, get in the game. You can’t lose.

Grace,

Randy