Revengeance

Revengeance
Revengeance - Audio/Visual 

Don’t say, “I’ll pay you back for the wrong you did.” Wait for the Lord, and he will make things right.” (Prov. 20:22)

As I’m writing this, I’m angry. I’m angered by, of all things, frogs. They’re loud. They’re obnoxious. They’re in my pool. And they’re in big trouble if I can get my hands on them. I’m up late. Later than I should be. But my sleeves are rolled up and my laptop’s humming. Get a jump on this thing, I’d planned. Get a leg up, I’d hoped. But get your hands on those frogs is what I’m mumbling.

Now, I have nothing against nature. The melody of a song bird, I love. But the evening ribbit-ribbit-ribbiting of the frogs really bugs me. So, I go outside to see what I can do. Now, we’re blessed to have a pool, and at the deep end of the pool is a rock grotto with a rock slide. And there they are. Must be a half dozen of them. All about three inches long, but each equipped with a ten foot foghorn. And when they’re inside the grotto, it sounds like there are a million of them. So, I turn the water on that leads into the pool to disturb them. Ahh, quiet … for a minute. Then I turn on the waterfall that spills over the grotto – that’ll drown them. Silence … for a moment. They're frogs. They don't drown. Humbling. I’ve been sabotaged by an army of amphibians; I’ve been reduced to a frog-stalker.

So forgive me if my thoughts are fragmented, but I’m launching artillery every other paragraph or so. The pool is just outside my study. This is no way to work. This is no way to end the day. My space is cluttered. My pants are wet. My train of thought is derailed. I mean, how can you write about revengeance when a bunch of stupid frogs are croaking for their collective love lives in your swimming pool? Oh. Guess I’m in the right frame of mind after all.

Revengeance. Tonight it’s easy to define: the noise of the soul. Revenge. The unseen irritant of the heart. Vengeance. The relentless invader of silence. Just like the frogs, revenge irritates. Just like the frogs, vengeance isn’t easily silenced. Just like the frogs, revengeance has a way of increasing in volume until it’s the only sound we hear. The louder it gets the more desperate we become.

When we are mistreated, our animalistic response is to go on the hunt. Instinctively, we double up our fists. Getting even is only natural – which is precisely the problem. Revengeance is natural, not spiritual. Getting even is the rule of the jungle. Giving grace is the rule of the Kingdom. But maybe some of you are thinking, “That’s easy for you to say, sitting there with a bunch of frogs as your chief complaint. You ought to try living with my husband.” Or, “You ought to have to cope with my past.” Or, “You have no idea how hard my life has been.” And you’re right, I don’t. But I have an idea how miserable your future will be unless you deal with the anger that spawns revengeance.

X-ray the soul of the vengeful and you’ll see the tumor of bitterness: black, menacing, malignant. It’s carcinoma of the spirit. Its fatal fibers creep around the edge of the heart and ravage it. Yesterday you can’t alter, but your reaction to yesterday you can. The past you can’t change, but your response to your past you can. Impossible, you say? No, and here’s why.

Imagine you’re from a large family – a dozen or so kids. A family more blended than the Brady bunch. All the children are from the same dad, but they have four or five different moms. Imagine also that your dad is dishonest and has been for a long time. Everybody knows it. Everybody knows he cheated your uncle out of the estate. Everybody knows he ran like a coward to avoid getting caught. Let’s also imagine that your great-uncle tricked your dad into marrying your mother’s sister. He got your dad drunk before the wedding and had his less fortunate looking daughter go to the altar instead of the pretty one your dad thought he was marrying. That didn’t slow your father down, though. He just married them both. The one he loved couldn’t have kids, so he slept with her maid. In fact, he had a habit of sleeping with most of the help. As a result, a number of your siblings look like the cooks. Finally, the bride your dad wanted to marry in the first place gets pregnant … and Viola! You’re born.

You’re the favored son, and your brothers know it. You get a car; they don’t. You get Armani; they get K-Mart. You get summer camp; they get summer jobs. You get educated; they get angry. And then they get even. They sell you to some Foreign Service organization, put you on a plane bound for Egypt, and tell your dad you were murdered by Al-Qaeda. You find yourself surrounded by people you don’t know, learning a language you don’t understand, and living in a culture you’ve never experienced.

Imaginary tale? No. It’s the story of Joseph. A favored son in a bizarre family who had every reason to be angry; to seek revengeance. He tried to make the best of it, though. He became the chief servant of the head of the Secret Service. But his boss’ wife tried to seduce him, and when he refused, she pouted and he ended up in prison. Pharaoh got wind of the fact that Joseph could interpret dreams and let him take a shot at some of Pharaoh’s own. When Joseph interpreted them he got promoted out of the prison and into the palace as prime minister: the second highest position in all of Egypt. The only person Joseph bowed before was the king.

Meanwhile, back in Israel, a famine hits and Jacob, Joseph’s father, sends his sons to Egypt for a foreign loan. The brothers don’t know it, but they’re standing in front of the same brother they sold to the Gypsies some twenty-two years earlier. They don’t recognize Joseph, but Joseph recognizes them. A bit balder and paunchier, he thinks, but they’re the same brothers. Now, imagine Joseph’s thoughts. The last time he saw those faces he was looking up at them from the bottom of a pit. The last time he heard those voices, they were laughing at him. The last time they called his name, they called him every name in the book.

Now’s his chance to get even. He has complete control. One snap of his fingers and his brothers are dead men. Better yet, slap some manacles on their hands and feet and let them see what an Egyptian dungeon’s like. Let them sleep in the mud. Let them mop the floors. Let them learn Egyptian. Revengeance is easily within Joseph’s power. And there is power in revengeance. Intoxicating power.

Haven’t we tasted it? Haven’t we been tempted to get even? As we escort the offender into the courtroom, we announce, “He hurt me!” The jurors shake their heads in disgust. “He abandoned me!” we explain, and the chambers echo with our accusation. “Guilty!” the judge snarls as he slams down the gavel. “Guilty!” the jury agrees. “Guilty!” the audience proclaims. We delight in this moment of justice. We relish this pound of flesh. So we prolong the event. We tell the story over and over and over.

Now freeze-frame that scene. I have a question. Well, not for you, really, but for me. I’m in that courtroom. The courtroom of complaint. I’m rehashing the same hurt every chance I get with anyone who’ll listen. But, who made me God, anyway? Why am I doing his work for Him? “Vengeance is mine,” God declared. “I will repay.” (Heb. 10:30) “Don’t say, ‘I’ll pay you back for the wrong you did.’ Wait for the Lord, and he will make things right.” (Prov. 20:22)

Judgment is God’s job. To assume otherwise is to assume God can’t do the job. Revengeance is irreverent. When we strike back we are saying, “I know vengeance is yours, God, but I just didn’t think you’d punish enough. I thought I’d better take this situation into my own hands. After all, you have a tendency to be a little soft.” Joseph understood that. But rather than get even, he reveals his identity and has his father and the rest of the family brought to Egypt. He grants them safety and provides them a place to live. They live in harmony for seventeen years. But then Jacob dies and the moment of truth comes. The brothers have a hunch that with Jacob gone they’ll be lucky to get out of Egypt with their heads on their shoulders. So they go to Joseph and plead for mercy. “Your father gave this command before he died … ‘Tell Joseph to forgive you.” (Gen. 50:16—17) Translation? “Daddy said to be nice to us.”

Joseph’s response? “When Joseph received the message, he cried.” (Gen. 50:17) “What more do I have to do?” his tears implore. “I’ve given you a home. I’ve provided for your families. Why do you still mistrust my grace?” Please read carefully the two statements he makes to his brothers. First, he asks, “Can I do what only God can do?” (v. 19) Let me restate the obvious. Revengeance belongs to God. If vengeance is God’s, then it’s not ours. God hasn’t asked us to settle the score or get even. Ever. Why?

The answer is found in the second part of Joseph’s statement: “You meant to hurt me, but God turned your evil into good to save the lives of many people, which is being done.” (v. 20) Forgiveness comes easier with a wide-angle lens. And Joseph uses one to get the whole picture. He refuses to focus on the betrayal of his brothers without also seeing the loyalty of his God. It always helps to see the big picture. To forgive someone is to admit our own limitations. We’ve been given only one piece of life’s jigsaw puzzle. Only God has the cover to the box. To forgive someone is to display reverence. Forgiveness is not saying the one who hurt you was right. Forgiveness is stating that God is fair and He will do what is right. After all, don’t we have enough on our plate without trying to do God’s work, too?

Hey! I just noticed something. The frogs are quiet. I got so wrapped up in this thing I forgot about them. I haven’t thrown anything, or done anything for at least an hour. Guess they fell asleep. Could be that’s what they wanted to do all along, but I kept waking them up by doing stuff to them. They finally ended up getting some rest, and I ended up finishing these thoughts. Remarkable what gets accomplished when we let go of our need for revengeance. Ribbit.

Grace,

Randy

Impossibility

Impossibility
Impossibility - Audio/Visual 

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 5:3)

She’s in her golden years, but God promises her a son. She’s so excited by the news that she visits the maternity shop and buys a few dresses; she plans her shower and remodels the tent. But no son. She goes through a decade of wall calendars. Still, no son. So, Sarai decides to take matters into her own hands and convinces Abram that time is running out. She commands her maid, Hagar, to go into Abram’s tent and see if he needs anything – and I mean anything. As a result, Hagar goes in a maid, and comes out a mom. And the problems begin. (Genesis 16-18, 21)

Hagar is haughty. Sarai is jealous. And God calls the baby boy a “wild donkey” — an appropriate name for one born out of stubbornness and destined to kick his way into history. It isn’t the cozy family that Sarai had expected. And it isn’t a topic Abram and Sarai bring up very often at the dinner table, either. Finally, fourteen years later, when Abram is pushing a century of years and Sarai’s ninety, when the wallpaper in the nursery is faded and the baby furniture is more than a decade out of date, God pays them a visit and tells them that they’d better select a name for their new son.

Abram and Sarai have the same response. They laugh. Partly because it’s too good to be true, and partly because it might be. They laugh because they’d given up all hope, and hope born anew is always funny before it’s real. They laugh at the lunacy of it all. Abram looks over at Sarai — toothless and snoring in her rocker, head back and mouth wide open; as fruitful as a pitted prune and just as wrinkled. And he cracks up. He tries to contain it, but he can’t. He’s always been a sucker for a good joke. And Sarai is equally amused. When she hears the news, a cackle escapes before she can contain it. She mumbles something about her husband needing a lot more than what he’s got and then laughs again.

They laugh because that’s what you do when someone says they can do the impossible. They laugh a little at God, and a lot with God — because God’s laughing, too. Then, with the smile still on his face, he gets busy doing what he does best — the unbelievable. He changes a few things, beginning with their names. Abram, the father of one, will now be Abraham, the father of a multitude. Sarai, the barren one, will now be Sarah, the mother. But their names aren’t the only thing God changes. He changes their minds. He changes their faith. He changes the number of their tax deductions. He changes the way they define the word “impossibility.”

But most of all, he changes Sarah’s attitude about trusting God. Were she to hear Jesus’ statement about being poor in spirit (Matt. 5:3), maybe she’d give a testimony something like this: “He’s right. I do things my way, I get a headache. I let God take over, I get a son. You figure it out. All I know is I’m the only one in town to pay her pediatrician with a Social Security check.” And two thousand years later, there’s another testimony.

The last thing he wanted to do was fish some more. But that was exactly what Jesus wanted to do. Simon had fished all night: his arms ached, his eyes burned and he was sore all over. All he wanted to do was go home and let his wife rub the knots out of his neck. (Luke 5) It’d been a long night, and he lost count of how many times he’d thrown that net into the blackness and heard it slap against the sea. All night he and his partners had waited for that bump, that tug, that jerk that would tell them to haul in the catch. But it never came. And at daybreak, they were all ready to go home.

But just as he was about to leave the beach, he noticed a crowd coming toward him. They were following a lanky fellow who walked with a broad smile and a confident gait. The fellow saw Simon and called him by name. “Morning, Jesus!” Simon called back. Though he was a hundred yards away, anyone could see his white smile. “Quite a crowd, huh?” he yelled, motioning at the mass behind him. Simon nodded and sat down to watch. Jesus stopped near the edge of the water and began to speak. Though he couldn’t hear much, Simon could see much more. He could see more and more people coming. With all the pressing and shoving, it’s a wonder Jesus didn’t get pushed down into the water, even though he was already knee-deep in it.

Simon didn’t have to think twice. Jesus climbed into his boat, and John followed. They pushed out a bit, and then Simon leaned back against the bow and Jesus began to teach. It seemed like half of Israel was on the beach. Men had left work, women had left their household chores. Even a few priests were in the audience. They scarcely moved, yet their eyes danced as if they were in some way seeing what they could become. When Jesus finished, he turned to Simon, who had begun to pull anchor when Jesus said, “Push out into the deep, Simon. Let’s go fishin’.”

Simon groaned and looked at John. They were thinking the same thing. As long as he wanted to use the boat for a speaker’s platform, that was fine. But to use it for a fishing boat? That was their territory. Simon wanted to tell this carpenter-teacher, “You stick to preaching, and I’ll stick to fishing.” But he was more polite: “We worked all night. We didn’t catch a thing.” Jesus just looked at him. Simon looked at John. John was waiting for his partner’s cue. Maybe he’d wished he’d done it out of love. Maybe he’d wished he’d done it out of devotion. But Simon couldn’t say that, because there’s a time to question and a time to listen. So, as much with a grunt as with a prayer, they pushed out.

With every stroke of the oar, Simon muttered. With every pull of the paddle, he grumbled. “No way! Such an impossibility. I may not know much, but I do know fishing and all we’re going catch is a cold,” Simon thought. The noise on the beach grew distant, and soon the only sound was the smack of the waves against the hull. Finally they cast anchor. Simon picked up the heavy netting, held it waist-high, and started to throw it. That’s when he caught a glimpse of Jesus out of the corner of his eye.

The net flew high, spreading itself against the blue sky and floating down until it flopped against the surface, then sank. Simon wrapped the rope once around his hand and sat back for the long wait. But there was no wait. The slack rope yanked taut and almost pulled Simon overboard. He set his feet against the side of the boat and yelled for help. John and Jesus sprang to his side. They got the net in just before it began to tear. He’d never seen such a catch. It was like plopping down a sack of rocks in the boat to the point where they began to take on water. John screamed for the other boat to help.

And that’s when Simon realized who He was. And that’s when Simon realized who he was: he was the one who told God what he couldn’t do! “‘Go away from me, Lord; I’m a sinful man,” Simon said. What else he could say? And it was a scene he would see many times over the next couple of years — in cemeteries with the dead, on hillsides with the hungry, in storms with the frightened, on roadsides with the sick. The characters would change, but the theme wouldn’t. When he would say, “No way,” Jesus would say, “My way.”

“My power shows up best in weak people.” God said those words, and Paul wrote them down. (2 Cor. 12:9) God said he was looking for empty vessels more than strong muscles, and Paul proved it. Before he encountered Christ, Paul had been somewhat of a hero among the Pharisees. You might say he was their version of The Lone Ranger. He kept law and order or, stated somewhat differently, revered the Law and gave the orders. Jewish moms held him up as an example of a good Jewish boy. He was given the seat of honor at the Jerusalem Lions’ Club’s Wednesday luncheons. He had a “Who’s Who in Judaism” paperweight on his desk and was selected “Most Likely to Succeed” by his graduating class. He was quickly establishing himself as the heir apparent to his teacher, Gamaliel. If there was such a thing as a religious fortune, Paul had it. He was a spiritual billionaire, and he knew it.

Blue-blooded and wild-eyed, this young zealot was hell-bent on keeping the kingdom pure — and that meant keeping the Christians out. He marched through the countryside like a general demanding that backslidden Jews salute the flag of the motherland or kiss their family and their hopes goodbye. All this came to a halt, however, on the shoulder of a highway. Equipped with subpoenas, handcuffs, and a posse, Paul was on his way to do a little house cleaning in Damascus. That’s when someone slammed on the stadium lights, and he heard the voice.

When he found out whose voice it was, his jaw hit the ground, and his body quickly followed. He braced himself for the worst. He knew it was over. He felt the noose around his neck. He smelled the flowers in the hearse. He prayed that death would be quick and painless. But all he got was silence and the first of a lifetime of surprises. He ended up bewildered and befuddled and convalescing in a borrowed bedroom. God left him there a few days with scales on his eyes so thick that the only direction he could look was inside. And he didn’t like what he saw. He saw himself for what he really was: the worst of sinners. (1 Tim. 1:15) A legalist. A killjoy. A braggart who claimed to have mastered God’s code. Saul was a dispenser of justice who weighed salvation on its scale.

That’s when Ananias found him, and Saul wasn’t much to look at; haggard and groggy after three days of turmoil. Sarai wasn’t much to look at either, neither was Simon. But what the three have in common says more than a volume of systematic theology. For when they gave up, God stepped in and the result was a rollercoaster ride straight into the Kingdom. Paul was a step ahead of the rich young ruler, for instance. He knew better than to strike a deal with God. He didn’t make any excuses; he just pleaded for mercy. Alone in the room with his sins on his conscience and blood on his hands, he asked to be cleansed.

Ananias’ instructions to Paul are worth noting: “What are you waiting for? Get up, be baptized and wash your sins away, calling on his name.” (Acts 22:16) He didn’t have to be told twice. The legalist Saul was buried, and the liberator Paul was born. And he was never the same afterward.

And neither was the world. Stirring sermons, dedicated disciples, and thousands of miles of trails. If his sandals weren’t slapping, his pen was writing. If he wasn’t explaining the mystery of grace, he was articulating the theology that would determine the course of Western civilization. Yet, all of his words can be reduced to one sentence: “We preach Christ crucified.” (1 Cor. 1:23) It wasn’t that he lacked other sermon material; it’s just that he couldn’t exhaust his first outline.

The absurdity of the whole thing kept him going. Jesus should have finished him off on the road. He should have left him for the buzzards. He should have sent him to hell. But he didn’t. He sent him to the lost. Paul himself even said it was crazy. He described it with phrases like “stumbling block” and “foolishness,” but chose in the end to call it “grace.” (1 Cor. 1:23; Eph. 2:8) And he defended his unquenchable loyalty by saying, “The love of Christ leaves [me] no choice.” (1 Cor. 5:14)

Paul never took a course in missions. He never sat in on a committee meeting. He never read a book on church growth. He was just inspired by the Holy Spirit that makes an impossibility possible: salvation. And the message is gripping. Show a man his failures without Jesus, and the result will be found in a roadside gutter, like Saul. Give a man religion without reminding him of his filth, and the result will be arrogance in a three-piece suit, just like the rich young ruler. But get the two in the same heart — get sin to meet the Savior and the Savior to meet the sin — and the result just might be another Pharisee turned preacher who promptly set the world on fire.

Four people – the rich young ruler, Sarah, Peter, Paul. A curious thread strings the four together: their names. The final three had their names changed: Sarai to Sarah, Simon to Peter, Saul to Paul. But the first one, the yuppie, is never mentioned by name. Maybe that’s the clearest explanation of the first beatitude. (Matt. 5:3) The one who made a name for himself is nameless, but the ones who called on Jesus’ name got new ones … and a new life.

Impossibility? Hardly.

Grace,

Randy

Oxymoronic

Oxymoronic
Oxymoronic - Audio/Visual 

Early the following spring, in the month of Nisan, during the twentieth year of King Artaxerxes’ reign, I was serving the king his wine. I had never before appeared sad in his presence. So the king asked me, “Why are you looking so sad? You don’t look sick to me. You must be deeply troubled.” Then I was terrified, but I replied, “Long live the king! How can I not be sad? For the city where my ancestors are buried is in ruins, and the gates have been destroyed by fire.” The king asked, “Well, how can I help you?” With a prayer to the God of heaven, I replied, “If it please the king, and if you are pleased with me, your servant, send me to Judah to rebuild the city where my ancestors are buried.” The king, with the queen sitting beside him, asked, “How long will you be gone? When will you return?” After I told him how long I would be gone, the king agreed to my request. (Nehemiah 2:1-6)

An oxymoron (from the Greek word, ὀξύμωρον, meaning "sharp dull") is a figure of speech that combines contradictory terms. (Since when has a word been defined by a word? Now that’s oxymoronic.) For instance, original copy; jumbo shrimp; pretty ugly; found missing; definite maybe; only choice; freezer burn; short prayer.

Is there any such thing as a short prayer? Because when you think about prayer, what generally comes to mind? Maybe the kind of prayer that goes on for hours and hours, says the same thing over and over again, and throws in a lot of "thee's" and "thou's" for good measure just to impress the crowd. Sometimes, however, we make too much of prayer by making it far too complicated. Here’s what I mean. God’s our father, we’re His kids, and you can talk to your dad any time about anything you want. Sometimes you talk to Him for a long time, sometimes you just give a little shout out, “Hey, Dad.” Sometimes you pour your heart out to God through tears. Then again, sometimes you just say, “Thanks.” There are all kinds of prayers: long prayers, short prayers, in-between prayers.

Our man, Nehemiah, prays throughout the book repeatedly, and it’s one of the great threads that weaves the whole book together. And in this particular passage, Nehemiah offers up a quick little prayer because, well … you know, certain decisions in life, even certain opportunities in life, are strategic. If you miss it, it’s gone. For instance, are you going to an important job interview? Pray. Taking a test? Definitely pray. She’s cute, you’re scared and hoping she’ll go out with you? Pray a lot. So, here, Nehemiah sends up a prayer, something along the lines of, “God, give me the right words, give me the right spirit, give him the right attitude, and please don’t let him kill me. Amen.” A quick little prayer. Perhaps a little background on Nehemiah would help.

The first chapter of the book bearing his name provides some pretty important details. The year is 446 B.C., and Nehemiah is living in one of the Persian capitals, Shushan. Artaxerxes is the king of the Persian Empire, and Nehemiah is on the state payroll: he’s a cupbearer. The cupbearer was an officer of high rank in the Egyptian, Persian and Assyrian empires. In those days, one of the best ways to get rid of a king was to poison him. So, to prevent a catastrophe from happening, the cupbearer would taste the wine before the king drank any of it. That way, if the wine had been poisoned, the cupbearer would die instead of the king. It was a very admirable, but risky, profession. Because of the constant fear of plots and intrigues, a person had to be regarded as thoroughly trustworthy to be a cupbearer. And because of the job’s close relationship to the king, it was often a position of great influence.

So, Nehemiah’s life was centered on serving and pleasing the king. Still, as a Jewish man living in exile, Nehemiah’s thoughts were on home. We know this because, at the very beginning of the book, we see Nehemiah asking about the state of Jerusalem, including the condition of those who remained.

The report was pretty grim: the survivors were seriously depressed, and the wall around Jerusalem was nothing but charred rubble. In other words, the most precious monuments of Nehemiah’s homeland had been completely destroyed, and many of his friends and family murdered. Making matters worse, Nehemiah was some 800 miles away when he got the news. The result? He wept and mourned, and fasted and prayed because he understood that there’s an intersection between God’s sovereignty and human responsibility. You see, God doesn’t need us to carry out his will. Really, he doesn’t. It’s not as if God is somehow handcuffed by our lack of participation. And yet, although God doesn’t need our participation, he honors it. In fact, the Bible reveals a God who loves to respond to his creation when they’re engaged in action. This is important to remember since we’re prone to move between one of two polar extremes.

To our right is the extreme that believes God is sovereign and doesn’t need our help. But this extreme generally leads to the wrong conclusion that since God is sovereign, we shouldn’t bother God with our petty little requests. Stated differently? God will do whatever he wants to do regardless of whether or not he’s asked. Now, if this had been Nehemiah’s theology he probably would have said in response to the news about Jerusalem something like, “Well, that stinks, but hey, don’t worry! God will fix things before too long. So, let’s just get back to business as usual here in Shushan. There’s no need to lose any sleep over it. God will act when he’s good and ready.” Now, it’s perfectly appropriate to think of God as being sovereign because, well …. he is. But, we blow it if we allow that kind of thinking to lead to a sense that our involvement is inconsequential. That’s called “fatalism,” or “determinism.” It’s not good theology.

On our left, however, is the other extreme that says that prayer, in and of itself, changes things. With that kind of mindset, we can get to the point of thinking that everything hinges on our prayers. If this had been Nehemiah’s theology, he probably would have said, “Oh, this is all our fault! If we’d only prayed harder Jerusalem wouldn’t be all messed up. But it’s not too late. We can fix this if we just pray hard enough. Then, God will do what we ask.” This kind of thinking leads to the conclusion that God is no longer sovereign, that we are, and that, somehow, our prayers coax God into doing something that he didn’t want to do in the first place. But now that we’ve gone and pestered him to death …. well, he’s gotta act. I believe in persistency, but this kind of thinking carries matters to an extreme. Nehemiah, on the other hand, regarded God as both utterly sovereign and willing to respond to human action.

We don’t have to read too many verses before we see that God responds to Nehemiah’s prayer, but it’s some three months later. And this is an important detail for all of us who expect God to instantly move mountains when we pray. Even if we cite scripture assuring us that God will answer our prayers, the Bible is replete with examples that God will, in fact, answer our prayers, but at a time and in a manner of his choosing. Prayer’s not some sort of magical incantation that produces instantaneous results. So, approximately three months after hearing the news of Jerusalem’s desperate circumstances, Nehemiah has an encounter with the king. In fact, the king is quite concerned about Nehemiah since, apparently, Nehemiah had some sort of hang-dog look on his face and was looking pretty down in the mouth. So, being sympathetic to Nehemiah’s situation, the king says, “How can I help you?” And what follows the king’s question is striking, maybe even profound, because rather than immediately answering the king, Nehemiah prayed.

So, here’s the picture. Nehemiah’s standing in front of the monarch of the strongest nation on the planet, and seated next to him is his wife, no less. Compounding matters is the fact that Nehemiah is absolutely terrified. He’s just standing there with cup in hand, eyes like saucers, knees knocking, hands shaking, palms sweating, heart racing, head throbbing and …….. he prays. I’m thinking it couldn’t have been a very long prayer. In fact, the king probably didn’t even see his lips move, or even notice the slight hesitation in Nehemiah’s response. It was just long enough for Nehemiah to call upon the God of the universe for help.

I can remember a time in elementary school when a comment would frequently show up on my report card – something along the lines of, “Randy needs to think before he speaks.” (Yeah, I know; it still plagues me) But Nehemiah does one better: he prays before he speaks. How many of us can say that? Too often, we think of prayer as some sort of scheduled time on the calendar to talk with God. But that’s not the model of prayer demonstrated by Nehemiah. Nehemiah shows us that God was often on his mind, and that no time was the wrong time to pray; no time was too short a time to pray. In other words, he didn’t need a long prayer to get God’s attention.

However, Nehemiah did more than just pray; he was ready to act. Nehemiah had asked the king for a leave of absence in order to go back to Jerusalem and personally oversee the rebuilding of the city of Jerusalem. Nehemiah even had the nerve to request that letters be written by the king so that he could show them to the various governors with whom he’d come into contact along the way so that he could travel freely. These letters would also secure the supplies necessary for the extreme makeover in Jerusalem. And the king’s response? “The king granted them to me because the good hand of my God was on me.” Ever feel the hand of God on you?

Do you see the intersection between human responsibility and God’s sovereignty? Nehemiah prayed because he knew that the remedy to his problem was completely beyond his control. Nehemiah prayed because he understood that his success depended on God’s hand being on him. But Nehemiah also understood that he was not inconsequential to the process. He didn’t just pray; he readied himself to personally participate in the rebuilding of Jerusalem. OK, but what does all this mean? Well, I think it means two things.

First, we must pray. Whatever our predicament, whatever our circumstances, we need God’s hand to be on us if we are to succeed. But secondly, we’ve got to do more than just pray. We’ve got to be willing to roll up our sleeves and participate in what we’re praying for. For instance, are you praying for your church? Wonderful, but are you capable of doing more? If not personally involving yourself in the church’s various ministries, are you able to write letters of encouragement to those who are? How about praying for growth in attendance at Sunday’s worship services? Again, that’s terrific, but when was the last time you invited a friend? We’ve got to commit ourselves to a high standard of prayer. But that doesn’t mean lengthy, flowery, King Jamesy prayer rants. Shorties will do, too. I mean look at Nehemiah. His prayer lasted maybe all of 1.9 seconds but it was effective, wasn’t it? But it was effective not only because it was said, but because Nehemiah was ready to do more than just pray. True worship always results in service.

A.W. Tozer was once approached by a preacher who complained that he needed more workers in order to maintain the various ministries at his church. Tozer disagreed: “You don’t need more workers.” “Oh, yes we do,” the preacher responded. “No, you don’t. What you need are more worshippers, because wherever there’s worshippers there’s workers. I’ve never met a true worshipper who was unwilling to work.”

So maybe a “short prayer” isn’t oxymoronic after all. Fact is, we may have the shortest prayer on record in the Bible and look what happened? But then again, maybe “answered prayer” is an oxymoron of sorts, since wishing has never been a substitute for prayer.

Grace,

Randy