In the beginning the Word already existed. The
Word was with God, and the Word was God. He existed in the beginning with God. God
created everything through him, and nothing was created except through him. The
Word gave life to everything that was created, and his life brought light to
everyone. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never
extinguish it …. So the Word became human and made his home among us. He was
full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory
of the Father’s one and only Son. (John 1:1-5; 14)
The heavy
door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open. In just a few strides, he
crossed the silent shop and opened the wooden shutters to a square shaft of
sunshine that pierced the darkness, painting a box of daylight on the dirt
floor. He looked around the carpentry shop. He stood for a moment in the refuge
of the little room that housed so many sweet memories. He balanced the hammer
in his hand. He ran his fingers across the sharp teeth of the saw. He stroked
the smoothly worn wood of the sawhorse. He had come to say good-bye. It was
time for him to leave. He had heard something that made him know it was time to
go. So he came one last time to smell the sawdust and the lumber.
Life was
peaceful here. Life was so . . . safe. It was here that he’d spent countless
hours of contentment. On this very dirt floor he had played here as a toddler
while his father worked. Here Joseph had taught him how to grip a hammer. And
on that workbench he had built his first chair. I wonder what he thought as he
took one last look around the room. Perhaps he stood for a moment at the
workbench looking at the tiny shadows cast by the chisel and the shavings.
Perhaps he listened as voices from the past filled the air: “Good job, Jesus;” “Joseph,
Jesus — come and eat!”; “Don’t worry sir; it’ll be finished on time. I’ll get
Jesus to help me.” I wonder if he hesitated. I wonder if his heart was torn. I
wonder if he rolled a nail between his thumb and fingers, anticipating the
pain.
It was in
the carpentry shop that he must have given birth to his thoughts. Concepts and
convictions had been woven together in this place to form the very fabric of
his future ministry. You can almost see the tools of the trade in his words as
he spoke. You can see the trueness of a plumb line as he called for moral
standards. You can hear the whistle of the plane as he pleads for religion to
shave away its unnecessary traditions. You can picture the snugness of a
dovetail as he demands loyalty in relationships. You can imagine him with a
pencil and a ledger as he urges honesty. It was here that his human hands
shaped the very wood that his divine hands had created. And it was here that his
body matured while his spirit waited for the right moment, the right day. And
now that day had arrived.
It must
have been difficult to leave. After all, life as a carpenter wasn’t bad. It
wasn’t bad at all. Business was good, the future was bright, and his work was
enjoyable. In Nazareth he was known only as Jesus, the son of Joseph. And you
can be sure he was respected in the community. He was good with his hands. He
had lots of friends. He was a favorite among the kids. He could tell a good
joke, and had a habit of filling the air with contagious laughter.
I wonder
if he wanted to stay. He could do a good job here in Nazareth. He could settle
down. He could raise a family. Be a civic leader, maybe? I wonder about these
things, because I know he’d already read the last chapter. He knew that the
feet that would step out of the safe shadow of the carpentry shop wouldn’t rest
until they’d been rammed through with a spike and placed on a Roman cross. He
didn’t have to go. He had a choice. He could have stayed. He could have kept
his mouth shut. He could have ignored the call, or at least postponed it. And
had he chosen to stay, who’d have known? Who’d have blamed him? Or, he could
have come back as a man in another era – when society wasn’t so volatile,
religion not so stale, and at a time when people would listen better. He could
have come back when crosses were out of style. Especially crosses made out of
wood.
But his
heart wouldn’t let him. If there was hesitation on the part of his humanity, it
was overcome by the compassion of his divinity. His divinity heard the voices.
His divinity heard the hopeless cries of the poor, the bitter accusations of
the abandoned, and the dangling despair of those who are trying to save
themselves. And his divinity saw the faces. Some wrinkled. Some weeping. Some
hidden behind veils. Some obscured by fear. Some earnest with searching. Some
blank with boredom. From the face of Adam to the face of the infant born
somewhere in the world this very minute, he saw them all.
And you
can be sure of one thing. Among the voices that found their way into that
carpentry shop in Nazareth was your voice; my voice. Your silent prayers
uttered on tear-stained pillows were heard before they were said. Our deepest
questions about death and eternity were answered before they were asked. And
our direst need, our need for a Savior, was met before we ever sinned. He left
because of you; he left because of me. He laid his security down with his
hammer. He hung tranquility on the peg with his nail apron. He closed the
window shutters on the sunshine of his youth, and locked the door on the
comfort and ease of anonymity. Since he could bear your sins more easily than
he could bear the thought of your hopelessness, he chose to leave. It wasn’t
easy. Leaving the carpentry shop never has been.
Many of
the names in the Bible that refer to our Lord are nothing less than palatial
and august: Son of God, the Lamb of God, the Light of the World, the Resurrection
and the Life, the Bright and Morning
Star, He that Should Come, and
the Alpha and Omega. They’re phrases
that stretch the very boundaries of human language in an effort to capture what
can't be captured: the grandeur of God. And try as they might to draw as near
as they may, they always fall short. Hearing them is like hearing a Salvation
Army Christmas band on the street corner playing Handel’s Messiah. Nice try,
but it really doesn’t work so well. The message is just too majestic for the
medium. And such it is with language. The phrase “There are no words to
express. . . ,” is really the only one that can honestly be applied to God. No
names do him justice.
But there
is one name which recalls a quality of the Master that bewildered and compelled
those who knew him. It reveals a side of him that, when recognized, is enough
to make you fall on your face. It’s not too small, but it’s not too grand. It’s
a name that fits like the shoe fit Cinderella’s foot. Jesus. In the gospels, it’s his most common name — used almost six
hundred times. And a common name it was. Jesus is the Greek form of Joshua,
Jeshua, and Jehoshua — all familiar Old Testament names. In fact, there were at
least five high priests known as Jesus.
The
writings of the historian Josephus refer to about twenty people called Jesus.
The New Testament speaks of Jesus Justus, the friend of Paul (Colossians 4:11),
and the Jewish sorcerer of Paphos was called Bar-Jesus. (Acts 13:6) Some
manuscripts give Jesus as the first name of Barabbas: “Which would you like me
to release to you — Jesus Barabbas or Jesus called the Messiah?” (Matthew
27:16-17) And not only was Barabbas's first name Jesus, but his last name,
Barabbas, means son (bar) of the father (abba). Jesus had always referred to himself as the Son of
the Father, but his adversaries had always refused to acknowledge that he was.
So, now there are two men named Jesus, each a "son of the father," but
of opposite fathers because Jesus was an innocent man about to be murdered, and
Barabbas was a murderer about to be set free. Interesting that, by
“coincidence,” the people’s choice between God and the devil was being
reflected back at them by the magnifying glass of circumstance.
Jesus
could have been a “Joe.” If Jesus came today, his name might have been John or
Bob or Jim. Were he here today, it’s doubtful he would distance himself with a
lofty name like His Reverend Holiness
Angelic Divinity III. No, when God chose the name his son would carry, he
chose a human name. He chose a name so typical that it would appear two or
three times on any given kindergarten class roll. “The Word became flesh,” in
other words. He was touchable, approachable and reachable. And, what’s more, he
was “ordinary.” In fact, if he were here today, you probably wouldn’t notice
him as he walked through Westfield’s North
County Fair. He wouldn’t turn heads by the clothes he wore, or the jewelry
he flashed. In fact, according to the prophet Isaiah, Jesus was . . . well . .
. unattractive. (Isaiah 52:14 – 53:3)
“Just call
me Jesus,” you can almost hear him say. He was the kind of fellow you’d invite
to watch the Padres-Dodgers game at your house. He’d wrestle on the floor with
your kids, doze on your couch, and cook steaks on your grill. He’d laugh at
your jokes, and tell a few of his own. And when you spoke, he’d listen to you
as if he had all the time in eternity. And one thing’s for sure – you’d invite
him back. It’s worth noting that those who knew him best remembered him as
Jesus. The titles Jesus Christ and Lord Jesus are seen only six times.
Those who walked with him remembered him not with a title or designation, but
with a name — Jesus.
And just think
about the implications of that. When God chose to reveal himself to mankind,
what medium did he use? A book? No, that was secondary. A church? No, that was
consequential. A moral code? No, because to limit God’s revelation to a cold
list of do’s and don’ts is as tragic as looking at a California road map and
saying you’ve seen Yosemite. When God chose to reveal himself, he did so
through a human body. The tongue that called forth the dead was a human one.
The hand that touched the leper had dirt under its nails. The feet upon which
the woman wept were callused and dusty. And his tears, don’t miss the tears, they
came from a face less fortunate, but from a heart as broken as yours or mine has
ever been. “For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our
weaknesses.” (Heb. 4:15)
So, people
came to him. Oh, how they came to him! They came at night; they touched him as
he walked down the street; they followed him around the sea; they invited him
into their homes, and placed their children at his feet. Why? Because he
refused to be a statue in a cathedral, or a preacher in an elevated pulpit. He
chose, instead, to be Jesus.
There’s not
a hint of one person who was afraid to draw near him. Oh, there were those who
mocked him, and there were those who were envious of him. There were those who
misunderstood him, and there were those who revered him. But there was not one
person who considered him too holy, too divine, or too celestial to touch. There was not one person who was reluctant
to approach him for fear of being neglected. Remember that. Remember
that the next time you find yourself amazed at your own failures. Or the next
time acidic accusations burn holes in your soul. Remember that the next time
you see a cold cathedral, or hear a lifeless sermon. Remember. It’s man who
creates the distance. It’s Jesus who builds the bridge.
His name
is Jesus. Give him a call.
Grace,
Randy
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