Home-coming

Home-coming
Home-coming - Audio/visual 

But when the time arrived that was set by God the Father, God sent his Son, born among us of a woman, born under the conditions of the law so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage. You can tell for sure that you are now fully adopted as his own children because God sent the Spirit of his Son into our lives crying out, “Papa! Father!” Doesn’t that privilege of intimate conversation with God make it plain that you are not a slave, but a child? And if you are a child, you’re also an heir, with complete access to the inheritance. (Gal. 4:4-7)

Search the faces of the local Haitian children’s home for a little girl named Angelique. Study the fifty-seven dark-skinned, bright-eyed, curly-haired, Creole-speaking, fun-loving children for a unique seven-year-old girl. At first glance, she doesn’t look much different than the others – she eats the same rice and beans, and plays on the same grassless playground. She sleeps beneath a tin roof, like all the other girls, and hears the nearly nightly pounding of the tropical rain. However, although she may appear to be the same, don't be fooled. She lives in a different world – a world called, “Home-coming.”

See the slender girl wearing the pink shirt? The girl with the prominent cheekbones, bushy hair and a handful of photos? Ask to see the pictures, and Angelique will let you. Fail to ask her and she’ll show you the snapshots anyway. The photos bear the images of her future family. She's been adopted, and the pictures remind her of her home – coming. Within a month, maybe two at the most, she'll be there. She knows the day is coming, and every opening of the gate jump-starts her heart. Any day now her father will appear. He promised he'd be back. He came once to claim her, and he'll come again to carry her home. Until then she lives with a heart waiting for her homecoming. Shouldn't we all?

Our Father paid us a visit, too. Haven’t we been claimed? Adopted? "So you should not be like cowering, fearful slaves. You should behave instead like God's very own children, adopted into his family – calling him 'Father, dear Father.'" (Rom. 8:15) God searched you out. Before you knew you were orphaned by sin, he'd already filed the paperwork and selected the wallpaper for your room. "For God knew his people in advance, and he chose them to become like his Son, so that his Son would be the firstborn, with many brothers and sisters." (Rom. 8:29) Abandon you to a fatherless world? Not a chance. Those privy to God's family Bible can read your name because he wrote it there. What's more, he covered the adoption fees. Neither you nor Angelique can pay your way out of the orphanage, so “God sent his Son, born among us of a woman, born under the conditions of the law so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage.” (Gal. 4:5) In other words, we don't finance our adoption. But we do have to accept it.

Granted, Angelique could tell her prospective parents to get lost. But she hasn't. And in the same way, you could tell God to get lost, too. But why would you? The moment we accept his offer we go from orphans to heirs – “Heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ." (Rom. 8:17) Heirs. Heaven knows no stepchildren or grandchildren. Just children. You and Christ share the same Will. What he inherits, you inherit. You’re headed home. But sometimes we forget that fact.

We grow a little too accustomed to the hard bunks and tin plates of the orphanage. Seldom do we peer over the fence into the world to come. And how long has it been since you showed someone your pictures? Is Peter talking to you when he urges, "Friends, this world is not your home, so don't make yourselves cozy in it"? (1 Pet. 2:11) We’ve been adopted, we just haven’t been transported yet. We have a new family, but not our heavenly house. We know our Father's name, but we haven't seen his face. He’s claimed us, but has not yet to come for us.

So here we are. Caught between what is and what will be. No longer orphans, but not home yet, either. So, what do we do in the meantime? Frankly, sometimes it’s just that – a mean time. Time made mean with chemotherapy, drivers driving with more beer than brains in their bodies, and backstabbers who make life on earth feel like a time-share in Afghanistan. So, how do we live in the meantime? How do we keep our hearts headed home? Paul weighs in with this suggestion: “And even we Christians, although we have the Holy Spirit within us as a foretaste of future glory, also groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children, including the new bodies he has promised us. Now that we are saved, we eagerly look forward to this freedom. For if you already have something, you don't need to hope for it. But if we look forward to something we don't have yet, we must wait patiently and confidently.” (Rom. 8:23-25)

Interesting that Paul calls the Holy Spirit a “foretaste” – “We have the Holy Spirit . . . as a foretaste of future glory." (v. 23) No person with a healthy appetite needs a definition for that word. I’ve had a few foretastes, haven’t you? For instance, this Thanksgiving, I was in the kitchen sniffing around the dinner trimmings – just like my big, yellow Labrador, True, sniffs around the kitchen island for a treat. And then when my wife wasn’t looking, I snatched a foretaste – a morsel of turkey, or a bit of stuffing. Pre-dinner snacks stir our appetites for the table, right? Well, samplings from heaven's kitchen do the same.

There are moments, perhaps too few, when time evaporates and heaven hands you an hors d'oeuvre. For instance, your newborn has just passed from restlessness to rest. Beneath the amber light of a midnight moon, you trace a soft finger across tiny, sleeping eyes and wonder, “God gave you to me?” A pre-libation from heaven's winery. Or, you're lost in the work you love to do – work you were just made to do. And as you step back from the moist canvas, or hoed garden, or rebuilt V-eight engine, satisfaction flows within you like a long drink of cool water, and the angel asks, "Another aperitif?" Or maybe the lyrics to the hymn say what you couldn't but wanted to. And for a moment, a glorious moment, there are no wars, no wounds, or tax returns. Just you, God, and a silent assurance that everything is right with the world. Rather than dismiss or disregard such moments as good luck, or coincidence, relish them instead. They can attune you to heaven. The tough ones can, too.

"[We] also groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children, including the new bodies he has promised us." (v. 23) Do you think Angelique groans? Orphans tend to do that because they live lonely lives. Seeing a child with a mother and father, they groan. They see a house and think of their bunk and they groan. When they wonder what happened to their biological parents, wouldn't they? Of course they would.

But Angelique's groans are numbered. Every cafeteria meal brings her closer to home cooking, and each dormitory night carries her closer to a room of her own. And every time she longs to call someone mama, she remembers that she soon will. Her struggles stir longings for home. So, let your bursitis-plagued body remind you of your eternal one; let acid-inducing days prompt thoughts of unending peace. Are you falsely accused? Acquainted with abuse? Mudslinging is a part of this life, but not the next. And rather than begrudging life's troubles, listen to them. Certain moments are so hideous that nothing else will do.

In 1992, a Time magazine essay entitled Corridors of Agony escorted readers into the ugly world of abused children. There, we met Antwan, age ten, puppet-stringed to neighborhood bullies and drug peddlers. They demanded his presence; he feared their punishment. When police appeared, the troublemakers stashed their drugs in his socks, thinking the boy wouldn't be searched. Tragically, Antwan knew the police better than he knew his teachers. What hope does a boy like Antwan have?

The writer then took us to his sparse apartment. His mother, Syrita, owned one light bulb. When she left the kitchen, she carried the lone bulb into the living room. As she screwed it into the lamp, the dim glow illuminated a poster on a far wall of a young black boy crying. The caption above read, "He will wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor pain. All of that has gone forever." (Rev. 21:4)

Write checks of hope on that promise. Don’t bemoan time passing; applaud it. The more you drink from God's well, the more you urge the clock to tick. Every bump of the second hand brings you closer to a completed adoption. As Paul writes, "We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children." (Rom. 8:23)

There was a time, long ago, when my kids celebrated my arrival home. They’d hear the car and scamper to the window, pressing noses and hands against the windowpane next to the front door. And as I pulled into the drive, I could see them jumping inside the house. You'd think someone had switched their M&M's for coffee beans. No returning Caesar ever felt more welcomed. And as I opened the door, they tackled my knees and flooded the entryway with a tsunami-sized joy. Their dad was home.

It's been too long since I searched for God that way. Too seldom do I hear the thunder and think, “Is that God?” I've let days pass without even so much as a glance to the eastern sky. Let's do better. "Let heaven fill your thoughts. Do not think only about things down here on earth." (Col. 3:2) How about regular ladle dips into the well of God's return? Don't you know Angelique's home-coming dominates her thoughts? The pictures – can she see them and not think of it? Blessings and burdens. Both can alarm-clock us out of a slumber. Gifts stir homeward longings. So do struggles. Every homeless day carries us closer to the day our Father will come to take us home.

Home-coming – what a coming home that will be.

Grace,

Randy

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving - Audio/Visual 

Then the frightened woman, trembling at the realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:33-34)

A clock for Christmas is really not the kind of gift that thrills an eight-year-old, but I said thank you and took it to my bedroom anyway. I put it on the nightstand and plugged it in. It was one of those rectangular-faced G.E. types. It didn't have moving numbers – it had rotating hands, instead. It didn't play music either, but over the years it did develop a slight, soothing hum that you could hear when the room was quiet.

Today, of course, you can buy clocks that sound like rain when it's time to sleep, or like your mother when it's time to wake up. But not this one. The alarm would’ve made the dogs howl. And forget a snooze button – you just picked it up and chucked it across the room. It probably wouldn't net 50¢ at a garage sale in today’s age of digital clocks and musical alarms. But still, over time, I kind of grew attached to it. Granted, people don't usually get sentimental about cheap, electric clocks, but for some reason I did about this one. Not because of its accuracy, because it ran a little slow. Not even the hum, which I didn't particularly mind. I liked it because of the light.

You see, this clock’s hands glowed in the dark. All day, every day it soaked up the light; it sponged up the sun. The hands were little sticks of ticks-and-time and sunshine. And when the night came, the clock was ready. When you flicked off the light to sleep, the little clock flicked on its light and shined. Not much light, mind you. But when your world is dark, just a little light seems like a lot. Kind of like the light a woman got when she met Jesus.

We don't know her name, but we know about her situation. Her world was midnight black – the grope-in-the-dark-and-hope-for-help kind of black. Read the following two verses and you’ll see for yourself: “A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse.” (Mark 5:24-26)

Can you imagine? "Bleeding for twelve years;" "suffered very much;" "spent all the money she had," and "getting worse." A chronic, perpetual bleeding disorder. That kind of condition would be horrible for any woman of any era, but for a Jewess? Nothing could be worse, because no part of her life was left unaffected. Sexually, she couldn’t touch her husband. Maternally, she couldn’t bear children. Domestically, anything she touched was considered unclean. And spiritually, she couldn’t even go to church. She was physically exhausted and socially ostracized. Granted, she had sought help "under the care of many doctors," but the only thing those doctors had managed to do was to leave her worse-off and her wallet lighter. Maybe she even went outside conventional medicine. For instance, the Talmud gives no fewer than eleven cures for her condition, and she had probably tried them all. Some were probably legitimate treatments. Others, such as carrying the ashes of an ostrich egg in a linen cloth, were just empty superstitions.

She "had spent all she had." To dump financial strain on top of physical strain is adding insult to injury. A client battling cancer once told me that the pressure of creditors hounding him for payment in connection with his ongoing medical care was just as devastating as the pain that came with the disease itself. Making matters worse for this particular woman, "instead of getting better she grew worse." In other words, she may have been hounded by creditors for medical treatments that proved completely worthless. She woke up every day in a body that no one wanted. And by the time we get to her story, she’s down to her last prayer. And on the particular day that we encounter her, she's about to pray it.

However, by the time she gets to Jesus, he’s surrounded by people. He's on his way to help the daughter of Jairus, the most important man in her community. So, what are the odds that he will interrupt an urgent mission with a high-ranking official to help the likes of her? Pretty long. But what are the odds that she’ll survive if she doesn't take a chance? Longer still. So she takes a chance: "If I can just touch his clothes," she thinks, "I will be healed." (v. 28) Risky decision. To touch him, she would have to touch the other people that were surrounding him. And if one of them were to recognize her it’d be “hello rebuke,” and “good-bye cure.” But what choice did she have? At this point she has no money, no friends and no solutions. All she has is a crazy hunch that Jesus can help, and a hope that he will.

And maybe that's all you have, too: just a crazy hunch and a high hope. You have nothing to give but you’re hurting, and all you have to offer Jesus is your hurt. Maybe that’s kept you from coming to God. Oh, you've taken a step or two in his direction, but then you saw the other people around him. They seemed so clean, so neat, so trim and fit in their faith. And when you saw them, they blocked your view of God. So you stepped back. And if that describes you, then take heart because note carefully that only one person was commended that day for having faith – and it wasn't a wealthy giver. It wasn't a loyal follower, or even an acclaimed teacher. It was a shame-struck, penniless outcast who clutched onto her hunch that Jesus could help, and her hope that he would. That, by the way, isn’t a bad definition of faith: a conviction that he can, and a hope that he will. Sounds similar to the definition of faith given by the Bible: "Without faith no one can please God. Anyone who comes to God must believe that he is real and that he rewards those who truly want to find him." (Heb. 11:6)

That’s not too complicated, is it? Faith is the belief that God is real and that God is good. Faith is not some mystical, out-of-body experience, or a midnight vision, or a voice in the forest. It’s a choice to believe that the one who made it all hasn't left it all, and that he still sends light into the shadows and responds to even the simplest gestures of faith. There was no guarantee, of course. She hoped Jesus would respond . . . she longed for it . . . but she didn't know if he would. All she knew was that he was there and that he was good. That's faith.

Faith is not the belief that God will do what you want. Faith is the belief that God will do what is right. "Blessed are the dirt-poor, nothing-to-give, trapped-in-a-corner, destitute, and diseased," Jesus said, "for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." (Matt. 5:6 – my translation) God's economy is upside down to our way of thinking because God says that the more hopeless your circumstance, the more likely your salvation. The greater your cares, the more genuine your prayers. The darker the room, the greater the need for light. Which takes me back to my clock. When it was daylight, I never appreciated my little clock’s capacity to glow in the dark. But as the shadows grew, so did my gratitude.

Similarly, a healthy woman would never have appreciated the power of a touch of the hem of his robe. But this woman was sick, and when her dilemma met his dedication, a miracle occurred. Note, too, that her part in the healing was pretty small – all she did was extend her arm through the crowd: "If only I can touch him," she thought. But what's important to remember is that it’s not the form or type of effort, but that the effort was made in the first place. The fact is, she did something. She refused to settle for sickness another day and resolved to make a move. Healing begins when we do something. Healing begins when we reach out. Healing starts when we take a step. God's help is near and always available, but it’s only given to those who seek it. Nothing results from apathy.

The great work in this story is the healing that occurred. But the great truth is that the healing began with her touch. And with that small, courageous gesture, she experienced Jesus' tender power. Compared to God's part, our part is minuscule but necessary. We don't have to do much, but we do have to do something like asking for forgiveness, confessing a sin, calling Mom, visiting a doctor, being baptized, feeding a hungry person, praying, teaching, going. Do something that demonstrates faith, because faith with no effort is no faith at all. Have faith that God will respond. He has never rejected a genuine gesture of faith. Never. God honors radical, risk-taking faith. When arks are built, lives are saved. When soldiers march, Jericho’s tumble. When staffs are raised, seas still open. When a lunch is shared, thousands are fed. And when a garment is touched, whether by the hand of an anemic woman in Galilee, or by the prayers of a beggar in Bangladesh, Jesus stops. He stops and responds.

Mark assures you of that because when this woman touched Christ, two things happened that happen nowhere else in the Bible and Mark recorded them both. First, Jesus heals her before he knows it. The power left automatically and instantaneously. It's as if the Father short-circuited the system and the divinity of Christ was a step ahead of the humanity of Christ. Her need summoned his help. No neon lights or loud shouts. No razzle-dazzle. No fanfare. No hoopla. No splash. Just help. Just like my dark room brought the light out of my clock, our dark world brings out the light of God. And second, Jesus calls her “daughter” – “Daughter, your faith has made you well." (v. 34) It's the only time Jesus calls any woman – anywhere – “daughter.” God’s daughter. Just imagine how that made her feel because who could remember the last time she’d received any term of affection, or knew the last time kind eyes had met hers? It’d probably been a decade or more. To the loved, a word of affection is just a morsel, but to the love-starved, a word of affection can be a feast. And Jesus gave this woman a banquet.

Tradition holds that, in thankfulness, she never forgot what Jesus did. Legend states that she stayed with Jesus and followed him as he carried his cross up to Calvary. Some believe she was Veronica, the woman who, according to Catholic tradition, walked the road to Golgotha with him. And when the sweat and blood were stinging his eyes, she wiped his forehead. We don't know if the legend or traditions are true, but they could be. And I don't know if the same has happened to you, but I know that it can – and then be thankful when it does.

Grace,

Randy

Unfinished

Unfinished
Unfinished - Audio/Visual 

God began doing a good work in you, and I am sure he will continue it until it is finished when Jesus Christ comes again. (Philippians 1:6).

The hallway is eerily silent except for the squeaky wheels of the mop bucket and the shuffling of the old man’s feet. Both sound tired, and both know these floors. “How many nights have I cleaned these floors,” Rick mumbles. He’s always careful to get in the corners, though. Always careful to set up his yellow caution sign warning of the wet floors – even though no one’s around. Always chuckling. “Be careful everyone,” he says to no one in particular. It’s 3:00 a.m.

Rick’s health isn’t what it used to be. Acid reflux keeps him awake, and rheumatoid arthritis makes him limp. His hair’s falling out of his head at the same rate as other hair is sprouting up in places where hair shouldn’t be growing. His glasses are so thick his eyeballs look twice their size. But he does his work. Slopping soapy water on the pristine travertine tile. Scrubbing the heel marks left by the well-heeled lawyers of Bicker, Back & Forth.

And he’ll be finished long before quitting time. He always finishes early – has for twenty years. And when he’s finished, he’ll put away his mop and bucket and take a seat outside the office of the senior partner and wait. Never leaves early. Oh, he could alright – no one would ever know. But he doesn’t. He broke the rules once. Never again. And sometimes, if the door’s open, he’ll enter the partner’s palatial office. But not for long; just to look. The office suite is larger than his entire apartment. He runs his finger over the desk, and strokes the soft leather couch. He stands at the window and watches as the gray sky turns to gold. And he remembers: he had an office like that once.

But that was back in the day. Back when Rick was Richard. Back when this custodian was an executive. Back when …. Well, it seems centuries ago now. Long before the night shift. Long before the mop bucket. Long before the janitor’s uniform. Long before the scandal. But Rick doesn’t think about it much anymore. No reason to, really. He got into trouble, got fired and got out. That’s it. Not many people know about it. It’s better that way. There’s no need to tell them. It’s just his little secret. Rick’s story, by the way, is true. The names and a detail or two have been changed to protect the innocent. He’s in a different job in a different century. But the story is factual. But more than a true story, it’s a common story. It’s a story of a derailed dream. It’s a story of high hopes colliding with harsh realities. It happens to all us dreamers.

In Rick’s case, it was a mistake he’d never forget. A grave mistake. A capital offense kind of mistake. You see, Rick killed someone. He saw a thug beating up on an innocent man, and Rick lost control. He killed the mugger. And when word got out, Rick got out. Rick would rather hide than go to jail. So he ran. And in the process, the executive became a fugitive. True story. Granted, most stories aren’t quite as extreme as Rick’s. Few spend their lives running from the law. But many of us live with regrets. For instance, I met a young man on the fourth tee several years ago. “I could have gone to college on a golf scholarship,” he said. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah, had an offer right out of school. But I decided to join a grunge band, instead. Ended up never going college. Now I’m stuck fixing garage doors.”

“Now I’m stuck.” Now, there’s an epitaph. An epitaph of a derailed dream. Pick up a high school yearbook and read the “What are you going to do after you graduate?” section. Chances are you’ll get dizzy breathing the thin air of mountaintop visions: “I’m going to an Ivy league school,” one says. “Write books and live in Switzerland,” says another “I’m going to be a doctor in a third world country,” she writes. “Teach inner-city kids,” he said. But, take that same yearbook to your 20^th reunion and see the next chapter. Some dreams have come true, but many haven’t. Not that all of them should, mind you. For instance, I hope the little guy who dreamed of playing professional basketball came to his senses. But then again, I hope he didn’t lose his passion in the process. You see, changing direction in life is not tragic. Losing your passion is.

It seems like something happens to us along the way. Convictions to change the world morph into commitments to pay the bills. Rather than making a difference, we make a living. Instead of looking forward, we look backward. Rather than looking outward, we look inward. And sometimes we don’t like what we see. Rick didn’t. Rick saw a man who’d settled for mediocrity. Educated in the finest institutions in the world, and now working the night shift at a minimum-wage job so he wouldn’t be seen during the day. But all that changed when he heard the voice.

At first he thought the voice was a joke. Some of the fellows on the third floor play those kinds of tricks every once in awhile. “Richard, Richard,” the voice called. Rick turned. No one called him Richard anymore. “Richard, Richard.” He turned toward the pail and it was glowing. Bright red. Hot red. He could feel the heat ten feet away. He stepped closer and looked in, but the water wasn’t boiling. “That’s strange,” Rick mumbled to himself as he took another step to get a closer look. But then the voice stopped him. “Don’t come any closer, Richard. Take your shoes off. You’re on holy tile.” Suddenly, Rick knew exactly who was speaking. “Yes, Lord,” he said. Okay, God speaking from a hot mop bucket to a janitor named Rick? Really? Alright, but would it be more believable if I said God was speaking from a burning bush to a goat roper named Moses?

“One day Moses was taking care of Jethro’s flock.  (Jethro was the priest of Midian and also Moses’ father-in-law.)  When Moses led the flock to the west side of the desert, he came to Sinai, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in flames of fire coming out of a bush. Moses saw that the bush was on fire, but it was not burning up. So he said, ‘I will go closer to this strange thing.  How can a bush continue burning without burning up?’ When the Lord saw Moses was coming to look at the bush, God called to him from the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And Moses said, ‘Here I am.’ Then God said, ‘Do not come any closer.  Take off your sandals, because you are standing on holy ground.  I am the God of your ancestors – the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ The Lord said … ‘I have heard the cries of the people of Israel, and I have seen the way the Egyptians have made life hard for them.  So now I am sending you to the king of Egypt.  Go!  Bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt!’” (Exodus 3:1-6, 9-10)

Maybe the Moses story is easier to handle because we’ve heard it before. But just because it’s Moses and a bush, rather than Rick and a bucket, it’s no less spectacular, is it? It shocked the sandals off of Moses. And we wonder what amazed the old guy more: that God spoke in a bush, or that God spoke at all because Moses, like Rick, had made a mistake. A BIG mistake.

You remember the story, don’t you? He was adopted nobility. An Israelite reared in an Egyptian palace. His countrymen were slaves, but Moses was privileged. He ate at the royal table. He was educated in the finest schools. Funny thing is that his most influential teacher had no degree at all. She was his mother – a Jewess hired to be his nanny. “Moses,” you can almost hear her whisper to her young son. “God has put you here for a reason. Someday, you’ll set our people free. Never forget, my son. Never forget.” And Moses didn’t. The flame of justice grew hotter until it blazed. Moses saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave. And just like Rick killed the mugger, Moses killed the Egyptian and then buried him. The next day Moses saw the slave. Now, you’d think he would have said, “Thanks.” But he didn’t. Rather than gratitude, he was angry. “Are you going to kill me, too?” he asked. And Moses knew right then that he was in trouble. So, he fled Egypt and hid in the wilderness. Call it a career change. He went from dining with heads of state to counting the heads of sheep.

Now, Moses thought the move was permanent – there’s no indication he ever intended to go back to Egypt. In fact, there is every indication he wanted to stay with the sheep. Standing barefoot before the bush, he confessed, “I am not a great man! How can I go to the king and lead the Israelites out of Egypt?” (Exodus 3:11). And I’m glad Moses asked that question. It’s a pretty good one, I think. Yeah, why Moses? Better yet, why eighty-year-old Moses? The forty-year-old version was way more appealing. The Moses we saw in Egypt was brash and confident. But the Moses we find some four decades later is reluctant and weather-beaten. Had you or I looked at Moses back in Egypt, we would’ve said, “This guy’s ready to rumble.” Trained by the ablest soldiers. Instant access to the inner circle of the Pharaoh. Moses spoke their language and knew their habits. He was the perfect man for the job.

The Moses at forty we like. But the Moses at eighty? Not much. He’s too old. He’s too tired. He smells like a shepherd. He speaks like a foreigner. What impact could Moses possibly have on Pharaoh? He’s the wrong guy for the job. And even Moses would have agreed. “Tried that once before,” he’d say. “Those people don’t want to be helped. Just leave me here to tend my sheep, God. They’re a whole lot easier to lead.” Yep, Moses wouldn’t have gone. And you wouldn’t have sent him, right? I know I wouldn’t have sent him. But God did. Go figure. Benched at forty and suited up at eighty. Why? What does he know now that he didn’t know then? What did he learn in the desert that he didn’t learn in Egypt?

Well, the ways of the desert, for one. Forty-year-old Moses was a city boy. Octogenarian Moses knows the name of every snake, and the location of every watering hole. If he’s going to lead thousands, perhaps millions, of Hebrews away from Egypt and into the wilderness, he’d better know the basics of Desert Life 101. And family dynamics, for another. I mean, if he’s going to be traveling with hundreds or thousands of families for forty years, it might help just a little bit to understand how families work, don’t you think? And by this time, he’s been married a long time to a woman of faith, the daughter of a Midianite priest, and has kids of his own.

But more than the ways of the desert and the people, Moses needed to learn something about himself. And apparently he’d learned it because God said that Moses was ready. And to convince him, God spoke to him through a bush. (God had to do something drastic to get his attention) ”School’s out,” God told him. “Now, get to work.” Poor Moses. He didn’t even know he was enrolled, much less a graduate.

But he was. And, guess what? So are we. The voice from the bush is the voice that whispers to each of us. It reminds us that God’s not finished with us yet. Oh, we may think he is. We may think we’ve peaked out. We may think he’s got someone else to do the job. But if we’re thinking that, we need to think again because we’re all unfinished. “God began doing a good work in you, and I am sure he will continue it until it is finished when Jesus Christ comes again.” (Philippians 1:6) Do you see what God is doing? He’s doing a good work in you. (Present tense) And do you see when he’ll be finished? When Jesus comes again. (Future tense) In other words, we’re all unfinished.

Your Father wants you to know that you’re a work in progress. Your present hasn’t met your ultimate future. And to convince you, he may just surprise you. He works that way, you know. He may speak through a bush. He could even speak through a bucket. The question is, are you listening?

Grace,

Randy

Difficulties

Difficulties
Difficulties - Audio/Visual 

The time eventually came when there was no food anywhere. The famine was very bad. Egypt and Canaan alike were devastated by the famine. Joseph collected all the money that was to be found in Egypt and Canaan to pay for the distribution of food. He banked the money in Pharaoh’s palace. When the money from Egypt and Canaan had run out, the Egyptians came to Joseph. “Food! Give us food! Are you going to watch us die right in front of you? The money is all gone.” Joseph said, “Bring your livestock. I’ll trade you food for livestock since your money’s run out.” So they brought Joseph their livestock. He traded them food for their horses, sheep, cattle, and donkeys. He got them through that year in exchange for all their livestock. When that year was over, the next year rolled around and they were back, saying, “Master, it’s no secret to you that we’re broke: our money’s gone and we’ve traded you all our livestock. We’ve nothing left to barter with but our bodies and our farms. What use are our bodies and our land if we stand here and starve to death right in front of you? Trade us food for our bodies and our land. We’ll be slaves to Pharaoh and give up our land — all we ask is seed for survival, just enough to live on and keep the farms alive.” So Joseph bought up all the farms in Egypt for Pharaoh. Every Egyptian sold his land — the famine was that bad. That’s how Pharaoh ended up owning all the land and the people ended up slaves…. (Genesis 47:13-21)

Who can forget 9/11, or Pearl Harbor, or the Titanic? Calamities and difficulties can leave us off balance, bewildered and confused. So, consider the difficulties of Joseph's generation. "The time eventually came when there was no food anywhere. The famine was very bad. Egypt and Canaan alike were devastated by the famine." (Gen. 47:13) During the time Joseph was struggling to reconcile with his brothers, he was also navigating an international catastrophe.

It had been two years since the last drop of rain. The sky was endlessly blue. The sun relentlessly hot. Animal carcasses littered the ground, and no hope appeared on the horizon. The land was a dust bowl. No rain meant no farming. No farming meant no food. When people appealed to Pharaoh for help, he said, "Go to Joseph; whatever he says to you, do." (41:55) Joseph faced a calamity of global proportions. Yet, contrast the description of the problem with the outcome. Years passed, and the people told Joseph, "‘You’ve saved our lives! Master, we’re grateful and glad to be slaves to Pharaoh.’" (47:25) The people remained calm. A society that was ripe for anarchy actually thanked the government rather than attacking it. Makes a person wonder if Joseph ever taught a course in crisis management.

If he did, he probably included the words he told his brothers: "God sent me before you to preserve life. For these two years the famine has been in the land, and there are still five years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvesting. And God sent me before you to keep you and your families alive, and to preserve many survivors." (45:5-7) Joseph began and ended his problem assessment with references to God. God preceded the famine. God would outlive the famine. God was all over the famine. "God . . . famine . . . God." So, how would you describe your difficulties? "The economy . . . the economy . . . the economy." "Unemployment . . . Unemployment . . . Unemployment." "Divorce . . . Divorce . . . Divorce."

Do you recite your woes more naturally than you do heaven's strength? If so, no wonder life’s tough. You're assuming God isn't in the difficult circumstance. But he is. Even a famine was fair game for God's purpose. Consider Isabel, for instance. She spent the first three and a half years of her life in a Nicaraguan orphanage. No mother, no father. No promise of either. As with all orphans, odds of adoption diminish with time, and every passing month decreased Isabel's chance of being placed in a home. And then a door slammed on her finger.

She was following the other children into the yard to play when a screen door closed on her hand. Pain shot up her arm, and her scream echoed across the playground. Why would God let that happen? Why would a benevolent, omnipotent God permit an innocent, little girl – with more than her share of difficulties – to feel more pain? Maybe he was calling for the attention of Ryan Schnoke, the American would-be father who was sitting in the playroom nearby. He and his wife, Cristina, had been trying to adopt a child for months. No other adult was around to help Isabel, so Ryan walked over, picked her up, and comforted her. Several months later, when Ryan and Cristina were close to giving up, Ryan remembered Isabel and resolved to try one more time. This time the adoption succeeded, and little Isabel is now growing up in a happy, healthy home.

A finger in the door? God doesn't manufacture pain, but he certainly puts it to use. "God . . . is the blessed controller of all things." (1 Tim. 6:15) His ways are higher than ours. (Isa. 55:9) His judgments are unsearchable, and his paths are beyond tracing out. (Rom. 11:33) We can't always see what God is doing, but can't we assume he’s up to something good? Joseph did. He assumed God was in the difficulties. Then he faced the difficulties with a plan. He collected grain during the good years and redistributed it during the bad years. When the people ran out of food, he gave it to them in exchange for money, livestock, and property. After he stabilized the economy, he gave the people a lesson in money management. "Give one-fifth to Pharaoh, and use the rest for farming and eating." (Gen. 47:24 - paraphrase).

The plan could fit on an index card. "Save for seven years. Distribute for seven years. Manage carefully." Could his response have been simpler? But could it have been more boring? Some flamboyance would have been nice, don’t you think? A little bit of Jericho's walls tumbling, or a dead man walking, like Lazarus. A dramatic crisis requires a dramatic response, right? Not always.

We equate spirituality with high drama: Paul raising the dead, Peter healing the sick. Yet for every Paul and Peter, there are a dozen Josephs. Men and women blessed with skills of administration. Steady hands through whom God saves people. Consider that Joseph never raised the dead, but he kept people from dying. He never healed the sick, but he kept sickness from spreading. He made a plan and stuck with it. And because he did, the nation survived. He triumphed with a calm, methodical plan.

In the days leading up to the war with Germany, the British government commissioned a series of posters. The idea was to capture encouraging slogans on paper and distribute them about the country. Capital letters in a distinct typeface were used, and a simple two-color format was selected. The only graphic was the crown of King George VI. The first poster was distributed in September of 1939:

YOUR COURAGE

YOUR CHEERFULNESS

YOUR RESOLUTION

WILL BRING

US VICTORY

Soon thereafter a second poster was produced:

FREEDOM IS

IN PERIL

DEFEND IT

WITH ALL

YOUR MIGHT

 These two posters appeared up and down the British countryside – on railroad platforms and in pubs, stores and restaurants. They were everywhere. A third poster was actually created but it was never distributed. More than 2.5 million copies were printed, yet the first such poster wasn’t seen until nearly sixty years later when a bookstore owner in northeast England discovered one in a box of old books he had purchased at an auction. It read:

KEEP

CALM

AND

CARRY

ON.

 The poster bore the same crown and style of the first two posters. It was never released to the public, however, but had been held in reserve for an extreme crisis, such as an invasion by Germany. The bookstore owner framed it and hung it on the wall. It became so popular that the bookstore began producing identical images of the original design on coffee mugs, postcards and posters. Everyone, it seems, appreciated the reminder from another generation to keep calm and carry on.

Of all the Bible heroes, Joseph is the one most likely to have hung a copy on his office wall. He indwelt the world of ledgers, flowcharts, end-of-the-year reports, tabulations and calculations. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. He kept a cool head and carried on. And you can do the same.

 You can't control the weather. You aren't in charge of the economy. You can't undo the tsunami or unwreck the car, but you can map out a strategy. Remember, God is in the difficulties. Ask him to give you an index card-sized plan, and a couple of steps you can take today. Seek counsel from someone who has faced a similar challenge. Ask friends to pray. Look for resources. Most importantly, make a plan.

Management guru Jim Collins has some interesting words on this subject. He and Morten T. Hansen studied leadership in turbulent times. They looked at more than twenty thousand companies, sifting through data in search of an answer to this question: Why in uncertain times do some companies thrive while others do not? They concluded, "[Successful leaders] are not more creative. They're not more visionary. They're not more charismatic. They're not more ambitious. They're not more blessed by luck. They're not more risk-seeking. They're not more heroic. And they're not more prone to making big, bold moves." Okay, then what sets them apart?

"They all led their teams with a surprising method of self-control in an out-of-control world." In the end, it's not the flashy and flamboyant who survive; it is, instead, those with steady hands and sober minds. People like Roald Amundsen. In 1911, he headed up the Norwegian team in a race to the South Pole. Robert Scott directed a team from England. The two expeditions faced identical challenges and terrain. They endured the same freezing temperatures and unforgiving environment. They had equal access to the technology and equipment of their day. Yet Amundsen and his team reached the South Pole thirty-four days ahead of Scott. What made the difference? Planning.

Amundsen was a tireless strategist. He had a clear strategy of traveling fifteen to twenty miles a day. Good weather? Fifteen to twenty miles. Bad weather? Fifteen to twenty miles. No more. No less. Always fifteen to twenty miles. Scott, by contrast, was irregular. He pushed his team to exhaustion in good weather and stopped in bad. The two men had two different philosophies and, consequently, two different outcomes. Amundsen won the race without losing a man. Scott lost not only the race but he also lost his life and the lives of all his team members on the return trip to their base camp – some 150 miles away, but only 11 miles from the next depot. All for the lack of a good plan.

You'd prefer a miracle for your difficulties? You'd rather see the bread multiplied, or the stormy sea turned glassy calm in a finger snap? God may do that. Then, again, he may tell you, "I'm with you. I can use this for good. Now let's make a plan." Trust him to help you. God's sovereignty doesn't negate our responsibility. Just the opposite. It empowers it. When we trust God, we think more clearly and react more decisively – like Nehemiah, who said, "We prayed to our God and posted a guard day and night to meet this threat." (Neh. 4:9 NIV) “We prayed . . . and posted.”

Stated differently? We trusted and acted. Trust God to do what you can't. Obey God, and do what you can. Don't let the difficulties of life paralyze you. Don't let the sadness overwhelm you. Don't let the fear intimidate you. To do nothing is the wrong thing. To do something is the right thing. And to believe is the highest thing. In the words of Moses, “There are secrets the Lord our God has not revealed to us, but these words that he has revealed are for us and our children to obey forever.” (Deut. 29:29)

The message here? Keep calm and carry on.

Grace,

Randy