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“Teacher,” they said to Jesus, “this woman was caught in the act of adultery. The law of Moses says to stone her. What do you say?” (John 8:4-5)

“You don’t matter!” It screams in your ears and rolls around in your head like thunder. Oh, most people don’t say it outright, but that’s what they mean. Like the checker at the grocery store, or the doctor who can’t even remember your health issue. It’s probably one of the most communicated messages we hear in life: “You don’t matter.” And the world communicates that same message, just in a different way. For instance, Rogaine commercials tell me that hair makes me studly, and Clairol says that you’ll count if you improve your appearance with their product.

In other words, you can’t be bald and matter. You can’t be plain and matter. You can’t be fat and matter. You can’t be poor and matter. You can’t be old and matter. You can’t be unmarried and matter. You get the message. You and I simply don’t matter. We’re an interruption in the great, cosmic scheme of life; an insignificant piece of flotsam in a sea of 7.8 billion people, give or take a few hundred thousand. We seem to have this natural, in-born need to want to matter, to be important, to be valuable, and to be valued by someone else. We want someone to care about us. We fear not mattering. We fear not leaving our mark, or even making a dent for that matter. We even create resumes that scream, “I matter!” We want to matter.

So we grab at stuff that makes us feel important. For instance, how about the guy who dates the head cheerleader – he matters more than the other guys at school because of who he dates. Or the person who lives in Beverly Hills – she matters more than the person living on the streets because she lives in the 90210. The person who drives a Bentley matters more than the person who drives a Chevy. The doctor matters more than the schoolteacher; pretty people matter more than ugly people. And on and on it goes.

So it comes as no surprise that those of us who wonder if we matter have this habit of pointing at people who are “lower” than ourselves as if to say, “See? I‘m better than you. I matter!” Let’s face it, we all want to matter. We all want to find a way to elevate our importance. The fear of not mattering is like a bully who takes us down a path we don’t want to take, just to be someone we don’t want to become. But if you chase after what the world says is important, or what matters, you’ll neither find it nor achieve it. Never. In the end, you’ll spend your whole life chasing a mirage. Kind of like chasing rainbows – they’re always just beyond your reach.

And the woman in our passage is the perfect picture of someone who didn’t matter. She had nothing. She was caught in the act. She was scum; she was trash; she was a tramp. The only value she had was as a pawn in an attempt to trick Jesus. The powers that be, you know, the ones that “really mattered,” deemed her unworthy and worthless. In fact, their attitude was, “Let’s just stone her and get on with our day.” Kind of like taking the trash out to the curb.

And maybe that’s the message you’ve heard recently, or maybe you’ve heard it all your life. I read recently that the No. 1 job of a parent is to communicate to his or her children that they matter. And maybe you didn’t have parents who told you that – perhaps ever. So you found someone else that made you feel like you mattered, at least until they dumped you. And then you got married and really felt like you mattered, until you had kids. And then you won the lottery and thought, “Wow, I really matter now;” that is until you find out that “mattering” is merely a function of how much money you’re willing to give away.

What troubles me about John’s story is that these guys set up a sting operation, i.e., they caught her “in the act.” Then they dragged her from the crime scene, made her stand in a public place before a group of religious do-gooders, announced her sin to the world, and then decided on the possible punishment. And where’s the guy, anyway? Maybe he was one of them – just a paid informant. But they do this right in front of Jesus. It was like the whole world was shouting, “You don’t matter, and we should know because we matter.” It’s bad enough to feel worthless without being publicly humiliated. In short, this lady so not mattered that we don’t even know her name, just that they caught “this woman” in the act of adultery. She was worthless. She was disposable. She was a zero. No one standing with her, not even her mother. No one. She just didn’t matter. Or, did she?

“What do you say,” Jesus? Not what does the law say. Not what does the culture say. But, “What do you say?” In other words, it’s about to get personal. And what does Jesus say about her? Well, in Luke chapter 4 Jesus said that he had come for the broken, the imprisoned, the poor, the bruised, and for those who didn’t have the key to unlock the door behind which they’ve become trapped. In other words, Jesus came for those who “don’t matter.” And, true to His word, Jesus made the lepers matter. Jesus made the demon-possessed man matter. Jesus made the sick matter. Jesus made tax collectors matter. Jesus made prostitutes matter. Jesus made women and children matter. Jesus made fishermen matter. Jesus made the divorced, the poor, the grieving, the addicted – he made all of them matter.

So, what does Jesus say? Jesus says that you matter because he made you and he loves you. It’s Jesus that makes us matter. Not because we’re so special, but because Jesus loves us, and his love is what makes us special. The God of this universe sent his son to die for you. In other words, you matter. Maybe that’s just too hard for some of us to believe. But if so, who’s to blame for that? God, or a life-long cultural beat-down? What Jesus saw was that this woman mattered because she was God’s workmanship. It didn’t matter what label her culture put on her, or what label our culture puts on us today. What matters is the label God himself put on her, and puts on us. He calls us his masterpiece, his workmanship, the work of his hand. (Ephesians 2:10)

Now, there’s no doubt that she totally messed up what she was created to do. She wasn’t living anywhere near God’s will for her life. God had taken the time to write an entire script for her life, including how her life would matter, and had given her all of the unique gifts and talents that she would need to have to matter. But she wasn’t anywhere close to living that plan. She wasn’t even in the neighborhood. Fact is, she was living in a completely different zip code. Like so many of us, she had substituted her own plan, and her plans were a mess.

But when Jesus looked at her, this person who didn’t matter to anyone, this person who no one stood beside, he saw past her clothing and her makeup, the smell, the hair, the sin, the past, and Jesus gave her value. He made her matter because he loved her. “For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; marvelous are Your works, and that my soul knows very well. My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they all were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them.” (Psalm 139:13-16)

God made you. So, look in the mirror now and tell me what you see. Do you think God made a mistake? If so, then God can’t be God – not if he’s made a mistake, he can’t. And if he’s made a mistake, what other mistakes has he made? Who’d ever want to worship that kind of god? May as well worship yourself, as many of us sometimes do. But, if God is perfect (Mark 10:18), then he makes no mistakes. And if he can’t make a mistake, then you were created intentionally. You were planned. You were designed. You were thought out. You were purposed. You were anticipated. Why? Because you matter.

Who else took the time to plan out a whole life of good works for you? Who else gave you the opportunities, and put you in those places where you would matter? You matter because God loves you. God wants to be your Father, your Abba, your Papa. And really, what’s a Christian, anyway? Isn’t it a person whose father is God? And who can separate you from that love? Nobody. (Romans 8:39) We need to get over ourselves and come to grips with the fact that there is One who loves us more than we love ourselves. Stated differently, why should I hate myself when I am loved by God so perfectly? Why should I condemn myself when I am forgiven and accepted so completely? I have been invited into his kingdom, and he made an unbelievable sacrifice to get me there, starting with the death of his son, Jesus, on the cross. So, if he made such a huge effort to get me, why should I wonder if I have any value?

God in His love chose you. He came after you. This wasn’t planned by you, deserved by you, or earned by you. God reached down and took hold of your heart and he relentlessly drew you to himself because you matter. He doesn’t treat you like a loser, or a sinner, or an employee, or a slave, or a mistake, or an embarrassment, or a worm, or an irritation, or a nuisance, or a problem. You’re his child. If you’re a parent, when’s the last time you called your child a loser, or a sinner, or a worm, or a nuisance, or a problem? So, why is it so hard to believe that God thinks of you any differently?

What did the woman do to earn what Jesus did for her? Nothing. She just stood there in her shame and answered Jesus’ question. She did nothing at all. And that, by the way, is called Grace – undeserved, unmerited, unearned favor. Nearly every day of our lives this same scenario is played out. In fact, it may just happen to you today, maybe even at lunch. Someone is going to throw a person in front of you and talk about their sins and their failings, trying to diminish them, and they will ask you the same question they asked of Jesus, “What do you say?” Now you know the answer.

Grace,

Randy

Focus

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The Lord will deliver you into my hand … that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel. (1 Sam 17: 46).

The slender, beardless boy kneels by the brook with mud on his knees while the water bubbles through his hands. His copper-colored hair, tanned skin and dark eyes stole the breath, and hearts, of single women everywhere. But he’s not looking at his reflection; he’s looking for rocks. “Stones” is probably a better word for it. Smooth stones – the kind of stones that stack neatly in a pouch and, when necessary, rest flush against a leather sling. Flat rocks that balance heavy on the palm and missile like a comet into the head of a lion, a bear or, in this case, a giant.

Meanwhile, Goliath stares down from the hillside and only disbelief keeps him from laughing out loud. He and his Philistine herd have rendered their half of the valley into a forest of spears. A growling, bloodthirsty gang of hoodlums boasting barbed-wire tattoos. And Goliath towers above them all: nine feet, nine inches tall in his bare feet, wearing 125 pounds of armor, and snarling like Conor McGregor at a UFC contest. He wears a size-20 collar, a 10½ hat, and a 56-inch belt. His biceps burst, his thigh muscles ripple, and his boasts belch through the canyon. And the tip of his spear? It’s about the weight of a bowling ball. “This day I defy the ranks of Israel! Give me a man and let us fight each other.” (1 Sam. 17:10) Translation? Who will go mano a mano conmigo? Give me your best shot! But no volunteers – just crickets. At least not until today; not until David.

David had just arrived that morning. He’d clocked out from his sheep-watching duties earlier in the day to deliver bread and cheese to his brothers on the battlefront. That’s where David hears Goliath defying God, and that’s when David makes his decision. He takes his staff in his hand, chooses five smooth stones from the brook, puts them in his shepherd’s bag, grabs his sling and gets close to the Philistine. (17:40) Goliath scoffs at the kid and calls him Twiggy, e.g., “Am I a dog that you come to me with sticks?” (17:43)

Skinny, scrawny David; bulky, brutish Goliath. The toothpick versus the tornado. The toy poodle versus the Rottweiler. What odds would you give David against his giant? Better odds, perhaps, than you give yourself against your own? But your Goliath doesn’t carry a sword or a shield. Maybe your giant brandishes weapons of unemployment, abandonment, abuse or depression. Your giant doesn’t parade up and down the hills of Elah; he prances through your office, your home or maybe a classroom. He brings bills you can’t pay, grades you can’t make, people you can’t please, drugs you can’t resist, pornography you can’t refuse, a past you can’t shake, and a future you can’t face. You’ve heard Goliath’s roar. David faced one who fog-horned his challenges morning and night. “For forty days, twice a day, morning and evening, the Philistine giant strutted in front of the Israelite army.” (17:16) And yours does the same. First thought of the morning, last worry at night – your Goliath dominates your day and interrupts your joy. How long has your giant been stalking you?

Goliath’s family was an ancient enemy of the Israelites. Joshua drove them out of the Promised Land three hundred years earlier. He destroyed everyone except the residents of three cities: Gaza, Gath, and Ashdod. Gath bred giants like Yosemite grows sequoias, and guess where Goliath was raised? See the G on his letterman’s jacket? Yep. Gath High School. His ancestors were to Hebrews what pirates were to the British navy. And Saul’s soldiers saw Goliath and thought, “Not again! My dad fought his dad. My grandpa fought his grandpa.” And maybe you’ve groaned similar words. “I’m becoming a workaholic, just like my father.” “Divorce streaks through our family like stripes on a zebra.” “My mom couldn’t keep a friend either. Is this ever going to stop?” Your Goliath awaits you in the morning, and torments you at night. He stalked your ancestors and now looms over you. He blocks the sun and leaves you standing in the shadow of doubt. “When Saul and his troops heard the Philistine’s challenge, they were terrified and lost all hope.” (17:11)

You know Goliath. You recognize his walk and wince at his talk. You’ve seen your Goliath. The question is, is he all you see? And you know his voice, but is it all you hear? David saw and heard more. Read the first words he spoke, not just in the battle, but in the Bible: “David asked the men standing near him, ‘What will be done for the man who kills this Philistine and removes this disgrace from Israel? Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?’” (17:26) David shows up discussing God. The soldiers mentioned nothing about him, the brothers never spoke his name, but David takes one step onto the stage and raises the subject of the living God. He does the same with King Saul: no chitchat about the battle, or questions about the odds. Just an announcement: “The Lord, who delivered me from the paw of the lion and from the paw of the bear, he will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine.” (17:37). In other words, no one else discusses God. David discusses no one else but God.

David sees what others don’t, and refuses to see what others do. All eyes, except David’s, fall on the brutal, hate-breathing hulk. All compasses, except for David’s, are set on the polestar of the Philistine. All journals, but David’s, describe the feelings of living day after day in the land of the Neanderthal. The people know his taunts, his demands, his size and his strut. They have majored in Goliath. David majors in God. He sees the giant, mind you; he just sees God more so. Look carefully at David’s battle cry: “You come to me with a sword, with a spear and with a javelin. But I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel.” (17:45)

Note the plural noun—armies of Israel. Armies? The common observer saw only one army of Israel. Not David. He sees the Allies on D-Day: platoons of angels and infantries of saints, the weapons of the wind and the forces of the earth. God could pellet the enemy with hail as he did for Moses, collapse walls as he did for Joshua, or stir thunder as he did for Samuel. David sees the armies of God. And because he does, David hurries and runs toward the army to meet the Philistine. (17:48)

David’s brothers cover their eyes, both in fear and in embarrassment. This is a train wreck in the making. Saul sighs as the young Hebrew races to a certain death. Goliath throws his head back in laughter … just enough to shift his helmet and expose a square inch of flesh on his forehead. David spots the target and seizes the moment. The sound of the swirling sling is the only sound in the valley. Whooooosh, Whooooosh, Whooooosh.

The stone torpedoes through the air and into the skull; Goliath’s eyes cross and legs buckle. He crumples to the ground and David runs over and yanks Goliath’s sword from its sheath, shish-kebabs the Philistine, and cuts his head off.

When was the last time you did the same thing? You know. How long has it been since you ran toward your challenges? We tend to retreat, or duck behind a desk of work, or crawl into a pill bottle of distraction. Like a one-sided football team, we have only a defense, not an offense. For a moment, a day or a year, we feel safe, insulated, anesthetized. But then the work runs out, the drugs wears off and we hear Goliath again. Booming. Bombastic. So here’s a thought – try a different tack next time. Rush your giant with a God-saturated soul.

How long has it been since you loaded your sling and took a swing at your giant? Too long, perhaps? Then David is your model. God called him “a man after my own heart.” (Acts 13:22) He gave this appellation to no one else. Not Abraham. Not Moses. Not Joseph. He called Paul an apostle, John his beloved, but neither was tagged a man after God’s own heart. But when you read David’s story, you wonder what God saw in him in the first place. Because David fell as often as he stood; stumbled as often as he conquered. He stared down Goliath, but ogled at Bathsheba; defied God-mockers in the valley, yet joined them in the wilderness. An Eagle Scout one day. Hanging out with the Mafia the next. He could lead armies but couldn’t manage his own family. Raging David. Weeping David. Bloodthirsty. God-hungry. Eight wives. Eighty kids. One God. A man after God’s own heart? Really? That God saw him as such gives us all reason to hope.

David’s life has little to offer the unstained saint. “Straight-A” souls find David’s story disappointing. The rest of us find it reassuring because we ride the very same roller coaster. We alternate between swan dives and belly flops, soufflés and burnt toast. In David’s good moments, no one was better. But in his bad moments? Frankly, could anyone be worse? The heart God loved was a checkered one at best. But we need David’s story because giants lurk in our lives. Giants of rejection, failure, revenge and remorse. Giants. And although we must face them, we need not face them alone. Focus first, and most, on God. The times David did, giants fell. The days he didn’t, David did. Test this theory with an open Bible. Read 1 Samuel 17 and list the observations David made regarding Goliath. There are only two. One statement to Saul about Goliath (v. 36), and one to Goliath’s face: “Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?” (v. 26)

That’s it. Two Goliath-related comments (tacky ones at that), and no questions. No inquiries about Goliath’s skill, age, social standing, or IQ. David asks nothing about the weight of the spear, the size of the shield, or the meaning of the skull and crossbones tattooed on the giant’s bicep. David gives no thought to the diplodocus on the hill. But he gives much thought to God. Read David’s words again, this time focusing on his references to his Lord. “The armies of the living God.” (v. 26) “The armies of the living God.” (v. 36) “The Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel.” (v. 45) “The Lord will deliver you into my hand … that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel.” (v. 46)“The Lord does not save with sword and spear; the battle is the Lord’s; He will give you into our hands.” (v. 47) Nine references. God-thoughts outnumber Goliath-thoughts by a score of nine to two. That’s about 88%.

How does that ratio compare with your own? Do you ponder God’s grace four times as much as you ponder your guilt? Is your list of blessings four times as long as your list of complaints? Is your mental file of hope four times as thick as your mental file of dread? Are you four times as likely to describe the strength of God as you are the demands of your day? If not, then David’s your man.

Robert Ripley, the “Believe-It-or-Not” man, once pointed out: “A plain bar of iron is worth $5. This same bar of iron, when made into horseshoes, is worth $10.50. If made into needles, it is worth $355. If made into penknife blades, it is worth $3,285; and if turned into balance springs for watches, that identical bar of iron becomes worth $250,000.” The difference? The pounding that’s applied. So, remember: Focus on giants—you stumble. Focus on God—your giants tumble. The God who made a miracle out of David stands ready to make one out of you, too.

Grace,

Randy