Exhausted

Exhausted

Exhausted - Audio/Visual

The apostles gathered around Jesus and reported to him all they had done and taught. Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” (Mark 6:30-31)

Not too long ago I saw a woman walking her dog on a leash. Actually, I saw a woman pulling her dog with a leash. The day was brutally hot, and the dog had completely shut down. He’d plopped, belly-down in the grass, choosing to swap the blistering pavement for a cooler lawn. The woman pulled and pulled, but she’d have had more success pulling a parked semi. Apparently, the dog’s get-up-and-go had gotten-up-and-left, so down he went. Have you ever reached your plopping point? Blame it on the Coronavirus – “Just stay socially distant and isolated one more month.” Blame it on your boss – “We need you to take one more case.” Maybe your spouse – “I’ll be out late one more night this week.” Possibly your parents – “I have just one more chore for you to do.” Even a friend – “I need just one more favor.”

The problem? You’ve handled, tolerated, done, forgiven and taken until you don’t have one more “one more” in you. You’re exhausted, so you plop down. Like that beleaguered beagle, you’re thinking, Who cares what the neighbors think. Who cares what the Master thinks. Let them yank that leash all they want; I’m not taking one more step. But unlike Snoopy, you don’t plop down in the grass. If you’re like David’s men, you plop down at a brook called Besor. But don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of the place. Most haven’t, but more need to. The Brook Besor narrative deserves shelf space in the library of the worn-out because it speaks tender words to the tired heart.

The story itself emerges from the ruins of Ziklag. David and his six hundred soldiers had just returned from the Philistine war front to find utter devastation at home. A raiding band of Amalekites had swept down on the village, looted it and taken the women and children hostage. The sorrow of the men began to mutate into anger – not against the Amalekites mind you, but against David. After all, hadn’t he led them into battle? Hadn’t he left the women and children unprotected? Isn’t he the one to blame? Well then, he needs to die. So, they start grabbing rocks.

What else is new? David has grown accustomed to this kind of treatment. His family ignored him. Saul raged against him. And now David’s army, which, if you’ll remember, sought him out, not vice versa, has turned against him. David is a psycho in the making – he’s been rejected by every significant circle in his life. This could have been one of his worst hours. But he makes it one of his best.

While six hundred men stoke their anger, David seeks his God. “But David strengthened himself in the Lord his God.” (1 Sam. 30:6) How important that we learn to do the same, because support systems don’t always support. Friends aren’t always friendly. Preachers can wander off base, and churches can lose touch. When no one can help, we have to do what David does – he turns toward God. “Shall I go after these raiders? Can I catch them?” “Go after them! Yes, you’ll catch them! Yes, you’ll make the rescue!” (1 Sam. 30:8)

Now freshly commissioned, David redirects the men’s anger toward the enemy. So, they set out in hot pursuit of the Amalekites. But keep the men’s weariness in mind. They’re still wearing the trail dust of a long military campaign, and it’s not as if they’ve gotten over their resentment of David, either. Further, it’s not as if they have a map of the Amalekites’ hideout. In fact, if not for the sake of their loved ones, they might have just as well given up. And a third of them do.

The army reaches a brook called Besor, and they all dismount. Soldiers wade in the creek and splash water on their faces, sink tired toes into cool mud and stretch out on the grass. Hearing the command to move on, two hundred choose to rest. “You go on without us,” they say. Wow. How tired does a person have to be to abandon the hunt for his own kidnapped family?

The truth is that the church has its fair share of these folks, too. Good people. Godly people. Only hours, or years ago they marched with deep resolve. But now fatigue consumes them. They’re exhausted – so beat-up and worn down that they can’t summon the strength to save their own flesh and blood. Old age has sucked up most of the oxygen. Or, maybe it was a string of defeats. Divorce can leave you at the brook. Addiction can as well. Even the Coronavirus has inspired the use of a new term – doctors call it “quarantine fatigue.” But whatever the reason, churches have their share of people who just sit and rest. And these assemblies have to decide: “What do we do with the Brook Besor people?” Berate them? Shame them? Give them a rest, but measure the minutes? Or do we do what David did? David let them stay.

So, David and the remaining 400 fighters resume the chase. They plunge deeper but grow more discouraged with each passing sand dune. The Amalekites have a big lead and have left no clues. But then David hits the jackpot. “They found an Egyptian in the field, and brought him to David; and they gave him bread and he ate, and they let him drink water.” (1. Sam 30:11)

The Egyptian is a disabled servant who weighs more than he’s worth. So, the Amalekites leave him to starve in the desert. But David’s men nurse him back to life with figs and raisins, and then ask the servant to lead them to the campsite of his old cronies. Suffice it to say, he’s more than happy to oblige. So, armed with this new intelligence, David and his men pounce on the Amalekites like white on rice. Every Israelite woman and child is rescued. Every Amalekite either bites the dust or hits the trail, leaving their plunder behind. David goes from scapegoat to hero. The punch line, however, is still yet to come. And to feel the full force of it, imagine the thoughts of some of the players in this story.

The rescued wives. Picture this. You’ve just been snatched from your home and dragged through the desert. You’ve feared for your life and clutched your kids. Then, one day, the good guys raid the camp. Strong arms sweep you up and set you in front of a camel hump. You thank God for the SWAT team who rescued you, and you begin searching the soldiers’ faces for your husband’s. “Honey!” you yell. “Baby! Where are you?” Your rescuer reins in the camel to a halt. “Uh,” he begins, “Uh . . . your honey-baby stayed back at camp.” “He did what???” you shout. “Yeah, he decided to hang out with the guys back at Brook Besor,” your rescuer flatly responds. Now, I don’t know if Hebrew women had rolling pins, but if they did, they’d have probably started looking for them just about now. “Besor, huh? I’ll show him who’ll be sore.”

Or, the rescue squad. When David called, you risked your life. Now, with victory in hand, you gallop back to Brook Besor. You crest the ridge overlooking the camp and see the two hundred men below. “You scum,” you think. Because while you fought, they slept. You went to battle; they went to matinees and massage therapists. They shot eighteen holes of golf and stayed up late playing poker and smoking cigars. And if that were you, you might even feel the way some of David’s men felt: “Because they did not go with us, we will not give them any of the spoil that we have recovered, except for every man’s wife and children.” (1 Sam. 30:22)

Wrathful wives and resentful rescuers. And what about the 200 men who’d rested? Worms have higher self-esteem. They feel about as manly as a pink tutu. And the result? A Molotov cocktail of emotions is mixed, lit and then plopped in David’s lap. And here’s how he defuses it: “Don’t do that after what the Lord has given us. He has protected us and given us the enemy who attacked us. Who will listen to what you say? The share will be the same for the one who stayed with the supplies as for the one who went into battle. All will share alike.” (1 Sam. 30:23–24)

Note David’s words: they “stayed with the supplies,” as if that had been their job. They didn’t ask to guard the supplies; they wanted to take a break. But David dignifies their decision to stay. David did a lot of great deeds in his life, and he did a lot of foolish deeds, too. But perhaps his noblest deed was this: he honored the tired soldiers at Brook Besor.

Someday somebody will read what David did and name their church the Congregation at Brook Besor. Because isn’t that what the church is intended to be? A place for soldiers to recover their strength? In his book about David, Leap Over a Wall, Eugene Peterson tells of a friend who sometimes signs her letters, “Yours at the Brook Besor.” I wonder how many could do the same.

Too tired to fight. Too ashamed to complain. While others claim victories, the weary sit in silence. How many do you know that sit at the Brook Besor? If you’re listed among them, here’s what you need to know: it’s okay to rest. Jesus is your David. He fights when you can’t. He goes where you cannot. He’s not angry if you sit. Didn’t he say to his apostles, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest”? (Mark 6:31)

Brook Besor blesses rest. Brook Besor also cautions us against arrogance. David knew the victory was a gift. So, let’s remember the same. Salvation comes like that Egyptian slave in the desert – a delightful surprise on our path. Unearned. Undeserved. And who are the strong to criticize the tired, anyway? We’re all God’s children.

Are you weary? Then catch your breath. Because if you worship with a group of believers, they need your strength. Or, maybe you’re strong. If so, reserve passing judgment on the tired. Odds are you’ll need to plop down one of these days yourself at some point. And when you do, Brook Besor is a good story to remember. It’s a place of grace in the midst of exhaustion – even quarantine fatigue.

Grace,

Randy

Slumped

Slumped
Slumped - Audio/Visual 

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me — watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” (Matt. 11:28-30)

Your Goliath owns a weapon. It doesn’t fire bullets; it fires sadness, instead. It doesn’t take lives; it takes smiles. It doesn’t inflict flesh wounds; it inflicts faith wounds. Ever been hit? If you can’t find your rhythm, you have. If you can’t seem to get to first base, or even get out of bed for that matter, you have. Every step forward gets lost in two steps backward. Relationships sour. Skies darken. Your nights defy the sunrise. You’ve been hit. It’s like your problems are the Sioux, and you’re feeling a lot like Custer – on your last stand.

David feels like it’s his. Saul has been getting the best of David, leaving him sleeping in caves and lurking behind trees. Six hundred soldiers depend on David for leadership and provision, and these six hundred men have wives and children. David has two wives of his own – which probably guarantees a little tension in his tent, too. Running from a crazed king. Hiding in hills. Leading a ragtag group of soldiers. Feeding more than a thousand mouths. And the enemy’s weapon has found its mark. Listen to David: “David thought to himself, ‘Sooner or later, Saul’s going to get me. The best thing I can do is escape to Philistine country. Saul will count me a lost cause and quit hunting me down in every nook and cranny of Israel. I’ll be out of his reach for good.’” (1 Sam. 27:1) No hope and, most of all, no God. David focuses on Saul. He hangs Saul’s poster on his wall, replays his voicemail messages and re-reads his texts. David immerses himself in his fear until his fear takes over: “I will be destroyed.”

He knows better, however, because in brighter seasons and healthier moments, David modeled heaven’s therapy for tough days. The first time he faced the Philistines in the wilderness, “David inquired of the Lord.” (23:2) When he felt small against his enemy, “David inquired of the Lord.” (23:4) When attacked by the Amalekites, “David inquired of the Lord.” (30:8) Puzzled about what to do after the death of Saul, “David inquired of the Lord.” (2 Sam. 2:1) When crowned as king and pursued by the Philistines, “David inquired of the Lord.” (5:19) David defeated them, yet they mounted another attack, so “David inquired of the Lord.” (5:23) In other words, David kept God’s number on speed dial. Confused? David talked to God. Challenged? He talked to God. Afraid? He talked to God . . . most of the time. But not this time.

On this occasion, David talks to himself. He doesn’t even seek the counsel of his advisers. When Saul first lashed out, David turned to Samuel. As the attacks continued, David asked Jonathan for advice. When weaponless and breadless, he took refuge among the priests at Nob. In this case, however, David consults David. Poor choice for an advisor. Look at the advice he gives himself: “Sooner or later, Saul is going to get me.” (1 Sam. 27:1) No he won’t, David. Don’t you remember the golden oil of Samuel on your face? God has anointed you. Don’t you remember God’s promise through Jonathan? “You shall be king over Israel.” (23:17) Have you forgotten the assurance God gave you through Abigail? “The Lord will keep all his promises of good things for you. He will make you leader over Israel.” (25:30) God even assured your safety through Saul himself: “I know indeed that you shall surely be king.” (24:20)

But in a wave of weariness, David hits the pause button on good thoughts and thinks, “Sooner or later, Saul’s going to get me. The best thing I can do is escape to Philistine country. Saul will count me a lost cause and quit hunting me down in every nook and cranny of Israel. I’ll be out of his reach for good.” (27:1) So David leaves, and Saul calls off the hunt. David defects into the hands of the enemy. He leads his men into the land of idols and false gods and pitches his tent in Goliath’s backyard. He plops down in the pasture of Satan himself.

Initially, David feels relief. Saul gives up the chase. David’s men can sleep with both eyes closed. Children can attend kindergarten, and wives can unpack the suitcases. Hiding out with the enemy brings temporary relief. But doesn’t it usually? Stop resisting drugs, and you’ll laugh — for a while. Move out on your spouse, and you’ll relax — for a time. Indulge in porn, and you’ll be entertained — for a season. But then the talons of temptation sink in. Waves of guilt crash in. The loneliness of breaking up rushes in. “There’s a way of life that looks harmless enough; look again — it leads straight to hell. Sure, those people appear to be having a good time, but all that laughter will end in heartbreak.” (Prov. 14:12–13)

Listen to the third stanza of David’s song of the slump. In verse one, “he wore out.” So, “he got out.” And in order to survive in the enemy camp, David “sells out.” He strikes a deal with Achish, the king of Gath: “Give me a place in one of the cities in the country, that I may live there; for why should your servant live in the royal city with you?” (1 Sam. 27:5) Note David’s self-assigned title: the “servant” of the enemy king. The once-proud son of Israel and conqueror of Goliath lifts a toast to the arch-enemy of his family. And Achish welcomes the deal. He grants David a village, Ziklag, and asks only that David turn against his own people and kill them. And, as far as Achish knows, David does. But David actually raids the enemies of the Hebrews: “Now David and his men went up and raided the Geshurites, the Girzites and the Amalekites. . . . Whenever David attacked an area, he did not leave a man or woman alive, but took sheep and cattle, donkeys and camels, and clothes. Then he returned to Achish.” (27:8–9)

Not David’s finest hour, to say the least. He lies to the Philistine king and covers up his deceit with bloodshed. He continues this duplicity for sixteen months. Not surprisingly, there are no psalms from this particular season of David’s life. His harp hangs silent. The slump mutes the minstrel. And things get worse before they get better. he Philistines decide to attack King Saul. David and his men opt to switch sides and join the opposition. Envision U.S. armed forces joining with the Jihadists. They journey three days to the battlefield, get rejected, and travel three days home. “The Philistine officers said, . . . ‘He’s not going into battle with us. He’d switch sides in the middle of the fight!’” (1 Sam. 29:4) So, David leads his unwanted men back to Ziklag, only to find the village burned to the ground. The Amalekites had destroyed it while they were away, and had kidnapped all of their wives, sons and daughters. When David and his men see the devastation, they weep until they are “exhausted with weeping.” (30:4) Rejected by the Philistines. Pillaged by the Amalekites. No country to fight for. No family to come home to. Can matters grow worse? Yes, they can.

Anger flares in the soldiers’ eyes. David’s men start looking for rocks. “The people in their bitterness said he should be stoned.” (30:6) We have to wonder at this point whether David is regretting his decision? Longing for simpler days in the wilderness, perhaps? The good ol’ cave days, maybe? No Philistine rejection or Amalekite attacks there. His men loved him. His wives were with him. Now, in the ruins of Ziklag with men picking stones to throw at him, does he regret his prayerless choice to get out and sell out? You be the judge.

Slumps. They’re the Petri dish for bad decisions, the incubator for wrong turns, the assembly line of regretful moves. How we handle our tough times stays with us for a long time. So, how do you handle yours? When hope takes the last train and joy is nothing but the name of the little girl who used to live next door . . . when you’re tired of trying, tired of forgiving, tired of hard weeks or hard-headed people . . . how do you manage your dark days? With a bottle of pills or scotch? With an hour at the bar, a day at the spa, or a week at the coast? Many opt for these alternatives. So many, in fact, that we assume that they re-energize a sad life. But do they? No one denies that they help for a while, but over the long haul? They numb the pain, but do they remove it? Or, are we like the sheep on the Turkish cliff? Who knows why the first one jumped over the edge. Even more bizarre are the fifteen hundred others who followed, each leaping off the same overhang. The first 450 animals died. The thousand that followed survived only because the pile of corpses cushioned their fall.

We, like sheep, follow each other over the edge, falling headlong into bars and binges and beds. Like David, we crash into Gath, only to find that Gath has no solution. Is there a solution? Yes, there is. Doing right what David did wrong. He failed to pray. So do the opposite: be quick to pray. Stop talking to yourself, and talk to Christ, instead. He’s the one who invites: “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest.” (Matt. 11:28) God, who is never downcast, never tires of your down days. David neglected good advice. So, learn from his mistake. Next time you lack the will to go on, seek healthy counsel. You won’t want to, of course. Slumping people love slumping people. Hurting people hang with hurting people. We love those with whom we can commiserate, and avoid those who correct. Yet correction and direction are what we need. “Refuse good advice and watch your plans fail; take good counsel and watch them succeed.” (Prov. 15:22) Be quick to pray, seek healthy counsel, and don’t give up.

Don’t make the mistake of Florence Chadwick. In 1952 she attempted to swim the chilly ocean waters between Catalina Island and the California shore; a distance of some 32 miles. She swam through foggy weather and choppy seas for fifteen hours. Her muscles began to cramp, and her resolve had weakened. She begged to be taken out of the water. But her mother, riding in a boat alongside, urged her not to give up. Florence kept trying but grew exhausted and eventually stopped swimming. Aids lifted her out of the water and into the boat. They paddled a few more minutes, the mist broke, and Florence discovered that the shore was less than a half mile away. “All I could see was the fog,” she explained at a news conference. “I think if I could have seen the shore, I would have made it.”

Take a long look at the shore that awaits you. Don’t be fooled by the fog of the slump. The finish may be only strokes away. God may be, at this very moment, lifting his hand to signal Gabriel to grab the trumpet. Angels may be assembling, saints gathering, demons trembling. Stay at it. Stay in the water. Stay in the race. Stay in the fight. Give grace – one more time. Be generous – one more time. Teach one more class, encourage one more soul, swim one more stroke.

David did. Right there in the smoldering ruins of Ziklag, he found strength. After sixteen months in Gath. After the Philistine rejection, the Amalekite attack, and the insurrection by his men, he remembered what to do. “David found strength in the Lord his God.” (1 Sam. 30:6) Have you?

Grace,

Randy

Doubt?

Doubt
Doubt - Audio/Visual 

John the Baptist, who was in prison, heard about all the things the Messiah was doing. So he sent his disciples to ask Jesus, “Are you the Messiah we’ve been expecting, or should we keep looking for someone else?” Jesus told them, “Go back to John and tell him what you have heard and seen — the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the Good News is being preached to the poor. And tell him, ‘God blesses those who do not turn away because of me.’” (Matt. 11:2-6)

He was a child of the desert whose leathery face, tanned skin and animal-hide clothing made him unmistakable. Everything he owned fit neatly in his wallet. The walls of his home were the mountains, and his ceiling the stars. But not now. His frontier was now walled out, and his horizon hidden. The stars were but distant memories, and the fresh air of the open plains was gone. The stench of the dungeon reminded him that he was now a captive of the king, rather than a voice crying in the wilderness.

Frankly, John the Baptist deserved better treatment. After all, he was the forerunner of the Christ; the cousin of the Messiah. It was John who had braved the elements and the vitriol, calling upon an unsaved people to repentance. But now that voice, instead of opening the door of renewal, had slammed the door on a prison cell. And it all began when he called out the king.

You see, while on a business trip to Rome, King Herod fell in love with his brother’s wife, Herodias. Deciding that Herodias was better off married to him than to his brother, Herod divorced his wife and brought his sister-in-law home. The gossip columnists were fascinated, but John was infuriated and denounced Herod and the marriage for what it was — adultery. Funny thing is Herod might have let him get away with it because, well, he kind of liked the guy. But not Herodias. She wasn’t about to have her rising social status take a detour. So, she told Herod to have John pulled off the speaker’s tour and thrown into jail. Herod hemmed and hawed until she whispered and wooed. And that was it. Game. Set. Match.

But jail time wasn’t enough for Herodias. She needed a permanent solution to the problem. So, she had her daughter strut in front of the king and his generals at a stag party. Herod, who was as easily duped as he was aroused, promised to do anything for the pretty young thing in the G-string. “Anything?” she said. “You name it,” he drooled. She conferred with her mother, who was waiting in the wings, then returned with her request: “I want John the Baptist,” she said. “You want a date with the prophet?” “No. I want his head,” replied the dancer. And then, reassured by a nod from her mother, she added, “Oh, yeah, and while you’re at it, put his head on a silver platter, if you don’t mind.”

Herod stared at the faces around him. He knew it wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t right. But he also knew that everyone was looking at him because, after all, he had promised her “anything.” And though he had nothing personal against the country preacher, he valued the opinion polls more than he valued John’s life. After all, what’s more important — saving political face or saving the neck of a crazy prophet? The story reeks with unfairness: John dies because Herod lusts; the good is murdered, while the bad just smirks; a man of God is killed, while a man of passion is winking at his niece.

So, is this how God rewards his anointed? Is this how he honors his faithful? Is this how God crowns his chosen? With a dark dungeon and an execution? The inconsistency was more than John could take. But even before Herod reached his verdict, John was asking questions – his concerns outnumbered only by the number of times he paced his cell while asking them. So, when he had a chance to get a message to Jesus, his question was ripe with doubt.

But look at what motivated John’s question. It wasn’t just the dungeon, or even death, because he likely didn’t know what was coming. Instead, it was the problem of unmet expectations — the fact that John was in serious trouble and Jesus was conducting business as usual. So, is that what messiahs do when trouble comes? Is that what God does when his followers are in a bind? Jesus’ silence was deafening. “Are you the one? Or have I been following the wrong Lord?”

Now, had the Bible been written by a public relations agency, they probably would have eliminated that verse. It’s not good PR to admit that one of the cabinet members has doubts about the president. And you certainly don’t let stories like that get out if you’re trying to present a unified front. But the Scriptures weren’t written by PR people; they were inspired by an eternal God who knew that every disciple from then on would spend time in a similar dungeon of doubt. And though the circumstances have changed, the questions really haven’t.

They are asked anytime the faithful suffer the consequences of the faithless; anytime a person takes a step in the right direction, only to have his or her feet knocked out from under them; anytime someone does a good deed but suffers evil results; anytime a person takes a stand, only to end up flat on their face. And the questions fall like rain: “If God is so good, why am I hurting so badly?” “If God is really there, why am I here?” “What did I do to deserve this?” “Did God slip up this time?” “Why are the righteous persecuted?” So, does God just sit on his hands, choosing to do nothing in response to our circumstances? Or, does God simply opt for the silent treatment, even when we’re screaming our loudest?

Disappointment sometimes demands a change in command. When we don’t agree with the one who calls the shots, our reaction is often a lot like John’s: “Is he the right guy for the job?” Or, as John put it, “Are you the one? Or, should we look for another?” John couldn’t believe that anything less than his release would be in the best interests of all involved. In his opinion, it was time to exercise some justice and get some action. But the one who had the power was, apparently, just sitting on his hands.

We can’t believe that God would sit in silence while a pastor is awaiting execution in Iran, or a Christian loses a promotion because of his beliefs, or a faithful wife is abused by an unbelieving husband, or 300,798 people have died from a pandemic that some believe was an out-of-control science experiment. These are just a few of the thousands of things we have either heard or experienced. And our prayers for them? They seem to have gone unanswered. It seems like the clouds of doubt always form when the warm, moist air of our expectations rise to meet the cold air of God’s silence.

However, if we’ve heard the silence of God while in a dungeon of our own doubt, perhaps, as John did, we, too, will discover that the problem is not so much God’s silence but our ability to hear. “Go back and report to John what you hear and see: the blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the Good News is preached to the poor.” This was Jesus’ answer to John’s agonized query from his dungeon. But before looking at Jesus’ response, consider what he didn’t say.

First, Jesus didn’t get angry. He didn’t throw up his hands in disgust. He didn’t scream, “What in the world do I have to do for cousin John, anyway? I’ve already become flesh! I’ve been sinless for the past three decades. I even let him baptize me. What else does he want? Go and tell that ungrateful locust eater that I’m shocked at his disbelief.” He could have done that. Maybe we would’ve done that. But Jesus didn’t. God has never turned away the questions of a sincere searcher. Not Job’s; not Abraham’s; not Moses’; not John’s; not Thomas’. Not yours.

But Jesus didn’t save John, either. The one who walked on water could have easily walked on Herod’s head, but he didn’t. The one who cast out demons had the power to nuke the king’s castle, but he didn’t. No battle plan. No S.W.A.T. teams. No flashing swords. Just a message — a kingdom message: “Tell John that everything is going just as planned. The kingdom is being inaugurated.” And Jesus’ words are much more than a statement from Isaiah. (Isaiah 35:5; 61:1) They are the description of a heavenly kingdom being established. A unique kingdom. An invisible kingdom. A kingdom with no walls and three distinct traits.

First, it’s a kingdom where the rejected are received. “The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear ….” None were more shunned by their culture than the blind, the lame, the lepers and the deaf. They had no place. They had no name. They had no value. They were kind of like canker sores on their culture. You know, excess baggage on the side of the road. But those whom the culture called trash, Jesus called treasures. That must have been what the Psalmist had in mind when he wrote: “You knit me together in my mother’s womb.” (Psalm 139:13)

Think about that. We were knitted together. We aren’t an accident. We weren’t mass-produced. We aren’t an assembly-line product. We were deliberately planned, specifically gifted, and lovingly positioned on this earth by the Master Craftsman. “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” (Eph. 2:10)

In a society that has little room for second fiddles, that’s good news. In a culture where the door of opportunity opens only once and then slams shut, that’s a revelation. In a system that ranks the value of a human by the figures on his paycheck, or the shape of her body, that’s a reason for joy. Jesus told John that a new kingdom was coming — a kingdom where people have value not because of what they do, but because of whose they are.

The second characteristic of the kingdom is just as important: “The dead have life.” In other words, the grave has no power. Jesus looked into the eyes of John’s followers and gave them this message: “Report to John … the dead are raised.” Jesus wasn’t oblivious to John’s imprisonment. He wasn’t blind to John’s captivity. But he was dealing with a greater dungeon than Herod’s; he was dealing with the dungeon of death.

But Jesus wasn’t through. He passed along one other message to clear the cloud of doubt from John’s heart: “The Good News is preached to the poor.” And no other world religion offers such a message. All others demand the right performance, the right sacrifice, the right chant, the right ritual, the right séance or the right experience. Theirs is a kingdom of trade-offs and bartering. You do this, and God will give you that. The result? Either arrogance or fear: arrogance if you think you’ve achieved it; fear if you think you haven’t.

But Christ’s kingdom is just the opposite. It’s a kingdom for the poor. A kingdom where membership is granted, not purchased. You are placed into God’s kingdom. You are “adopted” into the family. And this occurs not when you do enough, but when you admit you can’t do enough. You don’t earn it; you simply accept it. As a result, you serve – not out of arrogance or fear, but out of gratitude.

That is the unique characteristic of the new kingdom. Its subjects don’t work in order to go to heaven; they work because they’re going to heaven. The late Steve Jobs said in a 2005 Stanford commencement address: “Remembering that you’re going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose.” What do you have to lose when you have an eternal life to gain? In the new kingdom, arrogance and fear are replaced with gratitude and joy. That’s the kingdom Jesus proclaimed: a kingdom of acceptance, eternal life and forgiveness.

Frankly, we don’t know how John received Jesus’ message, but we can imagine. I’d like to think that a slight smile came over him as he heard what his Master had said. “So that’s it. That’s what the kingdom will be. That’s what the King will do.” Now, he understood. It wasn’t that Jesus was silent; it was that John had been listening for the wrong answer. John had been listening for an answer to his earthly problems, while Jesus was busy resolving his heavenly ones. That’s worth remembering the next time you hear the silence of God.

If we’ve asked for a miracle, but are still waiting … if we’ve asked for healing, but are still hurting … don’t think God isn’t listening. He is. He’s even answering requests we’re not even making. The apostle Paul was honest enough to write, “We do not know what we ought to pray for.” (Rom. 8:26) The fact is, John wasn’t asking too much; he was asking too little. He was asking God to resolve the temporary, while Jesus was busy resolving the eternal. John was asking for an immediate favor, while Jesus was orchestrating an eternal solution.

Does that mean that Jesus has no regard for injustice? No. He cares about persecution. He cares about inequities, and hunger, and prejudice and pandemics. And he knows what it’s like to be punished for something he didn’t do. He knows the meaning of the phrase, “It’s not right.” Because it wasn’t right that people spit into the eyes of the very one who had wept for them. It wasn’t right that soldiers ripped chunks of flesh out of the back of God. It wasn’t right that spikes pierced the hands that formed the earth. And it wasn’t right that the Son of God was forced to hear the silence of God. It wasn’t right. But it happened.

And while Jesus was on the cross, God sat on his hands. He turned his back. He ignored the screams of the innocent. He sat in silence while the sins of an entire world were placed upon his son. And he did nothing when a cry a million times more horrible than John’s echoed in the pitch-black sky: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt. 27:46) Was it right? No. Was it fair? No. Was it love? Yes.

Any doubt?

Grace,

Randy