Appreciative

 

    Appreciative

Appreciative - Audio/Visual 

During this time, before the first of the famine years, two sons were born to Joseph and his wife, Asenath, the daughter of Potiphera, the priest of On. Joseph named his older son Manasseh, for he said, “God has made me forget all my troubles and everyone in my father’s family.” Joseph named his second son Ephraim, for he said, “God has made me fruitful in this land of my grief.” (Genesis 41:50-52)

Some things just don’t go together, like long-tailed cats and rocking chairs, or bulls in a china shop. And when you combine blessings and bitterness? Well, that mixture doesn't go over very well with God, either. Because when you combine heavenly kindness with earthly ingratitude, you can expect a curdled mess, kind of like adding lemon and milk to your hot tea. Maybe you've sampled it.

Granted, appreciativeness doesn't come naturally. Self-pity does, instead, along with bellyaches, grumbling, mumbling and complaining. No one has to remind us to offer that kind of stuff. But they don't mix well with the kindness we’ve been given. A spoonful of appreciation is all we need, and Joseph took more than a spoonful, despite the fact that he had every reason to be ungrateful. He’d been abandoned, enslaved, betrayed and estranged. But try as we might to find tinges of bitterness in Joseph’s life, they’re just not there. What we do discover, however, are two dramatic gestures of gratitude: “During this time, before the first of the famine years, two sons were born to Joseph and his wife, Asenath, the daughter of Potiphera, the priest of On. Joseph named his older son Manasseh, for he said, ‘God has made me forget all my troubles and everyone in my father’s family.’ Joseph named his second son Ephraim, for he said, ‘God has made me fruitful in this land of my grief.’” (Gen. 41:50-52)

Child naming is no small responsibility. The name sticks for life. Wherever the child goes, whenever the child is introduced, the parents' decision will be remembered. For instance, what was former Texas Governor, Jim Hogg, thinking when he named his daughter Ima? But most parents go to great efforts to select the perfect name for their children. And Joseph did. These were the days of abundance. God had rewarded Joseph with a place in Pharaoh's court, and a wife for his own home. The time had come to start a family.

Picture it. The young couple is reclining on the couch when Joseph reaches over and pats Asenath's round belly and says, "Honey, I've been thinking about names for our baby." "Oh, Joey, how sweet. I have too. In fact, I bought a name-your-baby book at the grocery store." "Thanks honey, but you won't need it. I’ve already picked out the name." "Oh, really? What is it?" Asenath asks. "God Made Me Forget." Asenath looks at Joseph just a little bewildered and says, "If God made you forget, how can you name him?" "No, that’s the name, Baby; God Made Me Forget." At that point, she probably gave him that look that Egyptian wives always gave to their Hebrew husbands and said, "God Made Me Forget? So, every time I call our son, I’m going to say, 'God Made Me Forget'?" She shook her head and tried it out: "'It's time for dinner, God Made Me Forget. Come in and wash your hands, God Made Me Forget.' I don't know, Joseph, but I was thinking something more along the lines of Tut or Ramses.”

"No, Asenath, my mind’s made up. Each time my son's name is spoken, God's name will be praised. God made me forget all the pain and hurt I experienced at the hands of my brothers, and I want everyone to know – I want God to know – that I’m appreciative." Apparently, Mrs. Joseph eventually warmed to the idea because at the birth of son number two, she and Joseph called him God Made Me Fruitful. One name honored God's mercy; the other proclaimed his favor. Do you think God noticed Joseph's gesture? A New Testament story provides the answer to that question.

Many centuries later, "Jesus . . . reached the border between Galilee and Samaria. As he entered a village there, ten lepers stood at a distance, crying out, 'Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!'" (Luke 17:11-13) Maybe the men waited for Jesus as he turned a corner. Maybe they appeared from behind a grove of trees, or a bunch of rocks. We don't know how they came, but we know what they yelled: "Unclean!" Unfortunately, their warning was completely unnecessary because their appearance drove people away. Ulcerated skin, truncated limbs and lumpy faces. People avoided lepers. But Jesus pursued them. And when he heard their cry, he told them, "Go, and show yourselves to the priests." (v. 14)

The lepers understood the significance of those particular instructions. Only the priest could reverse the stigma. To their credit, then, the lepers obeyed. And to the credit of Jesus, they were healed. And as they walked, they dropped their crutches and discarded their hoods. Their spines began to straighten, skin began to clear and smiles began to return. The mass of misery became a leaping, jumping, celebrating chorus of health as Jesus watched them dance their way over the horizon. And then he waited for their return. And he waited. (Cue the crickets.)

And he waited. The disciples stretched out on the ground. Others went to look for food, but Jesus just stood there. He wanted to hear the reunion stories like, “What did your wife say? How did the kids respond? How does it feel to be healed?” Jesus waited for the ten men to return and say, “Thank you.” But only one of them came back. “One of them, when he saw that he was healed, came back to Jesus, shouting, ‘Praise God, I'm healed!’ He fell face down on the ground at Jesus' feet, thanking him for what he had done. This man was a Samaritan. Jesus asked, ‘Didn't I heal ten men? Where are the other nine? Does only this foreigner return to give glory to God?’" (vv. 15-18) Even Jesus seemed astonished.

You'd think that neither fire nor hail could have kept these former lepers from falling at Jesus' feet. So, where were the other nine? Well, we can only speculate, but maybe some were just too busy to be appreciative. They’d planned to come back and say, “Thank you,” but first they needed to find family members, doctors, dogs, cats and neighbors. They were just too busy. Some were maybe too cautious to be thankful. They guarded against joy, and kept their hopes down. They waited for the other shoe to drop. They waited to read the fine print. They waited to see what Jesus wanted in return. What's too good to be true usually is. They were cautious. Others, perhaps, were too self-centered to be grateful. The sick life was simpler. Now they had to get a job and play a role in society. And others were just too arrogant. They were never that sick. Given enough time, they would have recovered. Besides, to be thankful is to admit to being needy. Who wants to show weakness when you have an image to protect? Too busy, too cautious, too self-centered, and too arrogant.

Too close to home?

If this story is any indication, nine out of ten people suffer from ingratitude. That’s a disease of epidemic proportions – maybe pandemic proportions. But why? Why the appreciation depreciation? Well, it’s kind of like a flight I was on from Portland to San Diego. I had raced to the gate in hopes of catching an earlier flight, but the airline had already loaded extra passengers on the plane. With all the charm I could muster I asked the attendant, "Are any seats left?" She looked at her computer screen. "No," she replied, "I'm afraid . . . ," and I just knew how she was going to finish the sentence: "I'm afraid you'll have to catch your original flight," which was going to be significantly delayed – possibly into the next morning. But that’s not what she said. Instead, she looked up and smiled. "I'm afraid there are no more seats in coach. We’re going to have to bump you up to first class. Do you mind if we do that?" "Do I mind?" So I boarded the plane and nestled down in the wide seat with the extra legroom. Color me grateful.

But not every passenger was as appreciative. A fellow across the aisle from me was angry because he had only one pillow. With the attendants scrambling to lock the doors and prepare for departure, he was complaining about poor customer service. "I paid extra to fly first class. I’m accustomed to better attention. I want another pillow!" On the other side of the aisle, I was smiling like a guy who’d just won the lottery without having purchased a ticket. One passenger grumbled; the other was appreciative. The difference? The cranky guy paid his way into first class. My seat was a gift.

So which side of the aisle are you on? If you feel like the world owes you something, brace yourself for a life of sour hours because you'll never get reimbursed. The sky will never be blue enough; the steak won't be cooked enough; the universe won't be good enough to deserve a human being like you. You'll snap and snarl your way to an early grave. Unfortunately, pride keeps us from being appreciative because we think that we don’t get as much as we deserve. The grateful heart, on the other hand, sees each day as a gift. Thankful people focus less on the pillows they lack, and more on the privileges they have.

Just like those lepers, Jesus has cured our leprosy. Sin cankered our souls and numbed our senses. Yet the Man on the path told us we were healed and, lo and behold, we were. The appreciative heart is like a magnet sweeping over the day, collecting reasons for gratitude. A zillion diamonds sparkle against the velvet of your sky every night. “Thank you, God.” A miracle of muscles enables your eyes to read these words and your brain to process them. “Thank you, God.” Your lungs inhale and exhale eleven thousand liters of air every day. Your heart will beat about three billion times in your lifetime. Your brain is a veritable electric generator of power. “Thank you, God.” From the jam on our toast to the milk on our cereal; from the blanket that calms us, to the joke that delights us and the warm sun that reminds us of God's love – “Thank you, God.”

Being appreciative gets us through the hard stuff. To reflect on your blessings is to rehearse God's accomplishments. To rehearse God's accomplishments is to discover his heart. To discover his heart is to discover not just good gifts but the Good Giver. Gratitude always leaves us looking at God, and away from dread. It does to anxiety what the morning sun does to a valley mist – it burns it up. So, join the ranks of the 10 percent who give God a standing ovation. "Give thanks for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ." (Eph. 5:20)

You don't have to name a child after God, but then again you could. Or you could draft a letter listing his blessings, or write a song in his honor. You could sponsor an orphan, buy an appliance for a needy family or adopt a child just because God adopted you. The surest path out of a slump is marked by the road sign that says, "Thank you." But what of the disastrous days? The nights we can't sleep and the hours we can't rest? Appreciative then? Well, Jesus was. "On the night when he was betrayed, the Lord Jesus took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it." (1 Cor. 11:23-24)

Not often do you see the words “betrayed” and “thanks” in the same sentence, much less in the same heart. Jesus and the disciples were in the Upper Room. Judas, the traitor, sat in the corner. Impetuous Peter sat at the table. One would soon betray Jesus; the other would soon curse him. Jesus knew that, yet on the night he was betrayed he gave thanks. In the middle of the darkest night of the human soul, Jesus found a way to give thanks. Anyone can thank God for the light, but Jesus teaches us to thank God for the night. He taught eight-year-old Daniel to do that.

Daniel was born with a double cleft palate, dramatically disfiguring his face. He had surgery, but the evidence of his disfigurement couldn’t be completely hidden. People constantly noticed the difference and occasionally made remarks. Daniel, however, was totally unfazed. He just tells people that God made him that way so what's the big deal? Because of his attitude, attendance and grades he was named student of the week at school and was asked to bring something to show his classmates for show-and-tell. Daniel told his mom he wanted to take the pictures that showed his face prior to the surgery. His mom was just a little concerned. "Won't that make you feel a little funny?" she asked. But Daniel insisted. "Oh no, I want everybody to see what God did for me!"

So, try Daniel's defiant joy and see what happens. God has handed you a cup of blessings. Sweeten it with a heaping spoonful of appreciation. "Let me introduce you to my sons," Joseph would tell people. "Come here, God Made Me Forget and God Made Me Fruitful. Oh, what? Where did I get those names? Well, have a seat and let me tell you what God did for me."

Appreciativeness can turn common days into thanksgivings, routine jobs into joy and change ordinary opportunities into blessings. Otherwise, what if you woke up tomorrow with only what you were grateful for today?

Grace,

Randy

Equipoise

 

Equipoise

Equipoise - Audio/Visual 

Pharaoh sent for Joseph at once, and he was quickly brought from the prison. After he shaved and changed his clothes, he went in and stood before Pharaoh. Then Pharaoh said to Joseph, “I had a dream last night, and no one here can tell me what it means. But I have heard that when you hear about a dream you can interpret it.” “It is beyond my power to do this,” Joseph replied. “But God can tell you what it means and set you at ease.” (Genesis 41:14-16)

Don't hold me to all the details of this particular memory, because I can't recall the name of the birthday boy, or the games we played, or the names of the other party guests. I’m not even sure how old I was, but judging from the surroundings I was probably seven or eight years old. But I do remember that bounce-back clown. He was pear-shaped – narrower at the top than the bottom, inflated and he looked a lot like Bozo. He was almost as tall as I was, and all his facial features were painted on. His ears didn't protrude. His nose didn't stick out. Even his arms lay flat – if he had arms; I don’t recall. He didn't make music, or recite some phrase when you pulled a string. He didn't do anything except that he always bounced back. If you knocked him down, he’d pop right back up. Clobber him with a bat, punch him in the nose, even give him a swift kick to the ribs and he’d fall down – but not for very long.

Trust me, we did our best to level that clown. One punch after the other, each more vicious than the one before. None of us succeeded. Bozo had more comebacks than the '69 Mets. He wasn't strong – he was full of hot air. He couldn't duck or defend himself. He didn't charm us with his good looks, or silence attackers with his quick wit. He was a clown. Red lips and yellow hair. Yet there was something about him, or within him, that kept him on his feet. We'd do well to learn his secret.

Life comes at us with a flurry of punches – the right-hook of rejection, or the left jab of loss. Enemies sucker-punch below the belt. Calamities stagger us to our corner. It's a slugfest out there, and some people, once knocked down, never get up. They stay on the mat – beaten, bitter and broken. They’re down for the count. Others, however, bounce back like Bozo. Joseph did. The guy was a walking piñata: the angry double cross of brothers that sold him into slavery, the below-the-belt deceit by Potiphar's wife that landed him in prison, and the uppercut of the butler's broken promise that kept him in jail. Joseph staggered, but recovered. He reminds me of the movie, Rocky. By God's strength, however, Joseph pulled himself to his feet and stood, stronger than ever and in Pharaoh's court, no less.

Pharaoh was the unrivaled ruler of the land. He was his own cabinet and congress. He spoke the word, and it was done. He issued a command, and it was law. He entered a room, and he was worshiped. But on this particular day, Pharaoh wasn’t feeling very worship-worthy. Imagine the prototypical Pharaoh: bare chested and rock jawed, a little saggy in the pecs, but solid for a middle-aged monarch. He wears a cloth on his shoulders, and on his head is a leather cone encircled by a rearing cobra. His beard is false, and his eye makeup is almond shaped. He holds a staff in one hand but rests his chin in the other. Slaves fan the air about him. A bowl of figs and nuts sits within arm's reach on a table, but he isn't hungry. He just frowns. His attendants speak in anxious, subdued voices because when Pharaoh’s unhappy, no one’s happy. Crazy dreams had kept him up half the night.

In dream number one, cows were grazing on the riverbank. Seven were fine and fat, just like the ones you see on a Chick-fil-A commercial. But while the healthy bovines weren't looking, seven skinny cows snuck up from behind and devoured them. Pharaoh sat up in bed and broke out into a cold sweat. But after a few minutes, he dismissed the dream as indigestion and fell back asleep. But dream number two was just as weird. A stalk of grain with seven healthy heads was consumed by a stalk of grain with seven withered heads. Two dreams with the same pattern: the seven bad devoured the seven good. Pharaoh woke up again, and now he was freaking out. He assembled his counselors and demanded an interpretation. Cows consuming cows, stalks gobbling stalks. What did these dreams mean? His advisors had no response; they didn’t have a clue. It was then that the butler remembered Joseph from their days together in prison. So, the butler told Pharaoh about the Hebrew’s skills at dream interpretation.

The king snapped his fingers, and a flourish of activity erupted. Joseph was cleaned up and called in. In a moment of high drama, Jacob's favored son was being escorted into Pharaoh's throne room. Can you imagine? Pharaoh, the king; Joseph, the ex-shepherd. Pharaoh, urban; Joseph, rural. Pharaoh from the palace; Joseph from the prison. Pharaoh wore gold chains; Joseph wore chain-link bruises. Pharaoh had his armies and pyramids; Joseph had borrowed clothes and a foreign accent. The prisoner, however, was unfazed. He heard the dreams and went straight to work. No need to consult seers, or tea leaves or chicken bones. This was pretty simple stuff, really. Kind of like simple addition for a Harvard math professor. "Expect seven years of plenty and seven years of famine." No one, including Pharaoh, knew how to respond because famine was a foul word in the Egyptian dictionary.

Egypt didn't manufacture Fords or export T-shirts. Their civilization was built on farming. Crops made Egypt the jewel of the Nile, and agriculture made Pharaoh the most powerful man in the world. A month-long drought would hurt the economy. A year-long famine would weaken the throne of Pharaoh, who owned the fields around the Nile. But a seven-year famine would turn the Nile into a creek and the crops into sticks. A famine to Pharaoh was the equivalent of electric cars to an Arab sheik. The silence in the throne room was so thick you could hear a cough drop. So, Joseph took advantage of the pause in the conversation to offer a solution: "Create a department of agriculture and commission a smart guy to gather grain during the good years and to distribute the saved grain during the lean years."

Officials gulped at Joseph's chutzpah. It was one thing to give bad news to Pharaoh, but an entirely different matter altogether to offer unsolicited advice. Yet the guy hadn't shown a hint of fear since he’d entered the palace. He paid no homage to the king. He didn't offer accolades to the magicians. He didn't kiss rings, or polish apples. Lesser men would have cowered, but Joseph didn't blink. And the most powerful person in the room, Pharaoh (ruler of the Nile, deity of the heavens, Grand Pooh-Bah of the pyramid people), was in need of a stiff scotch. The lowest person in the pecking order, Joseph (ex-slave, convict, accused sex offender), was cooler than the other side of a pillow. So, what made the difference? Equipoise. Merriam defines it as “a state of equilibrium,” or a counterbalance.

Bozo had it. That clown at the birthday party, I came to learn later, was braced by a lead weight – a three-pound plate, hidden at his base, which worked as a counterbalance against the punches. Joseph, as it turns out, had a similar equipoise. Not a piece of iron but a deep-seated, stabilizing belief in God's sovereignty.

We sense it in his first sentence: "It is beyond my power to do this . . . but God can tell you what it means . . . ." (Gen. 41:16) The second time Joseph spoke, he explained, "God has revealed to Pharaoh in advance what he is about to do." (v. 28) Joseph then proceeded to interpret the dreams and explain to Pharaoh that the dreams were "events decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen." (v. 32) Five times in three verses Joseph made reference to God. Sound familiar? It should.

When Potiphar's wife attempted to seduce him, Joseph refused, saying, "How could I do such a wicked thing? It would be a great sin against God." (Gen. 39:9) When fellow prisoners asked for an interpretation of their dreams, Joseph said, "Interpreting dreams is God’s business." (40:8) He rested the gravity of his equipoise on the foundation of his immovable God. He lived with the awareness that God was active, able and up to something significant. And Joseph was right because at that, Pharaoh commanded a stunning turnaround: "Can we find anyone else like this man so obviously filled with the spirit of God?” (41:38) He turned the kingdom over to Joseph. And by the end of the day, the boy from Canaan was riding in a royal chariot, second only to Pharaoh in authority. What a rebound.

In the chaos called "Joseph's life," there’s at least one broken promise, two betrayals, several bursts of hatred, two abductions, more than one attempted seduction, ten jealous brothers, and a textbook case of poor parenting. Then there’s abuse, unjust imprisonment, and 24 months of jail food. Mix it all together, let it simmer for thirteen years, and what do you get? The grandest bounce back in the Bible. Jacob's forgotten boy became the second most powerful man in the world's most powerful country. The path to the palace wasn't quick, and it wasn't painless but wouldn't you say that God took Joseph’s mess and made it into something good? If so, then can’t he do the same with yours?

Tally up the pain of your past. Betrayals plus anger plus tragedies. Poorly parented? Wrongly accused? Inappropriately touched? Life can be cruel. But consider this: Is the God of Joseph still in control? Can he do for you what he did for Joseph? Might the evil intended to harm you actually help you become the person God created you to be? Yes, he is; yes, he can; and yes, it will. Someday – perhaps in this life, and certainly in the next – you will tally up the crud of your life and write this sum: it’s all good. Captain Sam Brown did.

Two years out of West Point, he was on his first tour of duty in Kandahar, Afghanistan, when an improvised explosive device (“IED”) turned his Humvee into a Molotov cocktail. He doesn't remember how he got out of the truck. He does remember rolling in the sand, slapping dirt on his burning face, running in circles, and finally dropping to his knees. He lifted flaming arms to the air and cried, "Jesus, save me!" In Sam's case, the words were more than just a desperate scream. He is a devoted Christian, and was calling on his Savior to take him home because he assumed he would die. But death didn’t come. His gunner did, instead.

With bullets flying all around them, Sam’s teammate helped them reach cover. Crouching behind a wall, Sam realized that bits of his clothing were fusing to his skin. He ordered the private to rip his gloves off his burning flesh. The soldier hesitated, then pulled. With the gloves came Sam’s index finger. Brown winced at what was the first of thousands of moments of pain. When vehicles from another platoon finally reached them, they loaded the wounded soldier into a truck.

Before Sam passed out before being medevacked, he caught a glimpse of his face in a mirror. He didn't recognize himself. That was September 2008. Three years later, he’d undergone 15 painful surgeries. Although 30% of his body had actually been burned, 85% of his body had been affected because the doctors used skin from areas that hadn’t been burned. The pain chart didn't have a number high enough to register the agony he felt. But in the midst of his personal horror, beauty walked into the room.

Dietitian, Amy Larsen. Since Sam's mouth had been reduced to the size of a quarter, Amy monitored his nutrition intake. He remembers the first time he saw her. Dark hair, brown eyes. Nervous. Cute. Perhaps more important was the fact that she didn't flinch at the sight of him. So, after several weeks he gathered up the courage to ask her out. They went to a rodeo. The following weekend they went to a friend's wedding. During the three-hour drive, Amy told Sam how she had noticed him months earlier when he was in ICU, covered with bandages, sedated with morphine, and attached to a breathing machine. When he regained consciousness, she stepped into his room to meet him. But there was a circle of family and doctors, so she turned and left. Nonetheless, the two continued to see each other.

Early in their relationship Sam brought up the name of Jesus. Amy wasn’t a believer at the time. Sam's story, however, stirred her heart for God. Sam talked to her about God's mercy and led Amy to Christ. Soon after they were married. They’re now the parents of two toddlers, Roman and Esther, and Sam directs a program to aid wounded soldiers. He even took a stab at politics, losing in the 2014 Republican primary for the Texas House of Representatives, District 102. Amy is now a retired Captain, and a very happy mother to two really cute kids.

No one can minimize the horror of a man on fire in the Afghan desert. And who can imagine the torture of repeated surgeries and rehab? Yet, Sam and Amy have come to believe this: God's math works differently than ours. “War + near death + agonizing rehab = wonderful family and hope for a bright future.” In God's hand, intended evil is eventual good.

Who knows? Your rebound may even happen today. On the morning of his promotion, Joseph had no reason to think that that day would be any different from the 729 days before it. I doubt that he got up that morning and prayed, “God, please promote me to prime minister of Egypt before sunset.” But God exceeded Joseph’s wildest prayer. Joseph began his journey in a prison, and ended it in the palace.

So, where’s your equipoise? If it’s resting on the God of Joseph, you can bounce back, too.

Grace,

Randy

Foolish

 

Foolish

Foolish - Audio/Visual 

Joseph was a very handsome and well-built young man, and Potiphar’s wife soon began to look at him lustfully. “Come and sleep with me,” she demanded. But Joseph refused. “Look,” he told her, “my master trusts me with everything in his entire household. No one here has more authority than I do. He has held back nothing from me except you, because you are his wife. How could I do such a wicked thing? It would be a great sin against God.” She kept putting pressure on Joseph day after day, but he refused to sleep with her, and he kept out of her way as much as possible. One day, however, no one else was around when he went in to do his work. She came and grabbed him by his cloak, demanding, “Come on, sleep with me!” Joseph tore himself away, but he left his cloak in her hand as he ran from the house.

When she saw that she was holding his cloak and he had fled, she called out to her servants. Soon all the men came running. “Look!” she said. “My husband has brought this Hebrew slave here to make fools of us! He came into my room to rape me, but I screamed. When he heard me scream, he ran outside and got away, but he left his cloak behind with me.” She kept the cloak with her until her husband came home. Then she told him her story. “That Hebrew slave you’ve brought into our house tried to come in and fool around with me,” she said. “But when I screamed, he ran outside, leaving his cloak with me!” (Gen. 39:6-18)

It was a beautiful mountain morning on a cold, crisp January. I was with a church youth group, and we’d gone to the San Bernardino Mountains to play in the snow. Now, when you’re a teen there’s nothing better than leaving it all on a field of snow – especially snow on a mountain slope with a toboggan as your sled. And we’d found the perfect spot to race my ride: a gradually descending slope exiting onto a little-used road, and then down to another steeper slope that ended in a long flat area to coast to an easy stop.

So there I was on my toboggan, holding a kindergartner on my lap, ready for the thrill of a lifetime. It almost was. You see, that little-used road that separated one slope from the next was the end of a blind curve and because of the previous night’s temperatures had been reduced to an asphalt skating rink. Compounding matters, it had snowed the night before. And although great for skiing, powder is not the best surface for bracing yourself when you need to come to a quick stop.

But there we were – me and my friend’s younger brother. We had a lookout posted on the road, but I guess he was too busy drinking hot chocolate and not paying attention because when I asked if the coast was clear I got the green light and off we went. But it was only seconds later that I heard the lookout screaming that a car was coming around the corner on that little-used road. At that point, the only thing I could think of was stopping the toboggan and trudging up the hill to try it again. But there was just one problem: I couldn’t. The previous night’s powder prevented me from getting the friction I needed to come to a stop. Panicked, I shoved the kindergartner off the sled and hoped for the best.

Well, the best got me because when I hit the asphalt, I came to an abrupt stop. The problem was that the car didn’t; the driver didn’t even see me. Wiping the snow from my eyes and lying on the icy pavement, I saw the car’s left rear tire – chains and all – roll over my leg. Now, when you’re a teenager you’re bullet-proof, right? So, I hopped up from the near-tragic calamity while the occupants got out of their car to see what they’d run over. That would be me, but who wants to waste a day in the snow? Then came the morning. I awoke that next morning to the sight of chain-link bruises tattooed on my larger-than-life knee, including the accompanying pain that goes along with a one ton car stretching every ligament and tendon within reach of its tread. Teenagers.

And then it hit me. What if I’d slid just a little further? What if I hadn’t shoved that kindergartner off the sled? What if I’d left just a moment sooner and taken the brunt of a front-end collision. I began to sweat. The thought was numbing like the snow on that cold, January day, and equally convicting. “What were you thinking, Randy?” That was the problem, of course – I wasn’t. Dumb became dumber because I treated a bad decision with a poor, impulsive choice. Forgivable on a sled, perhaps. But in life?

Joseph was probably in his twenties when he almost got run over by a Jaguar of sexual temptation. When his brothers sold him into slavery, they probably assumed they’d doomed him to hard labor and an early death. Instead, Joseph moved up the career ladder like a fireman after a cat. Potiphar, who promoted Joseph in his home, no doubt promoted him among his circle of officials. He boasted about the Midas touch of this bright Hebrew boy who’d made him a wealthy man. And Joseph came to have clout. He could spend and hire, send and receive. Merchants reported to him, and other people noticed him – especially women. "Now Joseph was a very handsome and well-built young man." (Gen. 39:6) A real Hollywood head turner. This guy was a square-jawed, ripped abs Adonis whose biceps bulged every time he carried Mrs. Potiphar's tray – which was often. She enjoyed the sight of him. "And Potiphar’s wife soon began to look at him lustfully. ‘Come and sleep with me,’ she demanded." (v. 7)

The first lady of the household made a play for the Hebrew slave. "Joooeeeyyyy, how about a little sugar with my coffee?" Wink, wink. As she passed him in the hallway, she’d brush up against his arm. As he brought dessert to the table, she’d touch his leg. By the clothes she wore, or maybe didn't, she made it clear: "I'm yours for the taking, Joseph. So, take me now." She pursued him "day after day." (v. 10) He had plenty of opportunities to consider the proposition. And plenty of reasons to accept it.

Wasn't she married to his master? And wasn't he obligated to obey the wishes of his owner, even if the wish was a secret rendezvous? And it’d be a secret because no one would know. Just like Las Vegas. What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom, right? Besides, a dalliance with the not-so-lady of the house would give Joseph a chip in the political poker game; an ally at the top level. The end justified the means. And the means wasn't all that unpleasant. Powerful Potiphar had his pick of women so his wife was likely a jaw-dropper, but maybe she’d gone ignored. And let’s face it: Joseph didn't lose his libido just because he lost his coat of many colors. A few moments in the arms of an attractive, willing lover? Joseph could use some relief. And didn't he deserve some? These were lonely days – rejected by his family, twice bought and sold like livestock, far from home and far from friends. Maybe the stress of managing Potiphar's household had gotten him since he was overseeing the terraced gardens and multitudes of slaves while mastering the peculiar protocol of official events. Joseph's job was draining. He could’ve easily justified his choice.

And you can, too. You've been jilted and bruised, sold out and turned away. Run over by a car brandishing chains of bad health, bad credit and bad luck. Few friends and fewer solutions. The hours are long, and the nights are longer. So, Mr. Potiphar slides his room key in your direction, or Mrs. Potiphar pushes a bottle your way. A co-worker offers you some drugs. You can pay some personal bills with company cash, or stave off bankruptcy by embezzling funds. Justifications and rationalizations pop up like weeds after a spring rain. No one will know. You’re only human, right?

Your Egypt can be a pretty cruddy place. No one disagrees with that. But Egypt can also be the Petri dish for brainless decisions. Don't make matters worse by doing something you'll regret. Joseph didn’t. He went on high alert. When Mrs. Potiphar dangled the bait, "he refused." (Gen. 39:8) He gave the temptress no time, no attention, no chitchat, no reason for hope. "He refused to sleep with her, and he kept out of her way as much as possible." (v. 10) So, when her number appeared on his cell phone, he didn’t answer. When she texted, he didn't respond. When she entered his office, he left the building. He avoided her like the poison she was. "[Potiphar] trusts me with everything in his entire household,” he announced. (v. 8) To sleep with her would have been a sin against his master. Actions have consequences, and Joseph placed his loyalty above lusts. He honored his master, and his Master.

Joseph's primary concern was the preference of God. "How could I do such a wicked thing? It would be a great sin against God?" (Gen. 39:9) The lesson we learn from Joseph is pretty simple: do what pleases God. Your friends hand you a joint; your classmates show you a way to cheat; the Internet lures you with pornography – ask yourself the question: How can I please God? "Do what is right as a sacrifice to the Lord and trust the Lord,” the Psalmist said. (Ps. 4:5) You don't fix a struggling marriage with an affair, or a drug problem with more drugs, or debt with more debt. You don't fix stupid with stupid. You don't get out of a mess by making another one. One act of carnality is a poor exchange for a lifetime’s legacy lost. Do what pleases God. You’ll never go wrong doing what’s right. Thomas made that discovery.

Thomas, in many ways, was a modern-day Joseph. Born in 1899 to a Baptist pastor and a church pianist, Thomas was exposed to music early on. By the age of twelve he was imitating the jazz music of the African American community in the Deep South. In his late teens he went to Philadelphia and then to Chicago, where he played in speakeasies. Somewhere along the way he forgot his faith. He compromised his lifestyle and turned away from the convictions of his youth. His talent may have opened the doors, but his conscience wouldn't let him rest. Long nights on the road left him exhausted and weary. A relative urged him to return to God. And at the age of twenty-one, he did. He had an encounter with God that would lead him to write later that, "My inner-being was thrilled. My soul was a deluge of divine rapture; my emotions were aroused; my heart was inspired to become a great singer and worker in the kingdom of the Lord."

Young Thomas poured his energy into God-honoring music. Rhythm and blues met worship and praise. The result was a brand-new genre of toe-tapping, soul-lifting music. He took a position as a music director at a Chicago church. At the age of twenty-six Thomas met the love of his life and got married. He began a publishing company and founded the National Convention of Gospel Choirs and Choruses. He worked with some of the greatest singers in the history of gospel music, including Mahalia Jackson.

By 1932, Thomas was enjoying the blessings of God at full speed: happy marriage, growing ministry, first child on the way. Life was good. But then he got run over by that “car.” One night after singing to a Saint Louis audience, he was handed a Western Union telegram. It read, simply, "Your wife just died." She had passed away in childbirth. Thomas hurried back to Chicago, where his newborn son died the next day. Thomas fell into a crevasse of grief. He avoided people and grew angry at God. "I just wanted to go back to the jazz world I knew so well. I felt God had done me an injustice. I didn't want to serve Him anymore or write gospel songs," he wrote.

He secluded himself, nursing his anger and sorrow. Fortunately, a friend seemed to know what he needed and took Thomas to a neighborhood music school. That evening as the sun was setting, Thomas sat down at a piano and began to play . . . and pray. He poured out his heart to God, and these are the words he spoke, “Precious Lord, take my hand. Lead me on. Let me stand. I am tired, I am weak, I am worn. Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light. Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.” For the rest of his life, Thomas A. Dorsey testified that the Lord healed him that night as he sat at the piano. He went on to pen more than three thousand songs and became one of the most influential Christian songwriters of all time. All because he reached out to God.

So do the same. Turbulent times will tempt you to forget God. Shortcuts will lure you. Sirens will call you. But don't be foolish or naive. Do what pleases God. Nothing more, nothing less. And maybe think twice before you race down that slippery slope toward that blind curve; it could hurt you.

Grace,

Randy