Take This Cup Away

 

Take This Cup Away

Take This Cup Away - Audio/Visual

They came to an area called Gethsemane. Jesus told his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” He took Peter, James and John with him. He plunged into a sinkhole of dreadful agony. He told them, “I feel bad enough right now to die. Stay here and keep vigil with me.” Going a little ahead, he fell to the ground and prayed for a way out: “Papa, Father, you can—can’t you?—get me out of this. Take this cup away from me. But please, not what I want—what do you want?” (Mark 14:32-36 MSG)

The next time an octopus traps you on the ocean floor, don't panic. Just tumble into a flurry of somersaults. Unless you're wrapped in the grip of a fearfully strong arm or two, you'll escape with only a few suction marks. More good news. You can foil your next UFO abduction by going straight for the invader's eyes. But watch your thoughts – some aliens can actually read minds. And although gorillas can't read minds, they can grab you like a vice. For instance, the grip of a silverback is padlock tight. Your only hope of escape is to stroke your captor’s arm while loudly smacking your lips. Primates are fastidious groomers. So, hopefully, the gorilla will interpret your actions as a spa treatment. If not, things could be worse. You could be falling from the sky in a malfunctioning parachute, trapped in a plummeting elevator or buried alive in a steel casket. You could be facing your worst-case scenario.

We all have them, don’t we? Situations of ultimate desperation. That's why The Complete Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook was such a huge success in 2007. And, thanks to the book, I know how to react to a grabbing gorilla or an abducting alien. But the odds of those things happening are so remote that I haven’t lost a lot of sleep over them. I ponder other gloomy possibilities. Growing senile is one of them. The thought of growing old doesn't trouble me. I don't mind losing my youth, or my hair because that’s already happening. But the thought of losing my mind? I don't want to end up that way.

Lurking fears. Uninvited Loch Ness monsters. Not your pedestrian anxieties of daily deadlines and common colds, but the lingering horror of some inescapable situation. Illogical and inexplicable, perhaps, but undeniable nonetheless. What's your worst fear? The fear of unemployment, or heights? The fear that you'll never find the right spouse, or enjoy good health? The fear of being trapped, abandoned or forgotten? These are very real fears, born out of legitimate concerns. But left unchecked, they metastasize into obsessions because the difference between prudence and paranoia is razor thin. Prudence wears a seat belt; paranoia avoids cars. Prudence washes with soap; paranoia avoids human contact. Prudence saves for old age; paranoia hoards even trash. Prudence prepares and plans; paranoia panics. Prudence calculates the risk and takes the plunge; paranoia never enters the water.

That was Jesus’ choice. But he did more than just speak about fear; he faced it. The decisive acts of the gospel drama were played out on two stages – Gethsemane’s garden and Golgotha's cross. Friday's cross witnessed the severest suffering; Thursday’s garden staged the profoundest fear. It was there, among the olive trees, that Jesus "fell to the ground. He prayed that, if it were possible, the awful hour awaiting him might pass him by. 'Abba, Father,' he cried out, 'everything is possible for you. Please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.'" (Mark 14:35-36)

Mark paints the picture of Jesus as pale-faced and trembling. "Horror . . . came over him." (Mark 14:33) The word “horror” is used for a man who’s rendered helpless, disoriented and who’s agitated and anguished by the threat of some approaching event. And Matthew agreed. He described Jesus as depressed and confused (Matt. 26:37); or sorrowful and troubled (RSV); or anguish[ed] and dismay[ed] (NEB). We've never seen Jesus like this. Not in the Galilean storm, at the demoniac's necropolis or on the edge of the Nazarene cliff. We've never heard such screams or seen eyes so wide. And never, ever, have we read a sentence like this: "He plunged into a sinkhole of dreadful agony." (Mark 14:33) This is a weighty moment. God has become flesh, and Flesh is feeling fear full bore. Why? What could frighten the Christ? It had something to do with a cup. "Please take this cup of suffering away from me." (v. 36)

“Cup,” in biblical terms, was more than a drinking utensil. “Cup” equaled God's anger, judgment and punishment. When God took pity on apostate Jerusalem, he said, "See, I have taken out of your hand the cup that made you stagger . . . the goblet of my wrath." (Isa. 51:22) Through Jeremiah, God declared that all nations would drink of the cup of his disgust: "Take from my hand this cup filled to the brim with my anger, and make all the nations to whom I send you drink from it." (Jer. 25:15) According to John, those who dismiss God "must drink the wine of God's anger. It has been poured full strength into God's cup of wrath. And they will be tormented with fire and burning sulfur in the presence of the holy angels and the Lamb." (Rev. 14:10)

In other words, the cup was Jesus' worst-case scenario: to be the recipient of God's wrath. He had never felt God's fury; he didn't deserve to. He'd never experienced isolation from his Father; the two had been one for eternity. He'd never known physical death; he was an immortal being. Yet within a few short hours, Jesus would face them all. God would unleash his sin-hating wrath on the sin-covered Son. And Jesus was afraid. Deathly afraid. And what he did with his fear shows us what to do with ours. He prayed.

He told his followers, "Sit here while I go and pray over there." (Matt. 26:36) But one prayer wasn’t enough. "Again, a second time, He went away and prayed . . . and prayed the third time, saying the same words." (vv. 42, 44) He even requested the prayer support of his friends. "Stay awake and pray for strength," he urged. (v. 41) Jesus faced his ultimate fear with a simple, honest prayer.

Unfortunately, we prescribe words for prayer, places for prayer, clothing for prayer and postures for prayer; durations, intonations and incantations. Yet Jesus' garden appeal had none of that. It was brief (twenty-six English words), straightforward ("Please take this cup of suffering away"), and trusting ("Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.") Low on slick, and high on authentic. Less a silver-tongued saint in the sanctuary; more a frightened child in a father's lap. And maybe that’s the answer. Jesus' garden prayer was a child's prayer. “Abba,” he prayed, using the homespun word a child would use while scampering up onto the lap of his papa. And anyone can pray from that perspective.

Prayer is the practice of sitting calmly in God's lap, placing our hands in his and asking God to "take this cup away." This cup of disease, or betrayal, or financial collapse, or joblessness, or conflict, or even senility. Prayer isn’t complicated. It was never intended to be. And such a simple prayer equipped Christ to stare down his deepest fear. We would do well to model the same.

Fight your dragons in Gethsemane's garden. Those persistent, ugly villains of the heart – talk to God about them. “I have to fly tomorrow, Lord, and I can't sleep for fear that some terrorist will put a bomb on board and blow the plane out of the sky. Please remove this fear.” Or, “The bank just called and is about to foreclose on our home. What's going to happen to my family? Teach me to trust you.” “I'm scared, Lord. The doctor just called, and the news isn’t good. You know what's ahead for me. I give my fear to you.” Be specific about your fears. Identify what "this cup" is and then talk to God about it.

Putting your worries into words disrobes them. Logic doesn't talk fear off the ledge or onto the airplane. So what does? How can we avoid that towel-in-the-ring surrender to the enemy? By pulling back the curtains and exposing those fears – each and every one. Like vampires, they can't stand the sunlight. Financial fears, relationship fears, professional fears, safety fears – call them out in prayer. Drag them out by the hand of your mind and make them stand before God and take their comeuppance. Jesus made his fears public. He "offered up prayers and petitions with loud cries and tears to the one who could save him from death." (Heb. 5:7) He prayed loudly enough to be heard and recorded.

I had a client who was dreading a letter from the IRS. According to their calculations, he owed the IRS money – money my client didn’t have. He was told to expect a letter detailing the amount. When the letter arrived, his courage failed him. He couldn't bear to open it, so the envelope sat on his desk for five days while he twisted in dread. How much could it be? Where would he get the money? How long would he spend in prison? Finally he summoned the gumption to open the envelope. To his profound relief, he found not a bill to be paid, but a check to be cashed. Turns out, the IRS had made a mistake. Go figure. They owed him money, and he’d wasted five days in needless fear dreading something that never happened.

A 2019 Penn State University study concluded that 91.4% of worries were false alarms. And of the remaining 8.6% of worries that did come true, the outcome was better than expected about a third of the time. For about one in four participants, exactly zero of their worries ever materialized. These findings underscored “worry’s deceit,” in the words of the study's authors.

Truth is, there are very few monsters that warrant the fear we have of them. As followers of God, you and I have a huge asset – we know that everything is going to turn out alright. Christ hasn't budged from his throne, and Romans 8:28 hasn't evaporated from the Bible. Our problems have always been his possibilities. The kidnapping of Joseph resulted in the preservation of his family. The persecution of Daniel led to a cabinet position. Christ entered the world by a surprise pregnancy and redeemed it through his unjust murder. The Bible teaches us that no disaster is ultimately fatal.

Paul penned his final words in the bowels of a Roman prison, chained to a guard and within earshot of his executioner's footsteps. Worst-case scenario? Not from Paul's perspective. "God's looking after me, keeping me safe in the kingdom of heaven. All praise to him, praise forever!" (2 Tim. 4:18) Paul chose to trust his Father. The question is, will you?

Grace,

Randy

Staring Down Your Storms

 

Staring Down Your Storms

Staring Down Your Storms - Audio/Visual

Immediately after this, Jesus insisted that his disciples get back into the boat and cross to the other side of the lake while he sent the people home. After sending them home, he went up into the hills by himself to pray. Night fell while he was there alone. Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land, for a strong wind had risen and they were fighting heavy waves. About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!” But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. I am here!” (Matt. 14:22-27)

As lakes go, the Sea of Galilee is a pretty small and moody one. Only thirteen miles at its longest, seven and a half at its widest, its diminutive size makes it vulnerable to the winds that howl down from the Golan Heights. They turn the lake into a blender. Winds shift suddenly – blowing first from one direction and then the other. Winter months bring these kind of storms about every two weeks, churning the waters for two to three days at a time. And Peter and his fellow storm riders knew they were in serious trouble. What should have been a sixty-minute cruise became a nightlong battle. The boat lurched and lunged like a kite in a March wind. Sunlight was a distant memory. Rain fell from the night sky in buckets. Lightning sliced the blackness with a silver sword. Winds whipped the sails, leaving the disciples "in the middle of the sea . . . tossed about by the waves." (vs. 24)

Does that describe your life now? Sometimes all we need to do is substitute a couple of nouns – in the middle of a divorce, tossed about by guilt; in the middle of debt, tossed about by creditors. The disciples fought the storm for nine cold, skin-drenching hours. And then, about 3:00 a.m., the unspeakable happens. They spotted someone coming on the water. "'A ghost!' they said, crying out in terror." (v. 26) They didn't expect Jesus to come to them that way. And neither do we.

We expect him to come in the form of peaceful hymns, or Easter Sundays or quiet retreats. We expect to find Jesus in morning devotionals, church potlucks or in meditation. We never expect to see him in a pandemic, or on a pink slip, or in a lawsuit or when a foreclosure is knocking on the door. We never expect to see him in a storm. But it’s in the storms that he does his finest work, because that’s when he has our keenest attention. Jesus replied to the disciples' fear with an invitation worthy of an inscription on every church cornerstone and residential doorway: "'Don't be afraid,' he said. 'Take courage. I am here!'" (v. 27)

There’s power in those words. To wake up in an ICU and hear your wife say, "I’m here." To lose your retirement yet feel the support of your family in the words, "We’re here." Or when a Little Leaguer spots Mom and Dad in the bleachers watching the game, the words "I am here" changes everything. Maybe that's why God repeats the "I am here" pledge so often. The Lord is near. (Phil. 4:5) I am with you always, to the very end of the age. (Matt. 28:20) I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my hand. (John 10:28) Nothing can ever separate us from God's love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow – not even the powers of hell can separate us from God's love. (Rom. 8:38)

We cannot go where God is not. Look over your shoulder – that’s God following you. Look into the storm – that’s Christ coming toward you. Much to Peter's credit, he took Jesus at his word. "'Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.' So he said, 'Come.' And when Peter had come down out of the boat, he walked on the water to go to Jesus." (Matt. 14:28-29) Peter probably would have never made that request on a calm sea. Had Christ strolled across a lake that was as smooth as glass, Peter would have applauded, perhaps, but I doubt he would have stepped out of the boat. Storms prompt us to take unprecedented journeys. And for a few historic steps and heart-stilling moments, Peter did the impossible. He defied every law of gravity and nature. "He walked on the water to go to Jesus." Pretty scant on the details, though – we’re talking about walking on the water here!

Don’t we want to know how quickly Peter exited the boat, or what the other disciples were doing? Maybe the expression on their faces, or if Peter stepped on any fish? But Matthew didn’t have time for those kinds of questions. He moves us quickly to the major message of the event: where to stare in a storm. "But when [Peter] saw that the wind was boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink he cried out, saying, 'Lord, save me!'" (v. 30) A wall of water eclipsed his view. A wind gust snapped the mast with a crack and a slap. A flash of lightning illuminated the lake and the watery mountain it had become. Peter shifted his attention away from Jesus and toward the squall, and when he did he sank like a rock. Give the storm waters more attention than the Storm Walker, and get ready to do the same.

We can’t choose whether storms will come, but we can choose where we stare when they do. I discovered that truth while sitting in my cardiologist's office a few years ago. My heart was misbehaving, so I was referred to a specialist. After reviewing my tests and asking me some questions, the doctor nodded knowingly and told me to wait in his office. I didn't like being sent to the principal's office as a kid, and I really don't like being sent to the doctor's office as a patient. But I went in, took a seat and quickly noticed the doctor's harvest of diplomas. They were everywhere. Degrees from universities. Others from residencies. The more I looked at his accomplishments, the better I felt. “I'm in pretty good hands,” I thought.

Then, just about the time I leaned back in the chair to relax, his nurse entered and handed me a sheet of paper. "The doctor will be in shortly," she explained. "In the meantime, he wants you to acquaint yourself with this information. It summarizes your condition." I lowered my gaze from the diplomas to the summary of my disorder. And as I read, stormy winds began to blow. Unwelcome words like “murmur,” “arrhythmia” and “enlarged” caused me to sink into my own Sea of Galilee. “What happened to my peace?” I thought. “I was feeling so much better just a minute ago.” So I changed strategies. I counteracted diagnosis with diplomas. In between paragraphs of bad news, I looked at the wall for reminders of good news.

That's what God wants us to do. His call to courage is not a call to naiveté or ignorance. We aren't to be oblivious to the overwhelming challenges that life brings. We're to counterbalance them with long looks at God's accomplishments. "We must pay much closer attention to what we have heard, so that we do not drift away from it." (Heb. 2:1) Do whatever it takes to keep your gaze on Jesus. Memorize scripture. Read biographies of great lives. Ponder the testimonies of faithful Christians. Make the deliberate decision to set your hope on him. Courage is always a possibility.

C. S. Lewis wrote a great paragraph on this thought: Faith . . . is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted, in spite of your changing moods. For moods will change, whatever view your reason takes. I know that by experience. Now that I am a Christian I do have moods in which the whole thing looks very improbable: but when I was an atheist I had moods in which Christianity looked terribly probable. . . . That is why Faith is such a necessary virtue: unless you teach your moods "where they get off," you can never be either a sound Christian or even a sound atheist, but just a creature dithering to and fro, with its beliefs really dependent on the weather and the state of its digestion.

Feed your fears, and your faith will starve. Feed your faith, and your fears will. Jeremiah did this, and talk about a person caught in a storm. "I am the man who has seen affliction under the rod of [God's] wrath; he has driven and brought me into darkness without any light; surely against me he turns his hand again and again the whole day long." (Lam. 3:1-3) Jeremiah was depressed because Jerusalem was under siege, and his nation was under duress. His world had collapsed and he faulted God for his emotional distress. He also blamed God for his physical ailments. "He [God] has made my flesh and my skin waste away, and broken my bones." (v. 4) His body ached. His heart was sick. His faith was puny.

Jeremiah could tell you the height of the waves and the speed of the wind. But then he realized how fast he was sinking so he shifted his gaze. "But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is thy faithfulness. 'The Lord is my portion,' says my soul, 'therefore I will hope in him.'" (vv. 21-24) "But this I call to mind . . . ." Depressed, Jeremiah altered his thoughts and shifted his attention. He turned his eyes away from the waves and looked into the wonder of God and recited a quintet of promises. The storm didn't cease, but his discouragement did. So did Peter's.

After a few moments of flailing in the water, he turned back to Christ and cried, "'Lord, save me!' Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. 'You of little faith,' he said, 'why did you doubt?' And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down." (Matt. 14:30-32) Jesus could have stilled this storm hours earlier. But he didn't. He wanted to teach his followers a lesson. And Jesus could have calmed your storm long ago, too. But he hasn't. Maybe he wants to teach you a lesson, too. And if so, could that lesson read something like this: "Storms are not an option, but fear is"?

God has hung his diplomas in the office of his universe. Rainbows, sunsets, horizons and star-sequined skies. He’s recorded his accomplishments in Scripture. His resume includes Red Sea openings, lions' mouths closings, Goliath topplings, Lazarus raisings and storm stillings and strollings. His lesson is clear. He's the commander of every storm.

We can’t choose whether storms will come, but we can choose where to focus when they do. So, where’s your focus?

Grace,

Randy

Fumble

Fumble

Fumble - Audio/Visual

Some men came carrying a paralyzed man on a sleeping mat. They tried to take him inside to Jesus, but they couldn’t reach him because of the crowd. So they went up to the roof and took off some tiles. Then they lowered the sick man on his mat down into the crowd, right in front of Jesus. Seeing their faith, Jesus said to the man, “Young man, your sins are forgiven.” (Luke 5:18-20)

Noble Doss dropped the ball, and it haunted him until he passed in 2009 at the age of 88. The fumble happened in 1941. "I cost us a national championship," he’d said. That year the University of Texas football team was ranked number one in the nation. Hoping for an undefeated season and a berth in the Rose Bowl, they played their conference rival, Baylor. With a 7-0 lead in the third quarter, the Longhorn quarterback launched a deep pass to a wide-open Doss. "The only thing I had between me and the goal," he once recalled, "was twenty yards of grass." The throw was on target, and the sure-handed Doss spotted the ball and reached out to catch the perfect spiral. But the ball slipped through his hands. Baylor rallied late in the game and tied the score with only seconds left to play. Texas lost their top ranking and, consequently, their chance at the Rose Bowl. "I think about that play every day," Doss once admitted. Most fans remember the plays Doss made and the passes he caught, but Doss only remembered the one that he missed.

Memories of dropped passes fade slowly from our minds. They stir a fear that we’ve disappointed people; that we’ve let down the team; that we've come up short. A fear that, when needed, we didn't do our part; that others suffered because of our fumbles. And we’d gladly swap our blunders for Doss' because, deep down, we fear that we’ve out-sinned God’s patience. "God's well of grace must have a bottom to it," we reason. "A person can request forgiveness only so often," goes our common sense. "Cash in too many mercy checks, and sooner or later one of them is going to bounce!"

The devil, of course, loves this line of logic. If he can convince us that God's grace has limited funds, we'll draw the only logical conclusion – that the account is empty; that God has locked the door to his throne room. Pound all you want and pray all you want, but there’s no access to God. And "No access to God" unleashes a beehive of concerns. We’re orphans – unprotected and exposed. Heaven, if there’s even such a place, has been removed from the itinerary – we’re vulnerable in this life and doomed in the next. The fear of disappointing God has teeth. But in Christ’s first reference to fear, he does some serious defanging. "Take courage, son; your sins are forgiven." (Matt. 9:2) Note how Jesus places “courage” and “forgiven sins” in the same sentence. Maybe bravery begins when the problem of sin is solved.

Jesus spoke these words to a person who couldn’t move. He was "a paralyzed man….” (v. 2) This disabled guy couldn't walk his dog or jog the neighborhood, but he did have four friends and his friends had a hunch. When they got wind that Jesus was a guest in their town, they loaded their companion on a mat and went to go see the teacher. An audience with Christ might bode well for their buddy. But a standing-room-only crowd packed the residence where Jesus was speaking. People sat in windows and crowded the doorways. But being the sort of fellows who don't give up easily, the friends concocted a plan. “So they went up to the roof and took off some tiles. Then they lowered the sick man on his mat down into the crowd, right in front of Jesus.” (v. 19) That’s a pretty risky strategy.

Most homeowners don't like to have their roofs torn apart. Most paraplegics aren't fond of a one-way bungee drop through a hole in the roof. And most teachers don't appreciate a spectacle in the middle of their lesson. We don't know the reaction of the homeowner or the man on the mat, but we know that Jesus didn't object. In fact, Matthew all but paints a smile on his face, and Christ issued a blessing before one was even requested. And it was a blessing that no one expected: “Young man, your sins are forgiven.” (Luke 5:20)

Wouldn't you expect something different? I don’t know, but how about something like, "Hey, son. Your legs are healed and your paralysis is history. Go ahead and sign up for the Boston Marathon"? The man had limbs as sturdy as spaghetti, yet Jesus offered mercy, not muscles. What was he thinking? Simple. He was thinking about our deepest problem: sin. He was considering our deepest fear: the fear of failing God. Before Jesus healed the body, he treated the soul. "Young man, your sins are forgiven."

To sin is to disregard God, ignore his teachings and deny his blessings. Sin is "God-less" living, centering life on the center letter of the word “sIn.” The sinner's life is me-focused, not God-focused. Wasn't that the choice of Adam and Eve? Prior to their sin they indwelled a fearless world where they were one with creation, one with God and one with each other. Eden was a "one-derful" world with one command: don't touch the tree of knowledge. Adam and Eve were given a choice, and each day they chose to trust God.

But then came the serpent, sowing seeds of doubt and offering a sweeter deal. "Has God indeed said . . . ?," he questioned. (Gen. 3:1) "You will be like God," he offered. (Gen. 3:5) And just like that, Eve was afraid. Some say she was pride-filled, defiant and disobedient. But wasn't she afraid, first? Afraid that God was holding out and that she was missing out? Afraid that Eden wasn't enough? Afraid that God wasn't enough? Afraid that God couldn't deliver?

They mishandled their fear, and fear did them in. Eve quit trusting God and took matters – and the fruit – into her own hands. "Just in case God can't do it, I will," and Adam followed suit. Adam and Eve did what fear-filled people do – they ran for their lives. "Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden. Then the Lord God called to Adam and said to him, 'Where are you?' So he said, 'I heard your voice in the garden, and I was afraid.'" (Gen. 3:8-10)

Fear, mismanaged, leads to sin. Sin leads to hiding. And since we've all sinned, we all hide. Not in bushes, perhaps, but in eighty-hour workweeks, temper tantrums and religious busyness. We avoid contact with God. We’re convinced that God must hate our evil tendencies. We sure do. We don't like the things we do and say. We despise our lustful thoughts, harsh judgments and selfish deeds. If our sin nauseates us, how much more must it revolt a holy God? So, we draw a practical conclusion: God is irreparably ticked off at us. So what are we to do except duck into the bushes at the sound of his voice?

Jesus made forgiveness his first announcement. Yes, we’ve disappointed God but no, God hasn’t abandoned us. “He who believes in Him is not condemned.” (John 3:18) “Everyone who looks to the Son and believes in him shall have eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day.” (John 6:40) “These things I have written to you who believe in the name of the Son of God, that you may know that you have eternal life.” (1 John 5:13) Jesus loves us too much to leave us in doubt about his grace. His "perfect love expels all fear." (1 John 4:18)

Now, if God loved with an imperfect love, we would have cause to worry. Imperfect love keeps a list of sins and consults it often. God keeps no list of our wrongs. His love casts out fear because he casts out our sin. Remember the words of John's epistle: "If our heart condemns us, God is greater than our heart, and knows all things." (1 John 3:20) In other words, when you feel unforgiven, evict the feelings. Emotions don't get a vote. Go back to Scripture. God's Word holds rank over self-criticism and self-doubt. As Paul told Titus, "God's readiness to give and forgive is now public. Salvation's available for everyone! . . . Tell them all this. Build up their courage." (Titus 2:11)

Do you know God's grace? Nothing fosters courage like a clear grasp of grace. And nothing fosters fear like an ignorance of mercy. And if you haven't accepted God's forgiveness, you’re doomed to fear. Nothing can deliver you from that gnawing realization that you have disregarded your Maker and disobeyed his instruction. No pill, pep talk, psychiatrist or possession can set the sinner's heart at ease. You may deaden the fear, but you can't remove it. Only God's grace can. So, have you accepted the forgiveness of Christ? "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:9) If so, then live forgiven. Jesus has healed your legs, so walk because when Jesus sets you free, you’re free indeed. But you may need to silence a few roosters.

Booker T. Washington relates a story of the day his mother did just that. Every morning of his young life, Booker, along with all the plantation slaves, was awakened by the crow of a rooster. Long before daybreak the unwelcome noise would fill the sod shanties, reminding Booker and his fellow workers to crawl out of bed and leave for the cotton fields. The rooster's crow came to symbolize their dictated life of long days and backbreaking labor. But then came the Emancipation Proclamation.

Abraham Lincoln pronounced freedom for the slaves and the first morning after the Proclamation, young Booker was awakened by the rooster once again. Only this time his mother was chasing it around the barnyard with an ax. Later that day, the Washington family fried and ate their alarm clock for lunch. Their first act of freedom was to silence the reminder of their former slavery.

Any roosters stealing your sleep? You might need to sharpen your blade because the great news of the gospel is, yes, his grace is real. And so is our freedom.

Grace,

Randy

Punchlist

 

Punchlist

Punchlist - Audio/Visual

You were dead because of your sins and because your sinful nature was not yet cut away. Then God made you alive with  Christ, for he forgave all our sins. He canceled the record of the charges against us and took it away by nailing it to the cross. In this way, he disarmed the spiritual rulers and authorities. He shamed them publicly by his victory over them on the cross. (Col. 2:13-15)

He should have never asked me to make that list. Honestly, I dreaded even showing it to him. He was a skilled builder, and during the construction had become more than just a former client; he’d become a friend. And he’d built us a great addition. But the addition had a few … well … mistakes. And until he was finished, I hadn’t really seen them. But then again, until he’d finished, I hadn’t spent a lot of time looking. But once the project becomes your own, you see every flaw. “Make a punchlist,” he told me. “A what list?” “A punchlist – a list of items for me to punch out before you sign off on the final.” “Oh, okay. Uh, I’ll make that punchlist.”

Several tiles were loose. A beam had split. The paint was chipped. The concrete had some cracks, and hadn’t been the exact color I’d hoped. These, just to name a few. As I said, the addition was nice, but the list seemed to grow. And considering the list of the contractor’s mistakes made me think about God making a list of my own. After all, hasn’t he supposed to have taken up residence in my heart? (1 John 4:17-18) And if I see flaws in my addition, imagine what he sees in me. It’s not pretty.

The door hinges to the prayer room have grown rusty from underuse. The stove called jealousy is overheating. The sub-floor is weighted down with too many regrets. The attic is cluttered with too many secrets. And I can’t seem to raise the window and chase the bitterness out of this heart of mine. The list of my weaknesses; the list of your weaknesses. Would you like anyone to see yours? Would you like them to be made public? How would you feel if they were posted high so that everyone, including Christ himself, could see? Well, they were. Yes, there’s a list of your failures. Christ has chronicled your shortcomings. And, yes, that list has been made public. But you’ve never seen it. Neither have I.

Watch as the soldiers shove the Carpenter to the ground and stretch his arms against the beams. One presses a knee against a forearm and a spike against a hand. Jesus turns his face toward the nail just as the soldier lifts the hammer to strike it. But wait. Couldn’t Jesus have stopped him? With a flex of the biceps, with a clench of the fist, he could have resisted. Isn’t this the same hand that stilled the sea? Cleansed the Temple? Summoned the dead?

But the fist doesn’t clench, and the moment isn’t aborted. The mallet rings and the skin rips and the blood begins to drip, then rush. Then the questions follow. Why? Why didn’t Jesus resist? “Because he loved us,” we reply. And that’s true – wonderfully true. But it’s only partially true. There’s more to his reason. He saw something that made him stay. As the soldier pressed his arm, Jesus rolled his head to the side, and with his cheek resting on the wood he saw a mallet, a nail and a soldier’s hand.

But he saw something else. He saw the hand of God. Looking intently at it, it appeared to be the hand of a man. Long fingers of a woodworker. Callous palms of a carpenter. It appeared even common. It was, however, anything but. Because those fingers formed Adam out of clay, and wrote truth into tablets. With a wave, that hand toppled Babel’s tower and split the Red Sea. From that hand flew the locusts that plagued Egypt, and the raven that fed Elijah. Is it any wonder then that the psalmist celebrated liberation by declaring: “You drove out the nations with Your hand .… It was Your right hand, Your arm, and the light of Your countenance.” (Ps. 44:2–3) The hand of God is a mighty hand.

The hands of Jesus. Hands of incarnation at his birth. Hands of liberation as he healed. Hands of inspiration as he taught. Hands of dedication as he served. And hands of salvation as he died. The crowd at the cross concluded that the purpose of the pounding was to skewer the hands of Christ to a beam. But they were only half-right. We can’t fault them for missing the other half. They couldn’t see it. But Jesus could. And heaven could. And we can, too.

Through the eyes of Scripture we see what others missed but what Jesus saw. “He canceled the record that contained the charges against us. He took it and destroyed it by nailing it to Christ’s cross.” (Col. 2:14) Between his hand and the wood there was a list. A long list. A list of our mistakes: our lusts and lies and greedy moments and prodigal years. A list of our sins. And dangling from the cross is an itemized catalog of your sins. Of my sins. The bad decisions from last year. The bad attitudes from last week. There, in broad daylight for all of heaven to see, is a list of our mistakes.

God has done with us what I was doing with that addition. He has penned a list of our faults. The list God has made, however, cannot be read. The words can’t be deciphered. The mistakes are covered. The sins are hidden. Those at the top are hidden by his hand; those down the list are covered by his blood. Your sins are “blotted out” by Jesus. “He has forgiven you all your sins: he has utterly wiped out the written evidence of broken commandments which always hung over our heads, and has completely annulled it by nailing it to the cross.” (Col. 2:14) That’s why he refused to close his fist. He saw the list. But what kept him from resisting? This warrant; this tabulation of your failures, and mine. Because he knew the price of those sins was death. He knew the source of those sins was you and me. And since he couldn’t bear the thought of eternity without us, he chose the nails.

The hand squeezing the handle was not a Roman infantryman. The force behind the hammer was not an angry mob. The verdict behind the death was not decided by jealous Jews. Jesus himself chose the punishment. So the hands of Jesus opened up. Had the soldier hesitated, Jesus himself would have swung the mallet. He certainly knew how; he was no stranger to driving nails into wood. As a carpenter he knew what it took. And as a Savior he knew what it meant. He knew that the purpose of the nail was to place your sins where they could be hidden by his sacrifice, and covered by his blood. So the hammer fell.

And the same hand that stilled the seas stills your guilt. The same hand that cleansed the Temple cleanses your heart. The hand is the hand of God. And as the hands of Jesus opened for the nail, the doors of heaven opened for you. And now he’s risen  – and that makes all the difference since he did it just for you.

Happy Easter,

Randy