Religion's Not Enough

 

Religion’s Not Enough

Religion's Not Enough - Audio/Video

Now there was a man of the Pharisees named Nicodemus, a member of the Jewish ruling council. He came to Jesus at night and said, “Rabbi, we know you are a teacher who has come from God. For no one could perform the miraculous signs you are doing if God were not with him.” In reply, Jesus declared, “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.” (John 3:1-3)

            There are certain things in life we just know. For instance, we know you don’t tug on Superman’s cape. You don’t spit into the wind. You don’t pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don’t …. If you know how to complete that sentence, then you’re probably over the age of forty-five and you’ve probably heard Jim Croce’s song, You Don’t Mess Around with Jim, more than a time or two. We all know certain things, but sometimes we don’t know as much as we think we know. The first part of the John 3 passage is a familiar one – the conversation between Nicodemus and Jesus. In fact, the story is so familiar that we often skim over it. To do so, however, is to miss an essential life’s truth. What’s more, to miss this particular truth – at least in my opinion – is to miss everything.

Nicodemus was a highly intelligent, cultured and moral individual. In fact, he was probably as close to fitting the description of a “good person” as anyone you could find. But despite the fact that he was a leader in his country and in his faith, Nicodemus was dissatisfied. So, he came to Jesus looking for answers. Jesus revealed to him essential truths for living, as well as the meaning and purpose of life. And the words Jesus gave him have unlocked the mystery of life for countless millions throughout the centuries. Nicodemus knew something in his life needed to change, and we’re no different – and it’s no wonder. We live in a culture obsessed with change. We need look no further than the weekly television schedules to see that. We have all seen those before-and-after shows, ranging from cosmetic surgery to home makeovers. That’s why this story matters so much. It tells of the kind of change that hits much deeper than new clothes, a new body or even a new house. It’s about soul change.

We often think of Pharisees in a negative light, and understandably so. Jesus saved his most scathing words for the scribes and the Pharisees, calling them “whitewashed tombs.” (Matt. 23:27) And we tend to think of all Pharisees as hypocrites, but that’s not necessarily the case in every situation. Actually, it was somewhat commendable to be a Pharisee. This was a select group of men, never numbering more than six thousand. Each had taken a solemn vow before three witnesses that he would devote every moment of his entire life to obeying the Ten Commandments. The Pharisees took the law of God very seriously, and sought to apply the Ten Commandments to every area of life. But the Pharisees weren’t satisfied with Scripture alone, which is always a problem. They wanted things spelled out more specifically. So, a group of people called scribes arose from within the ranks of the Pharisees. Their job was to spell out how the Ten Commandments were to be applied to every walk of life.

Not only was Nicodemus from this order, but he was also one of their primary leaders. To arrive at his position would have meant that Nicodemus was a careful student of the sacred books of the Jewish people, and likely had studied them for years. In addition to this, Nicodemus was well-known. In John 3:10, Jesus refers to him as “Israel’s teacher,” which meant that Nicodemus was likely a very popular and prominent teacher in Israel – a household name, if you will. But even with all that going for him, Nicodemus sensed there was something missing in his life. And that brought him to Jesus. With great humility, Nicodemus begins by saying, “Rabbi, we know who you are.” For a man like Nicodemus to call Jesus “Rabbi” was an important acknowledgment. Nicodemus would have been familiar with the prophets and their words concerning the Messiah. He then continues with the phrase, “We know.” Yet, he had come to Jesus alone. He wasn’t ready to say, “I know.” In a sense, he was probably hiding behind this phrase, just like people who say, “A friend of mine wants to know ….”

But Jesus immediately got the point because he knew exactly what Nicodemus needed. With a single, sharp and penetrating phrase, Jesus sliced through all the layers of rules and legalistic attitudes that had accumulated in the mind of Nicodemus by saying, “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.” (Verse 3) It’s as though Jesus was saying, “I am about to reveal a fundamental reality of life to you, Nicodemus. So, listen very carefully.” Like a sword, these words pierced the Pharisee’s heart. Jesus was saying, “Nicodemus, your religious beliefs are not enough. In spite of the fact that you are at the top of the heap in your religion, it means nothing. It has not brought you any closer to heaven.” This is not optional. This is essential. This is absolute. You must be born again.

But there’s a lot of confusion today regarding what the term born again means. In the story of Nicodemus, Jesus is helping us see what it really means, which is “to be born from above.” Some people will say, “I’m a Christian, but I’m not one of those ‘Born Again’ Christians.’” Well, that’s impossible. There’s simply no such thing as a Christian who’s not been born again. But why must we be born again? Why do we need a spiritual rebirth? We find the answer in John 3:3: “No one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.” So, what then exactly did Jesus mean by “the kingdom of God”? Well, the kingdom of God has past, present and future applications.

The past application of the kingdom of God was when Jesus walked this earth. He gave us a glimpse, a sneak preview if you will, of what is to come. On one occasion, Jesus said, “The kingdom of God has come to you.” (Luke 11:20) He was referring to his presence among the people. He was saying, “I am walking among you. The kingdom of God is here.” That was the past application. The present application of the kingdom of God is when we personally live under the rule and reign of Jesus Christ. The Bible tells us, “For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.” (Rom. 14:17) The idea is that of Christ ruling and reigning in our lives. This is what Jesus was referring to when he said, “But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (Matt. 6:33)

The future application of the kingdom of God will be when Christ comes back to establish his kingdom. This will be when the wolf will lie down with the lamb (See, Isa. 11:6-7), and the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Lord. (Isa. 11:9) Stated differently, here’s what Jesus was saying to Nicodemus: (1) You will not see the kingdom of God presently unless you realize who I am; (2) You will not experience the kingdom of God internally until you open your heart to my rule and reign; and (3) You will not live in the kingdom of God externally until you are born again. So, when we pray, “Your kingdom come, your will be done” (Matt. 6:10), we’re praying for the rule of Christ in our lives, and for the day of his return.

Jesus had the Pharisee’s attention now. Nicodemus asked, “How can a man be born when he is old? Surely he cannot enter a second time into his mother’s womb to be born!” (John 3:4) In other words, Nicodemus was essentially saying, “Lord, I accept what you say in theory, but how can I start over again? Is it really possible to be born all over again?” That’s a good question. Can people really become different than what they are? After all, how many times have we tried to change ourselves? We make resolutions to lose weight, exercise more, watch less television, and read the Bible more often. We try new clothes, or maybe even a new job. Yet we fail at these and return to our old habits. Can we really change?

Years ago, there was this little boy who had a pet rat, ironically named Nicodemus. He was a really cute little rat, and everyone grew to like him. He was kind of like a member of the boy’s family. But the boy began to feel sorry for Nicodemus, including the fact that he lived in a wire cage. In fact, the boy was convinced that his little rodent friend needed a shelter of some kind, so he decided to build one for him. He constructed a very clever little house out of balsa wood, complete with a little roof, little windows and a tiny front door that opened and closed. He even put Nicodemus’ name over the front door. The project finished, he then lowered Nicodemus’ new home into his cage.

The next morning, the boy got up to find the house missing – and Nicodemus looking just a little plumper. Nicodemus had eaten his house. Nicodemus didn’t get it. He didn’t understand that it was his house. He simply thought, “This looks appetizing. I think I’ll eat it.” Why? Because he was a rat, that’s why. And although the boy and his family may have attached human attributes to this little rodent, including giving him his own house to sleep in, the fact is a rat is still a rat. You just can’t change their nature.

But is it possible to change the nature of a human being? Can we really become different than who we are? That’s the question that Nicodemus was asking. And that’s the question we’re still asking today. And Jesus' answer? "Yes" - but only when that change comes through the Spirit of God. So, the question becomes, "Who's in your ...." (think "wallet") And if you answered that question without the hint, you've probably been watching too much television. Rats.

Grace,

Randy

Intimate

 

Intimate

Intimate - Audio/Visual

Then some Pharisees and teachers of the law came to Jesus from Jerusalem and asked, “Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders? They don’t wash their hands before they eat!” Jesus replied, “And why do you break the command of God for the sake of your tradition? For God said, ‘Honor your father and mother’ and ‘Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death.’ But you say that if anyone declares that what might have been used to help their father or mother is ‘devoted to God,’ they are not to ‘honor their father or mother’ with it. Thus you nullify the word of God for the sake of your tradition. You hypocrites! Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you: “‘These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are merely human rules.’” Jesus called the crowd to him and said, “Listen and understand.” (Matt. 15:1-10)

                Jesus could be a difficult man to some. I’m not saying that he was unkind, or a hard person to get along with; nothing like that. The fact is that Jesus was Love Incarnate. But what I am saying is that Jesus did things that rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. He refused to play by the rules of the religious establishment, and he challenged many popular ideas about who God was, including who God wasn’t. And he said some things that were really difficult for people to accept – things with which we still struggle today.

                For example, Jesus said that he was the bread of life, the living bread that came down from heaven. (See, John 6:33, 35, and 51) This statement implies that Jesus existed with God before his physical birth. At Christmas we celebrate the birth of Jesus, but we also celebrate the Incarnation – God coming in the flesh. God sent us Jesus so we would know God. This one truth (that we cannot know God without coming through his provision for us, Jesus) is perhaps the most difficult yet necessary concept of the Christian faith. But it’s not possible to truly be a Christian and not believe it.

                I know. That sounds too narrow, too dogmatic and too intolerant. But in reality, it’s simply believing what Jesus Christ plainly said: “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6) The Bible clearly teaches that “There is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus,” (1 Tim. 2:5) and “Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved.” (Acts 4:12)

                The truth is, however, that what may sound narrow to us is actually a huge embrace. This invitation to life with Jesus is open to everyone. No one who asks to join in is left out; no one who walks through the door is pushed away. All who come to meet the living God are welcome. I’d say that’s pretty inclusive.

                People in Jesus’ day were also confused by his talk of giving up his life for others. He said, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.” (John 6:51) And we’ve heard this so often that we may have forgotten just how strange a statement it really is. But this bread discourse is, in effect, a long decrescendo. In other words, it's a long speech that gets softer and softer, and more and more intimate. This is the climax of the movement of relationship between the listeners and Jesus. Jesus is describing the intimacy of relationship that exists between him and those who believe in him, and eat the bread that he provides.

                The understanding of the bread that was given at the feeding of the 5,000 is then made very explicit in terms of relationship. The relationship is a relationship of intimacy, and in that intimacy people will find spiritual life. They will find eternal life by being part of this intimate relationship with Jesus and with God. The words are not pronouncements so much as they are descriptions of intimacy. And one of the key words in the middle of this story is the word "live,” or “abide." In Greek, this word, meno, means "to remain,” or “to stay." It means to be in an ongoing, intimate relationship of love and trust: you and me; I in them. It is an intimacy of contact and of togetherness, of literally being one body. And that's the metaphor: oneness. Thus, whoever eats this bread, whoever enters into this relationship, this relationship of spiritual identity, will live forever in that spirit, that spirit of love.

                So what matters in the telling of the story is to communicate that intimacy, that love. The climax of this discourse is Jesus saying that what he will give for the life of the world is his flesh. This is a passion prophecy that he will die for the life of the world. He will literally give himself for the sake of the world, for the sake of those who are in the world; those who are in relationship with him; those whom he loves. This climactic part of the discourse is an appeal from Jesus to his listeners to enter into that intimacy of relationship and to remain; to stay; to abide in that intimacy of connection.

                But why would John use such radically concrete language here that is clearly so offensive? One of the reasons may be that John was trying to break through the sense of alienation, separation and distance from God that was present in his culture. These words are about God in Jesus being intimately present with everyone who believes — not distant, but close. This is also true of religious experience in worship, the scriptures, and being part of a faith community. The discourse ends with an invitation to a closeness of relationship that is radically different than what was the norm in the ancient world, and even today.

                The cross is offensive, repulsive, even shocking – but necessary. It is an essential part of the Christian story. As 1 Corinthians 1:23-24 tells us, “We preach Christ crucified; a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.” Yet those listening to Jesus had no idea what was coming, despite being told. They could only listen and decide for themselves if this man was the Christ – or just crazy.

                C.S. Lewis, said the following about Jesus’ claims:

I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: 'I'm ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don't accept His claim to be God.' That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic -- on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg -- or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to. (Mere Christianity, pgs. 40-41)

                I believe Jesus made statements to intentionally thin out the ranks. I know that sounds kind of harsh, but I think Jesus wanted to weed out the fair-weather followers who really weren’t followers at all. John tells us that some of the people who walked with Jesus decided to drop out: “From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him.” (John 6:66) John wrote that stark observation on the heels of Jesus saying, “this bread is my flesh” stuff. And while I’m sure Jesus was sorry to see them go, I believe he preferred having a few true believers around him compared to a throng of fans who said they believed in him but did little to change their lives.

                I think that God is more interested in quality than quantity, although he wants all to come to repentance. (2 Pet. 3:9) So the question with which we are faced is whether we’re true disciples of Jesus, or merely fair-weather followers. Will we finish the race with joy, or give up if it makes us unpopular, or when things get a little tough? Frankly, when we first come to Jesus, it’s all about our needs. We don’t wake up one morning and say, “I need to glorify God and seek his will for my life!” Instead, we wonder, “Why is my life so empty and meaningless? What happens when I die?” So, we come to Jesus. We discover prayer and start to talk with and hear from God. Initially, we pray for what we want and need in life. We come to church and want to learn all we can and be as blessed as possible. And there’s nothing wrong with any of that.

                But as we grow and mature spiritually, we start making some discoveries. One is that faith is about glorifying and seeking God. When we seek to be holy, we find we are happy – not from seeking happiness, but from seeking God. We discover that prayer is not about what we want, but about what God wants. We find that developing and using the gifts that God has given us is a blessing at church, and a blessing to those with whom we come into contact. It’s not that we don’t need to keep learning and growing, but that we also need to be serving and giving.

                That’s when we become true disciples, because anything else would be …. well …. crazy.

Grace,

Randy

Life Goes Better with Prayer

 

Life Goes Better with Prayer

Life Goes Better with Prayer

            I will answer them before they even call to me. While they are still talking about their needs, I will go ahead and answer their prayers! (Isaiah 65:24; NLT)

How’s your prayer life? If you’re anything like me, it can be a struggle sometimes. But lately, I've been thinking that maybe I’ve been looking at prayer from the wrong perspective. You see, I’ve always thought that prayer was my idea, and that a conversation with God was initiated by me. But that means that prayer becomes dependent upon my mood and readiness. And frankly, sometimes I’m just not in the mood. In fact, sometimes I’ve been reluctant to pray when I needed to pray the most because of things I’d done or said which made me feel ashamed or embarrassed by a less than perfect life. Now maybe that’s just me. But what if that’s the wrong perspective? What if it’s God who initiates prayer and not me? What if prayer is really God’s idea and not mine?

 According to Isaiah, the answer to our prayers is prepared before we even pray. So if that’s true, then maybe the desire to talk to the Lord comes from him. It’s kind of like prayer begins in the mind of God, invades our minds, is formulated into a clarification of what he wants to do or give, and is then given expression in our words. In other words, God’s more ready to hear than we are to pray.

 This promise in Isaiah was made in response to an excruciating question asked by Israel, recorded in Isaiah 64:12. The people had sinned and felt the judgment of God. They were distant from him, although God had never left his people. But their sorrow had reached its height when they cried out, "Are you going to keep silent or what?" And God graciously responded through his prophet, “I’ll answer you before you even call.”

In 1 John 5:14-15, the apostle says, “And we can be confident that he will listen to us whenever we ask him for anything in line with his will. And if we know he is listening when we make our requests, we can be sure that he will give us what we ask for.” In Greek, the word used for “confident” is parresia which means the freedom to speak openly or frankly; with bold assurance. For John, prayer was face-to-face communication with God during which he could speak both frankly and openly.

But who starts that face-to-face conversation? In a word: Jesus. John makes that clear in 1 John 4:19 when he says that, "We love him because he first loved us." In other words, God is the prime mover in the relationship, and he makes known to us his will so that we can ask for what he longs to give us. That’s how we know that God hears us because he’s the one who asked for the conversation in the first place. And then when we ask, we can do so with confidence since we are asking for that which he is already prepared to give. Christ is the heart of God with us. He guides us in what and how to ask. When we ask in keeping with what he has revealed to us, we ask with the boldness that the answer is on the way. Take a look at Romans 8:26-28, for example.

There, Paul says, “And the Holy Spirit helps us in our distress. For we don't even know what we should pray for, nor how we should pray. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words. And the Father who knows all hearts knows what the Spirit is saying, for the Spirit pleads for us believers in harmony with God's own will. And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.” In other words, the Holy Spirit, or God’s indwelling presence, initiates prayer.

I think the full impact of this particular passage is actually better understood by starting at the end and working forward, i.e., we are called and appointed to belong to the Lord, and his desire is for all things in our lives to work together to accomplish the plan he has for us. That plan is his will for us, and the Greek word for “will,” thele'ma, means “desire.” In other words, the Lord has a desire for all of us, a purpose for us to accomplish. But he doesn’t leave us after we’re born again without training or help in accomplishing his purpose – which is to be conformed to his own image. Instead, he invades our subconscious with preconscious longings and urgings which are manifested in the conscious desire to pray, seeking his desires for us.

But what about those groanings? What’s Paul talking about? Perhaps they’re the preconscious longings which God eventually articulates through us in helping us to put into words what he wants us to pray. It’s not that the intercession is done for us, because that would deny our cooperation with the Lord for which we were created. It’s just that when we feel the need to pray, but still don't know how or what to pray, he provides that also. His purpose is to bring our desires into alignment with his desires so we can ask for that which will be part of all things working together for our good. Here’s an African doctor’s own words that demonstrate, in a very real way, what Isaiah was saying. Here’s what the doctor had to say:

One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all we could do, she died, leaving us with a tiny, premature baby and a crying two-year-old daughter. We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive; as we had no incubator and we had no electricity to run an incubator. We also had no special feeding facilities. Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts. One student midwife went for the box we had for such babies and the cotton wool that the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly in distress to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst (rubber perishes easily in tropical climates). 'And it is our last hot water bottle!' she exclaimed.

As in the West, it is no good crying over spilled milk, so in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over burst water bottles. They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways. 'All right,' I said, 'put the baby as near the fire as you safely can, and sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. Your job is to keep the baby warm.' The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with many of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle, and that the baby could so easily die if it got chills. I also told them of the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died.

During prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt conciseness of our African children. 'Please, God' she prayed, 'Send us a hot water bottle today. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, as the baby will be dead, so please send it this afternoon.' While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added, 'And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?'

As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say 'Amen?' I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that he can do everything; the Bible says so. But there are limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending me a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever received a parcel from home. Anyway, if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator!

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time I reached home, the car had gone, but there on the veranda was a large 22 pound parcel. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone, so I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly. Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly-colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children looked a little bored. Then came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas - that would make a batch of buns for the weekend.

Then, as I put my hand in again, I felt the......could it really be? I grasped it and pulled it out. Yes, a brand new, rubber hot water bottle. I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that he could. Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, 'If God has sent the bottle, he must have sent the dolly, too!' Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully-dressed dolly. Her eyes shone! She had never doubted! Looking up at me, she asked, 'Can I go over with you and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?' 'Of course,' I replied. That parcel had been on the way for five whole months, packed up by my former Sunday school class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. And one of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child – five months before, in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it 'that afternoon.'

Life goes better with prayer.

Grace,

Randy

I'm Thirsty

 

I’m Thirsty

I'm Thirsty - Audio/Visual

"Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud. It is not rude. It is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrong doing. It does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth. It always protects, trusts, hopes, perseveres." (1 Cor. 13:4-6)

Moms, I have a question: Why do you love your newborn? Silly question, I know, but indulge me. Why do you, because I don’t get it. Maybe it’s because I’m a guy, but for months this baby has given you pain, made you break out in pimples and waddle like a duck. Because of this child, you craved sardines and crackers and threw up in the morning. He punched you in the stomach; she occupied space that wasn’t hers, and ate food she didn’t fix. You kept him warm. You kept her safe; you kept him fed. But did she say thank you? No.

She’s no more out of the womb than she starts to cry. The room’s too cold; the blanket’s too rough; the nurse is too mean. And who does she want? Mom. I mean, he didn’t even tell you he was coming. He just came. And what a coming. The baby made you a barbarian. You screamed; you swore; you bit bullets and tore the sheets. And now look at you. Your back aches; your head pounds; your body’s drenched in sweat; every muscle strained and stretched. You should be angry. But you’re not. On your face is a for-longer-than-forever love. She’s done nothing for you, yet all you can talk about are her good looks and bright future. He’s going to wake you up every night for the next six weeks, but that doesn’t matter because you’re crazy about him. Why?

God, I have a question: Why do you love your children? I don’t want to sound irreverent, but only heaven knows how much pain we’ve brought you. Why do you tolerate us? You give us the breath we breathe, but we seldom thank you. You give us bodies beyond compare, but do we praise you? Seldom. We complain about the weather, and bicker about our toys. Not a second passes when someone, somewhere doesn’t use your name to curse a hammered thumb, or a bad call by the umpire. You fill the world with food, but we blame you for hunger. You keep the earth from tilting, and the Arctics’ from thawing, but we accuse you of unconcern. You give blue skies, and we demand rain. You give rain, and we demand sun. Frankly, we give more applause to an athlete, or an actor, or a singer than we do the God who made us.

We sing more songs to the moon than to the Christ who saved us. We’re a gnat on the tail of one elephant in a galaxy of Africa’s and yet we demand that you find us a parking place when we ask. And if you don’t give us what we want, we say you don’t exist. We pollute the world you loan us. We ignore the Word you sent us. And we killed the Son you became. We’re spoiled babies who take and kick and pout and blaspheme. You have every reason to abandon us. In fact, I’d wash my hands of the whole mess and start over on Mars.

But I see your answer in the rising sun. I hear the answer in the crashing waves. I feel the answer in the skin of a child. Father, your love never ceases. Though we spurn and ignore and disobey you, you do not change. Our evil can’t diminish your love, and our goodness can’t increase it. Our faith doesn’t earn it anymore than our stupidity jeopardizes it. You don’t love me less if I fail, and you don’t love me more if I succeed. Your love never ceases. How do we explain it? The answer’s found, I believe, in the eyes of a mother.

Why does mom love her newborn, anyway? Is it because the baby’s hers? Yes, it’s that but more. It’s because the baby is her – her blood; her flesh; her bone; her hope; her legacy. It doesn’t bother her that the baby gives nothing. She knows a newborn is helpless and weak. She knows babies don’t ask to come into this world, and God knows we didn’t either. We’re his idea. We are his. His face; his eyes; his hands; his touch.

Look deeply into the face of every human being on earth and you’ll see his likeness. Though some appear to be distant relatives, they’re not. God has no cousins, only children. We are, incredibly, the body of Christ. And though we may not act like our Father, there is no greater truth than this: We are his. Unalterably. He loves us. Undyingly. There’s nothing that can separate us from the love of Christ. (Rom. 8:38, 39) And had God not said those words, I would be a fool to write them. But since he did, I’d be a fool not to believe them. Nothing can separate us from the love of Christ. But oh how difficult it is to embrace and accept that truth because we think we’ve committed an act which places us outside his love. A treason; a betrayal; an aborted promise.

We think he’d love us more if we hadn’t done it. We think he’d love us more if we did more. We think if we were better his love would be deeper. But we’d be wrong since God’s love is not human. His love is not normal. His love sees our sin and loves us anyway. Does he approve of our sin? No. Do we need to repent? Yes. But do we repent for his sake or ours? Ours, because his ego needs no apology. His love needs no reassurance. And he could not love us more than he does right now. Here’s a story that may help.

A mother and her daughter were entombed in eternal night. Their only food, a jar of blackberry jam, was gone. Tons of smashed concrete lay around them becoming their prison. "Mommy, I'm so thirsty. I want to drink," cried the 4-year-old little girl. Susanna Petrosyan, the little girl’s mother, was trapped in the wreckage and lay flat on her back. A prefabricated concrete panel lay only 18 inches above her head; a crumpled water pipe was directly above her shoulders – both of which kept her from standing. She wore only a slip and it was bitterly cold. Susanna shivered in the darkness – it was December. Beside her lay the lifeless body of her sister-in-law, Karine. She had been crushed by an avalanche of concrete, and died pinned beneath the rubble only one day after the massive earthquake had leveled much of Leninakan and other towns and villages in northwest Armenia.

Earlier that day, Susanna and her young daughter, Gayaney, had been driven by Susanna’s husband, Gerkham, a shoemaker, to the apartment building on Kamo Street in Leninakan where Gerkham’s sister, Karine, lived. After dropping off his wife and daughter, Gerkham went on to work, completely unaware of what would become of his family in the next few minutes.

Mrs. Petrosyan, a petite woman with thick black hair and curving eyebrows, wanted to try on a particular black dress with puffed shoulders that Karine had for sale. Susanna wanted the evening to be just right, since it wasn’t often that she and her husband could go out on a date night on a shoemaker’s salary. The dress fit her perfectly, and Susanna was happy to pay Karine the discounted family price for such a beautiful dress. Then suddenly, at 11:41 a.m., as she was readying to leave her sister-in-law’s apartment, the fifth-floor apartment began to tremble, and then shake violently. Dressed only in a slip and her underwear, she grabbed Gayaney – who was wearing a heavy winter sweater – and they sprinted for the door. And that’s when the floor opened up and the 36-unit apartment building collapsed. The three women, Susanna, Gayaney and Karine, fell into the basement as the nine-story building crumbled around them.

"Mommy, I need to drink," sobbed Gayaney. "Please give me something." Although trapped on her back, Susanna managed to find a 1½ lb. jar of blackberry jam that had fallen into the basement, apparently from Karine's pantry. On the second day of their entombment – the day when Karine had died of her injuries – she gave the entire jar of blackberry jam to Gayaney to eat. Susanna also found a dress, perhaps the one she had tried on (it was too dark to tell), and made a bed for Gayaney upon which to rest. And despite the bitter cold, Susanna took off her stockings and wrapped them around her daughter to keep her warm. “I may die,” Susanna thought, “but I want my daughter to live.”

But as the days passed, Gayaney's pleas for something to drink became more pressing. Susanna began entertaining thoughts that her child might die of thirst if they weren’t rescued soon. And that’s when it happened. Susanna remembered something she had seen on television. It was a program she had watched some time ago about an explorer in the Arctic who was dying of thirst. To save him, his comrade had slashed open his hand and given his friend his blood. “I’m thirsty; I want to be in my own bed; I want to see Daddy,” Gayaney sobbed. Out of water; out of fruit juice; out of any kind of liquid; out of hope. The only thing available was Susanna’s blood.

Even though she was trapped in darkness, Susanna could slide on her back from side to side. Eventually, her groping, outstretched fingers, numb from the cold, found a piece of shattered glass. And then she did it. She sliced open her left index finger with the shard and gave her finger to her daughter to suck on. Susanna couldn’t remember what day she cut open her fingers, or even how many times she used the method to feed her daughter. Susanna had lost all track of time in the unchanging darkness. But the drops of blood weren't enough. "Please, Mommy, some more. Cut another finger," Gayaney begged. Susanna made more cuts in her flesh, feeling nothing because of the bitter cold. She put her hand to her child's mouth, squeezing her fingers to make more blood come. Susanne knew at this point that she was going to die, but she wanted – now more than life itself – for her daughter to live.

On Dec. 14, the eighth day of their nightmare, rescue workers opened a small hole that let in a slender shaft of light. "We're saved!" Susanna cried. "There's a child in here, be careful not to hurt her!" she screamed as her rescuers got closer. Her husband, Gerkham, had been uninjured in the quake and was now searching desperately with the other rescuers for his family whom he had left more than a week ago at his sister’s. When Susanna emerged, the two tearfully embraced, but only for a moment. Susanna, along with Gayaney, were placed on a stretcher and flown to Yerevan, Armenia’s capital, some 60 miles away. From there, Gayaney was taken to Children's Hospital No. 3, and Susanna was transported to the Armenian National hospital.

Gayaney was in intensive care for four days, hooked up to intravenous bottles that dripped liquids into her parched body. Her temperature was dangerously low, her blood alarmingly thick and she was in shock. Gayaney was also in a deep state of depression, and wouldn't even talk or smile. Susanna, also dehydrated, was given intravenous fluids and placed in a coffin-like box so that pressurized oxygen could be pumped around her as a treatment against her previous exposure and resultant hypothermia. It was only then that doctors discovered that Susanna, who also had a 7-year-old son who was not hurt in the earthquake, was also two months' pregnant. Gayaney now had something to smile about.

“This cup is the new covenant in my blood,” Jesus explained, holding up the wine. (Luke 22:20) Jesus’ claim must have really puzzled the disciples. As good Jewish boys, they’d been taught from childhood the story of the Passover wine: it symbolized the lamb’s blood that the Israelites, enslaved long ago in Egypt, had painted on the door posts and lentils of their homes. That blood literally kept death from their homes and saved their firstborn, - human and animal alike. And it was this last miracle that had helped deliver the Israelites from the clutches of the Egyptians.

So, for hundreds, maybe even thousands of generations thereafter, the Jewish people had observed the Passover by sacrificing a lamb. Every year the blood of the lamb would be poured, and every year the deliverance would be celebrated. The law, you see, had required the spilling of the blood of a lamb. A perfect lamb. A lamb without spot or blemish. And that blood would be enough – at least for that year. It would be enough to fulfill the law and to satisfy the command. It would be enough to satisfy God’s justice. But it could not take away sin “…because it is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins.” (Hebrews 10:4) Sacrifices could only offer temporary solutions; only God could offer an eternal one. So, God did – he sent Jesus.

And beneath the rubble of a fallen world, he pierced his hands. In the wreckage of a collapsed humanity, he ripped open his side. His children were trapped in sin, so he gave His blood. It was all he had. His friends were gone. His strength was waning. His possessions had been gambled away in a dice game at his feet. Even his Father had turned his face on him. His blood was all he had. But his blood was all that was needed. “If anyone is thirsty,” Jesus once said, “Let him come to me and drink.” (Jn 7:37)

But admitting we’re thirsty doesn’t come easy for us. False fountains temporarily soothe our thirst with the swallows of the pleasures of this life. But there comes a time in each of our lives when pleasures don’t satisfy. There comes a dark hour in every life when the world caves in and we’re left trapped in the rubble of reality, parched and dying. And frankly, some would rather die than admit it. But others are willing to admit it and escape death. So, the thirsty come. And the thirsty are a pretty motley bunch – bound together by the common experiences of broken dreams and collapsed promises. Fortunes that were never made, or families that were never built, or promises that were never kept. We’re just like Gayaney – a wide-eyed child trapped in the basement of our failures. And we’re very thirsty.

Not thirsty so much for fame, or possessions, or passion or even romance. We’ve drank plenty from those pools, and what we’ve found is that they’re like salt water in the desert: they don’t quench – they kill. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.” (Matt. 5:6) Righteousness. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what we’re really thirsty for. We’re thirsty for a clean conscience. We crave a clean slate. We long for a fresh start. We pray for a hand that can reach into the dark cavern of our world and do for us the one thing we can’t do for ourselves – make us right again. “Mommy, I’m so thirsty,” Gayaney begged. “It was then I remembered I had my own blood,” Susanna explained. And her hand was cut, the blood was poured and her child was saved.

“God, I’m so thirsty,” we pray. “It is my blood, the blood of the new covenant,” Jesus said, “shed to set many free from their sins.” (Matt. 26:28) And the hand was pierced, the blood was poured and the children are saved.

Grace,

Randy

Pictures

Pictures

When Naomi saw that Ruth had her heart set on going with her, she gave in. And so the two of them traveled on together to Bethlehem. When they arrived in Bethlehem the whole town was soon buzzing: "Is this really our Naomi? And after all this time!" But she said, "Don't call me Naomi; call me Bitter. The Strong One has dealt me a bitter blow. I left here full of life, and God has brought me back with nothing but the clothes on my back. Why would you call me Naomi? God certainly doesn't. The Strong One ruined me." And so Naomi was back, and Ruth the foreigner with her, back from the country of Moab. They arrived in Bethlehem at the beginning of the barley harvest.
(Ruth 1:18-22)

It was a small house; simple but adequate – one large room on a dusty street. Its red-tiled roof was one of many in this very poor neighborhood on the outskirts of a Brazilian village, but it was a comfortable home. Maria and her daughter, Christina, had done what they could to add color to the gray walls and warmth to the hard dirt floor – an old calendar here; a faded photograph of a relative over there; a wooden crucifix. The furnishings were modest, too – a pallet on the other side of the room, a washbasin and a wood-burning stove. Maria’s husband had died when Christina was just a baby. The young mother, stubbornly refusing many opportunities to remarry, got a job and set out to raise her young daughter by herself. And now, fifteen years later, the worst years were over, or at least she thought. Though Maria’s salary as a maid afforded few luxuries, it was a reliable job and paid well enough to provide for their food and clothing. And now Christina was old enough to get a job so she could help out, too.

Some said Christina got her independence from her mother, but she bristled at the traditional idea of marrying young, like her mother, and raising a family. Not that she couldn’t have had her pick of husbands, mind you. Her olive brown skin and big, brown eyes kept a steady stream of potential suitors always at the door. And she had an infectious way of throwing her head back and filling the room with laughter. She also had that rare magic some women have that makes every man feel like a king just by being near them. But it was her high-spirited curiosity that made her keep all the men at arm’s length, at least for a time.

Christina spoke often of going to the “Big City.” She dreamed of trading in her dusty, grimy neighborhood for the exciting avenues and bright lights of city life. Of course, the thought of this absolutely horrified her mother. Maria was always quick to remind Christina of the harshness and brutality of big-city streets. “People don’t know you there. Jobs are scarce, and life is cruel. And besides, if you went there, what would you do for a living?” Maria knew exactly what Christina would do, or – worse yet – would have to do for a living. That’s why her heart broke when she awoke one morning to find her daughter’s empty bed. Maria knew in an instant where her daughter had gone. She also knew what she had to do to find her. So, Maria quickly threw some clothes in a bag, gathered up all of her money, and ran out of the house. On her way to the bus stop she entered a drugstore to get one last thing: pictures.

 Maria sat in the photograph booth, closed the curtain and spent all she could on pictures of herself. Then, with her purse full of small black-and-white photographs, she boarded the next bus to the “Big City” – Rio de Janeiro. Maria knew Christina had no way of earning money. She also knew that her daughter was too stubborn to give up on her dreams of big-city life. Maria knew that when pride meets hunger, a human will do things that … well … were unthinkable before. Knowing this, Maria began her search. Bars, hotels, nightclubs, any place with a reputation for street-walkers. She went to every last one of them. And at each place she left her picture. Pictures were taped on a bathroom mirror, or tacked to a hotel bulletin board, or even fastened to a corner phone booth. And on the back of each photo she wrote a note. It wasn’t long before both her money and the pictures ran out, and Maria had to go home. Weary and heartsick, Maria put her head in her hands and quietly wept as the bus began its long journey back to the small village.

It was a few weeks later that young Christina descended the hotel stairs. Her face, once so young and full of life, was now tired and lifeless. Her brown eyes no longer danced with youth, but spoke of pain and fear. Her laughter, which once filled a room, was broken and empty. Her dream of big-city life had become her worst nightmare, and her heart ached a thousand times over to trade those countless beds for her secure pallet back home. Yet her little village was, in so many ways, all but a distant a memory. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Christina’s eyes noticed a familiar face. She looked again, and there on the lobby mirror was a small black-and-white picture of her mother. Christina’s eyes burned and her throat tightened as she walked across the room and removed the small photo. And written on the back of the picture was her mother’s note: “Whatever you have done, whatever you have become, it doesn’t matter. Please come home.” And Christina did.

The story of Ruth is many things, but at its core it’s the story of a believer coming home. Naomi has been a long way from home, but even farther from God. Now we find Naomi coming home; coming back to God. In fact, you can almost hear Naomi saying, “What a waste of time! I followed my husband and my two sons to the desert on some wild goose-chase and look where it’s gotten me? They’re dead, and I’m alone. Terrific.” But then, like a shaft of light coming through a cloud-strewn dawn, she thinks, “But I can go home. There’s certainly nothing keeping me here anymore. The promises of food and success have vaporized, just like my joy. And the dream of a life that I thought I would share forever with a husband and my boys who loved me has died with them. Now I’m alone, but I can still go home. Yeah, I guess I’ll just turn around and go home. Lord, I’m coming home.” Frankly, in Naomi, we see a somewhat disturbing example of failure. We see her bitter experiences of being far away from God, but we also see a wonderful example of forgiveness. We see in Naomi the blessings we can experience when we set our hearts for home.

Ten years have passed since Naomi left Bethlehem-Judah with her husband and two sons. Now, a decade later, she’s coming home. But it’s a bittersweet homecoming. The home and family she had in Bethlehem are all but a distant memory, and she ponders her return to a place where she has nowhere to live, no place to work and no one to come home to. Oh, she has Ruth alright, but it’s still not the same. “I don’t know how I’ll survive, but any place is better than this God-forsaken Moab,” she cries.  Kind of like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, Naomi knows that “There’s no place like home.” So, she turns her face for Bethlehem.

A businessman was once asked by a newspaper reporter how he had become so successful. He replied simply, “Good decisions.” Curious, the reporter asked, “But how did you learn to make good decisions?” The businessman answered, “Experience.” Not satisfied, the cub reporter zeroed in on his subject, “Well, then, how did you get that experience?” “Bad decisions,” said the man. 

Let’s face it – Naomi made a bad decision when she left Bethlehem. But she wasn’t stuck.  Instead, Naomi used her experience and bad decisions as a prompt to make a good decision – to go back home to the Bethlehem and God that she once knew. Bethlehem was in the land of Judah, which means “praise,” and Bethlehem was the place where God was being glorified and honored. It was the place where God was praised and exalted. Naomi was returning to that place where God’s presence was very real. Moab, she remembered, beckoned with promise, but it proved nothing more than a mirage when she arrived. Bethlehem, on the other hand, was a place where God’s presence was palpable.

Not that the famine, which drove Naomi away from God in the first place, did anything to make her feel God in a more personal way. But now, in the desert, God’s absence was overwhelming; a darkness so thick that you could cut it with a knife. A suffocating, inky blackness. Naomi had to get back to that place where she could be in God’s presence once again and experience, first-hand, God’s loving-kindness. It’s kind of like when Jonah rebelled against God. His experience was described as running “from the presence of the Lord.” (Jonah 1:3) When God called him north, Jonah went as far south as the land of Israel would allow, and then he jumped on a boat to get even farther away. A believer out of fellowship with God, like Naomi in Moab, or Jonah for that matter, can’t enjoy the presence of the Lord. But it’s not like God left the building, either.

Bethlehem literally means the “House of Bread,” and Naomi had heard through the grapevine that God had visited his people in Bethlehem and had given them bread. Naomi had to smile and shake her head as she remembered her and her family leaving the “House of Bread” for a different kind of bread; a “tastier” bread – a bread that did not satisfy and, eventually, disappeared altogether. Yes, Bethlehem was the place where God was meeting the needs of his people. It was the place where God was at work. It was the place of God’s provision. It was the place where Naomi knew she should be. And when we’re away from God, our lives are barren of God’s blessings – we soon enough find out that our “vacation” away from God is not the tourist destination it was cracked up to be. It’s barren; it’s empty; it’s alone.

But it’s hard to come home, isn’t it? Oh, the coming home part is easy enough, but what will happen to me when I return? Worse yet, how angry is God going to be when he sees me?  Just like a teenager, we’ve stayed out past curfew, broken the rules and thumbed our noses at authority.  Satan has that argument down pat; he uses it all the time. You know the one, “You’re a loser, you had your chance, you’ve really screwed up this time and you’ll never see him at work in your life, ever again.” Or, “You’ve got one chance in this life and boy did you blow it!” The thing is Satan’s a liar. Fact is, Satan’s the father of lies. (John 8:44) So, why would you believe the father of lies? The truth is that when we come home we will find a forgiving God that will make himself known in our lives. He wants to be known, so why would he turn you away? Naomi knew that Bethlehem was a place of God’s people. It was a place of kindred spirits and like-minded souls.

When Naomi got home, the people who knew her were shocked to see her. “Is this our Naomi?” they said. Notice her answer: “Don’t call me Naomi; call me Bitter.” Naomi goes from “Mrs. Pleasant” to Mara, “Ms. Bitter.” In one word, Naomi testifies to the results and consequences of leaving God. But Naomi discovered that even when she left God he would not leave her. Somewhere, somehow, God confronts the believer away from home. In fact, Naomi tells everyone who runs out to meet her how God had brought her back by breaking her down. It seems that God knows how to get our attention. He knows how to bring us back home. And isn’t it interesting that Naomi comes home during the spring? Coincidence, I suppose. It was the time of the barley harvest, which is about the same time as Passover. A time of first fruits; a time for starting over; a time for forgiveness; a time when new life comes to bloom.

It can be springtime for you, too. You can come home. You’ve seen the picture, haven’t you? You know, the colored photos of God you see plastered all over the place? And you’ve even read your Father’s message on the back. Yeah, that one. The one that says, “Whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ve become, it doesn’t matter. Please come home.” Chinese philosopher, Lao-tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” So, go ahead. Turn your heart toward home. Take that first step because God’s got your picture on his fridge.

Grace,

Randy