Looking Backwards Into the Future

 

Looking Backwards Into the Future

Looking Backwards Into the Future - Audio/Visual 

In the future your children will ask you, “What do these stones mean?”  Then you can tell them, “They remind us that the Jordan River stopped flowing when the Ark of the Lord’s Covenant went across.” These stones will stand as a memorial among the people of Israel forever.” (Joshua 4:6-7)

Not long ago I watched Fiddler on the Roof again, a story about social turmoil that would soon break out into the Russian revolution. But Tevye, the main character, doesn’t know that. He only senses that the world is changing, and he’s got to find a way to balance who he is and what he believes against the realities of a changing world. For him, traditions gave stability to his life – an anchor point that can’t be touched by the prejudices of the people around him, by the persecutions against his faith, or even by the shifting whims of political leaders.

We don’t hear lot of talk about traditions today, at least in a good way. In fact, in our nation, even in many churches, “tradition” is used in a negative sense: it’s used to describe old, dead ways that stifle growth. It describes the lifeless past and is often contrasted with the new, freer ways of the present. Yet, the emphasis on present experience makes it difficult, at times, for us to understand the significance and power of past encounters with God. Many of the questions we face today are the same as they were for Tevye. How do we respond to a changing world? How do we balance our experience of the past with a world that didn’t even exist five years ago? How do we teach our children what’s important, when so much is changing so rapidly? How do we maintain a moral and spiritual balance amid the relativism of our modern culture? How do we face an unknown future?

The crossing of the Jordan takes two chapters at the beginning of the book of Joshua to describe from which I only excerpted two verses. The people have prepared for their entry into the land by sending out spies, and they’ve been assured by the spies, and by God, that they’ll be able to enter the land. Normally, the Jordan was a small river that could be crossed easily. However, during spring the melting snows in the mountains turned the river into a torrent, spreading out over the flood plain – as much as a mile wide in some locations. But Joshua assured the people that God was about to do something miraculous so that they might know that he was their God and that he was with them.

Undeniably, the crossing of the Jordan River is the central event of these two chapters. But throughout the story there’s an added dimension that catches our attention. Rocks. Rocks are an important part of the story. The people take stones from the river and place them in a great big heap on the riverbank. And the end of the story is not so much the crossing of the river, but the pile of rocks they raise and the significance they play. Rocks. Why rocks? Because the stones were to be a memorial of this event so that when those who came later and saw the stones and asked about them, the story of God's great act for his people could be retold. And the story’s told for a specific reason. It’s not just a story about national origins or something strange to entertain the kids. No, they’re to tell the story so that later generations would know who God is and what he can do. Sometimes, even the ones who’ve witnessed God’s actions first-hand need a reminder as well.

If we’re not careful, this event simply becomes a memorial to something that happened a long time ago and has little meaning to us beyond saying, "Yeah, that was cool. Nice story." And in that way, the rocks simply become another cold, lifeless monument to the past. So, what was so critical about this particular pile of rocks for the Israelites? Why was it so important that the people were to retell the story, and know its meaning? It’s because the Israelites will go on and enter the land, but it won’t be easy. As they move away from the Jordan River, things will never be the same again. Most of them were born in the desert and they’ve lived their whole life there. They know the desert. Now, they’re moving into an unknown land and an unknown future. They will face well-fortified cities. On foot, and armed only with garden tools for weapons, they will face fierce, chariot-mounted Philistines with an iron arsenal. Untrained in warfare, they will be outnumbered by skilled Canaanite warriors. And worst of all, they will encounter the religions of the Canaanites and be lured into the worship of Baal. In other words, they will forget God.

They face a rough future, for sure, but God will help them. Jericho's walls will fall; at Gibeon, the sun will stand still for Joshua; Gideon will rout a Midianite army with only clay pots and 300 men; and David will kill Goliath. God will do great things for his people. But in between the great acts of God, the people will have to live in a real world. They’ll have to grapple with day-to-day living. And they will get discouraged because after the great victory at Jericho will come their defeat at Ai; after the miracle at Gibeon will come the failures recorded at the opening of Judges; after Gideon defeats the Midianites, he will turn to building idols to Baal; and after David kills Goliath, he’ll have Uriah killed to hide his adultery.

There will be times when they will not be sure if God is even present among them. There’ll be times of defeat, discouragement and despair. There’ll be times of no miracles. There will be times when their world is thrown into such chaos that they will be able to see no future at all. And it’s in those times that they’ll need a reference point. When they can’t prove God's presence by their own experience, and when they don’t know how to adapt to a changing world, they’ll need to be able to look back and know from past encounters that God is … well … God. They will need an anchor point.

And this pile of stones was to be that anchor point; a point of reference for later times when the path wouldn’t be so clear. These stones were more than a pile of rocks on the bank of a river. These stones were a heritage, a tradition. These stones were the "Fiddler on the roof," so to speak, the tradition that balances the known past with an unknown future. They were to become a beacon that shined far beyond the banks of the Jordan, far beyond the time of Joshua, and tell far more than just the parting of the Jordan’s waters. They were to be a signpost from the past to the future. They were to be a marker by which they could stand in their present, look to the past, and then draw a straight line into an unknown future. They were a way to define the present, and the future, by means of the past. They can’t know where to go until they know where they are. And they can’t know where they are until they know where they’ve been.

You see, our problem is that once we get out in the middle of life, we need a reference point. Although we may know, generally, where we’re going, we can’t always see how to get there. However, we can see where we’ve been. So, we use the reference point of the miracles of our past as a guide to the future. See the significance?

This pile of rocks was an anchor point. They told the people where they’d been. They told them who God was. And they told them what God could do. Those stones allowed them to draw a straight line from the past acts of God into their uncertain present, and beyond. And it will be a long journey between the exodus and the crossing of the Jordan. In that gap between the great manifestations of God in history, the people will have to live in a real world. They’ll experience times when they won’t be able to see by their present experiences that God is God at all. There’ll be times when they won’t be sure if God is even present. So, in those times, they’ll need an anchor point. When they can’t prove God's presence by their present experience, they’ll need to be able to look back and know from past encounters that God is God.

Notice, at the close of this story, what’s said in Joshua 4:23. "Yes, God, your God, dried up the Jordan's waters for you until you had crossed, just as God, your God, did at the Red Sea, which had dried up before us until we had crossed.” The curious thing is that the people to whom Joshua was speaking didn’t actually cross the Red Sea with Moses – their parents and grandparents did. So, they weren’t just remembering their heritage, they were living their heritage. They’d drawn a straight line from the exodus, through that pile of rocks on the banks of the Jordan, and on into an uncertain future.

So how do we face the uncertainty of a future that we can’t control, in a world not of our own making, and in the face of events we can’t bend to our will? We can’t always see God at work in miraculous ways. We know he’s there, but we don’t always know what decisions to make because we don’t know how things will turn out. Events change too fast. So, how do we face a future that we cannot imagine? We look back at the heritage of the Red Sea. We look back at that pile of rocks on the banks of the Jordan. And we listen to those who tell us of an empty tomb.

And so, before we knew firsthand for ourselves, we saw that pile of rocks and learned the lessons of heritage and tradition. Not the stale tradition of facts and ritual, but the tradition of living encounters with God, the heritage of living stones that speak to us of God and his work in the lives of his people. We can look at our piles of stones and draw a line from them to where we are so we can understand how we got here. And then we can better understand who we are, and what we must do.

Our task, then, is to take that line drawn through those piles of rocks in the past and extend it into a future about which we are uncertain. But it is a future that we can face with confidence because we have a reference point and faith: faith that even though we can’t see the end of the journey, we know where it’s headed because we can see the pile of rocks stretching behind us plotting our course. And, perhaps, that’s what faith’s all about anyway: to journey looking backwards into the future.

Grace,

Randy

Love Your Neighbor

 

Love Your Neighbor

Love Your Neighbor - Audio/Visual 

Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that have trespassed against us. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. (Matthew 6: 9-13)

Neighbors. They aren’t just the people next door, or the ones around the corner. Your neighbor, in its broadest sense, is anybody you meet on life’s journey. That’s the lesson Jesus gave when he told the parable of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10:25-37. It’s the story of a man who was beaten and robbed and left for dead on the side of the road and as he lay dying, two religious leaders came by and both of them decided to look the other way. The victim might have died were it not for a compassionate traveler who carried him to the next city, got him medical attention and paid the expenses – and he didn’t even live in the neighborhood. It’s God’s definition of a neighbor: anyone you meet on the road of life.

So, let’s try to understand these neighbors; like why your employer is cranky, or why the homeless guy is, well … homeless. They share some common denominators that Jesus listed in his model prayer. “Our Father” – we’re all children in need of a father. “Our daily bread” – we’re all beggars in need of nourishment. “Our debts” – we’re all sinners in need of grace. “Deliver us from temptation” – we’re all strugglers in need of strength. In a way, we’re a lot like Ruth and Verena Cady.

From their birth in 1984, they shared a lot. Like most twins, they shared a bike, a bed, a room and toys. They shared meals, stories, TV shows and birthdays. They shared the same womb before they were born, and the same room afterward. But the bond between Ruthie and Verena went even further. They shared more than toys and treats. They shared a heart. Literally. You see, their bodies were fused from the sternum to the waist. And though they had separate nervous systems and distinct personalities, they were sustained by the same three-chambered heart.

Neither girl could survive without the other, and neither wanted to survive without the other. Thus, with separation not an option, cooperation became an obligation and they learned to live together as neighbors. Take walking for example. When they began to attempt toddling on their own, they developed their own style. Instead of taking turns leading each other, they began to walk sideways, as if in a dance. And they danced in the same direction.

They even learned to compensate for the other’s weaknesses. Verena loved to eat, but Ruthie thought sitting at the table was boring. In fact, Ruthie may have eaten only a half cup of fruit on any given day but that wasn’t a concern because her sister ate enough for them both. They even learned to tolerate consequences for which they weren’t responsible. When one girl was sent to a “timeout,” the innocent party tagged along.

Unfortunately, the twins died within minutes of each other on a languid summer day in 1991. But they still have a lot to teach us. For instance, though we may claim to be autonomous, we really aren’t. Though we may claim to be independent, no one actually is. Like the twins, we’re dependent on each other. Oh, we don’t eat off the same plate, but we’re sustained by the same earth. We don’t sleep in the same bed, but we sleep under the same sky. We don’t share one heart, but we share the same hope for eternity, and the same hunger to be loved. And, like the twins, we share the same Father.

Maybe that’s why the model prayer isn’t addressed to “my father,” or “your father,” but to “Our Father.” “Our Father who is in heaven.” And because he’s Father to all, his house has a lot of rooms. The rooms are large, and the hallways are busy. As you pass through the halls, you brush shoulders with Kenyan tribesmen and Russian peasants and Norwegian fishermen and any other soul who has looked into the skies and prayed, “Our Father.” Though you may not know them, and though you may not even understand them, you are linked to them by virtue of the fact that you share a mutual Father.

But what’s so important about remembering this community? Because before you talk to him, he wants you to be at peace with them. Remember his command earlier in the Sermon on the Mount? “When you offer your gift to God at the altar, and there remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there at the altar. Go and make peace with that person, then come and offer your gift. ”(Matt. 5:23-24)

It’s as if Jesus envisioned a person going to worship and sees that the person has a gift to give – perhaps it’s an offering, maybe a song or even an act of service. But on the way to offer the gift, the person remembers an unresolved conflict. He thinks of a neighbor he’s offended. Now, the worshiper has nothing against the person, mind you, but the person has something against the worshiper. The result? Jesus’ instructions are clear: before you come to my house, go to his house. Before you give me a gift, give her an apology. Before you give me an offering, give your neighbor an olive branch. Harmony is a cherished ideal in God’s house.

And isn’t it in your own? Sure it is. For instance, parents get it because they’ve been there: a couple of your children are in a cold war. They won’t speak to each other, but one decides to speak to you. He hugs your neck and says, “You’re a good Mom.”

Now, as much as you welcome the compliment, you want his attention focused on resolving the conflict. “The greatest compliment you can give Mom is to make up with your big sister.” Similarly, God is a parent who wants the same from his children. Can you imagine what the world would be like if we took this command seriously? What if we determined to be at peace before we sat in the pews? The phones would be ringing off the hook on Saturday night, maybe even earlier. “Sorry to call so late, but tomorrow I want to worship with a clear conscience and, well, I know I was rude to you this week. Can we talk about it?”

It’s hard to really worship your Father when you’ve been unkind to his children. It’s particularly hard when you don’t even like his kids. In fact, the apostle John says it’s impossible to worship in that state of mind. “If people say they love God, but hate their brothers and sisters, they are liars. Those who do not love their brothers and sisters whom they have seen cannot love God whom they have never seen.” (1 John 4:20) Of course, you can’t control the response of your neighbor to your gesture of peace. Truth is, you may do everything possible to make amends and still be rejected. But at least we can try. As Paul urges, “Do your best to live in peace with everyone.” (Rom. 12:18) A good place to start is by reminding ourselves that we and our neighbor have a lot in common: the same hopes, the same fears, similar pain and similar joys. We’re all children in need of a Father.

When Jesus used the term “Abba” in his prayer, he used the tenderest expression found in Hebrew for a child to use when calling his father. Not a distant, unapproachable father, but an “Abba;” a daddy, a papa whose hand holds ours, whose arms carry us, whose heart weeps when we weep. And it’s in this common need for “Abba” that we find our sense of community because aren’t we all in need of “Abba”? One who will come when we call, extend his hand when we’re afraid, and guide us when we trust.

I know that sometimes we think we’ve outgrown the Father’s hand, or that we’re too mature to need his help. And that may be where your neighbor is right now. He or she may have struggles that only God can understand, that only God can remedy. And they may be hard to like, or difficult to live with. But be patient, just as you would want them to be patient with you. Because it won’t be long before your neighbor looks up and realizes they’re on a busy street with no clue how to get home. It could be then that they may say, “Abba,” and it could be then that you’ll be there to show them the Father’s hand. That’s loving your neighbor.

Grace,

Randy

Inseparable

 

Inseparable

Inseparable - Audio/Visual 

Who dares accuse us whom God has chosen for his own? No one — for God himself has given us right standing with himself. Who then will condemn us? No one — for Christ Jesus died for us and was raised to life for us, and he is sitting in the place of honor at God’s right hand, pleading for us. Can anything ever separate us from Christ’s love? Does it mean he no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or hungry, or destitute, or in danger, or threatened with death? I am convinced that 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. No power in the sky above or in the earth below — indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:33-35; 38-39)

One summer, eight-year-old Tommy and his older sister, Cindy, were visiting their grandparents’ home in the country where Tommy loved to roam the woods with his trusty slingshot in hand. He’d aim at trees, bottles, and cans, but he didn’t hit much because he was still working on his accuracy. One day, as he was returning from the woods, he heard grandma ringing the dinner bell. As Tommy was walking toward the house, he spotted grandma’s pet duck waddling by the pond. Now, he never dreamed in a million years that he could hit the duck, but just for fun he pulled the slingshot back and let it fly. As luck would have it, the rock hit the duck square in the head. The duck dropped dead without even one last “Quack.” Tommy was shocked; he’d never hit anything he aimed at before, and now he felt horrible. He’d just murdered his grandma’s pet duck. In a panic, he ran toward the dead duck, picked it up and carried it behind the barn where he buried it in the woodpile. As Tommy was headed toward the house, feeling terrible about what had just happened, he spotted Cindy and realized, to his utter shock and horror, that she’d seen the whole, sordid affair.

Later on that night, after dinner, grandma said, “Cindy, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to stay and help me do the dishes.” “I’d love to, Grandma,” she replied, “but Tommy said he wants to do the dishes tonight.” And as she walked out of the kitchen past Tommy, she whispered in his ear, “Remember the duck.” Trapped, Tommy went over and did the dishes. The next morning, grandpa invited Tommy and Cindy to go fishing with him. But grandma had other plans. “Grandpa, I really need Cindy to stay here and help me with some chores,” grandma said. Cindy replied, “Tommy said he’d like to stay with you and help you out today, Grandma.” Once again, Tommy’s sister walked by and muttered, “Remember the duck.” So, Tommy did the chores and Cindy went fishing.

After a couple of days of hard labor doing both Cindy’s chores and his own, Tommy had had enough. So, he fessed up. “Grandma, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, but I killed your duck.” His kindly grandmother gave him a big hug and said, “Thomas, I know what happened; I was standing at the window watching the whole thing take place. I saw how shocked you were, and I’ve already forgiven you. I’ve just been waiting to see how long you’d let Cindy make a slave out of you.”

Tommy had been pardoned, but thought he was guilty. Why? Because he’d listened to the words of his accuser. You’ve been there, too. You’ve been accused of dishonesty, immorality, greed, anger and arrogance, just to name a few. In fact, every moment of your life your accuser is filing charges against you. He’s noticed every mistake and chronicled each mess-up. Neglect your priorities, and he’ll jot it down. Abandon your promises, and he’ll make a note. Try to forget your past? He'll remind you. Try to undo your mistakes? He’ll thwart you. This expert witness has one goal: indict you, get a conviction and put another notch in his belt. Even his name, Diabolos, means "slanderer." He is "the accuser of our brothers and sisters, who accuses them day and night before our God." (Rev. 12:10)

Can't you see him? Pacing back and forth before God's bench. Can't you hear him? Calling your name, listing your faults. He sneers, "This one you call your child, God, but he’s not worthy. He’s greedy. And when he talks, he’s really thinking about himself. He'll go days without an honest prayer. Even this morning he chose to sleep in rather than spend time with you. I accuse him of laziness, egotism, worry and distrust . . . ." And as he speaks, you hang your head. You have no defense. The indictment is true.

"Guilty, your honor," you mumble. "And the sentence?" Satan sinisterly asks. "The wages of sin is death," explains the judge, "but in this case the death has already occurred because this one died with Christ." Satan is suddenly silent. And you are suddenly jubilant. You realize that Satan cannot accuse you. No one can accuse you. Fingers may point and voices may demand, but the charges glance off of you like BB’s off a rhino. No more dirty dishwater. No more penance. No more nagging sisters. You have stood before the judge and heard him declare, "Not guilty." The prophet Isaiah said the same when he wrote, "The Lord God helps me, so I will not be ashamed. I will be determined, and I know I will not be disgraced. He shows that I am innocent, and he is close to me. So, who can accuse me? If there is someone, let us go to court together." (Isa. 50:7-8). Once the judge has released you, you need not fear the courtroom. Ah, but will it last? The apostle Paul pondered that very question when he wrote, "Can anything separate us from the love Christ has for us?" (Rom. 8:35) And there it is.

That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s what we really want to know, isn’t it? We want to know how long God's love will last. Does God really love us forever? Not just on Easter Sunday’s when our shoes are shined, and our hair is coiffed. We want to know, deep down inside, how does God really feel about me when I'm a jerk? Not when I'm peppy, positive, and ready to take on world hunger. Not then. I know how he feels about me then. Even I like me then. I want to know how he feels about me when I snap at anything that moves, when my thoughts are gutter-level, or when my tongue is sharp enough to slice a diamond. How does he feel about me then? That's the question. And that's our concern.

Oh, we don't say it; we may not even know it. But we can see it on each other’s face. We can hear it in our words. Did I cross the line this week? Last Tuesday when I drank Jack Daniels until I couldn't walk . . . last Thursday when my business took me where I had no business being . . . last summer when I cursed the God who made me as I stood near the grave of the child he gave me? Did I drift too far? Wait too long? Slip too much? That's what we want to know. Can anything separate us from the love Christ has for us? Fortunately, God answered that question before we could even ask it. And so we'd see his answer, he lit the sky with a star. So, we'd hear it, he filled the night with a choir; and so we'd believe it, he did what no man had ever dreamed – he became flesh and dwelt among us.

He placed his hand on the shoulder of humanity and said, "You're special." Untethered by time, he sees us all. From the backwoods of Virginia to the marbled halls of Wall Street; from the Vikings to the astronauts; from the cave-dwellers to the kings. Vagabonds and ragamuffins all, he saw us before we were born. And he loves what he sees. Flooded by emotion and overcome by pride, the star-maker turns to us, one by one, and says, "You are my child. I love you dearly. I know that someday you'll turn from me and walk away. But I want you to know, I've already provided you a way back." And to prove it, he did something extraordinary. Stepping from the throne, he removed his robe of light and wrapped himself in skin: pigmented, human skin.

The light of the universe entered a dark, wet womb. The one who angels worship nestled himself in the placenta of a peasant, was birthed into the cold night, and then slept on a bunch of straw. Mary didn't know whether to give him milk or give him praise, but she gave him both since he was, as near as she could figure, both hungry and holy. Joseph didn't know whether to call him Junior or Father. But in the end, he called him Jesus since that's what the angel said, and since he didn't have the faintest idea what to name the son of God who he could cradle in his arms.

"Can anything make me stop loving you?" God asks. "Watch me speak your language, sleep on your earth, and feel your hurts. Behold the maker of sight and sound as he sneezes, coughs, and blows his nose. You wonder if I understand how you feel? Look into the dancing eyes of the kid in Nazareth; that's God walking to school. Ponder the toddler at Mary's table; that's God spilling his milk.” "You wonder how long my love will last?” God asks. “Find your answer on a splintered cross, on a craggy hill. That's my only begotten son you see up there, your maker, hanging by nails and bleeding. Covered in spit and soaked in sin. That's your sin I'm carrying. That's your death I'm dying. That's your resurrection I'm living. That's how much I love you."

"Can anything come between you and me?" asks the firstborn Son. Hear the answer and stake your future on the triumphant words of Paul: "I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor ruling spirits, nothing now, nothing in the future, no powers, nothing above us, nothing below us, nor anything else in the whole world will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Rom. 8:38-39) In other words, inseparable.

Grace,

Randy