Stay In the Boat and Keep Rowing

 

Stay In the Boat and Keep Rowing

It was dark now, and Jesus had not yet come to them. (John 6:17)

Here are some thoughts from a then-young missionary, Max Lucado, excerpted from his journal during his first month on the mission field in Brazil. On the flight to the field, he writes: “The next time this plane touches down, I will be a missionary. To God be the glory.” The second day Max reflects, “I keep reminding myself that the homesickness is temporary — it comes with the weariness and adjustments. I must remember the reason I’m here. Not for my own joy or gain, but for the growth of God’s kingdom.” By day three his spirits are up: “God, it’s a grand blessing to serve you.” But on the fourth day, Max’s spirits begin to sag: “It’s difficult for us to think about home. We cried this morning.” On the fifth day he doesn’t rebound as he writes, “Today is not so clear. The clouds have buried the mountains. The sky is gray.”

By day six, the storm is brewing: “Yesterday was the toughest day thus far. The newness is gone. I’m tired of this language. We could hardly think of our family and friends without weeping.” On the eighth day, the waves have crested and the winds are blowing: “This hotel room which has been our home is cold and impersonal. I held my wife as she wept, and we both confessed the ugliness of the thought of spending the rest of our lives in this foreign country. We’re so far from home.” By the tenth day the gales are at full strength when Max writes, “Doggone it, I know God is guiding us, I know he has a plan for us, but it’s so hard. How will we learn this language? Lord, forgive my sorry attitude.” And just when you’d think it couldn’t get any darker he says, “I wish I could say I’m thrilled to be here. I’m not. I’m only willing to be here. My commitment to be a missionary feels like a prison sentence.”

Perhaps the disciples could have journaled the same. They only did what they were told. They didn’t question the order; they simply obeyed it. They could have objected. After all, it was evening and darkness was only minutes away, but Jesus told them to get into the boat and so they did. And what was the result of their obedience? John’s crisp description tells you: “That evening Jesus’ followers went down to Lake Galilee. It was dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The followers got into a boat and started across the lake to Capernaum. By now a strong wind was blowing, and the waves on the lake were getting bigger.” (John 6:16-18)

That’s a pretty chilling phrase, “Jesus had not yet come to them.” They were caught in the storm of “not yet.” They did exactly what Jesus said and look where it got them – a night on a storm-tossed sea with their Master somewhere on the shore. It’s one thing to suffer for doing wrong, but it’s an entirely different matter altogether to suffer for doing what’s right. But it happens. And when the storm bursts, it washes away the naive assumption that if we do right, we will never suffer. Just ask the faithful couple whose crib is empty and whose womb is barren. Just ask the businessman whose hard and honest work was rewarded with financial ruin and bankruptcy. Or the recent story of an Oklahoma University student who received a zero on her psychology essay for incorporating Christian beliefs about gender roles, and the coed who took a chance on love and was raped. And so, the winds blow. And so, the boat bounces. And so, the disciples wonder, “Why the storm, and where’s Jesus?”

It’s bad enough to be in the storm, but to be in the storm alone? The disciples had been on the sea for about nine hours, and John tells us they had been rowing for four miles. (John 6:19) Under calm seas, they should have rowed that distance in an hour. It’s been nine. That’s a long night, and how many times had they searched the darkness for their Master? How many times did they call out his name? Why did he take so long? And like the disciples, we ask the same questions.

It reminds me of my children taking piano lessons. Many years ago, we purchased a piano and fearing that it would become just an expensive piece of furniture I told my kids that they were to take piano lessons for one year; after that, they were on their own. Even now I can hear my children playing the piano. And by the time they had begun their last six months, the teacher had upped the ante. No more rinky-dink songs; no more nursery rhymes. It was time to move on. The rhythm varied, the notes sharpened, and the key changed. I remember thinking that it would be pleasant to the ear … someday.

But the notes came slowly and the fingers dragged, and the kids would have quit if I’d given them the chance. So, was I a cruel father for urging them to continue? Was I unfair in prodding them to practice? I wasn’t oblivious to their struggles; I could hear them. And I wasn’t blind to their tears; I could see them. I knew they’d be much happier swimming, reading, or watching television. So why then did I let them suffer? Because I loved them then and love them still. And I knew their struggles then would result in music tomorrow.

Mark tells us that during the storm Jesus “saw his followers struggling.” (Mark 6:48) Through the night he saw them. Through the storm he saw them. And like a loving father he waited. He waited until the right time – until the right moment. He waited until he knew it was time to come, and then he came. So, what made it the right time? I don’t know. Why was the ninth hour better than the first or second? I can’t answer that one either. Why does God wait until the money’s gone, or the sickness has lingered? Why does he choose to wait until the other side of the grave to answer the prayers for healing? Again, I don’t know. I only know that his timing is always right. All I can say is that God will do what’s best. “God will always give what is right to his people who cry to him night and day, and he will not be slow to answer them.” (Luke 18:7)

Though you hear nothing, he’s speaking. Though you see nothing, he’s acting. With God there are no accidents. Every incident is intended to bring us closer to him. It’s like the story of Leonard Bernstein and Arturo Toscanini who attended a concert to hear the promising young soprano, Elisabeth Rethberg, sing. Toscanini commented on the purity of her voice, to which Bernstein responded, “Yes, but she’ll sing better once her heart is broken.” There are certain passions learned only by the pain. And there are times when God, knowing that, allows us to endure the pain for the sake of the song.

So, what does God do then while we’re enduring the pain? What does he do while we’re in the storm? Jesus prays for us. Remember, Jesus wasn’t in the boat with the disciples because he had gone to the hills to pray. (Mark 6:46) Jesus was praying for them. That’s noteworthy. It’s even more remarkable to know that Jesus didn’t stop praying when his disciples were struggling. When he heard their cries, he remained in prayer. Why? Well, there’s two possible answers that come to mind.

Either Jesus didn’t care, or he believed in prayer and you know the correct choice there. And do you know what? Jesus hasn’t changed. He still prays for his disciples. “Because Jesus lives forever, he will never stop serving as priest. So, he is able always to save those who come to God through him because he always lives, asking God to help them.” (Heb. 7:24-25) But if that’s true, where does that leave us? While Jesus is praying and we’re in the storm, what are we to do? Simple. We do what the disciples did. We stay in the boat and keep rowing. The disciples rowed most of the night. Mark says that they were “struggling hard” to row the boat. (Mark 6:48) The word “struggle” is translated elsewhere as “tormented.” In other words, it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t glamorous.

And much of our life is spent rowing. Getting out of bed. Fixing lunches. Turning in assignments. Changing diapers. Paying bills. Routine. Regular. More struggle than strut. More wrestling than resting. You thought marriage was going to be a lifelong date. You thought having kids was going to be like babysitting. You thought the company who hired you wanted to hear all about the great ideas you had in college. Then you learned otherwise. The honeymoon ended. The IRS called, and the boss wanted you to spend the week in Screamer, Alabama. Sure, there are moments of glamour and days of celebration. We have our share of feasts, but we also have our share of baloney. And to have the first we must endure the second.

At the right time, God comes. In the right way, he appears. So don’t bail out. Don’t give up. Don’t lay down the oars. He’s too wise to forget you and too loving to hurt you. When you can’t see him, trust him. He’s praying a prayer that he himself will answer. So, stay in the boat and keep rowing since, without Jesus, you’ll just be alone and rowing in circles.

Grace,

Randy

Unbelievably True

 

Unbelievably True

For a child is born to us, a son is given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders. And he will be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His government and its peace will never end. He will rule with fairness and justice from the throne of his ancestor David for all eternity. The passionate commitment of the Lord of Heaven’s Armies will make this happen! (Isaiah 9:6-7)

Sometimes I sit at my computer and await the arrival of the Holy Spirit – that impulse that comes and seems to cause my fingers to glide across the keyboard. Other times, it’s not so easy or so “spiritual.” In fact, there are times when nothing happens at all – I just sit there, waiting for the fingers to move, or the Spirit to prompt, or the mind and heart to jump-start.

But I don’t leave it all up to prompting. Throughout the year, I create computer folders for many of what could be my next messages. I label these folders with a date, assign the broad topic in a question and file it away, like: “Christmas – 2025.” Then, if I find a verse, a story or an article that seems to fit the topic, I drop it into the folder. The low moments come when I’m sitting there, staring and listening and then I look in the folder and it’s empty, too. Thankfully, it wasn’t completely empty this week. There were three little tidbits in my folder, “Christmas – 2025.”

One was a Los Angeles Times story about a 16-year-old teenager from Stockton, California who had suffered from chronic bronchitis and in whom they eventually discovered a bit of evergreen lodged in her lung the result, presumably, of inhaling the aroma of a Christmas tree when she was a toddler. The still-green sprig was removed and she’s fine now. The concluding moral of the story was, “Celebrate but don’t inhale.” This brief story, in and of itself, had the potential for a good lesson, maybe even saving that last line for a message titled, “Celebrate, but don’t inhale.” But then again, the image kind of spoke for itself so I simply pass along the “wisdom” of the AP.

The second item in the folder was about a desperate Massachusetts couple trying to sell their home. It seems that in their efforts to sell the property the husband had succumbed to some peculiar customs of the area. I checked with a real estate agent friend of mine who assured me that this is not California practice, but – apparently – Joseph, besides being a carpenter and the husband of Mary, is also the patron saint of discouraged homeowners desperate to sell. So, in an effort to sell their home, the husband bought a statue of St. Joseph and then buried it – head down – in the front yard facing his house. Yes, really.

Of course, that was last Christmas. And although it took almost a year, the couple finally received an offer. The owners tried not to appear too anxious, but they quickly accepted and left the neighborhood. Of particular interest was the husband’s observations about himself, especially in response to the incredulity of his family and friends at his willingness to bury a saint head-down in his front yard.

“It’s true,” he says, “that aspects of my behavior sometimes strike me as bizarre. And yet I firmly believe that to be religious is to be ‘not all there’- not stuck in the status quo, not resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.” The story made me think that maybe that’s what Christmas was all about – a suspension of the world as it appears: the mother, the father, the baby, the angels, the shepherds, the star, the wise men. The unbelievable story of a virgin birth and the child becoming the Prince of Peace. And then the improbable and unbelievable becomes Christmas: angels, shepherds, stars, the birth of a baby, animals, a stable, no room in the inn. We’ve heard it all before. It’s a bizarre story. How could there be such things as angels? How could anyone follow a star? To enter into this story is to be “not all there;” a religious person “not stuck in the status quo, not resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.”

So, I started thinking that the real estate story could have been grist for a rather good message this week, too. However, the “not accepting the world as it appears” message led me to the third note in my “Christmas – 2025” folder, an excerpt from Rebecca Wells’ novel, The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. It’s an exchange of letters between a daughter, Sidda, and her mother, Vivi. Here’s an excerpt from the book:

Dear Mama and Daddy,

I have decided to postpone my wedding to Connor. I wanted to tell you before you hear it from someone else. I know how word spreads in Thornton. My problem is, I just don’t know what I’m doing. I just don’t know how to love. Anyway, that’s the news.

Love, Sidda

And here’s Mom’s response

              Siddalee,

Good God, child! What do you mean, you ‘don’t know how to love?’ Do you think any of us know how to love? Do you think anybody would ever do anything if they waited until they knew how to love?! Do you think that babies would ever get made or meals cooked or crops planted or books written or what-have-you? Do you think people would even get out of bed in the morning if they waited until they knew how to love? You have had too much therapy. Or not enough. God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors. Forget love. Try good manners.

Vivi Abbott Walker

If you’re lucky, maybe you’ve received a letter like that. Or, better yet, written one. “God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors. Forget love. Try good manners.” I think Vivi may be on to something because what she’s saying is at the heart of the Christmas message of the Incarnation, and at the core of Christian belief: God became human in the form of a baby and was born in the most humble of places. Immanuel – God with us.

The second verse of Charles Wesley’s “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” says: Christ, by highest heaven adored; Christ, the everlasting Lord! Late in time behold him come, offspring of the Virgin’s womb. Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; Hail the incarnate Deity; Pleased as man with men to dwell, Jesus, our Emmanuel.

“God knows how to love, Kiddo. The rest of us are only good actors.” It’s all there, isn’t it? Beginning with the story of Jesus’ birth, we read on about his life and teachings, and of his death and resurrection. We don’t have to wait to love perfectly, “(f)or God so loved the world that he gave his only son,” John says. “God knows how to love, Kiddo,” Vivi says.

“The rest of us are only good actors.” And sometimes not so good. We know best our own imperfections, but most of the time we manage to get out of bed in the morning. Some of us may have had too much therapy, and some of us may not have had enough. But we can’t wait to get it right. “Forget love. Try good manners.” Which is to say, the kind of love people speak of when they speak of the love of God. That kind of love is bigger than us. So, how about trying good manners for starters?

Good manners. Like, leaving worship and acting with peace. Acting with courage even when we don’t feel courageous. Not returning evil when evil comes at us. Strengthening the faint heart someone else is carrying around. Supporting the weak and helping the suffering through words and deeds. Honoring all, including the grouchy neighbor next door, or the guy who cut you off in traffic this morning.

It’s Christmas. Try good manners. Listen to the story in a new way. Don’t worry about being “not all there.” Don’t be “resigned to the tyranny of the way things are.” Christmas is the story of a miracle, of the birth of peace, of infinite love, of a God of love that comes crashing into our lives in the unbelievable story of a baby born in a barn in Bethlehem centuries ago, amidst the turmoil of war and government tyranny.

It’s Christmas, but don’t forget about love altogether because God so loved the world that he gave his only son. (John 3:16) So, if you haven’t finished your shopping yet, and you can’t muster up that kind of love, start by trying good manners, instead. Who knows? The improbable can never happen unless you say “yes” to the God for whom nothing is impossible, and who makes Christmas unbelievably true.

Merry Christmas,

Randy