Abba

Abba

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)

Your neighbor really wants you to read this. Yep. In fact, your neighbor’s sighing a huge sigh of relief right now because he or she knows that harmony begins with understanding, and that understanding starts with information. So, here’s some information about your neighbor.

Now, when we say “neighbor,” we’re using the broad definition of the word. But neighbors aren’t just the people next door or the ones just around the corner. Your neighbor is anybody you meet on life’s journey. That’s the lesson Jesus gave when he told the parable of the Good Samaritan. (Luke 10:25-37) You remember, don’t you? 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 pass by. The fellow in the ditch might have died had it not been for a compassionate traveler who carried him to the next city, got him medical attention, and paid the costs. And he didn’t even live in the neighborhood.

Not only is this parable a compelling story, but it’s God’s clear definition of a neighbor: anyone you meet on the road of life. So, let’s visit our neighbors. You know – the cute guy on the elevator or the cranky boss. It’s the forgetful senior citizen, or the homeless guy who carries his possessions in a paper bag. All of them are your neighbors, and when we enter the presence of God through prayer, they’re present as well. Prayer is the pathway for all of God’s children, and our neighbors gather with us at God’s throne.

So, let’s try to understand these neighbors: 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 bread); “our debts” (We’re all sinners in need of grace); “deliver us from temptation.” (We’re all strugglers in need of strength)

In one 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. Neither wanted to survive without the other. With separation not an option, cooperation became an obligation.

So, 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 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 out of 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. (Or do we. Don’t we share the same hope for eternity? Don’t we have a mutual hunger to be loved and saved?) And, like the twins, don’t we share the same Father?

Perhaps 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 many 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 farmers 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 understand them, you are linked to them by virtue of the fact that you share a mutual father.

OK, but why is it so important to remember this community? Well, it’s important 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.”
(Mt. 5:23-24)

In other words, Jesus envisions a person going to worship. And he 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. 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 yours? Sure it is. For instance, parents surely get this point 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.”

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 phone lines would start humming 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?”

You know, 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 do everything possible. 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. Remind ourselves that 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.

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 that you’ll be there to show them the father’s hand.

Grace,

               Randy

Is

Is

But without faith it is impossible to please him: he that comes must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him. (Heb. 11:6)

Suppose you’re vacationing in some way out-of-the-way location, a long way from civilization and your child suddenly becomes violently ill and is in urgent need of care. You and your spouse load the child in the car and race to the nearest village. There you are told of three medical providers, all of whom live next to each other. “Whew, what are the chances of that?” you think. So, you drive to the street, locate the first physician and knock on the door.

No one answers. You knock again and no one answers. Only after knocking a third time, do you notice a sign over the doorway that reads, “No one lives here.” So, you run back to your car and inform your mate, “The place is empty.” “Go next door,” you’re instructed, and so you do.

This time there’s an answer when you knock. An old man with a kind face listens to your problem and says, “I wish I could help you. There was a day when I could. But I can’t now. I need care myself. In fact, if you have time, I need someone to come and prepare my meal. Also, if you could spare a few dollars, I’m a bit short on cash. . . .“ Realizing your child won’t be helped here, you apologize mid-sentence to the gentleman and leave, shouting to the car as you run, “Someone’s there, but he can’t help.”

Your child is worsening by the minute and you have only one more option. You run to the third house. This time an able-looking professional opens the door. “How may I help?” he asks. You explain that your child is very sick and needs immediate care. “Quickly, bring the child to me,” he urges. “Are you able to help?” “I am,” he says “Are you willing to help?” “I am,” he reassures. He’s there and he’s willing to help. That’s all you know. But that’s all you need to know. You don’t need to know his birthplace, or his Social Security number or his life’s story — all you need is his existence and availability, his presence and his willingness. He’s there and he’s good. Those two facts are enough to take you in to his presence.

Those same two facts are enough to take you in to the presence of God. The man who approaches God must have faith in two things, first, that God exists and secondly that God rewards those who search for him. (Heb. 11:6) So, what’s required? A conviction that God is, and the conviction that God is good. Those who would come to God must believe that God is real and that God is responsive. These convictions form the foundation of prayer. These convictions are found in one word in the first sentence of our Lord’s prayer.

“So, what is the word?” Well, I’ll give you a hint – you just read it. “Is it in this sentence?” It is. In fact, it’s in the answer I just gave. “Come on, is this a joke?” Would I kid you? (By the way the word was in your question, too) See it?

“Is,” as in “Our father who is in heaven.” God is. Not God was, or God will be. Not God could be or should be, but God is. He is. The God of the present tense.

That’s all you need to know to come to God. More is helpful perhaps, but not necessary. More can come later, but none can come earlier. Begin with the reality and the responsiveness of God. Remember the condition described in Hebrews? If you believe there is a living God (he is), and you believe there is a loving God (he rewards those who seek him), then you have faith. And you are welcome in his presence.

In other words, the foundation of his kingdom is not built on you, but on him. The key question is not “Who am I?” but rather “Who is God?” Your achievements, however noble, are not important. Your credentials, as remarkable as they may be, are of no concern. God is the force behind your journey. His strength is the key factor. Don’t focus on your strength, but on his. Occupy yourself with the nature of God, not the size of your bicep.

That’s what Moses did. Well, at least that’s what God told Moses to do. Remember the conversation at the burning bush? The tone was set in the first sentence. Take off your sandals because you are standing on holy ground. (Ex. 3:5) Immediately the roles were defined. God is holy. Approaching him on even a quarter-inch of leather is too pompous. With those eleven words Moses was enrolled in a class on God. No time is spent convincing Moses what Moses could do, but a lot of time was spent explaining to Moses what God would do.

But we tend to do the opposite, don’t we? Our approach would have been to explain to Moses how he’s ideally suited to return to Egypt. (Who better to understand the culture than a former prince?) Then, we’d remind Moses how perfect he was for wilderness travel. (Who knows the desert better than a shepherd?) Then, we’d spend a lot of time reviewing with Moses his resume and his strengths. (Come on Moses, you can do it. Give it a try)

God doesn’t. The strength of Moses is never considered. No pep talk is given; no pats on the back are offered. Not one word is given to recruit Moses. But a lot of words are given that reveal God. You see, the strength of Moses is not the issue. The strength of God is. In fact, re-read that last phrase replacing the name of Moses with your name. “The strength of _________ is not the issue. The strength of God is.” You aren’t the force behind a volcano, or the mortar within the foundation: God is. And I know you understand that statement, but do you accept it in your heart? Would you like to?

One of the most encouraging ways to study God is to study his names. The study of the names of God is no brief reading, either. After all, there are dozens of them in scripture. But if you want a place to begin, start with some of the compound names of God in the Old Testament. Each of them reveals a different aspect of God’s character.

Truth is, the more God’s people came to know him, the more names they gave him. Initially God was known as Elohim. “In the beginning God (Elohim) created. . . .“ (Gen. 1:1) The Hebrew word, “Elohim,” carries with it the meaning of “strong one," or "creator.” Thus, when we call God Elohim, we refer to his strength, or omnipotence. In fact, Elohim appears 31 times in the first chapter of Genesis alone because that’s where we see his creative power.

As God revealed himself to his children, however, they saw him as more than just a mighty force. They saw him as a loving creator who met them at every crossroad of their lives.

Jacob, for example, came to see God as Jehovah Roi, a caring shepherd. “Like a shepherd,” Jacob told his family, “God has led me all my life.” (Gen. 48:15) And the phrase is surely a compliment to God, because Jacob was less than a cooperative sheep. Twice he tricked his brother, and at least once he suckered his blind father; he out-crossed his double-crossing father-in-law by conning him out of his livestock and then, when the fellow wasn’t looking, made like a Colt out of Baltimore in the middle of the night sneaking off with anything that wasn’t nailed down.

Jacob was never a candidate for the best-behaved sheep award, but God never forgot him, either. God gave him food in the famine, forgiveness in his failures, and faith in his final years. Ask Jacob to describe God in a word, his word was Jehovah Roi — the caring shepherd.

Abraham had another word for God: Jehovah-jireh. “The Lord who provides.” And Abraham came by the name honestly. It all began when Abraham heard the call to go to the land of Canaan, and so he went. God promised to make him the father of the nations and he believed. But that was before Lot took the best land. That was before the king of Egypt took his wife. That was before he found out that he, the father of the nations, was married to a woman who couldn’t have children. But then Lot ended up in Sodom and Gomorrah, the Pharaoh ended up returning Sarah, and Abraham ended up bouncing his first-born on his hundred-year-old bony knees. Abraham learned that God provides. But even Abraham must have shaken his head when God asked him to sacrifice his own son on Mt. Moriah.

But up the mountain they went. “Where is the lamb we will burn as a sacrifice?” his son asked. (Gen. 22:7) And you wonder how the words made it past the lump in Abraham’s throat, “God will give us the lamb for the sacrifice, my son.” (vs. 8)  Jehovah-jireh: the Lord will provide. And then Abraham tied up his son, placed him on the altar and raised the knife … and the angel stayed his hand. Abraham had proven his faith.

Just then, he heard a rustling in the thicket and saw a ram caught in a bush by his horns. He offered it as an offering and gave the mountain a name: Jehovah-jireh — The Lord Provides.

And then there’s Gideon. The Lord came to Gideon and told him he was to lead his people in victory over the Midianites. That’s like God telling a kindergartner to get in the car and go to work; or a high school student to take on a drug cartel; or a preacher to preach the truth to the fat and sassy. “Y-y-you b-b-better get somebody else,” we stammer. But then God reminds us that he knows we can’t but he can. And to prove it, he gives a wonderful gift – peace. He brings a spirit of peace. A peace before the storm. A peace beyond logic, or as Paul described it, “A peace which passes all understanding.” (Phil. 4:7)

He gave it to David after he showed him Goliath. He gave it to Saul after he showed him the gospel. And he gave it to Jesus after he showed him the cross. And he gave it to Gideon. So Gideon, in turn, gave the name to God. He built an altar and named it, “Jehovah-Shalom” The Lord is peace. (Judges 6:24)

God the Creator; God the Caring Shepherd; God the Provider; God, the Lord of Peace. Just some of the names that help us understand the God Who Is.

God is the God who always is. “I am who I am,” he says. (Exodus 3:14)

Who is the one who created the world? God is.

Who is the one who provides the needs of his children? God is.

Who is the one who saves his people? God is.

Who is the one who rewards those that diligently seek him? God is.

And, no, it doesn’t depend upon what the meaning of the word “is” is.

Grace,

                Randy

Miraculous

Miraculous

The next day there was a wedding celebration in the village of Cana in Galilee. Jesus’ mother was there and Jesus and his disciples were also invited to the celebration. The wine supply ran out during the festivities, so Jesus’ mother told him, “They have no more wine.”

“Dear woman, that’s not our problem,” Jesus replied. “My time has not yet come.”

But his mother told the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”

Standing nearby were six stone water jars, used for Jewish ceremonial washing. Each could hold twenty to thirty gallons. Jesus told the servants, “Fill the jars with water.” When the jars had been filled, he said, “Now dip some out, and take it to the master of ceremonies.” So the servants followed his instructions.

When the master of ceremonies tasted the water that was now wine, not knowing where it had come from (though, of course, the servants knew), he called the bridegroom over. “A host always serves the best wine first,” he said. “Then, when everyone has had a lot to drink, he brings out the less expensive wine. But you have kept the best until now!”

This miraculous sign at Cana in Galilee was the first time Jesus revealed his glory. And his disciples believed in him. (John 2:1-11)

Let’s pretend you’re an angel. (I know, I know. Humor me.) You’re an angel in the era before the Messiah. God has not yet sent his Son to earth, but he soon will and that’s where you come in. You receive notice that you’ve been given a special assignment. A once-in-an-eternity opportunity. You’ve been asked to serve on a special committee. Quite an honor, don’t you think?

Michael chairs the heavenly task force. “Let’s begin by choosing the first miracle,” he says. “The first miracle is crucial. It’s the lead-off proclamation. It’s the forerunner of things to come. It must be chosen carefully.” “It’s gotta be powerful,” another volunteers. “Undeniable.” “Unforgettable,” chimes in yet another. “We are in agreement, then,” Michael says. “The first miracle of God’s son on earth must have clout. Now, do you have any ideas?”

Angelic creativity begins to whir. “Have him raise a person from the dead.” “Or a whole cemetery from the dead!” “Yeah, vacate the place.” “What about feeding every hungry person one meal?” “Too easy. How about removing all disease from the planet?” “Bingo. I like that idea.” “I know,” the voice is yours. All the other angels turn to look at you. “What if he rids the earth of all evil? I mean, with one great swoop all the bad is gone and just the good remains.” The group is silent.

“Not bad,” says one. “Good thinking,” says another. “Get it done once and for all,” agrees Michael. “It’s settled, then. The first miracle will be to obliterate evil from the earth!” Wings rustle with approval and you smile with pride. (Who knows? You could get a promotion out of this.) “Now let’s move on to the second miracle . . . .”

Far-fetched? Sure. But the story is not without a couple of threads of truth. One is that Jesus had a plan. You can tell by some of the phrases he uses. “The right time for me has not yet come.” (John 7:6) “The time has come for the Son of Man to receive his glory.” (John 12:23) “The chosen time is near.” (Matt. 26:18) “The time has come for the Son of Man to be handed over to sinful people.” (Mark 14:41) “He looked toward heaven and prayed, ‘Father, the time has come….” (John 17:1)

Look at those words. “The right time has not yet come.” “The time has come.” “The chosen time.” What do those phrases mean? Well, they seem to imply a schedule. They represent an order of events. The mission of Christ was planned. Now, my hypothetical angel committee never existed, but a plan certainly did. And there’s a second shred of truth in this little scenario. Not only was there a plan in Christ’s ministry, there was also a first miracle.

The plot is almost too simple. Jesus and his disciples are at a wedding. The host runs out of wine. All the stores are closed, so Jesus, at his mother’s encouraging, transforms six jugs of water into six jugs of wine. That’s it. That’s the lead-off hitter. Pretty low key, don’t you think? Certainly doesn’t have the punch of calling a person back from the dead, or the flair of straightening a crippled leg. Or does it? Maybe there’s more to this than we think.

You see, a wedding in the day of Christ was no small event. It usually began with a Wednesday sundown ceremony at the synagogue. People would then leave the synagogue and begin a long, candlelight procession through the city, winding their way through the soft evening sunlight of the city streets. The couple would be escorted past as many homes as possible so everyone could wish them well. After the processional, however, the couple didn’t go on a honeymoon; the honeymoon came to them.

They would go home to a party. And for several days there would be gift-giving, speechmaking, food-eating and — you guessed it — wine drinking. Food and wine were taken very seriously. The host honored the guests by keeping their plates full and their cups overflowing. It was considered an insult to the guests if the host ran out of food or wine. In fact, hospitality at a wedding was a sacred duty. So serious were these social customs that, if they were not observed, lawsuits could be brought by the injured parties.

“Without wine,” said the rabbis, “there is no joy.” Wine was crucial, not for drunkenness, which was considered a disgrace, but for what it demonstrated. The presence of wine stated that this was a special day and that all the guests were special guests. The absence of wine, then, was a social embarrassment. And Mary, the mother of Jesus, is one of the first to notice that the wine’s run out. So, she goes to her son and points out the problem: “They have no more wine.” And Jesus’ response? “Dear woman, why come to me? My time has not yet come.” (v. 4) It’s almost as though Mary said, “Jesus, they are out of wine. We really need to do something,” to which Jesus responds, “Ma’am, what do you mean ‘we’”? It’s kind of like that joke about the Lone Ranger and his faithful Indian companion, Tonto. The Lone Ranger and Tonto are surrounded by a tribe of Indians and greatly outnumbered. Turning to his companion, the Lone Ranger says, “Tonto, I think we’re in trouble.” Tonto looks back at the Lone Ranger and responds, “What do you mean, ‘we,’ White man?”

But, there are those words again. “My time.” Jesus is aware of the plan. He has a place and a time for his first miracle. And this isn’t it. And about now the angelic committee on the miracles of the Messiah lets out a collective sigh of relief. “Whew, for a minute there, I thought he was going to blow it.” “Me, too. Can you imagine Jesus inaugurating his ministry with a water-to-wine miracle?” “That’s it, Jesus, just say no. Stick to the plan.”

Jesus knows the plan. And at first, it appears he’s going to stay with it. But as he hears his mother and looks into the faces of the wedding party he reconsiders. The significance of the plan is slowly eclipsed by his concern for the people. Timing is important, but people are more so. As a result, he changes his plan to meet the needs of his friends. Incredible. The schedule of heaven is altered so some friends won’t be embarrassed. The inaugural miracle is motivated — not by tragedy or famine or moral collapse — but by concern for friends who’re in a bind.

Now, if you’re an angel on the committee of Messianic miracles, you’re not liking this too much. You don’t like this move on the part of Jesus. Everything about it is wrong. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong miracle. “Come on, Jesus. Remember the schedule,” you urge. “Remember the strategy. This isn’t the way we had it planned.” No, if you’re an angel on the committee, you don’t like this move. But if you’re a human who has ever been embarrassed, you like this a lot. Why? Because this miracle tells you that what matters to you matters to God.

Now, you may think that’s true when it comes to the big stuff. You know. When it comes to the major-league difficulties like death, disease, sin, and disaster — you know that God cares. But what about the smaller things? What about grouchy bosses, or flat tires, or lost dogs? What about broken dishes, late flights, toothaches, or a crashed hard drive? Do these matter to God? I mean, he’s got a universe to run. He’s got the planets to keep balanced. He’s got wars to worry with and famines to fix. So, who am I to tell him about my ingrown toenail? I’m glad you asked. Let his Word tell you who you are.

You are an heir of God, and a co-heir with Christ. (Rom. 8:17) You’re eternal, like an angel. (Luke 20:36) You have a crown that will last forever. (1 Cor. 9:25) You’re a holy priest (1 Pet. 2:5), a treasured possession. (Ex. 19:5) You were chosen before the creation of the world. (Eph. 1:4) You are destined for “praise, fame, and honor, and you will be a holy people to the Lord your God.” (Deut. 26:19) But more than any of the above — more significant than any title or position — is the simple fact that you are God’s child. “The Father has loved us so much that we are called children of God. And we really are his children.” (1 John 3:1)

I like that last phrase. “We really are his children.” It’s as if John knew some of us would shake our heads and say, “Naw, not me. Mother Teresa, maybe. Billy Graham, all right. But not me.” If those are your feelings, John added that phrase for you. “We really are his children.” As a result, if something’s important to you, it’s important to God.

If you are a parent you know that. Imagine if you noticed an infected sore on the hand of your five-year-old son. You ask him what’s wrong, and he says that he has a splinter. You ask him when it happened. He says last week! You ask him why he didn’t tell you, and he says, “I didn’t want to bother you. I knew you had all those things to do around the house and all, and I didn’t want to get in your way.” “Get in my way? Get in my way! I’m your dad. You’re my son. My job is to help. I hurt when you hurt.” And because you are God’s child, if it’s important to you, it’s important to God.

Why did Jesus change the water to wine? To impress the crowd? No, they didn’t even know he did it. To get the wedding master’s attention? No, he thought the groom was being generous. So, why did Jesus do it? What motivated his first miracle? His friends were embarrassed, and what bothered them bothered him. If it hurts the child, it hurts the father.

So go ahead. Tell God what hurts. Talk to him. He won’t turn you away. He won’t think it’s silly. “For our high priest is able to understand our weaknesses. When he lived on earth, he was tempted in every way that we are, but he did not sin. Let us, then, feel very sure that we can come before God’s throne where there is grace.” (Heb. 4:15-16)

So, does God care about the little things in our lives? You better believe it, because if it matters to you, it matters to him. I’d say that’s pretty Miraculous.

Grace,

Randy

Enlightened

Enlightened

               

              When Jesus went in the boat back to the other side of the lake, a large crowd gathered around him there. A leader of the synagogue, named Jairus, came there, saw Jesus, and fell at his feet. He begged Jesus, saying again and again, “My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live.” So Jesus went with him….

While Jesus was still speaking, some people came from the house of the synagogue leader. They said, “Your daughter is dead. There is no need to bother the teacher anymore.”

But Jesus paid no attention to what they said. He told the synagogue leader, “Don’t be afraid; just believe.”

Jesus let only Peter, James, and John the brother of James go with him. When they came to the house of the synagogue leader, Jesus found many people there making lots of noise and crying loudly. Jesus entered the house and said to them, “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep.” But they laughed at him. So, after throwing them out of the house, Jesus took the child’s father and mother and his three followers into the room where the child was. Taking hold of the girl’s hand, he said to her “Talitha, koum!” (This means, “Little girl, I tell you to stand up!”) At once the girl stood right up and began walking. (She was twelve years old) Everyone was completely amazed. Jesus gave them strict orders not to tell people about this. Then he told them to give the girl something to eat. (Mark 5:21-24, 35-43)

There I stood at one side of the living while a friend of mine stood at the other. My job was to close my eyes and walk. My friend’s job was to be my eyes and talk me safely across the room. With phrases like, “Take two baby steps to the left,” and “Take four giant steps straight ahead,” my friend successfully navigated me through a treacherous maze of chairs, a vacuum cleaner, and a dog. Then it was my friend’s turn as I guided him past my mom’s favorite lamp, and shouted just in time to keep him from colliding into the wall when he thought his right foot was his left foot. After several treks through the darkness we eventually stopped.

“I didn’t like that,” I said. “It’s scary going where you can’t see.” “I know! I was afraid I was going to fall,” my friend agreed. “I kept taking little steps just to be safe.”

Did you ever do that when you were a kid? Better yet, do you do it now as an adult? We grownups don’t like the dark. But we walk in it. We often complain about how scary it is to walk where we can’t see so we take timid steps so we won’t fall. And we’ve good reason to be cautious: we’re blind. We can’t see the future. We have absolutely no vision beyond the present. For instance, I can’t tell you with certainty that I will live long enough to finish this paragraph any more than you can tell me you’ll live long enough to read the next one.

But I’m not talking nearsightedness or obstructed views, here; I’m talking opaque blindness. I’m not talking about a condition that passes with childhood; I’m describing a condition that passes only with death. We’re blind – blind to the future. It’s one limitation we all share. The wealthy are just as blind as the poor. The educated are just as sightless as the unschooled. And the famous know as little about the future as the not-so-famous.

None of us know how our children will turn out. None of us know the day we’ll die. No one knows whom he or she will marry, or even if marriage is in the cards. We are universally, absolutely, unalterably blind. We are all with our eyes shut, groping through a dark room, listening for a familiar voice — but with one difference. My childhood surroundings were familiar and friendly. Ours as adults can be hostile, even fatal. My worst fear then was a stubbed toe. Our worst fear now is more threatening: cancer, divorce, loneliness, death. And try as we might to walk as straight as we can, chances are a toe is going to get stubbed and we’re going to get hurt. Just ask Jairus. He’s a man who’d tried to walk as straight as he could. But Jairus was a man whose path had taken a sudden turn toward a cave — a dark cave. And he didn’t want to enter it alone.

Jairus is the leader of the synagogue. Now, that may not mean much to us these days, but in the days of Christ the leader of the synagogue was the most important man in the community. The synagogue was the center of religion, education, leadership and social activity. The leader of the synagogue was the senior religious leader, the highest-ranking professor, the mayor, and the best known citizen all in one. And Jairus had it all; job security; a guaranteed welcome at the coffee shop; a pension plan; golf every Friday; and an annual, all-expenses-paid trip to the national leadership convention. Who could ask for more? Yet Jairus does. He has to ask for more. In fact, he would trade his entire package of perks and privileges for just one assurance — that his daughter would live.

The Jairus we see in this story is not the clear-sighted, black-frocked, nicely groomed civic leader. He is, instead, a blind man begging for a gift. He fell at Jesus’ feet, “… saying again and again, ‘My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live.’” (Mk 5:23) He doesn’t barter with Jesus. (“You do me a favor, and I’ll see that you’re taken care of for life.”) He doesn’t negotiate with Jesus. (“The guys in Jerusalem are getting pretty testy about your antics. Tell you what, you handle this problem of mine, and I’ll make a few calls.”) He doesn’t make excuses. (“Normally, I’m not this desperate, Jesus, but I’ve got a little problem here.”) He just pleads.

There are times in life when everything we have to offer is nothing compared to what we are asking to receive. Jairus was at such a point. What could a man offer in exchange for his child’s life? So there were no games. No haggling. No masquerades. The situation was starkly simple: Jairus is blind to the future and Jesus knows what the future holds. So Jairus asks for his help. And Jesus, who loves the honest heart, goes to give it. And God, who knows what it’s like to lose a child, empowers his son.

But before Jesus and Jairus get very far, they are interrupted by emissaries from Jairus’ house. “Your daughter is dead. There is no need to bother the teacher anymore.” (v. 35) How’s that for being blunt? But here’s where the story gets kind of interesting because Jesus goes from being led to leading; from being convinced by Jairus to convincing Jairus; from being admired to being laughed at; from helping out the people to casting out the people. Here’s where Jesus takes control. “But Jesus paid no attention to what they said ….” (v. 36) I love that line. It describes the critical principle for seeing the unseen: Ignore what people say. Block them out. Turn them off. Close your ears. And, if you have to, walk away.

Ignore the ones who say it’s too late to start over. Disregard those who say you’ll never amount to anything. Turn a deaf ear toward those who say that you aren’t smart enough, fast enough, tall enough, or big enough — ignore them. Faith sometimes begins by stuffing our ears with cotton.

Jesus turns immediately to Jairus and pleads: “Don’t be afraid; just believe.” (v. 36) Jesus is compelling Jairus to see the unseen. And when Jesus says, “Just believe …,” he’s imploring, “Don’t limit your possibilities to only what you can see. Don’t listen only for the audible. Don’t be controlled by the logical. Believe there is more to life than meets the eye!” “Trust me,” Jesus is pleading. “Don’t be afraid; just trust.”

There was a father in the Bahamas who issued the same plea to his young son who was trapped in a burning house. The two-story structure was engulfed in flames, and the family — the father, mother, and several children — were on their way out when the smallest boy became terrified and ran back upstairs. His father, standing outside, shouted to him: “Jump, son, jump! I’ll catch you.” The boy cried, “But Daddy, I can’t see you.” “I know,” his father called, “but I can see you.” The father could see, even though the son could not.

A similar example of faith was found on a cellar wall in Cologne, Germany where Jews had hidden during World War II. “I believe in the sun, even though it doesn’t shine; I believe in love, even when it isn’t shown; I believe in God, even when he doesn’t speak.” And I try to imagine the person who etched those words. I try to envision her hand gripping the broken glass or stone that cut into the wall. I try to imagine his eyes squinting through the darkness as he carved each letter. What hand could have cut such a conviction? What eyes could have seen good in such horror? There is only one answer: eyes that chose to see the unseen. Paul wrote: “We set our eyes not on what we see but on what we cannot see. What we see will last only a short time, but what we cannot see will last forever.” (2 Cor. 4:18) The Hebrew writer said much the same: “Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see.” (Heb. 11:1) Jesus is asking Jairus to see the unseen. To make a choice. Either to live by the facts, or to see by faith. When tragedy strikes we, too, are left to choose what we see. We can see either the hurt or the Healer. The choice is ours.

Jairus made his choice. He opted for faith and Jesus … and faith in Jesus led him to his daughter. At the house, Jesus and Jairus encounter a group of mourners and Jesus is troubled by their wailing. It bothers him that they express such anxiety over death. “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep.” (v. 39) And that’s not a rhetorical question. It’s an honest one. From Jesus’ perspective, the girl is not dead — she’s only asleep. From God’s viewpoint, death is not permanent. It’s a necessary step for passing from this world to the next. It’s not an end; it’s a beginning.

As a young boy I had two great loves — playing and eating. Summers were made for afternoons on the baseball diamond and meals at the dinner table. Mom had a rule, however. Dirty, sweaty boys could never eat at the table. Her first words to me as I came home were always, “Go clean up and take off those clothes if you want to eat.” Now, no boy is particularly fond of bathing and dressing, but I never once complained and defied my mom by saying, “I’d rather stink than eat!” In my economy, a bath and a clean shirt were a small price to pay for a good meal.

And from God’s perspective death is a small price to pay for the privilege of sitting at his table. “Flesh and blood cannot have a part in the kingdom of God …. This body that can be destroyed must clothe itself with something that can never be destroyed. And this body that dies must clothe itself with something that can never die.” (1 Cor. 15:50, 53)  God is even more insistent than my mom was. In order to sit at his table, a change of clothing must occur. And we must die in order for our body to be exchanged for a new one. So, from God’s viewpoint, death is not to be dreaded; it is to be welcomed. And when he sees people crying and mourning over death, he wants to know, “Why are you crying?” When we see death, we see disaster; when Jesus sees death, he sees deliverance.

But that’s too much for the people to take. “They laughed at him.” (v. 40) Now, look closely because you aren’t going to believe what Jesus does next. He throws the mourners out. That’s what the text says, “after throwing them out of the house ….” (v. 40) He doesn’t just ask them to leave. He throws them out. He picks them up by collar and belt and sets them sailing. Jesus’ response was decisive and strong. In fact, in the original text, the word used here is the same word used to describe what Jesus did to the moneychangers in the temple. It’s the same verb used thirty-eight times to describe what Jesus did to the demons. Why? Why such force? Why such intolerance?

Perhaps the answer is found by going back to my living room experience. After me and my friend had taken turns guiding each other through the living room, another friend thought he’d be funny. So, on my last trip he snuck up from behind me (as I was walking with my eyes shut) and began whispering, “Don’t listen to him. Listen to me. I’ll take care of you.” I stopped. I analyzed the situation and made my choice between the two voices. “Be quiet,” I said, and then continued on in my other friend’s direction. Undeterred, my diabolical friend then grabbed the lid of a pan, held it next to my ear and banged on it with a spoon. I jumped to a stop. My friend from the other side of the room, seeing that I was in shock, did a great thing. He ran across the room and threw his arms around me and said, “Don’t worry. I’m right here.” He wasn’t about to let the noise distract me from the journey.

And God isn’t going to let the noise distract you from yours. He’s still busy casting out the critics and silencing the voices that could deter you. Some of his work you’ve probably seen. Most of it you haven’t. Only when you get home will you know how many times he has protected you from luring voices. Only eternity will reveal the time he interfered with that transfer, protecting you from a corrupt supervisor, or flattened your tire preventing you from getting into an accident at the intersection just ahead. And only heaven will show the times he protected you by giving you a mate who loves God more than you do, or opening the door for a new business so you could attend the same church.

Mark it down. God knows you and I are blind. He knows living by faith and not by sight doesn’t come naturally. And I think that’s one reason he raised Jairus’ daughter from the dead: not for her sake (she was better off in heaven), but for ours — to teach us that heaven sees when we trust. Oh, and the meaning of Jairus’ name? It’s Hebrew for enlightened, as in “He Enlightens.”

Grace,

Randy