Take This Cup Away

 

Take This Cup Away

Take This Cup Away - Audio/Visual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace,

Randy

Staring Down Your Storms

 

Staring Down Your Storms

Staring Down Your Storms - Audio/Visual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace,

Randy

Fumble

Fumble

Fumble - Audio/Visual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace,

Randy

Punchlist

 

Punchlist

Punchlist - Audio/Visual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Easter,

Randy

Fifth Sparrow

 

Fifth Sparrow

Fifth Sparrow - Audio/Visual

What is the price of five sparrows — two copper coins? Yet God does not forget a single one of them. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows. (Luke 12:6-7)

Do we matter? We fear we don't. We fear nothingness, insignificance. We fear evaporation. We fear that in the last tabulation we make no contribution to the final sum. We fear coming and going and no one even knowing. That's why it bothers us when a friend forgets to call, or the teacher forgets our name, or a colleague takes credit for something we've done, or the airline loads us like cattle onto the next flight. They’re affirming our deepest trepidation: no one cares, because we aren't worth caring about.

For that reason we crave the attention of our spouse, or the affirmation of our boss. We drop names of important people in conversations, and wear college rings on our fingers. We put silicone in our breasts, flashy hubcaps on our cars, grills on our teeth and silk ties around our necks. Fashion designers tell us, "You'll be somebody if you wear our jeans. Stick our name on your rear end and insignificance will immediately vanish." So we do. Fashion redeems us from the world of littleness and nothingness, and we are something else. Why? Because we just spent half a paycheck on a pair of Italian jeans.

But then, horror of horrors, styles change, the fad passes, the trend shifts from tight to baggy, from faded to dark. And we're left wearing yesterday's jeans, feeling like last month’s news. Maybe we can outsource our insignificance, we think. By coupling our identity with someone's Gulliver-sized achievement, we give our Lilliputian lives some kind of meaning. For instance, how else can you explain our society’s fascination with sports franchises and athletes?

I admit that I’m among the fascinated: an unabashed fan of Padres baseball. When they play baseball, I play baseball. When they score a run, I score a run. When they win, I shout with the fans at Petco Park, "We won!" But how can I make such a statement? Did I attend a single practice? Scout an opposing team? Contribute a coaching tip, or sweat a drop of perspiration? No. I would if they asked, but I'm too insignificant, slow, old and uncoordinated. Still, I hook my wagon to their rising star. Why? Because it separates me from the plebeians. It momentarily elevates me; knights me.

Or sometimes, out of a fear of not mattering, we try to outlive life. When the billionaire realizes that he will run out of years before he runs out of money, he establishes a foundation. No doubt some altruism motivates the move, but so does a hunger to matter.

We have kids for the same reason. Giving birth gives meaning to ourselves. One day, when we die, our descendants will remember "Good ol' Dad," or "Sweet ol' Mom," and we will extend our lives through theirs. And there you have it. Italian jeans. Foundations. Legacies. Forever looking to prove Bertrand Russell wrong – the fatalistic atheist who concluded, "I believe that when I die my bones will rot and nothing shall remain of my ego."

"But he can't be right," we sigh. "He isn't right!" Jesus announces. And in some of the kindest words ever heard, Jesus allays our fears. "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." (Matt. 10:29-31)

Now, what's more inglorious than hair? Who inventories follicles? We monitor other resources like the amount of money in the bank, gas in the tank or pounds on the scale. But hair on the skin? No one, not even the man with the expanding bald spot, posts tiny number signs adjacent to each strand. We style hair, color hair, cut hair, braid hair . . . but we don't count hair. Well, God does. "The very hairs of your head are all numbered." Just like the sparrows in the field.

In the days of Jesus, like today, a penny was one of the smallest coins in circulation. One such penny would buy two sparrows. In other words, everyone could own a couple of sparrows. But why would they? What purpose did they serve? What goal would they accomplish? In Luke's gospel Jesus goes a tender step further. "What is the price of five sparrows—two copper coins? Yet God does not forget a single one of them." (Luke 12:6) One penny would buy you two sparrows. Two pennies, however, would buy you five. Apparently, the seller threw in the fifth one for free.

Society still has its share of fifth sparrows – indistinct souls who feel dispensable, disposable, worth less than a penny. They drive in carpools and work in cubicles. Some sleep beneath cardboard on the sidewalks, and others beneath comforters in the suburbs. What they share is a feeling of smallness. In fact, you'll find a whole flock of fifth sparrows in a Chinese orphanage for the deaf and mute.

China's one-child policy has a way of weeding out the weak. Males are selected over females. Healthy babies outrank the impaired. Chinese children who cannot speak or hear stand little chance of a healthy, productive life. Every message tells them, "You don't matter." So when someone says otherwise, they melt. Chinese missionary, John Bentley, witnessed such a moment.

Deaf orphans in the Henan province were given a Mandarin translation of a children's book entitled, You Are Special. The story describes Punchinello, a wooden person in a village of wooden people. The villagers had a practice of sticking stars on the achievers and dots on the strugglers. Punchinello had so many dots that people gave him more dots just because. But then he met Eli, his maker. Eli affirmed him, telling him to disregard the opinions of others. "I made you," he explained. "I don't make mistakes." Punchinello had never heard such words. And when he did, his dots began to fall off. And when the children in the Chinese orphanage heard these words, their worlds began to change.

John explained, “When they first distributed these books to the children and staff of the deaf school, the most bizarre thing happened. At a certain point everyone started crying. I couldn’t understand this reaction. . . . Americans are somewhat used to the idea of positive reinforcement. . . . Not so in China, and particularly not for these children who are virtually abandoned and considered valueless by their natural parents because they were born ‘broken.’ When the idea came through in the reading that they are special simply because they were made by a loving creator . . . everyone started crying – including their teachers!” Do you need such a reminder? Any chance that these words are falling on the ears of a fifth sparrow? If so, it's time to deal with the fear of not mattering.

The fear that you are one big zero can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It works like this. You're slugging away at a menial job that pays poorly and saps your energy. The salary covers the bills but not much else. Your God-given abilities languish like un-watered roses. But then you read about a job opening that capitalizes on your skills and maximizes your abilities. So in a moment of uncharacteristic courage, you submit your application. The employer invites you in for an interview. "I'll never impress them," you moan. "I'll look stupid in the interview. They'll ask questions I can't answer. I'll never get the job." A mouse in a lions' den has better odds of success. So, you flop miserably and descend yet another level into the basement of self-defeat.

Or consider the girl who’s asked out on a date by a good-looking guy. So good-looking that she wonders what he sees in her. He's completely out of her league. Once he gets to know her, he'll drop her. Why, she may not even be able to maintain his interest for more than an evening. So, insecurity drives her to use the only tool she trusts – her body. She sleeps with him on the first date for fear that there won't be a second. She ends up feeling like the disposable woman she didn't want to become. Fear of insignificance creates the result it dreads, arrives at the destination it tries to avoid and facilitates the very scenario it disdains.

If a baseball player stands in the batter’s box repeating, "I just know I’m going to strike out; I’ll never get my bat on the ball, much less get a hit,” guess what? He'll never get to first base. If you pass your days mumbling, "I'll never make a difference; I'm not worth anything," guess what? You’ll be sentencing yourself to a life of gloom without parole. Even more, you’re disagreeing with God. Questioning his judgment. Second-guessing his taste. According to him you were "skillfully wrought." (Ps. 139:15) You were "fearfully and wonderfully made." (Ps. 139:14) He can't stop thinking about you. If you could count his thoughts about you, "they would be more in number than grains of sand." (Ps. 139:18) Why does he love you so much? The same reason the artist loves his paintings, or the boat builder loves his vessel. You are his idea. And God has only good ideas. "For we are God's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago."
(Eph. 2:10)

In the movie Hook, Peter Pan had grown up, become old and overweight, and looked nothing like the Peter that the lost boys knew. In the midst of the boys shouting that this was NOT Peter, one of the smallest boys took him by the hand and pulled him down to his level. He then placed his hands on Peter's face and proceeded to move the skin around, reshaping his face. And then the boy looked into Peter's eyes and said, "There you are, Peter!"

Sound familiar? God is saying the same words to you. Finding the beauty that the years bury, the sparkle that time tries to take. Seeing you and loving the you that he sees. "There you are,” he says. And isn’t that enough? It is – even for a fifth sparrow like me.

Grace,

Randy

Time Change

 

Time Change

Time Change - Audio/Visual

O God, you are my God. Earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water. (Psalm 63:1)

Tom had this problem of getting up in the morning and was always late for work. His boss was mad at him and threatened to fire him if he didn't do something about it. So Tom went to his doctor who gave him a pill and told him to take it before he went to bed. Tom slept well and, in fact, beat the alarm in the morning. He had a leisurely breakfast and drove cheerfully to work. "Boss," he said, "the pill actually worked!" "That's all fine" said the boss, "but where were you yesterday?"

Have you ever thought that God has a habit of being late? Recently, I’ve become more aware that God operates on a different time, almost as if he uses a different clock. So, from my perspective, and using my clock, God is late – a lot. Have you ever thought that? Some people get just a little uncomfortable when others speak about God in pretty common ways. Sometimes there’s a degree of artificiality about our faith that doesn’t permit us to see God in ways that are just natural to life. As a result, we can’t bring ourselves to speak of God in ways that may appear common or negative or, worse yet, blasphemous.

For instance, when God appeared to Abraham in Genesis 18, it was with the intention of telling Abraham that he and Sarah were finally going to have a son. Unfortunately, Abraham was 99 years old at the time, and Sarah was 89. Both knew that it was already way too late to be having kids. And the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Abraham and Sarah since they both burst out laughing when they heard the news. I can just imagine them saying, “God, it’s a little too late for that one!”

And how about Moses? Can you imagine this 80-year old geezer, living in exile for the past 40 years, who God startles at a burning bush? I’m thinking that the dreams and hopes he had had 40 years prior had pretty much evaporated. His people, the Israelites, had been in bondage, slaves of Egypt, for over a hundred years or more. And during this period a death decree had been proclaimed against the Israelites. The resulting pogrom led to the death of hundreds, maybe even thousands of infant male Israelites. In fact, Moses himself had been miraculously rescued from this same decree. So why does God come at this late hour and attempt a deliverance of his people? Is it possible that Moses’ hesitancy was partially driven by his doubts about God’s sense of timing? It’s like you can almost hear Moses muttering, “God, you’re too late on this one.”

Or, what about Job? Job had experienced monumental tragedies. He’d lost all his material possessions; his children had perished violently; his wife walked out on him; and his friends had turned into vicious accusers. Slowly but surely, Job began to sink into despair and despondency. And that’s when God shows up. But why then? Why let it go on for so long? Wasn’t it too late? I mean, you can just hear job lament, “God, where were you?” Worse yet, God was responsible for this whole ordeal by bragging about Job to Satan, and then letting Satan wreak havoc in Job’s life, almost to death. What’s up with that?

Mary and Martha watched their brother, Lazarus, fall ill, his health deteriorate and then die. They had sent desperate messages to Jesus to come and help. He didn’t. Then, four days after Lazarus’ burial, Jesus shows up. Can you feel the pain of the sisters when they saw Jesus? Out of desperation they cried, “Lord, if you had been here, you could have helped Lazarus. But you’re too late!” (John 11:21) And then, when Jesus asked that the tombstone be rolled away, Martha protested, “Lord, he’s been in there for four days!” (vs. 39) Again, God was late.

It seems that the most commonly asked questions of faith have little to do, frankly, with God’s existence, or even his providence. The most troubling questions for God’s people inevitably have to do with his sense of timing. Far too frequently our God seems late. So God’s people are often left to cry out, “When, O Lord? How long, O Lord? Why weren’t you here when we needed you? Why didn’t you come? Why are you so late?” Ever asked those questions? Yes, God is frequently late. But he’s always on time.

In Isaiah 55:8-9 God reminds us of a fundamental truth. He says, “My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways . . . As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” In other words, God operates on a different thought level – one that we’re incapable of achieving. And God also runs on a different clock. “With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.” (2 Peter 3:8) You see, God functions on a totally different time scale – his time is not our time.

In Jeremiah 29:11 God makes a wonderful promise: “For I know the plans I have for you; plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” You see, God functions at a very different level of intentionality. Unlike you and me, he has only good plans. This is further corroborated in Romans 8:28 where Paul writes, “We know that in everything, God works for the good of those who love him, and who are called according to his purpose.” This forces a conviction upon us that says: Whatever happens to us fits a design. God is in control of our lives, and he alone knows what is truly best for us.

Abraham and Sarah thought that God had appeared too late, but because God came Isaac was born. Moses may have entertained similar thoughts about God’s timing, but because he came the Israelites were delivered from Egypt and we are left with the story of the Exodus – the greatest tale of deliverance in human history. When God came to Job, a tenfold restoration ensued. All the losses that Job experienced were more than amply compensated. Mary and Martha were certain that Jesus was too late. However, he came and because he did Lazarus was raised from the dead.

In each of these stories, and others like them, God is quite obviously “late.” That’s what we see. That’s our perception of his actions. That is the view we are allowed to have. And if we examine our own lives we notice those times when God was late, or that we were certain he was. This view of reality is the most trying one for God’s people because we frequently struggle to make sense of all this. Frankly, on its face, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But the curtain has been drawn aside for us, and we’ve been given the privilege of getting a peak – from God’s side – of our reality. And, from God’s side, he’s always on time.

God’s intentionality and heart for us means that he’s always on time. From his vantage point, and with his love always directed at us, he can, and does ensure that he is truly on time, regardless of what our clocks say. And with that truth in hand, we can turn to an important lesson of faith. Isaiah 40:31 states: “Those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall rise up on wings like eagles. They shall run and not be wearied; they shall walk and not faint.” Faith discovers its strength, not in a busy life or in the preponderance of effort, but in the tranquility of soul that enables us to tune in to God’s frequency. It’s in our waiting upon the Lord that we learn the lessons we need the most.

The three Hebrew teenagers, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, could have been tempted to believe that God was late – that he had forgotten all about them. Their king had given a decree that everyone should bow before a golden image of him or die in a blazing furnace of fire. So when the theme music played, all the people obediently fell on their faces before the image – well, everyone except those three Hebrew boys. The king was so enraged at their disobedience that he commanded the fire to be heated seven times hotter than it was already. Then the boys were given one last chance to change their minds, but they wouldn’t. And by then, the heat from the fire was so intense that it killed the guards who had been assigned the task of throwing Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego into it.

So why didn’t the Lord come and scorch this idolatrous king and his followers? Where was he, anyway? What we find is that God was waiting for Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the furnace. And when they were thrown in, much to the king’s surprise, he saw four figures – not three – walking around in the furnace: “He said, ‘Look! I see four men walking around in the fire, unbound and unharmed, and the fourth looks like a son of the gods.’” (Dan. 3:25) Sometimes God delivers us from the trial, and sometimes he delivers us through it. In the case of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, God received greater glory by allowing them to go through this fiery trial rather than delivering them from it.

In other words, God is never late; he’s always on time. As we look at the world around us, we see horrible violence, perversion and people not only breaking God’s laws but flaunting their wicked lifestyles. And we wonder when God will return to put an end to all of the suffering and sorrow. That’s when we need to trust in God’s perfect timing. The apostle Peter wrote: “First of all, you must understand that in the last days scoffers will come, scoffing and following their own evil desires. They will say, ‘Where is this ‘coming’ he promised? Ever since our fathers died, everything goes on as it has since the beginning of creation….’ But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.” (2 Peter 3:3-4, 8-9)

The day will come when God will make all things right. There’s a time for everything, and a season for every activity. (Ecc. 3:1) So if your watch is running a little fast, maybe you should take it to the Watchmaker; word has it that he makes adjustments for free.

Grace,

Randy

New Math

 

New Math

New Math - Audio/Visual

He replied to the one speaking for the rest, “Friend, I haven't been unfair. We agreed on the wage of a dollar, didn't we? So take it and go. I decided to give to the one who came last the same as you. Can't I do what I want with my own money? Are you going to get stingy because I am generous?” Here it is again, the Great Reversal: many of the first ending up last, and the last first. (Matt. 20:13-16, MSG)

Remember "new math" when it was first introduced in our schools during the 60’s? It was launched just after the Sputnik crisis in order to boost science and math skills in the United States so that the intellectual threat of Soviet engineers, reportedly very skilled mathematicians, could be met. It was basically an experimental form of arithmetic, and it was very confusing. According to "new math," adding, subtracting and multiplying simply didn’t work the old way. Things didn’t add up. So they came up with “new math,” which involved something called "base theory." For instance, in base ten (which is the "base" we use in "old math"), 2 + 2 = 4. But in base three, for instance, 2 + 2 = 11. I really can’t tell you why it equals eleven because I’m not exactly sure that I really understand it myself. But you can see how it would be very confusing since, if you change the context, or “base,” numbers mean entirely new things.

There's a sense in which, sometimes, the Christian faith sounds an awful lot like “new math;” there are times when what God does just doesn’t seem to add up. For example, there's Jesus' parable of the shepherd who left his flock of ninety-nine and headed out into the darkness to search for one lost lamb. It’s a noble deed, but think about the underlying math. Jesus says the shepherd left the ninety-nine sheep “in the country,” which presumably means they were vulnerable to rustlers, wolves or just the general idea of bolting for freedom. But how would the shepherd have felt if he’d returned with the one lost lamb across his shoulders, only to find twenty-three others were now missing? It doesn’t make mathematical sense.

And then there’s the scene in John's gospel where a woman named Mary takes a pint of exotic, expensive perfume, worth an entire year's wage, and pours it all over Jesus' feet. Have you ever owned a $51,916.27 bottle of perfume? Even Judas noticed that it didn’t add up. Surely Mary could have put just a little, an ounce maybe, on Jesus' feet and then sold the rest to feed the poor. Arguably, Jesus would have smelled just as good. So, why overdo it? Why waste the entire jar, especially on Jesus’ nasty feet, when an ounce on the pulse points would have done the job? Apparently, Mary flunked math since, in our way of thinking, her calculations were way off.

Mark's gospel contains a third example. After watching a widow drop two little coins into the temple collection plate, Jesus compared it to the larger financial gifts of more wealthy worshipers. He said, "I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others." (Mark 14:23) What kind of rocket science did Jesus consult to come up with that conclusion? How could two pennies equal more than handfuls of brand new hundred dollar bills?

The parable in Matthew chapter 20 is about a farmer who, at sunrise, goes into town and hires day laborers to help him pick grapes in his vineyard. Temperatures in Palestine during the harvest season frequently exceed 100°; it’s really hot work. Grape harvests are also hectic and demanding since there’s a very narrow window of opportunity to harvest the grapes at the peak of their sugar content, or brix, and the bad weather setting in. If the “window” closes, the crop’s not worth picking. So maybe in his haste to get the job done quickly, the farmer goes into town at 6:00 a.m. to hire workers, and then again at 9:00 a.m. to hire more. He did the same thing at noon, 3:00 p.m. and again at 5:00 p.m. in order to get the harvest through the final stretch. At 6:00 p.m., the farmer tells his foreman to call it quits for the day and give everyone their pay, starting with those who were hired last. Now the order must have made the workers just a little curious since, usually, pay was handed out on a first-come, first-served basis. So the workers were probably looking pretty closely as the paymaster began handing out the paychecks.

As the owner had instructed, the guys who had worked only an hour were paid a denarius, i.e., a day’s wage, e.g., $104.00 in California these days, less taxes of course. That was a great wage back then. In fact, it was the same wage paid a Roman soldier, which was a whole lot more than a common day laborer could ever expect to get for even an entire day's work. So, the math doesn’t add up at this point. But the other laborers probably didn't mind; at least not yet. They were likely amazed at the farmer's generosity, especially the guys who’d been working since sunrise. They probably ran the numbers and thought, "Wow, if these guys who only worked an hour got an entire day’s wage, imagine how much we’ll take home. We're going to make a bundle!" But when they got to the paymaster, they got the same amount and now they’re steamed.

How is that fair? It doesn’t add up. After all, they'd been sweating and slaving at high speed under the hot sun all day. According to "normal" math, they should have received $1,456.00, throwing in time and a half for the four hours overtime. But here, the boss’s actions contradicted everything known about employee motivation and fair compensation. It was atrocious economics, plain and simple. So then what’s the point with these atrocious payroll calculations? What is Jesus teaching us in this parable about a seemingly mathematically-challenged landowner?

To answer that question we’ve got to realize that if we try to understand Jesus' story on the basis of math, we'll miss the point entirely. Jesus’ parable isn't supposed to make economic sense; it isn't supposed to add up. The point of the parable is about grace, and grace can't be calculated like a day's wage. Grace is not about finishing last or first. It’s about not counting at all. As Paul says in 2 Cor. 5:19, "God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men's sins against them." If God did count our sins against us, if he did pay us according to what our sins have earned us, we'd all be in very deep trouble. Here’s some more math excerpts from Romans: "...all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God ... and the wages of sin is death." (Rom. 3:23; 6:23) Praise God that he dispenses gifts and not wages. And here’s another: "The free gift of God is eternal life in Jesus Christ our Lord." (Rom. 6:23) Because of his great and truly amazing grace, people who respond to the Gospel do not get paid according to their merit.

Using our “new math” example, God's "base" is grace. His actions are prompted not by math, but by his great, all-encompassing, unconditional love. This love, this grace, is the key to understanding the atrocious mathematics of the gospel. And we have a hard time understanding that. We often have trouble comprehending God's grace because we’re still programmed to think according to our traditional math upbringing. Grace baffles us because it goes against our mental calculators that insist that some price must be paid for our sin. But if you struggle with the mathematics of the Gospel, remember that a price was paid. As Romans 3:24 says, "We are justified freely by His grace -through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus." In other words, God gave up his own Son rather than give up on humanity. Jesus paid our sin debt.

In the movie, The Last Emperor, the young child anointed as the last emperor of China lives a magical life of luxury with a thousand servants at his command. There's a scene in which his brother asks him, "What happens when you do wrong?" The boy emperor replies, "When I do wrong, someone else is punished." And to demonstrate the point, he breaks a jar, and to pay for his sin one of the servants is beaten. Jesus reversed that ancient pattern: when the servants erred, the King was punished. Jesus was beaten. He was tortured. He was crucified. He was the payment for our sins.

I never really liked math all that much growing up. In fact, I struggled with math so much, and got so far behind in school that my parents became a little concerned and got me some sort of mechanical contraption to help me with just simple, basic math. And I can’t tell you exactly when I eventually got it, but by college and graduate school I was doing calculus. At one time in my life, math just didn’t make any sense. Then, with some help, math made all the sense in the world.

Once, I didn’t get Jesus, either. But with the aid of his Word, I got Him. Not “got Him” in the sense of completely understanding him since that’s a journey, but “got him” from the standpoint of grace – a place where, thankfully, the math doesn’t have to add up.

Grace,

Randy