God Gets Into Stuff

 

God Gets Into Stuff

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)

On a September morning in 2001, Frank laced up his boots, pulled on his hard hat and headed out the door of his New Jersey home. As a construction worker, he’d made a living building things. But as a volunteer at the World Trade Center wreckage, he was just trying to make sense of it all. He’d hoped to find a live body. He didn’t. He found forty-seven dead ones, instead. Amid the carnage, however, he stumbled upon a symbol – a twenty-foot-tall steel-beam cross. The collapse of Tower One onto Building Six had created a crude kind of chamber in the clutter.

It was in this chamber, through the dusty sunrise, that Frank spotted the cross. No winch had hoisted it; no cement was securing it. The iron beams stood independent of any human help at all. It was standing there alone. Well, not completely alone. Other crosses rested randomly at the base of the large one. Different sizes, different angles, but all crosses. Several days later engineers realized the beams of the large cross had actually come from two different buildings. When one crashed into the other, the two girders bonded into one and were forged together forever by the ensuing fire. A symbol in the shards. A cross found in the crisis. "Where’s God in all this?" Frank pondered. We wondered then, too; perhaps we wonder about that same thing even now. But that discovery almost 25 years ago dared us to hope then that God was right there in the middle of it all. Can the same be said about our tragedies today?

When the ambulance takes our child or the disease takes our friend, when the economy takes our retirement or the two-timer takes our heart, can we, like Frank, find Christ in the crisis? The presence of troubles doesn't surprise us, but the absence of God undoes us. We can deal with the ambulance – if God is in it. We can stomach the ICU – if God is in it. We can face the empty house – if God is in it. But is he? Is God in it? Matthew would like to answer that question for you.

The walls falling around Matthew were made of water, not concrete and steel. No roof or building had collapsed, but it felt like the world was crashing in. A storm on the Sea of Galilee is like a sumo wrestler belly-flopping into a kiddy pool. The northern valley acts like a wind tunnel – compressing and then blasting squalls of terror onto the lake. Waves as tall as ten feet are common. And this is a lake, mind you, not the ocean. His account begins at nightfall. Jesus is on the mountain in prayer, and the disciples are in a boat in fear. They are "far away from land . . . fighting heavy waves." (Matt. 14:24) And when does Christ come to them? At three o'clock in the morning. (v. 25)

Now, if “evening” began at six o’clock and Christ came at three in the morning, the disciples had been alone in the storm for nine hours. Nine tempestuous hours. Long enough for more than one of the disciples to wonder, “Where’s Jesus? He knows we’re in the boat for heaven’s sake – it was his idea to begin with! Is God anywhere near?” And from within the storm comes an unmistakable voice: “I am.” Wet robe and soaked hair. Waves slapping his waist, and rain stinging his face. Jesus speaks to them at once. “Courage. I am. Don’t be afraid!” (vs. 27)

That particular wording sounds a little odd, I know. Because if you’ve ever read the story, you’re accustomed to a different shout from Christ. Something like, “Take courage! It is I” (NIV), or “Don’t be afraid … I am here” (NLT), or “Courage. It’s me.” (MSG) However, a literal translation of his announcement results in, “Courage! I am. Don’t be afraid.” But translators like to tinker with words for obvious reasons because “I am” sounds a little truncated. “I am here,” or “It’s me” feels more complete. But what Jesus shouted in the storm was simply the magisterial, “I am.” And those words should ring like the cymbals crashing in the 1812 Overture because we’ve heard them before.

Speaking from the burning bush to a knee-knocking Moses, God announced, “I AM WHO I AM.” (Exod. 3:14) Double-dog daring his enemies to prove him otherwise, Jesus declared, “Before Abraham was born, I am.” (John 8:58) Determined to say it often enough and loud enough to get our attention, Christ chorused: “I am the bread of life;” (John 6:48) “I am the Light of the world;” (John 8:12) "I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved." (John 10:9) "I am the good shepherd;" (John 10:11) "I am God's Son;" (John 10:36) "I am the resurrection and the life;" (John 11:25) "I am the way, the truth, and the life;" (John 14:6) and "I am the true vine." (John 15:1)

The present-tense Christ. He never says, "I was." But we do, don’t we? We do because "we were." We were younger, faster, lighter, prettier, etc. Prone to be people of the past tense, we tend to reminisce. But not God. Unwavering in strength, he never has to say, "I was," because heaven has no rearview mirrors or crystal balls because our "I am" God never sighs, "Someday I will be." But we do. Dream-fueled, we reach for horizons. "Someday I will . . . . (and then insert your dream)." But not God. Can water be wetter, or wind be windless? Can God be more God? No. He doesn’t change.

He is the "I am" God. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever." (Heb. 13:8) From the center of the storm, the unwavering Jesus shouts, "I am." He was tall in the Trade Tower wreckage. He was bold against the Galilean waves. And he’s bold in the ICU, or the battlefield, or the boardroom, or the prison cell, or the maternity ward – whatever and wherever your storm, "I am." Right there in the middle of it; right there in the middle of the storm. And the actual construction of this passage echoes that point.

Matthew’s narrative is actually made up of two acts, each six verses long. The first act, verses 22-27, centers on the power walk of Jesus. The second, verses 28-33, centers on the faith walk of Peter. In the first act, Christ comes alongside the waves and declares the words engraved on every wise heart: "Courage! I am! Don't be afraid!" And in the second, a desperate disciple takes a step of faith and – for a moment – does what Christ does; he walks on water. But then he takes his eyes off of Christ and did what we do; he sank.

Two acts. Each with six verses. Each set of six verses contains 90 Greek words. And right in middle of the two acts, and the two sets of verses, and the 180 words is this two-word declaration: "I am." Matthew, a former tax collector who’s really good with numbers, reinforces his point. It comes layered like a submarine sandwich. Graphically: Jesus – soaked but strong. Linguistically: Jesus – the "I am" God. Mathematically: whether in the number of words or the weathered world, Jesus – in the midst of it all. That’s because God gets into stuff. He gets into Red Seas, and big fish, and lions’ dens and furnaces. God gets into bankrupt businesses and jail cells; Judean wildernesses, weddings, funerals, fires, and Galilean tempests. Look and you'll find what everyone from Moses to Martha has discovered. God – right there in the middle of our storms. And that includes your storms, too.

Some time ago, a young woman and mother of an eighteen-month-old tragically passed away. Her life abruptly cut short – abbreviated. And the shelves of help and hope are pretty barren at those times. But at her funeral the officiate, who was a close friend of hers, shared a memory in his eulogy that gave those in attendance both the help and hope that the grieving group of family and friends sought that day.

For several years prior to her death the young woman had lived and worked in New York City. Due to their long-standing friendship, the priest had stayed in frequent contact with her via e-mail, and late one night he received a message indicative of God's persistent presence in the young woman’s life. It seems that his friend had missed her station while on the subway. And by the time she realized her mistake, she didn't know what to do. She prayed for safety and a sign of God's presence because this was neither the hour nor the place for a young, attractive woman to be passing through a rough New York neighborhood, especially alone.

At that moment the doors opened, and a homeless, disheveled man came on board and plopped down right beside her. Terrific. “God? Are you near?” she prayed. The answer came in a song. The man pulled out a harmonica and played, "Be Thou My Vision" – her mother's favorite hymn. And the song convinced her – Christ was right there, in the midst of it all.

Frank saw him in the rubble. Matthew saw him in the waves. The young woman saw him in a stranger. And you? Look closer. He's there. Right in the middle of it all because God gets into stuff.

Grace,

Randy

Soaking Wet

 

Soaking Wet

Soaking Wet - Audio/Visual 

Do you want to be counted wise, to build a reputation for wisdom? Here’s what you do: Live well, live wisely, live humbly. It’s the way you live, not the way you talk, that counts. Mean-spirited ambition isn’t wisdom. Boasting that you are wise isn’t wisdom. Twisting the truth to make yourselves sound wise isn’t wisdom. It’s the furthest thing from wisdom — it’s animal cunning, devilish conniving. Whenever you’re trying to look better than others or get the better of others, things fall apart and everyone ends up at the others’ throats. (James 3:14-16)

My grandmother’s pomegranate jam was the absolute best. Few delicacies in life compared to it, and each spoonful was a heavenly experience. The only problem with her gift was that it didn't last very long. The bottom of my jar was in sight long ago, but I still remember dreading that moment. I remember sticking my finger in the jam jar to scoop out the last remaining taste, and stain, of that blissful elixir.

Now, if I had been my grandpa, I wouldn't have had that problem. He got all the pomegranate jam he ever wanted. Did the clinking of the spoon at the bottom of the jar trigger Papa? Hardly. He had an unlimited supply. Maybe even more than he deserved. So why did he have so much and I had so little? Why was his pantry full and all I got was a stinkin’ jar? Who gave him the keys to the jam-and-jelly castle, anyway? Who crowned Papa the prince of pomegranates? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. In fact, the more I think about it . . . .

Which is exactly what I shouldn't do. I shouldn't think about it because resting at the end of that trail of thought is the deadly briefcase of envy. If you haven't seen one in real life, you've probably seen one in the spy movies. The assassin carries it up the back stairs into the vacant room at the top of the building. When he’s sure no one can see him, he opens the briefcase. The disassembled rifle sits in cushioned slots. The scope, the barrel, the stock – all of it awaits the hand and eye of the marksman. The marksman then awaits the arrival of his victim. And who’s his victim? Anyone who has more than he has. More karats, more horsepower, more office space, more money, more of almost anything. Envy sets its cross hairs on the one who has more. "You want something you don't have, and you will do anything to get it. You will even kill." (James 4:2)

That’s pretty strong language coming from James. And although we wouldn’t kill with a rifle like the assassin, can’t we do the same with our tongue? With our glare? Our gossip? "Jealousy," informs Proverbs 6:34, "enrages a man." Are your sights set on someone? If so, be careful because “jealousy will rot your bones." (Prov. 14:30) So do you need a deterrent for envy? An antidote for jealousy? Rather than bemoan the pomegranate jam you don't have, rejoice in the abundant cup that you do. "My cup overflows with blessings." (Ps. 23:5)

Is an overflowing cup full? Is the Pope Catholic? The wine reaches the rim and then spills over the edge. The goblet is not large enough to contain the quantity. According to David, our hearts are not large enough to contain the blessings that God wants to give. Jesus said the same. (Luke 6:38) He pours and pours until blessings literally flow over the edge and down on to the table. F. B. Meyer put it this way: “Whatever the blessing is in our cup, it is sure to run over. With him the calf is always the fatted calf; the robe is always the best robe; the joy is unspeakable; the peace passes all understanding. . . . There is no grudging in God's benevolence; he does not measure out his goodness as an apothecary counts his drops and measures his drams, slowly and exactly, drop by drop. God's way is always characterized by multitudinous and overflowing bounty.”

The last thing we need to worry about is not having enough. Our cup overflows with blessings. So, if focusing on our diminishing items leads to envy, what would happen if we focused on the unending items? If awareness of what we don't have creates jealousy and envy, is it possible that an awareness of our abundance could lead to contentment? Here are a couple of blessings that, according to the Bible, overflow in our lives.

Abounding grace. "The more we see our sinfulness, the more we see God's abounding grace forgiving us." (Rom. 5:20) To abound is to have a surplus, an abundance, an extravagant portion. Should the fish in the Pacific worry that they’ll run out of ocean? No. Why? Because the ocean abounds with water. Does the hawk have to be anxious about finding room in the sky to fly? No. The sky abounds with space. Should the Christian worry that the cup of mercy will run empty? He or she might because they may not be aware of God's abounding grace. Is that you? Are you aware that the cup God gives you is a cup that overflows with his mercy? Or are you afraid your cup will run dry, or your warranty will expire? Are you afraid your mistakes are too great for God's grace? We can't help but wonder if the apostle Paul had the same fear.

Before he was the apostle Paul, he was assassin Saul. Before he encouraged Christians, he murdered them. What would it be like to live with that kind of past? Did he ever meet children whom he had made orphans? Did their faces haunt his sleep? Did Paul ever ask, "Can God forgive a man like me?" The answer to his and, perhaps, our questions, if similar, is found in a letter Paul wrote to his young protégé, Timothy: "The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus." (1 Tim. 1:14) God is not a miser with his grace. Your cup may be low on cash or even low on clout, but it’s overflowing with God’s mercy. You may not have the prime parking place, but you have more than sufficient pardon. "He will abundantly pardon." (Isa. 55:7) Your cup overflows with grace.

And how about hope? Because your cup overflows with grace, your cup also overflows with hope. "God will help you overflow with hope in him through the Holy Spirit's power within you." (Rom. 15:13) Heaven's hope does for your world what the sunlight did for my grandmother's cellar. I owe my love of pomegranate jam to Nana. She canned her own and stored the jars in an underground cellar. It was a deep hole with wooden steps, plywood walls and a pretty musty smell. As a youngster I used to climb in, close the door and see how long I could last in the darkness. Not even a slit of light entered that underground hole. I would sit silently and listen to my breath and heartbeats until I couldn't take it anymore. Then, I would race up the stairs and throw open the door. Light would avalanche into the cellar. What a change. Moments before I couldn't see anything – and then, all of a sudden, I could see everything.

And just as light poured into the cellar, God's hope pours into your world. Upon the sick, he shines the ray of healing. To the bereaved, he gives the promise of reunion. For the dying, he lit the flame of resurrection. To the confused, he offers the light of Scripture. God gives hope. So, what if someone was born thinner, stronger, lighter, or darker than you? Why count diplomas or compare résumés? What does it matter if they have a place at the head table? You have a place at God's table. And he’s filling your cup to overflowing.

Hosts in the ancient East used the overflowing cup to send a not-so-subtle message to the guest. As long as the cup was kept full, the guest knew he was welcome. But when the cup sat empty, the host was suggesting that the hour was late. However, on those occasions when the host really enjoyed the person’s company, he filled the cup to overflowing.

He didn't stop when the wine reached the brim; he kept pouring until the liquid ran over the edge of the cup and down on to the table. Have you ever noticed how wet your table is? God wants you to stay. Your cup overflows with joy. Your cup overflows with grace. So, shouldn't your heart overflow with gratitude? The heart of the young boy did – at least eventually. But not at first.

According to the fable, he lived with his father in a valley at the base of a large dam. Every day the father would go to work on the mountain behind their house and return home with a wheelbarrow full of dirt. "Pour the dirt into the sacks, son," the father would say, "and stack them in front of the house." And though the boy would obey, he also complained. He was tired of dirt. He was weary of bags. Why didn't his father give him what other fathers gave their sons? They had toys and games; all he had was dirt. When he saw what the others had, he grew mad at them. "It's not fair," he said to himself. And when he saw his father, he objected. "They have fun, Dad, and all I have is dirt." The father would smile and place his arm on the boy's shoulders and say, "Trust me, son. I'm doing what’s best."

But it was hard for the boy to trust. Every day the father would bring home a load of dirt, and every day the boy would have to fill bags. "Stack them as high as you can," the father would say as he went for more. And so, the boy filled the bags and piled them high. So high, in fact, that eventually he couldn't see over them. "Work hard, son," the father said one day. "We're running out of time." As the father spoke, he looked at the darkening sky. The boy stared at the clouds and turned to ask about them, but just then the thunder cracked and the sky opened. The rain poured so hard he could scarcely see his father through the water. "Keep stacking, son!" And as he did, the boy heard a huge explosion. The water of the river poured through the dam and toward the little village. In just moments, the tide swept away everything in its path, but the dike of dirt gave the boy and his father the time they needed. "Hurry, son. Follow me."

They ran to the side of the mountain behind their house and into a tunnel and in a matter of moments, they exited the other side and scampered up the hill and came upon a new cottage. “We'll be safe here," the father said to the boy. Only then did the son realize what the father had done. He had burrowed an exit, one wheelbarrow at a time. Rather than give him what he wanted, the father gave his boy what he needed. He gave him a safe passage, and a safe place.

Hasn't God done the same for you? A strong wall of grace to protect us, and a sure exit to deliver us. So, of whom can we be envious? Who has more than we do? Rather than want what others have, shouldn't we wonder if they have what we do? Instead of being jealous of them, how about being zealous for them? There’s enough to go around, and one thing is certain: when the final storm comes and you’re safe in your Father's house, you won't regret what he didn't give you. In fact, you'll be stunned at what he did as you stand soaking wet in his eternal presence.

Grace,

Randy