You Matter to Jesus

 

You Matter to Jesus

You Matter to Jesus - Audio/Visual 

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)

You never get a second chance to make a first impression. And our first impression of Jesus’ glory leaves some of us wondering whether he may have missed the mark by not going big. You know, “Go big, or go home”? Like raising the dead or vacating an entire cemetery for that matter. First impressions are crucial, and this was Jesus’ first miracle; it was supposed to be a harbinger of things to come. And changing water to wine? Well, it just seems like a kind of nifty chemistry experiment.

The plot is almost too simple. Jesus and his disciples are at a wedding. The host runs out of wine. The local Cana Walmart is closed, so Jesus, at his mother’s encouragement, transforms six jugs of water into six jugs of wine. That’s it. That’s the opening act. Pretty low key, it seems. Certainly doesn’t have the punch of calling a person back from the dead, or the panache of straightening a crippled leg. Or does it? It was the equivalent of producing some 600 to 900 bottles, or 75 cases, or about 3 tons of grapes made into wine instantly with no aging required; a veritable Ramona boutique winery. But the content and the quantity of the miracle is not the key. So, maybe there’s more to it than first meets the eye.

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 church 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 that everyone could wish them well. But after the processional, the couple didn’t go on a honeymoon; the honeymoon came to them.

The new couple came home to a party. And for several days there would be gift-giving, speechmaking, food-eating and, yes, 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 customs that, if not properly observed, the host could get sued. “Without wine,” said the rabbis, “there is no joy.”

So, wine was crucial. Not for drunkenness (which was considered a disgrace), but for what it demonstrated. The presence of wine acknowledged that this was a special day, and that all of the guests were special guests. The absence of wine, then, was a social embarrassment and reflected poorly not only on the host but on the newlyweds, too. You know. The ones who were to be celebrated?

Mary, Jesus’ mother, is one of the first, if not 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, that’s not our problem. My time has not yet come.” (John 2:4) It’s almost as though Mary said, “Jesus, they’re out of wine, and we really need to do something,” to which Jesus responds, “What do you mean ‘we,’ mom”? Kind of like the time when an entire tribe of Indians surrounded the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Turning to his Indian companion, the Lone Ranger says, “Houston, we have a problem.” Tonto looks quizzically back at the Lone Ranger and responds, “What do you mean, ‘Houston’? And perhaps more importantly, what do you mean by ‘we,’ Kemosabe?” Now was not the time for Jesus’ first miracle. And Jesus was very conscious of time, and he spoke of it often throughout his ministry.

“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) These phrases imply that Jesus had a schedule; a certain order and time for specified events. The mission of Christ had been carefully thought out and planned. So, he had a time and a place for his first miracle, and this wasn’t the time because the time wasn’t right. (John 2:4)

Jesus knew the plan, and this was neither the time nor the place for implementing that plan. And it appears that he was going to stick with the plan. 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’s important, of course, but people are even more so. So, Jesus changes his plan to meet the needs of his friends. Heaven’s schedule is altered so some friends won’t be embarrassed. The inaugural miracle is motivated not by tragedy or moral collapse, but out of concern for some friends who were in a bind.

And those of us who’re concerned with making good first impressions are left a little bewildered, maybe even a little bothered, because everything about this event seems wrong. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong crowd. Wrong miracle. We want Jesus to stick to his schedule because this isn’t the way it had been planned. But then again, if you’ve ever been embarrassed, or in a jam then you like this story a lot because this miracle tells you that what matters to you matters to God.

And we may think that’s true when it comes to the big stuff. When it comes to the major-league difficulties like death, disease, sin, and disaster — we know that God cares. But what about the smaller things? What about grouchy bosses, or flat tires or a lost cat or dog? What about broken dishes, late flights, toothaches, or a crashed hard drive? Do these matter to God? Because we know that God’s got a universe to run, planets to keep in balance, wars with which to be concerned and famines to fix. So, who am I to tell God about my ingrown toenail? Fortunately, God has already answered that question.

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’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 these — 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, perhaps. But me? Not so much.” If those are your feelings, then John, through inspiration, added that phrase just for you. “We really are his children.” In other words, if something’s important to you, it’s important to God. And if you’re a parent, you already know that.

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

So, 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’s master of ceremonies’ attention? No, he thought the groom was being generous. So, why did Jesus do it? Why’d he change his plan? What motivated his first miracle? His friends were at risk of being embarrassed, and what bothered them bothered him. In other words, if it hurts the child, it hurts the father.

So, 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)

Does God care about the little things in our lives? Yes, he does – because you matter to Jesus. A lot. So much so that he died to call you his own.

Grace,

Randy

God on a Credenza

 

God on a Credenza

God on a Credenza - Audio/Visual 

The LORD is my shepherd, I lack nothing. (Psalm 23:1)

I'm only five feet from an eagle. His wings are spread, and his talons are lifted above the branch. White feathers cap his head, and black eyes peer at me from both sides of a golden beak. He’s so close I can touch him; so near I could stroke him. With only a lean and a stretch of my right arm, I could cover the eagle's crown with my hand. But I don't. I don't reach for him. Why not? Afraid? Hardly. He hasn't budged in fifteen years. When I first received him as a gift, he really impressed me. When I first set him on the credenza, I admired him. Man-made eagles are nice, but you kind of get used to them after a while. David is concerned that you and I don't make the same mistake with God.

His pen has scarcely touched papyrus and he's urging us to avoid gods of our own making. With his very first words in this psalm, David sets out to deliver us from the burden of a lesser deity. You could even make the argument that he seeks to do nothing else in this psalm. For though he speaks of green pastures, his thesis isn’t about rest. He describes death's somber valley, but this poem isn’t an ode to the dying. He tells of the Lord's forever house, but his theme isn’t about heaven. So why, then, did David write the Twenty-third Psalm? Maybe it was to build our trust in God . . . to remind us of who God is. In his psalm, David devotes one hundred and fifteen words to explain the first two: "The LORD." In the arena of unnecessary baggage, the psalmist begins with the heaviest: the refashioned god. One who looks nice on a credenza but does very little.

For instance, have you ever thought of God as something like a genie in a bottle? Convenient. Congenial. Need a parking place, a date, or even a field goal in the last seconds of the game? All you have to do is rub the bottle and poof – it’s yours. And what's even better, this god goes back into the bottle after he's done. Or maybe you’ve thought of God as a sweet grandpa. So tender-hearted. So wise. So, kind. But very, very, very old. Grandpas are great when they’re awake, but they tend to doze off when you need them. Or, ever viewed God as a busy dad? Leaves on Mondays and returns on Saturdays. Lots of road trips and business meetings. He'll show up on Sunday, though, so you better clean up and look spiritual; then on Monday you can go ahead and be yourself again because he’ll never know.

Have you ever held those views of God? If so, you know the problems that they can cause. A busy dad doesn't have time for your questions. A kindly grandpa is too weak to carry your load. And if your god is a genie in a bottle, then you’re greater than he is. He comes and goes at your command. A god who looks nice but does little. Reminds me of a briefcase I bought a few years ago.

I'd like to fault the salesman, but I really can't. The purchase was my decision, but he certainly made it an easy one to make. I didn't need a new satchel. The one I had was fine – scarred and scratched, but otherwise perfectly serviceable. The chrome was worn off the zippers, and the edges were scuffed, but the bag itself was just fine. Oh, but this new one. To use the words of the college-aged kid in the leather store, was “fire." Loaded with features: copper covers on the corners, smooth leather from Spain, and, most of all, an Italian name near the handle. The salesman gave his line and handed me the bag, and I bought them both. I left the store with a briefcase that I have used maybe twice.

What was I thinking? It carries so little. My old bag had no copper-covered corners, but it had a belly like a beluga whale. A notepad and a newspaper, and this fancy Italian satchel is "fullisimo." The bag looks nice but does nothing. Is that the kind of God you want? Is that the kind of God we have? David's answer is a resounding “No.”

"You want to know who God really is?" he asks. "Then read this." And he writes the name Yahweh. "Yahweh is my shepherd." Though foreign to us, the name was rich to David. So rich, in fact, that David chose Yahweh over El Shaddai (God Almighty), El Elyon (God Most High), and El Olam (God the Everlasting). These and many other titles for God were all at David's disposal, but when he considered his options he chose Yahweh. Why Yahweh? Because Yahweh is God's name. You can call me a lawyer, or a dad or even a duffer when it comes to golf – these are all accurate descriptions – but they aren't my name. I might call you dad, mom, doctor or student, and those terms may describe you, but they aren't your name, either. If you want to call me by my name, you say Randy. If I call you by your name, I say it. And if you want to call God by his name, say Yahweh. God has told us his name

Moses was the first to learn of it. Seven centuries before David, the eighty-year-old shepherd was tending sheep when the bush caught on fire and his life began to change. Moses was told to return to Egypt and rescue the Hebrew slaves. He raised more excuses than a kid at bedtime, but God trumped each one. Finally, Moses asked, "When I go to the Israelites, I will say to them, 'The God of your fathers sent me to you.' What if the people say, 'What is his name?' What should I tell them?" Then God said to Moses, "I AM WHO I AM. When you go to the people of Israel, tell them, 'I AM sent me to you.'" (Exod. 3:13-14) God would later remind Moses: "I am Yahweh. To Abraham and Isaac and Jacob I appeared as El Shaddai; I did not make myself known to them by my name Yahweh." (Exod. 6:2-3)

The Israelites considered the name too holy to be spoken by human lips. Whenever they needed to say Yahweh, they substituted the word Adonai, which means "Lord." But if the name needed to be written, however, the scribes would take a bath before they wrote it and then destroy the pen afterward. God never gives us a definition of the word Yahweh, and Moses never requested one. Many scholars wish he had because the study of the name has raised some healthy discussions. The name I AM sounds strikingly close to the Hebrew verb to be – havah. It's quite possibly a combination of the present tense form (I am) and the causative tense (I cause to be). Yahweh, then, seems to mean, "I AM" and "I cause." God is the "One who is," and the "One who causes."

But why is that important? Because we need a big God. And if God is the "One who is," then he is an unchanging God. Think about it. Do you know anyone who goes around saying, "I am"? Neither do I. When we say, "I am," we always add another word or two. "I am happy." "I am really stressed." "I am strong." "I am Randy." God, however, starkly states, "I AM," and adds nothing else. "You are what?" we want to ask. "I AM," he replies. God needs no descriptive word because he never changes. God is what he is. He is what he has always been. His immutability motivated the psalmist to declare, "But thou art the same." (Ps. 102:27) The writer is saying, "You are the One who is. You never change." Yahweh is an unchanging God. And he’s also an uncaused God.

Though he creates, God was never created. Though he makes, he was never made. Though he causes, he was never caused. Hence the psalmist's proclamation: "Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God." (Ps. 90:2) God is Yahweh – an unchanging God, an uncaused God, and an un-governed God.

You and I, on the other hand, are governed. The weather determines what we wear. The terrain tells us how to travel. Gravity dictates our speed, and health determines our strength. We may challenge these forces and alter them slightly, but we never remove them. God – our Shepherd – doesn’t check the weather; he makes it. He doesn't defy gravity; he created it. He isn't affected by health; he has no body. Jesus said, "God is spirit." (John 4:24) So, since he has no body, he has no limitations – equally active in Cambodia as he is in California. "Where can I go to get away from your Spirit?" asked David. "Where can I run from you? If I go up to the heavens, you are there. If I lie down in the grave, you are there." (Ps. 139:7-8) Unchanging. Uncaused. Ungoverned. These are only a fraction of God's qualities, but aren't they enough to give you a glimpse of your Father? Don't we need this kind of shepherd?

When Lloyd Douglas, author of The Robe, attended college, he lived in a boardinghouse. A retired, wheelchair-bound music professor resided on the first floor. Each morning Lloyd would stick his head in the door of the teacher's apartment and ask the same question, "Well, what's the good news?" The old man would pick up his tuning fork, tap it on the side of the wheelchair and say, "That's middle C. It was middle C yesterday; it will be middle C tomorrow; it will be middle C a thousand years from now. The tenor upstairs sings flat. The piano across the hall is out of tune, but, my friend, that is middle C." You and I need a middle C. Haven’t you had enough change in your life? Relationships change. Health changes. The weather changes. But the Yahweh who ruled the earth last night is the same Yahweh who rules it today. He never changes. Yahweh is our middle C – a constant in an out-of-tune world. Don't we need a constant? Don't we need an unchanging shepherd? We need a Yahweh. We don't need what Dorothy found.

Remember her discovery in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz? She and her trio, along with Toto, of course, followed the yellow-brick road only to discover that the wizard was a wimp. Nothing but smoke and mirrors and tin-drum thunder. Is that the kind of god you need? You don't need to carry the burden of a lesser god . . . a god on a shelf, a god in a box, a god in a bottle or a god on a credenza. No, you need a God who can place 100 billion stars in our galaxy and 100 billion galaxies in the universe. You need a God who can shape two fists of flesh into 75 to 100 billion nerve cells, each with as many as 10,000 connections to other nerve cells, place it in a skull, and call it a brain. And you need a God who, while so mind-numbingly mighty, can come in the soft of night and touch you with the tenderness of a May morning mist. You need a Yahweh. And, according to David, you have one. He’s your shepherd. Now, take him off the credenza.

Grace,

Randy