Rise Up and Be Healed

 

Rise Up and Be Healed

After this there was a Festival of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. Now there is in Jerusalem near the Sheep Gate a pool, called in Hebrew 'Bethesda.’ It has five arcades. In these there used to lie a great number of sick persons, and of people who were blind, lame, or paralyzed. And there was one man there who had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. Jesus saw him lying there, and knowing that he had been a long time in that condition, he asked him, "Do you wish to have health and strength?" "Sir," replied the sufferer, "I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is moved; but while I am coming someone else steps down before me." "Rise," said Jesus, "take up your mat and walk." Instantly the man was restored to perfect health, and he took up his mat and began to walk. (John 5:1-9)

This story didn't make a lot of sense to me at first. It's about a man who barely has enough faith to stand, but Jesus treats him like he’s Abraham or something. Maybe martyrs and apostles deserve that kind of honor, but not some poor pauper who doesn't even know Jesus when he sees him. Or at least that’s what I thought. I thought the story was too good to be true. Then I realized that the story isn't just about some invalid in Jerusalem. It’s actually a story about me, and maybe you, too. Because that man isn't some nameless disabled person. He has a name – it’s mine. He has a face – maybe it’s yours. And he has a problem – like us.

Jesus encounters the man near a large pool north of the temple in Jerusalem. It was 360 feet long, 130 feet wide, and 75 feet deep. A colonnade with five porches overlooked this body of water. It was a monument to wealth and prosperity, but its occupants were the sick and the diseased. They called it Bethesda, but it could have been called “Balboa Park,” or “Metropolitan Hospital,” or “Joe's Bar & Grill,” for that matter. It could be the homeless huddled beneath a freeway overpass. It could be any collection of hurting people. An underwater spring caused the pool to bubble occasionally, and the hurt and hopeless believed that the bubbles were caused by the dipping of angels’ wings. They also believed that the first person to touch the water after the angel did would be healed. Did healing actually occur? I don’t know. But I know that crowds of invalids came to try it because … well … what’d they have to lose?

Picture a battleground strewn with wounded bodies, and you see Bethesda. Imagine a nursing home that is overcrowded and under-staffed, and you see the pool. Picture the orphans in Bangladesh, or the abandoned in New Delhi and you’ll see what people saw when they passed Bethesda. And as they passed, what’d they hear? Probably an endless wave of groans. And what did they witness? A football-sized field of faceless need. So, what’d they do? Most walked past, ignoring the suffering. But not Jesus.

Jesus is in Jerusalem for a feast. He’s alone this time. He's not there to teach the disciples, or to draw a crowd. The people need him – so he’s there. Picture that. Jesus walking among the suffering. And what’s he thinking? When an infected hand touches his ankle, what does he do? When a blind child stumbles on to Jesus' path, does he reach down to catch the youngster? When a wrinkled hand extends for alms, how does Jesus respond? And whether the watering hole is Bethesda or Joe’s Bar & Grill, how does God feel when people hurt? Well, just watch him walk.

It’s worth re-telling this story just to know that Jesus even came. He didn't have to. Surely there were more sanitary crowds in Jerusalem. Certainly, there were more enjoyable activities that Jesus could have done while he was in town. After all, this is the Passover feast. It's an exciting time to be in Jerusalem. People have come from hundreds of miles away to meet God at the temple. Little did they know that God was wandering through their hospital ward. Little did they know that God was walking slowly, stepping carefully between the lame and the blind and the infirmed. Little did they know that the strong young carpenter who surveyed this ragged landscape of pain was God incarnate. "When they suffered, he suffered also," Isaiah wrote. (Isa. 63:9) And on this day, Jesus must have suffered a lot.

On this particular day Jesus must have sighed heavily as he walked along the poolside of Bethesda. And he sighs when he comes to me and you because there we are, filling the whitespace between the letters of John 5:5: "A man was lying there who had been sick for thirty-eight years." Now, maybe you don't like being described that way. Maybe you'd rather see yourself with the courage of a David, or the devotion of a Mary. We all would. But before you and I can be like them, we’ve got to come to grips with the fact that we’re like the paralytic – invalids out of options. Can't walk. Can’t work. Can't care for ourselves. Can't even roll down the bank to the pool to cash in on the angel water. We’re powerless. We’re flat on our backs, and we’ve been this way for longer than we can remember.

Granted, maybe you walk bolt upright, have 20/20 vision and can't imagine what you and this forty-something invalid have in common. How could he be you? What do we possibly have in common with that guy? Simple. Our predicament. The predicament? It’s described in Hebrews 12:14: "Anyone whose life is not holy will never see the Lord." That's our predicament – only the holy will see God. Holiness is a prerequisite of heaven. Perfection is a requirement for eternity. I wish it weren't so, and most of the time we act like it isn't. We act like those who are "decent" will see God. We suggest that those who try hard enough will see God. We act as if we're good if we never do anything too bad, and that “goodness” is enough to qualify us for heaven. Sounds right to us, but it doesn't sound right to God.

God sets the standard. And the standard’s pretty high. "You must be perfect, just as your Father in heaven is perfect." (Matt. 5:48) You see, in God's plan, God is the standard for perfection. We don’t get to compare ourselves to others because they’re just as messed up as we are. The goal is to be like Jesus; anything less is inadequate. That’s why we’re like the invalid. We’re paralyzed. We’re trapped. We’re stuck and we have no solution for our predicament. That’s you and me lying on the ground. That's us – wounded and weary. When it comes to healing our spiritual condition, we don't have a chance. We might as well be told to pole-vault the Grand Canyon. We don’t have what it takes to heal ourselves. Our only hope is that God will do for us what he did for the man at Bethesda – that he will step out of the temple and step into our hospital ward of hurt and helplessness. Which is exactly what he’s done.

Read Paul's description of what God has done for me and you: "When you were spiritually dead because of your sins and because you were not free from the power of your sinful self, God made you alive with Christ, and he forgave all our sins. He canceled the debt, which listed all the rules we failed to follow. He took away that record with its rules and nailed it to the cross. God stripped the spiritual rulers and powers of their authority. With the cross, he won the victory and showed the world that they were powerless." (Col. 2:13-15)

And as you look at what God’s done, who’s doing the work here? You, or God? Who’s active? You, or God? Who’s doing the saving? You, or God? Who’s the one with strength? And who’s the one that’s paralyzed? Just look at our condition: "When you were spiritually dead … you were not free." (Col. 2:13) The invalid was better off than we are. At least he was alive. Paul says that if you and I are outside of Christ then we’re dead. Spiritually dead. Corpses. Lifeless. And what can a dead person do? Not much.

But look at what God can do with the spiritually dead. "God made you alive." "God forgave." "He canceled the debt." "He took away that record." "God stripped the spiritual rulers." "He won the victory." "[He] showed the world." (vs. 13-15) Again, the question is: Who’s active in this imagery? You and I – or God? Who’s trapped and who comes to the rescue? God’s thrown life jackets to every generation.

So, go back to Bethesda with me for a moment. Before Jesus heals the man, he asks him a question: "Do you want to have health and strength?" In other words, “Do you want to be well?” It seems like a silly question – of course he’d want to be healed. But maybe the man had grown accustomed to his disability, preferring the pain he knew to the terror of what he hadn’t known for almost 40 years. But that’s faith – it’s confidence in the things we hope for, and the conviction that what we don’t see really exists. (Heb. 11:1) "Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is moved; but while I am coming someone else steps down before me." (John 5:7) Is this guy complaining? Is he feeling sorry for himself? Or is he just stating the facts? Who knows. But before we think about it too much, look what happens next: " ‘Rise,‘ said Jesus, ‘take up your mat and walk.’ Instantly the man was restored to perfect health, and he took up his mat and began to walk.”

I wish we would do that; I wish we would take Jesus at his word. I wish that we would learn that when he says something, it happens. What is this paralysis that so confines us? What’s this stubborn unwillingness to be healed? When Jesus tells us to stand, let's stand. When he says we're forgiven, let's unload the guilt. When he says we're valuable, let's believe him. When he says we're eternal, let's bury our fear. When he says we're provided for, let's stop worrying. When he says, "Rise," let's do just that.

It reminds me of the story of the Private who ran after and then caught the runaway horse of Napoleon. When he brought the animal back to the emperor, Napoleon thanked him by saying, "Thank you, Captain." With one word the Private had been promoted. When the emperor said it, the Private believed it. He went to the quartermaster, selected a new uniform, and put it on. He went to the officers' quarters and selected a bunk. He went to the officers' mess and had a meal. Because the emperor said it, he believed it. Would that we would do the same.

Is Bethesda your story? Perhaps. All the elements are the same. A gentle stranger has stepped into your hurting world and offered you a hand. So, take it why don’t you? Rise up and be healed.

Grace,

Randy

Jesus Is Coming ... For You

 

Jesus Is Coming … For You

Jesus Is Coming ... For You - Audio/Visual 

When Jesus heard what had happened, he found the man and asked, “Do you believe in the Son of Man”? The man answered, “Who is he, sir? I want to believe in him.” “You have seen him,” Jesus said, “and he is speaking to you!” “Yes, Lord, I believe!” the man said. And he worshiped Jesus. (John 9:35-38)

The old guy at the corner hasn't seen him, and the woman selling figs hasn't either. Jesus describes him to the scribes at the gate, and to the kids in the courtyard: "He's about this tall; his clothes are a little ragged." But no one has a clue. For the better part of a day Jesus has been searching up and down the streets of Jerusalem for the man. He didn't stop for lunch; he didn’t even pause to catch his breath. The only time his feet weren’t moving was when he was asking, "Pardon me, but have you seen the blind fellow who used to beg on the corner?"

He searched the horse stable; he even checked out an old shed. Now Jesus is going door-to-door. "He has a homeless look about him," Jesus tells people. "Unkempt. Dirty. Muddy eyelids." Finally, a boy gives him a lead. Jesus takes a back street toward the temple and spots the man sitting on a stump between two donkeys. Christ approaches from behind and places a hand on his shoulder. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you." The fellow turns and, for the first time, sees the one who let him see. And what the man does next, you may find hard to believe. But first, a little review is in order.

John introduces him to us with these words: "As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man who had been blind from birth." (John 9:1) This man has never seen a sunrise. Can't tell purple from pink. The disciples fault the family tree. "Rabbi, why was this man born blind? Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sin?” (v. 2) “Neither” Jesus replies. Trace this condition back to heaven. The reason the man was born sightless? So that "the power of God could be seen in him." (v. 3)

Talk about a thankless role. This guy’s been selected to suffer. Some sing to God’s glory, and others teach to God's glory. But who wants to be blind for God's glory? And what’s tougher? The condition, or discovering it was God's idea? But the cure proves to be as surprising as the cause. "[Jesus] spat on the ground, made mud with the saliva, and spread the mud over the blind man’s eyes.” (v. 6) You know, the world is filled with various paintings of Jesus: in the arms of Mary, in the Garden of Gethsemane, in the darkened tomb. But I've never seen a painting of Jesus spitting. But there he is – smacking his lips, gathering a mouth full of saliva, and letting the blob drop to the dirt. And then he squats, stirs up a puddle of . . . what would you call it? Holy putty? Spirit solution? Whatever the name, Jesus places a fingerful in his palm, and then, like Rembrandt, streaks the mud-miracle onto the blind man's eyes. "Go, wash in the pool of Siloam," Jesus says. (v. 7)

So, the beggar feels his way to the pool, splashes water on his mud-streaked face and rubs away the clay. The result is the first chapter of Genesis, just for him. Light where there was darkness. Virgin eyes focus. Fuzzy figures become human beings. And John receives the Understatement of the Bible Award when he writes: "He . . . came back seeing." (v. 7) Come on, John. Running a little short on verbs, there? How about "He raced back seeing"? Or "He danced back seeing"? Maybe, "He roared back whooping and hollering and kissing everyone he could find for the first time, seeing"? The guy had to be thrilled.

And we’d love to leave him that way. But if this man's life were a cafeteria, he just stepped away from the prime rib to jump into the line for the lima beans. No offense if you like lima’s. For instance, look at the reaction of the neighbors: "’Isn’t this the man who used to sit and beg?’ Some said he was, and others said, ‘No, he just looks like him!’ But the beggar kept saying, ‘Yes, I am the one!’” (John 9: 8-9) Did you notice that? These folks aren’t celebrating; they’re debating. They’ve watched this man grope and trip since he was a child. (v. 20) So, you'd think they’d be rejoicing. But they aren’t. Instead, they march him down to the church to have him kosher tested.

Upon arrival, the Pharisees ask for an explanation, and the once-blind beggar says, "He applied clay to my eyes, and I washed, and I see." (v. 15) Again we pause for the applause. Still nothing. No recognition. No celebration. Apparently, Jesus had failed to consult the healing handbook – “Now it was a Sabbath on the day when Jesus made the clay and opened his eyes . . . . The Pharisees were saying, 'This man is not from God, because he does not keep the Sabbath.'" (vv. 14, 16) Pause. Did you hear that? Did you hear that noise? That’s the beeping of the absurdity Geiger counter. The religious leaders' verdict bounces the needle off the chart. Here, let me give you an example of what I’m talking about.

Suppose the swimming pool where you swim has a sign on the fence that reads, “Rescues Performed by Certified Lifeguards Only.” Of course, you never give the sign a second thought until one day you bang your head on the bottom of the pool. You black out, eight feet underwater. Next thing you know you're belly-down on the side of the pool, coughing up water. Someone rescued you. And when the lifeguards appear, the fellow who pulled you out of the pool has since disappeared. But as you come to your senses, you tell the lifeguards your story. However, rather than rejoice, the lifeguards and the bystanders shout, "Doesn't count! Doesn't count!" They’re acting like referees waving off a basketball that cleared the net after the shot clock had expired. "It wasn't official. It wasn’t legal. Since the rescuer wasn't certified, consider yourself drowned." Absurd, right? So, won’t anyone rejoice with this man?

The neighbors didn't. The preachers didn't. Oh, but wait. Whew. Finally. Here come the parents. But the reaction of the formerly blind man's parents is even worse. “‘Is this your son? Was he born blind? If so, how can he now see?’ His parents replied, ‘We know this is our son and that he was born blind, but we don’t know how he can see or who healed him. Ask him. He is old enough to speak for himself.’ His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jewish leaders, who had announced that anyone saying Jesus was the Messiah would be expelled from the synagogue.” (vv. 18-22)

How could the parents do that? Granted, to be put out of the synagogue was a big deal. But isn't refusing to help your child even worse? And who was really blind that day, anyway? The neighbors didn't see the man – they saw a novelty. The church leaders didn't see the man – they saw a technicality. The parents didn't see their son – they saw a social difficulty. In the end, no one saw him. So, “they threw him out of the synagogue." (v. 34) And now, here he is on the back streets of Jerusalem. The guy has got to be just a little bewildered.

Born blind only to be healed. Healed only to be kicked out of church. Kicked out of church only to be left alone. From Mt. Whitney to the Mojave Desert, all in one Sabbath. And now he can't even beg anymore. How would that feel? Well, maybe you know how that feels. Do some people seem to be dealt more than their fair share of bad hands? If so, Jesus knows. He knows how they feel, and he knows where they are. "Jesus heard that they had thrown him out and went and found him." (v. 35)

If three decades of earth walking and miracle working aren’t sufficient, or if there’s any doubt in your mind about God's full-bore devotion, he goes and does something like this. He goes Columbo and tracks down a troubled pauper. And when he arrives, the beggar lifts his eyes to look into the face of the one who’d started it all. Is he going to criticize Christ? Complain to Jesus? You couldn't blame him for doing both, frankly. After all, he didn't volunteer for the disease, or the deliverance. But he does neither. "He worshiped Jesus," instead. (John 9:38) And don't you think he probably knelt? And wouldn’t you think he probably wept? And if so, how could he keep from wrapping his arms around the waist of the one who gave him sight? And so, he worshiped him. And when you see Jesus, you will too.

Some of your legs may be wheel-chaired, and some of your hearts may be hope-starved. But "these hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us." (2 Cor. 4:17 MSG) The day you see your Savior you will experience a million times over what Joni Eareckson Tada experienced on her wedding day. You see, a diving accident had left Joni paralyzed at the age of seventeen. All of her nearly sixty years since have been spent in a wheelchair. Her handicap doesn't keep her from writing or painting or speaking about her Savior. Nor did her handicap keep her from marrying Ken. But it almost kept her from the joy of the wedding.

She'd done her best, mind you. Her gown was draped over a thin wire mesh covering the wheels of her wheelchair. With flowers in her lap and a sparkle in her eye, she felt a "little like a float in the Rose Parade." A ramp had been constructed, connecting the foyer to the altar. Unfortunately, while waiting for her turn to motorize over it, Joni made a discovery. Across her dress was a big, black grease stain courtesy of the chair. Then the bouquet of daisies on her lap slid off center, and her paralyzed hands were unable to rearrange them. She felt anything but the picture-perfect bride in Bride's Magazine. Nevertheless, she inched her chair forward and looked down the aisle. And that's when she saw her groom.

“I spotted him way down front, standing at attention and looking tall and elegant in his formal attire. My face grew hot. My heart began to pound. Our eyes met and, amazingly, from that point everything changed. How I looked no longer mattered. I forgot all about my wheelchair. Grease stains? Flowers out of place? Who cares? No longer did I feel ugly or unworthy; the love in Ken's eyes washed it all away. I was the pure and perfect bride. That's what he saw, and that's what changed me. It took great restraint not to jam my ‘power stick’ into high gear and race down the aisle to be with my groom.”

When she saw her groom, she forgot about herself. And when you see Jesus, you will too. I'm sorry about that greasy gown. And your flowers? They tend to slide, I know. Who has an answer for the diseases, drudgeries and darkness of this life? I don't. But we do know this: everything changes when you look at the groom. And yours is coming.

Just as he came for the blind man, Jesus is coming for you. The hand that touched the blind man's shoulder will touch your cheeks. The face that changed his life will change yours, as well. And when you see Jesus, you will bow in worship, too, because Jesus is coming … for you.

Grace,

Randy

A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mysery, Inside an Enigma

 

A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mystery, Inside an Enigma

A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mystery, Inside an Enigma - Audio/Visual 

About eight days later Jesus took Peter, John and James up on a mountain to pray. And as he was praying, the appearance of his face was transformed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly, two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared and began talking with Jesus. They were glorious to see. And they were speaking about his exodus from this world, which was about to be fulfilled in Jerusalem. ¶Peter and the others had fallen asleep. When they woke up, they saw Jesus’ glory and the two men standing with him. As Moses and Elijah were starting to leave, Peter, not even knowing what he was saying, blurted out, “Master, it’s wonderful for us to be here! Let’s make three shelters as memorials — one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” But even as he was saying this, a cloud overshadowed them, and terror gripped them as the cloud covered them. Then a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, my Chosen One. Listen to him.”(Luke 9:28-35)

Summer, 1966. The Pomona Fair. A big place and a bigger day for a wide-eyed 8-year-old whose week generally peaked out at the local Dairy Queen on Saturday. The sights and sounds of the midway left me like Dorothy – “Toto, I don’t think we're in Kansas anymore." The Fair rumbled with excitement. Roller coasters. Ferris wheels. Cotton candy. And the voices. "Step right up and try your luck, sonny!" "This way, young man. Three shots for a dollar." "Come on, little fella.’ Win Mom a teddy bear." And there I stood – one bewildered little boy. Do I listen to the skinny lady with the pointy objects in the dart booth, or answer the call of the carny and heave a ball at the milk bottles? The guy in the top hat and tails dares me to explore the haunted house: "Come on in. What's wrong, kid? Afraid?"

A gauntlet of barkers – each taking their turn. Dad had warned me about them. He knew all about the Fair. I can't recall his exact instruction, but I remember its impact. So, I stuck next to him, my hand lost in his. And every time I heard the voices, I looked at dad’s face. He gave either protection or permission. Dad rolling his eyes meant, "Move on," because he smelled a huckster. A smile and a nod said, "Go on – no harm here." My father helped me handle the riddle. Could you use the same?

Because when it comes to your faith, do you ever feel as if you’re walking through a religious midway? The Torah sends you to Moses. The Koran sends you to Muhammad. Buddhists invite you to meditate; spiritists, to levitate. A palm reader wants your hand. The TV evangelist wants your money. The agnostic believes no one can know. The hedonist doesn't care to know. And atheists believe there’s nothing to know. "Step right up. Try my witchcraft." Or "Psssst! Over here. Interested in some New Age crystals?" Maybe "Hey, you! Ever tried Scientology?" What do you do? Where's a person to go? Mecca? Salt Lake City? Rome? Therapy? Aromatherapy? All those voices. They can’t all be right, can they?

If that's your mystery, then Luke 9 is your chapter – the day God isolated the authoritative voice of history and declared, "Listen to him." It's the first scene of the final act in the earthly life of Christ. Jesus has taken three of his followers on a prayer retreat. "Jesus took Peter, John and James up on a mountain to pray. And as he was praying, the appearance of his face was transformed, and his clothes became dazzling white." (Luke 9:28-29)

Wow, to have heard that prayer. What words so lifted Christ that his face was changed? Did he see his home? Was home calling? Maybe Jesus needed some comfort. Maybe knowing that his road home would pass through Calvary, he put in a call. And God was quick to answer. "Suddenly, two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared and began talking with Jesus." (Luke 9:30) The perfect comfort givers – Moses understood tough journeys, and Elijah could relate to an unusual exit. So, Jesus, Moses and Elijah discuss "his exodus from this world, which was about to be fulfilled in Jerusalem." (v. 31) Peter, James and John, meanwhile, are taking a nap. That’s Luke for you. But suddenly, they woke up and saw how glorious Jesus appeared. They also saw the two men who were with him. And just when Moses and Elijah were about to leave, Peter says to Jesus, "Master, it’s wonderful for us to be here! Let’s make three shelters as memorials — one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.” (vv. 32-33)

What would we do without Peter? The guy has no idea what he’s saying, but that doesn't keep him from talking; the apostle with the foot-shaped mouth. He has no clue what he’s doing but offers to do it anyway. And this is his bright idea: build three monuments for the three heroes he sees. Great plan? Maybe for Peter, but not in God's book. Even as Peter is speaking, God starts clearing his throat: “Even as (Peter) was saying this, a cloud overshadowed them, and terror gripped them as the cloud covered them. Then a voice from the cloud said, ‘This is my Son, my Chosen One. Listen to him.’”(vv. 34-35) Peter's error is not that he spoke, but that he spoke heresy. Because three monuments would equate Moses and Elijah with Jesus. But no one shares the platform with Christ. God comes with the suddenness of an earthquake and leaves Peter shaking. "This is my Son." Not "a son," as if he were clumped in with the rest of us. Not "the best son," as if he was valedictorian of the human race. Jesus is, according to God, "My Son, my Chosen One." Absolutely unique and unlike anyone else. "Listen to Him."

In the synoptic Gospels, God speaks only twice – at Jesus’ baptism and then here at the Transfiguration. In both cases he begins with, "This is my beloved Son." At the river he concludes with affirmation: "in whom I am well pleased." (Matt. 3:17) But on the hill he concludes with clarification: "Listen to Him." He does not command, "Listen to them." Sure, he could have because has there ever been a more austere group assembled? Moses, the lawgiver. Elijah, the prophet. Peter, the eventual Pentecost preacher. James, the apostle. John, the eventual gospel writer and revelator. The Bible's first and final authors all in one place. So, God could have said, "These are my priceless servants; listen to them." But that’s not what God said.

Whereas Moses and Elijah comfort Christ, God crowns Christ. "Listen to Him . . . ." The definitive voice in the universe belongs to Jesus. He’s not one among many voices; he’s the one Voice over all voices. But you cross a line when you make that kind of claim, and lots of people have recoiled at the distinction. They say, “Call Jesus godly, godlike, or even God-inspired. Call him ‘a voice’ but not ‘the voice;’ a good man but not God-man.” But a good man is precisely the terminology we can’t use because a good man wouldn’t say what Jesus said or claim what he claimed. A liar would. Or God would. But call him anything in between and you have a real dilemma; an enigma. The truth is that no one believed that Jesus was equal with God more than Jesus. His followers worshipped him (a right reserved only for God), and he didn't tell them to stop. Peter, Thomas and Martha called him the Son of God, and he didn't tell them they were wrong. At his own capital death trial, his accusers asked, "'Are You the Son of God, then?' And he said to them, 'Yes, I am.'" (Luke 22:70)

His purpose, in his words, was to "give his life as a ransom for many." (Matt. 20:28) And, according to Jesus, no one could kill him because when speaking of his life he said, "I lay it down on my own initiative. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again." (John 10:18) And could he speak with more confidence than he did in John 14:9? "He who has seen me has seen the Father." Or could his words have been more blasphemous than John 8:58? "Before Abraham was, I AM." The claim infuriated the Jews and "they picked up stones to throw at Him." (v. 59) Why? Because only God is the great I AM. And in calling himself I AM, Christ was equating himself with God. "I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me." (John 14:6)

Make no mistake, Jesus saw himself as God incarnate. (John 1:1; 20:28; and Titus 2:13) And in doing so, he leaves us with two options. Accept him as God or reject him as a megalomaniac. There is no third alternative. Here’s what I mean. Suppose you saw me standing on the side of the road. I can go either north or south. You ask me which way I'm going, and I say, "I'm going sorth." Thinking you didn't hear me correctly, you ask me to repeat the answer. "I'm going sorth. I can't choose between north and south, so I'm kind of going both ways. I'm going sorth." "You can't do that," you reply. "You have to choose." "Okay," I concede, "then I'll head nouth." "Nouth is not an option, either!" you insist. "It's either north or south. When it comes to this particular road, you’ve got to pick; it’s one way or the other." And when it comes to Christ, we’ve got to do the same.

Call Jesus crazy or crown him as King. Dismiss him as a fraud or declare him to be God incarnate. Walk away from him or bow before him, but don't play games with him. Don't call him a great man. Don't list him among decent folk. Don't clump him in with Moses, Elijah, Buddha, Joseph Smith, Muhammad or Confucius. He didn't leave us with that option. He is either God or godless. Heaven-sent or hell-born. All hope or all hype. But nothing in between.

C. S. Lewis summarized it classically in his book, Mere Christianity, when he wrote: “A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic – on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg – or else he would be the Devil of Hell. . . . You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

Jesus won't be diminished. And besides, do you want him to be? Don't you need a distinctive voice in your noisy world? We all do. So, don't walk the midway alone. Keep your hand in his and your eyes on him. And when he speaks, "Listen to him." He knows all about the midway, and the hucksters whose voices create a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma and then try to steal your soul.

Grace,

Randy