Finding that Needle of Belief In Your Haystack

 

^{Finding that Needle of Belief In Your Haystack}

 

So, they brought the boy. But when the evil spirit saw Jesus, it threw the child into a violent convulsion, and he fell to the ground, writhing and foaming at the mouth. “How long has this been happening?” Jesus asked the boy’s father. He replied, “Since he was a little boy. The spirit often throws him into the fire or into water, trying to kill him. Have mercy on us and help us if you can.” “What do you mean, ‘If I can’?” Jesus asked. “Anything is possible if a person believes.” The father instantly cried out, “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:20-24)

Some people pray like an F-15E Strike Eagle – their words are high and mighty. Their prayers seem to send sonic booms into the heavens. Others, like me, are more like the Gossamer Condor – a human powered aircraft capable of flight, but at speeds of only 8 miles per hour. Designed by Dr. Paul MacCready and tested in 1977, it was lightweight but low-speed. Kind of like me. Nothing flashy. Flies low and covers the same ground over and over. Frankly, sometimes it’s a challenge just to crank up the engine. Maybe you’re like me, as most of our prayer lives could probably use a tune-up. For instance, some prayer lives lack consistency. They're either a desert or an oasis. Long, arid, dry spells interrupted by brief plunges into the waters of communion with God. We go for days, or even weeks without consistent prayer. But then something happens – we hear a sermon, read a book, experience a tragedy – something leads us to pray, so we dive in. We submerge ourselves in prayer and leave refreshed and renewed. But as the journey resumes, our prayers don't seem to travel so well.

Others need some sincerity. Their prayers are a little hollow, memorized and rigid. More liturgy than life. More form over substance. And though they’re daily, they’re dull. Still others lack, well … honesty. We honestly wonder if prayer makes a difference because why on earth would God in heaven want to talk to me? I mean, if God knows everything, who am I to tell him anything? And if God’s in control, who am I to do anything?

If you struggle like me with your prayer life, I've got just the guy for you. You’ll like him. He's not a saint or some knobby-kneed apostle. He’s not a prophet whose middle name is “Meditation,” or a holier-than-thou reminder of how far you need to go in your prayer life. He's just the opposite, actually. He’s a fellow Gossamer Condor. He’s a parent with a sick son in desperate need of a miracle. And this guy’s prayer isn't much of a prayer, but the answer certainly is. And the result reminds us that the power is not in the prayer; it's in the one who hears it.

This dad prayed out of desperation. His son, his only son (Luke 9:38), was demon-possessed. Not only was he a deaf mute and an epileptic, but he was also possessed by an evil spirit. And ever since the boy was young, the demon had thrown him in fires and water of any source. Imagine the pain of that father. Other dads watched their children grow up and mature; he could only watch his child suffer. While others were teaching their sons an occupation, he was just trying to keep his son alive. What a challenge. And he couldn't leave his son alone for a minute because who knew when the next attack would come? The dad had to remain on call, on alert twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He was desperate and tired, and his prayer reflected both: “If you can do anything for him, please have pity on us and help us."

Listen to that prayer. Does that sound courageous to you? Confident? Strong? Hardly. One word would have made a lot of difference. Instead of “if,” what if he'd said “since”? "Since you can do anything for him, please have pity on us and help us." But that's not what he said. He said “If.” The Greek is even more emphatic. The Greek tense implies doubt. It's as if the man was saying, “This one's probably above your pay grade, Jesus, but if you can ….” A classic Gossamer Condor approach. More meek than mighty. More timid than towering. More like a crippled lamb coming to a shepherd, than a proud lion roaring in the jungle. And if his prayer sounds like your own, then don't be discouraged because that's where prayer starts. It begins as an honest appeal. Ordinary people staring at their personal Mount Everest. No pretense. No boasting. Just prayer. Feeble prayer, but prayer, nevertheless.

Sometimes we’re tempted to wait to pray until we know how to pray. Even the disciples asked Jesus how to pray. But we’ve heard the prayers of the spiritually mature, and we know we don’t measure up. Not by a long-shot. We've read of the rigors of the religiously disciplined, and we’re absolutely convinced that we've got a long way to go. And since we'd rather not pray than pray poorly, we just don't pray. Or we pray infrequently. So, we just wait until we learn how to pray. Good thing this man didn't make that same mistake. He wasn't much of a prayer, mind you, and his prayer wasn't much of a prayer at all. The guy even admits it: "I do believe," he quickly responded, just "help me to believe more." (Mark 9:24) That kind of prayer certainly isn't destined for a worship manual. No Psalm will ever be written about that one. His was a simple prayer. In a word? “Help.” No incantation. No chant. No flowery language. Fewer than ten words. But Jesus responded. And he didn’t respond because of the man’s eloquence, but responded to his pain, instead. Now mind you, Jesus had a bunch of reasons why he could have simply ignored this man's pretty feeble request.

For one thing, Jesus was just returning from the mountain, the Mount of Transfiguration. While there his face had changed and his clothes had become as bright as a flash of lightning. (Luke 9:29) A roaring radiance had poured out from him. The burdens of earth were replaced with the splendors of heaven. Moses and Elijah came, and angels encouraged the gathered. He was transfigured. And while the journey up that mountain was exhilarating, the journey down was downright depressing.

For instance, look at the chaos that greets Jesus as he returns. The disciples and the religious leaders are arguing. A crowd of bystanders is gawking. A boy who has suffered his entire life is on public display. And a father who'd come for help is despondent and confused as to why no one can seem to do anything about it. No wonder Jesus says, "You people have no faith. How long must I stay with you? How long must I put up with you?" (v. 19) Never has the difference between heaven and earth been so stark. Never has the arena of prayer been so poor, because where’s the faith in this picture? The disciples have failed, the scribes are amused, the demon is victorious, and the father is desperate. You'd be hard-pressed to find a needle of belief in that haystack.

And maybe that’s true for you, too. Maybe you’re hard-pressed to find the needle in your own haystack of a life. Your world seems a long way from heaven: a noisy house with screaming kids instead of singing angels; problems so overwhelming that you can't even begin to remember the last time when you didn't wake up to those particular demons. And yet out of the din of doubt comes your timid voice, "If you can do anything for me . . . ."

 But does that kind of prayer really make a difference? Well, let Mark answer that question. “When Jesus saw that a crowd was quickly gathering, he ordered the evil spirit, saying, ‘You spirit that makes people unable to hear or speak, I command you to come out of this boy and never enter him again.‘ The evil spirit screamed and caused the boy to fall on the ground again. Then the spirit came out. The boy looked as if he was dead, and many people said, ‘He’s dead!’ But Jesus took hold of the boy’s hand and helped him to stand up.” (Mark 9:25-27) Apparently, this really troubled the disciples because as soon as they got away from the crowds they asked Jesus, “Why couldn't we force that evil spirit out?" And Jesus’ answer? "That kind of spirit can only be forced out by prayer." But what prayer? What’s Jesus talking about? Whose prayer made the difference here?

Was it the prayer of the apostles? No, they didn't pray. Jesus had just confirmed that. Well, maybe it was the prayers of the religious know-it-alls. Maybe they went to the temple and interceded for the boy. No, they didn’t. The scribes didn't pray either because who has time to pray when you’re busy interpreting and enforcing God’s law? Well, then, it must have been the crowd. Perhaps they held a prayer vigil for the child. Nope. The people didn't pray, either. They never bent a knee. They were too busy gawking at the freak show. Then what prayer could possibly have led Jesus to deliver the demon? Well, there’s only one prayer in the story, right? It's the honest prayer of a hurting dad. And since God is moved by our hurt rather than our eloquence, he responded. That's what fathers do.

That's exactly what Jim Redmond did. His son Derek, a twenty-six-year-old Briton, was favored to win the 400-meter race in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. With 120 meters to go in his semifinal heat, a fiery pain suddenly seared through Derek’s right leg. He crumpled to the track with a torn hamstring. As the medical attendants were approaching, Derek fought to his feet. He set out hopping and pushing away the coaches in a desperate attempt to finish the race. When he reached the final turn, a big man pushed through the crowd. He was wearing a t-shirt that read "Have you hugged your foot today?" and a hat that challenged anyone who cared to "Just Do It." The man was Jim Redmond, Derek’s father.

"You don't have to do this," he told his weeping son. "Yes, I do," Derek declared. "Well, then," Jim said, "we're going to finish this race together." And they did. Jim wrapped Derek's arm around his shoulder and helped him hobble to the finish line. Fighting off security men, and with his son’s head, at times, buried in his father's shoulder, they stayed in Derek’s lane to the very end. The crowd clapped, then stood, then cheered, and then wept as the father and son finished the race – together. So, what in the world made Jim do that? What made a dad leave the stands, race past security like a mad man, fend off coaches and then medical attendants just so that he could meet his son on the track in a race his son had already lost? Was it the strength of his child? No, it was the pain of his child. His son was hurt and fighting just to finish the race. So, the father came to help him finish. God does the same.

Your prayers may be awkward; your attempts feeble. Your words may be few and lack confidence, much less courage. But since the power of prayer is in the one who hears it and not in the one who says it, your prayers make a difference. It’s like finding that needle of belief in your haystack

Grace,

Randy

The Space of Grace

 

The Space of Grace

The Space of Grace - Audio/Visual 

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. (Romans 12:17-19)

In 1882, a New York City businessman named Joseph Richardson owned a narrow strip of land on Lexington Avenue. It was 5 feet wide and 104 feet long. Another businessman, Hyman Sarner, owned the normal-sized lot adjacent to Richardson's little, skinny one, and wanted to build apartments that fronted Lexington Avenue. So, he offered Richardson $1,000.00 for his lot. Richardson was deeply offended by the amount and demanded $5,000.00. Sarner refused. Richardson then called Sarner a “tightwad,” and slammed the door in his face. Sarner assumed Richardson’s land would remain vacant, so he told his architect to design the apartment building so that the windows would overlook Lexington.

When Richardson saw the finished building, however, he was determined to block its view – no one was going to enjoy a “free” view over his lot. So, at age 70, Richardson built a house on his lot; it was 5’ wide, 104’ long and 4 stories high, with two suites on each floor. He also took advantage of a section of the building code that allowed him to build bay window extensions on the building, which allowed him to extend its maximum width 2' 3" beyond the boundary of his lot. The bedrooms of the house were in these bay window extensions. Upon completion, he and his wife moved into one of the “suites.” Of course, only one person at a time could ascend the stairs or pass through the hallway. The largest dining table in any suite was only 18” wide. The stoves were the smallest made. A robust newspaper reporter once got stuck in the stairwell, and after two tenants were unsuccessful in pushing him free, he extricated himself by stripping down to his underwear. The building was dubbed the "Spite House," and Richardson spent the last fourteen years of his life in the narrow residence that seemed to fit his very narrow state of mind. It was eventually torn down in 1915.

Spite builds a very lonely house: space enough for only one person. The lives of its tenants are reduced to one goal: making someone miserable. And they do – themselves. No wonder God insists that we "keep a sharp eye out for weeds of bitter discontent. A thistle or two gone to seed can ruin a whole garden in no time." (Heb. 12:15) God’s healing, on the other hand, moves us out of the spite house – away from the cramped world of grudges – toward his spacious ways of grace and forgiveness. He moves us forward by healing our past. But can he really do that with you, or me? With my mess? This history of sexual abuse? This raw anger at the father who left my mother? This seething disgust I feel every time I think of the person who treated me like yesterday's garbage? Can God really heal this ancient hurt in my heart? The Old Testament character of Joseph asked those very same questions.

Truth is you never outlive the memory of ten brothers giving you the heave-ho. They walked away and never came back. So, Joseph gave them a taste of their own medicine. When he saw them in the breadline, he snapped at them, accused them of being spies and threw them in jail. Ah, revenge. And isn't it just a little comforting to know that Joseph was actually human? The guy was so good it hurt. Joseph endured slavery, succeeded in a foreign land, mastered a new language and resisted sexual seduction. He was the model prisoner and the perfect counselor to the king. We expect him to levitate, or when he saw his brothers say, "Father, forgive them, for they knew not what they did." (Luke 23:34) But he didn't. He didn't because forgiving jerks is hard to do. We’ll feed the poor and counsel the king. We'll even memorize the book of Numbers if God says to. But . . . "Don't let the sun go down while you are still angry" (Eph. 4:26)? "Let all bitterness, wrath, anger, clamor, and evil speaking be put away from you, with all malice" (Eph. 4:31)? "As Christ forgave you, so you also must do" (Col. 3:13)? Really?

The truth is that God cares about justice even more than we do. Paul admonished the church in Rome to "Never pay back evil for evil . . . never avenge yourselves. Leave that to God, for he has said that he will repay those who deserve it." (Rom. 12:17; 19) Our problem is that we fear the evildoer will slip into the night, sneaking away unknown and unpunished. But don’t worry. Scripture says, "God will repay," not "might repay." God will execute justice on behalf of truth and fairness. Case in point? Consider the most surprising turnaround in the Joseph story.

After three days Joseph released all but one brother from jail. They returned to Canaan to report to Jacob, their father, who was then just a shadow of himself. The brothers told him how Simeon was kept in Egypt as assurance that they would return with Benjamin, their youngest brother. Jacob had nothing to say except, “You’ve taken my children from me. Joseph’s gone. Simeon’s gone. And now you are taking Benjamin. All this can’t really be happening to me!” (Gen. 42:36) Such a louse. Jacob played favorites, refused to discipline, had multiple wives, and upon hearing of the imprisonment of his son, had a pity party. What a prima donna. No wonder the family was screwed up. But as we read further, a light breaks through. Judah, who once wanted to get rid of Joseph, steps forward: "Send the boy with me, and we will be on our way. Otherwise, we will all die of starvation — and not only we, but you and our little ones. I personally guarantee his safety. You may hold me responsible if I don’t bring him back to you. Then let me bear the blame forever. If we hadn’t wasted all this time, we could have gone and returned twice by now." (43:8-9) Is this the same Judah? The same man who said, "Let’s sell him to the Ishmaelites" (37:27)? The same brother who helped negotiate the slave trade? Well, yes . . . and no.

Judah, as it turns out, had had his own descent into the pit. After Joseph's abduction, Judah went on to have three sons. He arranged for the eldest to marry a girl named Tamar. But the son died. So, following the proper protocol of his day, Judah arranged for his second son to marry Tamar. But the son didn't manage the situation well and he died, too. Judah, by now, assumed that Tamar was somehow jinxed, and afraid that his third son would meet the same fate as his older brothers, put the marital matter on hold, leaving Tamar with no husband. Sometime later, Judah's wife died, too.

One day, Tamar heard that Judah was coming into town. Apparently, she hadn't been able to get Judah to reply to her texts, so she got creative. She disguised herself as a prostitute and made him an offer. Judah took the bait, and exchanged his ring and walking stick for sex, totally unaware that he was sleeping with his daughter-in-law. As “luck” would have it, she conceived, and three months later she reappeared in Judah's life as Tamar – pregnant Tamar. Judah went all high and mighty on her and demanded that she be burned. That’s when she produced Judah’s ring and walking stick, and Judah realized the child was his. He was caught in his own sin, disgraced in front of his own family.

Things had come full circle, so it seems. Judah, who had deceived Jacob, was deceived. Judah, who had trapped Joseph, was trapped. Judah, who had helped humiliate Joseph, was humiliated. God gave Judah his comeuppance, and Judah came to his senses. “She has been more righteous than I,” he would say later. (Gen. 38:26)

For years I wondered why Judah’s exploits were included in the Joseph narrative because they interrupt everything. We just get started in chapter 37 with the dreams and drama of Joseph, when the narrator dedicates chapter 38 to the story of Judah, the hustler, and Tamar, the escort. Two dead husbands. One clever widow. An odd, poorly placed story, I thought. But now I see how it fits. Because for anything good to happen to Jacob’s family, someone in the clan had to grow up. And if it wasn’t going to be their dad, then one of the boys had to mature to the point where he took responsibility for his actions. God activated that change in Judah. He gave the guy a taste of his own medicine, and the medicine worked. Judah championed the family cause. He spoke sense into his father's head. He was willing to take responsibility for Benjamin's safety and bear the blame if he failed. Judah got his wake-up call, and Joseph didn't even have to lift a finger or swing a fist.

Vengeance is God's. He will repay – whether ultimately on the Day of Judgment, or intermediately in this life. The point of the story is that God handles all the Judah’s of the world. He can discipline your abusive boss or soften your angry parent. He can bring your ex to his knees or her senses. Forgiveness doesn't diminish justice; it just entrusts it to God. He guarantees the right retribution. We give too much, or too little. But the God of justice has the precise prescription. Unlike us, God never gives up on a person. Not ever. Long after we’ve moved on, God is still there, probing the conscience, stirring conviction, always orchestrating redemption. Fix your enemies? That's God's job. Forgive your enemies? Ah, that's where you and I come in. We forgive. "Do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity." (Eph. 4:26-27)

The word translated “opportunity” is the Greek word topos, the same term from which we get the English noun, “topography.” It means territory or ground. In other words, anger gives ground to the devil. Bitterness invites him to occupy a space in your heart, like renting a room. And he will. Gossip, slander, temper – anytime you see these things, Satan’s claimed a bunk. So, what do we do? Evict him. Don't give him the time of day. Begin the process of forgiveness. Keep no list of wrongs. Pray for your antagonists rather than plot against them. Hate the wrong without hating the wrongdoer. Turn your attention away from what they did to you and concentrate on what Jesus did for you. Outrageous as it may seem, Jesus died for them, too. And if he thinks they’re worth forgiving, then they are.

Does that make forgiveness easy? No. Quick? Seldom. Painless? Hardly. And it wasn't for Joseph, either. The brothers returned to Egypt from Canaan, Benjamin in tow. Joseph invited them to a dinner. He asked about Jacob, spotted Benjamin, and almost lost it. "God be gracious to you, my son," he blurted out before he hurried from the room to ball his eyes out. (Gen. 43:29) Eventually, he returned to eat and drink and share pleasantries with the brothers. Joseph even sat them according to birth order, oldest to youngest. He singled out Benjamin for special treatment – every time the brothers got one helping, Benjamin got five. The brothers noticed all of this but said nothing. Later, Joseph loaded their sacks with food and hid his personal cup in the sack of Benjamin.

The brothers were barely down the road when Joseph's steward stopped their caravan, searched their sacks, and found the cup. The brothers tore their clothes (the ancient equivalent of tearing their hair out) and soon found themselves back in front of Joseph, fearing for their lives. Why did Joseph do that? Well, apparently, Joseph couldn't make up his mind. He welcomed them, wept over them, ate with them, and then he pranked them. He was at war with himself. These brothers had peeled the scab off Joseph’s oldest and deepest wound, and he wasn’t about to let them do it again. On the other hand, these were his brothers and he wasn’t going to lose them again, either.

Forgiveness vacillates like that. It has fits and starts; good days and bad. Anger intermingled with love. Call it irregular mercy. We make progress only to make a wrong turn. Step forward and then fall back. But that’s okay. When it comes to forgiveness, all of us are amateurs. No one owns a secret formula. And as long as you are trying to forgive, you are forgiving. It's when you no longer try that bitterness sets in and Satan takes up shop. So, try spending less time in the spite house and more time in the grace house. Having walked the hallways of both, I can tell you that the space of grace is preferred over getting stuck in your underwear in a narrow hallway called “spite.”

Grace,

Randy