Second Chances are Jesus' Specialty

 

Second Chances are Jesus’ Specialty

Early next morning he returned to the Temple and the entire crowd came to him. So, he sat down and began to teach them. But the scribes and Pharisees brought in to him a woman who had been caught in adultery. They made her stand in front, and then said to him, “Now, master, this woman has been caught in adultery, in the very act. According to the Law, Moses commanded us to stone such women to death. Now, what do you say about her?” They said this to test him, so that they might have some good grounds for an accusation. But Jesus stooped down and began to write with his finger in the dust on the ground. But as they persisted in their questioning, he straightened himself up and said to them, “Let the one among you who has never sinned throw the first stone at her.” Then he stooped down again and continued writing with his finger on the ground. And when they heard what he said, they were convicted by their own consciences and went out, one by one, beginning with the eldest until they had all gone. Jesus was left alone, with the woman still standing where they had put her. So, he stood up and said to her, “Where are they all—did no one condemn you?” And she said, “No one, sir.” “Neither do I condemn you,” said Jesus to her. “Go home and do not sin again.” (John 8:2-11)

One hundred thirty feet tall, including its pedestal. 1,145 tons of reinforced Brazilian tile, concrete and soapstone. Positioned on a mountain half a mile above sea level, it’s the famous Christ the Redeemer statue that overlooks the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Few tourists who go to Rio can resist snaking up Corcovado Mountain to see this looming monument. The head alone is twelve feet tall, and the arm span – from fingertip to fingertip — ninety-eight feet wide. As beautiful as it is, however, there are two ironies about the statue. The first is its blind eyes. Now, I know – all statues have blind eyes. But it’s as if the sculptor of this statue intended that the eyes be blind. There are no circles to suggest sight. There are only Little Orphan Annie openings. What kind of redeemer is that? Blind? Eyes fixated on the horizon and refusing to see the mass of people at its feet? But the second irony can be found by following the features downward: past the strong nose, past the prominent chin, past the neck to the cloak of the statue. On the outside of the cloak there’s a heart. A Valentine’s heart. A simple heart. A stone heart. Again, what kind of redeemer is that? A heart made of stone? Held together, not with passion and love, but by concrete and mortar. What kind of redeemer is that? Blind eyes and a stony heart? Unfortunately, it’s the kind of redeemer most people have.

Oh, most people wouldn’t admit to having a blind redeemer with a stone heart. But for some, Jesus is like a good luck charm. Call him the “Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer.” You know. Pocket-sized. Handy. Easily packaged. Easily understood. Easily diagramed. You can put his picture on your wall, or you can stick it in your wallet as insurance. You can frame him, dangle him from your rear-view mirror or glue him to your dashboard. His specialty? Getting you out of a jam. Need a parking place? Rub the redeemer. Need help with a quiz? Pull out the rabbit’s foot. No need to have a relationship with him. No need to love him. Just keep him in your pocket next to your four-leaf clover. For others, he’s an “Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer.” New jobs. Pink Cadillac’s. New and improved spouses. Your wish is his command. And what’s more, he conveniently re-enters the lamp when you don’t want him around.

And then, for some, Jesus is a “Monty Hall Redeemer.” “All right, Jesus, let’s make a deal. For fifty-two Sundays a year, I’ll put on a costume — coat and tie, hat and hose — and I’ll endure any sermon you throw at me. In exchange, you give me the grace behind pearly gate number three.” The Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer. The Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer. The Monty Hall Redeemer. Few demands. No challenges. No need for sacrifice. No need for commitment. Sightless and heartless redeemers. Redeemers without power. But that’s not the Redeemer of the New Testament. Compare the Cristo Redentor to the one seen by a frightened woman early one morning in Jerusalem.

It’s dawn. The early morning sun stretches a golden blanket across the streets of the city. A cat stretches as it awakens. The noises are scattered. A rooster crows his early morning recital. A dog barks to welcome the day. A peddler shuffles down the street, his wares on his back. And a young carpenter speaks in the temple courtyard. Jesus sits surrounded by a horseshoe of listeners. Some nod their heads in agreement and open their hearts in obedience. They’ve accepted the Teacher as their teacher and are learning to accept him as their Lord. Others are curious, wanting to believe, yet wary of this one whose claims stretch the boundaries of belief. Whether cautious or convinced, they listened intently. They arose early. There was something about his words that were more important than sleep. And we don’t know his topic that morning. Prayer, perhaps. Or maybe kindness, or forgiveness.

But whatever it was, it was soon interrupted when a mob bursts into the courtyard. Determined, they erupt out of a narrow street and thunder toward Jesus. The listeners scramble to get out of the way. The mob is made up of religious leaders: the elders and deacons of their day. Respected and important men. And struggling to keep her balance on the crest of this angry wave is a scantily clad woman who, only moments before, had been in bed with a man who was not her husband. Was this how she made her living? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe her husband was gone, her heart was lonely, the stranger’s touch was warm, and before she knew it … well … she’d done it. We don’t know. But we do know that a door was jerked open and she was yanked from bed. She barely had time to cover her body before she was dragged into the street by men who were probably her father’s age, or even older.

Curious neighbors stuck heads through open windows. Sleepy dogs yelped at the ruckus. And now, with holy strides, the mob storms toward the teacher. They throw the woman in his direction. She nearly falls. “We found this woman in bed with a man!” cries the leader. “The law says to stone her. What do you say?” Cocky with borrowed courage, they smirk as they watch the proverbial mouse go for the cheese.

Meanwhile, the woman searches the faces, hungry for a compassionate glance. She finds none. Instead, she sees accusation. Squinty eyes. Tight lips. Gritted teeth. Stares that sentence without seeing. Cold, stony hearts that condemn without feeling. She looks down and sees the rocks in their hands — the rocks of righteousness intended to stone the lust, and life, right out of her. The men squeeze the rocks so tightly that their fingertips are white. They squeeze them as if the rocks were the throat of the preacher they hate. In her despair she looks at the Teacher. But his eyes don’t glare. “Don’t worry,” the eyes whisper, “it’s okay.” And for the first time that morning she sees kindness. (John 8:1-5)

When Jesus saw her, what did he see? Did he see her as a father sees his grown daughter as she walks down the wedding aisle? The father’s mind racing back through time watching his little girl grow up again. From diapers to dolls. From classrooms to boyfriends. From the prom date to the wedding day. The father sees it all as he looks at his daughter. And as Jesus looked at this daughter, did his mind race back? Did he relive the act of forming this child in heaven? Did he see her as he had originally made her? “Knitted together” is how the psalmist described the process of God making man. (Psalm 139:13) Not manufactured or mass-produced but knitted. Each thread of personality tenderly intertwined. Each string of temperament deliberately selected. God as creator. Pensive. Excited. Inventive. An artist – brush on pallet, seeking the perfect shade. A composer – fingers on keyboard, listening for the exact chord. A poet – pen poised on paper, awaiting the precise word. The Creator, the master weaver, threading together the soul. Each one different. No two alike. None identical.

On earth, Jesus was an artist in a gallery of his own paintings. He was a composer listening as the orchestra interpreted his music. He was a poet hearing his own poetry. Yet his works of art had been defaced. Creation after battered creation. He had created people for splendor; they had settled for mediocrity. He had formed them with love; they had scarred each other with hate. When he saw businessmen using God-given intelligence to feed Satan-given greed …. When he saw tongues that had been designed to encourage used as daggers to cut …. When he saw hands that had been given for holding used as weapons for hurting …. When he saw eyes into which he’d sprinkled joy now burning with hatred …. I wonder. Did it weary him to see hearts that were stained, even discarded?

Jesus saw such a heart as he looked at this woman. Her feet were probably bare, maybe muddy. Her arms may have hidden her chest and her hands perhaps clutching at each other under her chin. And her heart was ragged; torn as much by her own guilt as by the mob’s anger. So, with the tenderness only a father can have, he set out to untie the knots and repair the holes. He begins by diverting the crowd’s attention. He draws on the ground. Everybody looks down, and the woman feels relief as the eyes of the men finally look away from her. The accusers are persistent. “Tell us, Teacher! What do you want us to do with her?” Now, he could have asked why they didn’t bring the man. The Law indicted him as well. He could have asked why they were suddenly blowing the dust off an old command that had sat on the shelves for centuries. But he didn’t. He just raised his head and offered an invitation, “I guess if you’ve never made a mistake, then you have the right to stone this woman.” He looked back down and began to draw again. (John 8:6-8)

Someone cleared his throat as if to speak, but no one spoke. Feet shuffled. Eyes dropped. Then thud … thud … thud … rocks fell to the ground. And they all walked away. Beginning with the grayest beard and ending with the blackest, they turned and left. They came as one, but they left one by one. And then Jesus told the woman to look up. “Is there no one to condemn you?” He smiled as she raised her head. She saw no one, only rocks — each one a miniature tombstone to mark the burial place of a man’s arrogance. “Is there no one to condemn you?” he asked. There is still one who can, she thinks. And she turns to look at him. What does he want? What will he do? Maybe she expected him to scold her. Perhaps she expected him to walk away from her. Worse yet, abuse her. I’m not sure, but I do know this: what she got, she never expected. She got a promise and a commission. The promise: “Then neither do I condemn you.” The commission: “Go and sin no more.” (John 8:9-11)

The woman then turns and walks into anonymity. As far as we know, she’s never seen or heard from again. But we can be confident of one thing: on that morning in Jerusalem, she saw Jesus and Jesus saw her. And could we somehow transport her to Rio de Janeiro and let her stand at the base of the Cristo Redentor, I think I know what her response would be. “That’s not the Jesus I saw,” she would say. And she’d be right. Because the Jesus she saw didn’t have a hard heart. And the Jesus that saw her didn’t have blind eyes. However, if we could then, somehow, transport her to Calvary and let her stand at the base of the cross you know what she’d say: “That’s him,” she’d whisper. “That’s him.” She would recognize his hands. The only hands that held no stones that day were his. And on this day they still hold no stones. She’d recognize his voice, too: “Father, forgive them….” And she’d recognize his eyes. How could she ever forget those eyes? Clear and tear-filled. Eyes that saw her not as she was, but as she was intended to be.

You know, it’s not every day that you get a second chance. Most of the time we’re just glad to get a first one. “Get it to me by 3 p.m. or you’re fired!” “I’m sorry, but your grades aren’t good enough to admit you into the program.” “I don’t love you anymore.” The fact is, we all fail. We do things we regret. We say things we deplore, and we hurt people we love. But we’re not alone in this. Even the Apostle Paul was no stranger to failure. Have you been there? Have you shared Paul’s frustration? If you have, then listen as he shows us the way out of our despair: It is an agonizing situation, and who on earth can set me free from the clutches of my sinful nature? I thank God there is a way out through Jesus Christ our Lord. No condemnation now hangs over the head of those who are “in” Jesus Christ. (Romans 7:24 – 8:1) If I’d been Paul, I would have put a “Hallelujah!” at the end of that paragraph. What an incredible statement. What an awesome reality.

Do you need a second chance? Come to Jesus. He’s no statue, and second chances are his specialty.

Grace,

Randy

Rise Up and Be Healed

 

Rise Up and Be Healed

Rise Up and Be Healed - Audio/Visual 

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