Worry Is an Option, not an Assignment

 

Worry Is an Option, not an Assignment

Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God’s wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It’s wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life. (Phil. 4:6-7; The Message)

The idea had captured the hearts and imaginations of scientists all over the world: an eight-story, glass-and-steel dome in which eight scientists would live a self-sustained life. The outside elements of the Sonora Desert couldn’t touch them. Let the sun blaze. Let the winds blow. Let the sand fly, because safe within the dome these researchers would live untouched. So, with the hope of developing a space-colony prototype, the scientists entered the $2 million, three-acre terrarium in 1991. They planted seeds and grew their own food. Scientists watched with fascination, and some of us felt just a tinge of envy because who hasn't longed for a rotunda of relief? Not from an Arizona desert, mind you, but from the harsh winds and hot sun of what we all call life.

The bank demands the mortgage each month. Hospital bills pack a knockout punch. Semester finals lurk around the corner. Federal workers without a paycheck. And just look around you. You have good reason to worry. The sun blasts cancer-causing rays. Air vents blow lung-clotting molds. Potato chips have too many carbs. Vegetables, too many toxins. And do they have to call an airport a terminal? Why does the pilot tell passengers, "We are about to make our ‘final’ approach"? Even on the ground, the flight attendant urges us to stay seated until we have reached a "complete stop." Is there any other kind? Do some airlines have "sort of stops," "partial stops," or the ubiquitous “California stop”?

Some of us have postgraduate degrees from the University of Anxiety. We go to sleep worried that we won't wake up; we wake up worried that we didn't sleep. The mother of one teenager lamented, "My daughter doesn't tell me anything. I'm a nervous wreck." Another mother replied, "My daughter tells me everything. I'm a nervous wreck." Wouldn't you love to stop worrying? Could you use a strong shelter from life's harsh elements? God offers you just that: the possibility of a worry-free life. Not just less worry, but no worry. He created a biodome for your heart. "His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus." (Phil. 4:7) Interested?

“Don't worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need and thank him for all he has done. If you do this, you will experience God's peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.” (Phil. 4:6-7) The Christians in Philippi could’ve used a biodome. Attacks were coming at them from every angle. Preachers served for selfish gain. (Phil. 1:15-17) Squabbling church members threatened the unity of the church. (4:2) False teachers preached a cross-less gospel. (3:2-3, 18-19) Some believers were struggling just to find food and shelter. (4:19) Persecutions outside. Problems inside. More than enough troubles to make even the most mature Christian worry. Folks in Philippi had them. We have them. And to us, God gives this staggering proposal: "Don't worry about anything." Right. God’s just pulling my leg.

Two words summarize his opinion of worry: “irrelevant” and “irreverent.” "Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Of course not." (Matt. 6:27) Worry is irrelevant. It alters nothing. When was the last time you solved a problem by worrying about it? Imagine someone saying, "I got behind in my bills, so I resolved to worry my way out of debt. And, you know, it worked! A few sleepless nights, a little nausea and hand wringing. I yelled at my kids and took some pills, and – glory to worry – money appeared on my desk." That just doesn't happen. Worry changes nothing. You don't add one day to your life, or one bit of life to your day by worrying. Your anxiety earns you heartburn. Nothing more.

Here’s a few statistics about worry. 40% of what we worry about never happens. 30% is stuff that happened in the past that we can’t change. 12% focus on the opinions of others which we can’t control. And another 10% centers on our health, which only gets worse as we worry. The remaining 8% are real problems that we can influence. In other words, 92% of our worries are needless. But not only is worry irrelevant; worry is irreverent. It’s a distrust of God. “And why worry about your clothes? Look at the lilies and how they grow. They don't work or make their clothing, yet Solomon in all his glory was not dressed as beautifully as they are. And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won't he more surely care for you? You have so little faith! (Matt. 6:28-30)

Worry betrays a fragile faith; it’s like an unconscious blasphemy. We don't intentionally disbelieve God. But don't we, when we worry, essentially doubt God? We assume the attitude of a kid asking Michelangelo, "You sure you know what to do with that rock?" No wonder the apostle urges us to "be anxious for nothing." (Phil. 4:6) But Paul’s not promoting an irresponsible, careless life. We aren’t to be like the procrastinating preacher. “I won't worry,” he told himself. “The Holy Spirit will give me my message.” So, all week long he avoided studying, saying, “The Holy Spirit will give me my message.” Finally, on Sunday, he stood in front of the church and prayed aloud, " Lord, please give me a message." Much to the surprise of the church, a heavenly voice filled the sanctuary: "Tell them you didn't study."

Manage your problems? Of course. But let your problems manage you? The worrisome heart does. And the worrisome heart pays a high price for doing so. “Worry” comes from the Greek word, merimnaó, meaning "to divide the mind." Anxiety splits us down the middle, creating a double-minded thinker. Rather than take away tomorrow's trouble, worry voids today's strength. Perception is divided, distorting your vision. Strength is divided, wasting your energy. And who can afford to lose power?

But how can we stop worrying? Paul offers a two-pronged answer: God's part and our part. Our part includes prayer and gratitude. "Don't worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need and thank him for all he has done." (Phil. 4:6) Want to worry less? Then pray more. Rather than look forward in fear, look upward in faith. This doesn’t come as a surprise. Regarding prayer, the Bible never blushes. Jesus taught people that "it was necessary for them to pray consistently and never quit." (Luke 18:1) Paul told believers, "Devote yourselves to prayer with an alert mind and a thankful heart." (Col. 4:2) James declared, "Are any among you suffering? They should keep on praying about it." (James 5:13) Rather than worry about anything, "pray about everything." Everything? Everything. "In everything . . . let your requests be made known to God." (Phil. 4:6) Worry diminishes as we look upward. God knows what can happen on this journey, and he wants to bring us home. So, pray about everything.

And don't skip Paul's ingredient of gratitude. "Tell God what you need and thank him for all he has done." Do what the shepherd boy David did when he faced Goliath. David didn't cower before the giant's strength. He focused on God's success. When Saul refused to let him go head to knee with Goliath, David produced God's track record. “I have been taking care of my father's sheep," he said. "When a lion or a bear comes to steal a lamb from the flock, I go after it with a club and take the lamb from its mouth. If the animal turns on me, I catch it by the jaw and club it to death. I have done this to both lions and bears, and I'll do it to this pagan Philistine, too, for he has defied the armies of the living God! The Lord who saved me from the claws of the lion and the bear will save me from this Philistine!" Saul finally consented. "All right, go ahead," he said. "And may the LORD be with you!" (1 Sam. 17:34-37)

Are you afraid of a giant? Then recall the lion and the bear. Don't look forward in fear; look backward in appreciation. God's proof is God's past. Forgetfulness gives birth to fearfulness, but a good memory makes for a content heart. It works like this. Let's say a stressor comes your way. The doctor decides you need an operation. She detects a lump and thinks it best that you have it removed. So, there you are, walking out of her office. You've just been handed this cup of anxiety. What are you going to do with it? You can place it in one of two pots. You can dump your bad news in the vat of worry and pull out the spoon. Turn on the fire. Stew on it. Stir it. Mope for a while. Brood for a time. And it won't be long before you'll have a delightful pot of pessimism. Frankly, some of us have been slurping from that vat for a long time, and the stuff is getting to us. So how about a different idea? The pot of prayer. Before the door of the doctor's office closes, give the problem to God. "I accept your lordship. Nothing comes to me that hasn't passed through you."

Then, stir in a healthy helping of gratitude. You don't think about a lion or a bear, but you do remember the tax refund, the timely counsel, or the suddenly open seat on the overbooked flight. A glimpse into the past generates strength for the future. Your part is prayer and gratitude. God's part? Peace and protection. "If you do this, you will experience God's peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus." (Phil. 4:7) Believing prayer ushers in God's peace. Not a random, nebulous, earthly peace, but his peace. Imported from heaven. The same tranquility that marks the throne room, God offers to you.

Do you think God battles anxiety? Does he ever wring his hands and ask the angels for some Tums? Of course not. A problem is no more a challenge to God than a twig is to an elephant. God enjoys perfect peace because God enjoys perfect power. And he offers his peace to you. A peace that will "guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus." And to make his point, Paul employs a military metaphor. The Philippians, living in a garrison town, were used to the Roman sentries maintaining their watch. Before an enemy could get inside, they’d have to pass through the guards. God makes the same offer. His supernatural peace overshadows you like a protective dome, guarding your heart.

After twenty-four months, the biosphere in Arizona proved to be a total disaster. Biological balance between the plants got out of whack. Oxygen dipped dangerously low. Researchers squabbled among themselves. The ants ran amuck and conquered most of the other bugs. The experiment failed, and the dome was abandoned. But the dome of God still stands. We need only to stay beneath it. Are you tied up in knots? "Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you." (1 Pet. 5:7)

Strong verb there - cast. Not “place,” or “lay,” or “occasionally offer.” Peter enlisted the same verb that the Gospel writers used to describe the way Jesus treated demons. He cast them out. An authoritative hand on the collar, another on the belt and a "Don't come back." Do the same with your worries. Get serious with them. Immediately cast them upon God. Worry is an option, not an assignment. God can lead you into a worry-free world.

So, be quick to pray with thanksgiving. Focus less on the problems ahead and more on the victories behind. Do your part, and God will do his. He will guard your heart with his peace . . . a peace that passes our understanding.

Grace,

Randy

Second Chances are Jesus' Specialty

Second Chances are Jesus’ Specialty

Second Chances are Jesus' Specialty - Audio/Visual 

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