Jesus Is Coming ... For You

 

Jesus Is Coming … For You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace,

Randy

A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mysery, Inside an Enigma

 

A Riddle, Wrapped in a Mystery, Inside an Enigma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grace,

Randy

God Gets Into Stuff

 

God Gets Into Stuff

God Gets Into Stuff - Audio/Visual 

Immediately after this, Jesus insisted that his disciples get back into the boat and cross to the other side of the lake while he sent the people home. After sending them home, he went up into the hills by himself to pray. Night fell while he was there alone.

Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land, for a strong wind had risen, and they were fighting heavy waves. About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!” But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. I am here!” (Matt. 14:22-27)

On a September morning in 2001, Frank laced up his boots, pulled on his hard hat and headed out the door of his New Jersey home. As a construction worker, he’d made a living building things. But as a volunteer at the World Trade Center wreckage, he was just trying to make sense of it all. He’d hoped to find a live body. He didn’t. He found forty-seven dead ones, instead. Amid the carnage, however, he stumbled upon a symbol – a twenty-foot-tall steel-beam cross. The collapse of Tower One onto Building Six had created a crude kind of chamber in the clutter.

It was in this chamber, through the dusty sunrise, that Frank spotted the cross. No winch had hoisted it; no cement was securing it. The iron beams stood independent of any human help at all. It was standing there alone. Well, not completely alone. Other crosses rested randomly at the base of the large one. Different sizes, different angles, but all crosses. Several days later engineers realized the beams of the large cross had actually come from two different buildings. When one crashed into the other, the two girders bonded into one and were forged together forever by the ensuing fire. A symbol in the shards. A cross found in the crisis. "Where’s God in all this?" Frank pondered. We wondered then, too; perhaps we wonder about that same thing even now. But that discovery almost 25 years ago dared us to hope then that God was right there in the middle of it all. Can the same be said about our tragedies today?

When the ambulance takes our child or the disease takes our friend, when the economy takes our retirement or the two-timer takes our heart, can we, like Frank, find Christ in the crisis? The presence of troubles doesn't surprise us, but the absence of God undoes us. We can deal with the ambulance – if God is in it. We can stomach the ICU – if God is in it. We can face the empty house – if God is in it. But is he? Is God in it? Matthew would like to answer that question for you.

The walls falling around Matthew were made of water, not concrete and steel. No roof or building had collapsed, but it felt like the world was crashing in. A storm on the Sea of Galilee is like a sumo wrestler belly-flopping into a kiddy pool. The northern valley acts like a wind tunnel – compressing and then blasting squalls of terror onto the lake. Waves as tall as ten feet are common. And this is a lake, mind you, not the ocean. His account begins at nightfall. Jesus is on the mountain in prayer, and the disciples are in a boat in fear. They are "far away from land . . . fighting heavy waves." (Matt. 14:24) And when does Christ come to them? At three o'clock in the morning. (v. 25)

Now, if “evening” began at six o’clock and Christ came at three in the morning, the disciples had been alone in the storm for nine hours. Nine tempestuous hours. Long enough for more than one of the disciples to wonder, “Where’s Jesus? He knows we’re in the boat for heaven’s sake – it was his idea to begin with! Is God anywhere near?” And from within the storm comes an unmistakable voice: “I am.” Wet robe and soaked hair. Waves slapping his waist, and rain stinging his face. Jesus speaks to them at once. “Courage. I am. Don’t be afraid!” (vs. 27)

That particular wording sounds a little odd, I know. Because if you’ve ever read the story, you’re accustomed to a different shout from Christ. Something like, “Take courage! It is I” (NIV), or “Don’t be afraid … I am here” (NLT), or “Courage. It’s me.” (MSG) However, a literal translation of his announcement results in, “Courage! I am. Don’t be afraid.” But translators like to tinker with words for obvious reasons because “I am” sounds a little truncated. “I am here,” or “It’s me” feels more complete. But what Jesus shouted in the storm was simply the magisterial, “I am.” And those words should ring like the cymbals crashing in the 1812 Overture because we’ve heard them before.

Speaking from the burning bush to a knee-knocking Moses, God announced, “I AM WHO I AM.” (Exod. 3:14) Double-dog daring his enemies to prove him otherwise, Jesus declared, “Before Abraham was born, I am.” (John 8:58) Determined to say it often enough and loud enough to get our attention, Christ chorused: “I am the bread of life;” (John 6:48) “I am the Light of the world;” (John 8:12) "I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved." (John 10:9) "I am the good shepherd;" (John 10:11) "I am God's Son;" (John 10:36) "I am the resurrection and the life;" (John 11:25) "I am the way, the truth, and the life;" (John 14:6) and "I am the true vine." (John 15:1)

The present-tense Christ. He never says, "I was." But we do, don’t we? We do because "we were." We were younger, faster, lighter, prettier, etc. Prone to be people of the past tense, we tend to reminisce. But not God. Unwavering in strength, he never has to say, "I was," because heaven has no rearview mirrors or crystal balls because our "I am" God never sighs, "Someday I will be." But we do. Dream-fueled, we reach for horizons. "Someday I will . . . . (and then insert your dream)." But not God. Can water be wetter, or wind be windless? Can God be more God? No. He doesn’t change.

He is the "I am" God. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever." (Heb. 13:8) From the center of the storm, the unwavering Jesus shouts, "I am." He was tall in the Trade Tower wreckage. He was bold against the Galilean waves. And he’s bold in the ICU, or the battlefield, or the boardroom, or the prison cell, or the maternity ward – whatever and wherever your storm, "I am." Right there in the middle of it; right there in the middle of the storm. And the actual construction of this passage echoes that point.

Matthew’s narrative is actually made up of two acts, each six verses long. The first act, verses 22-27, centers on the power walk of Jesus. The second, verses 28-33, centers on the faith walk of Peter. In the first act, Christ comes alongside the waves and declares the words engraved on every wise heart: "Courage! I am! Don't be afraid!" And in the second, a desperate disciple takes a step of faith and – for a moment – does what Christ does; he walks on water. But then he takes his eyes off of Christ and did what we do; he sank.

Two acts. Each with six verses. Each set of six verses contains 90 Greek words. And right in middle of the two acts, and the two sets of verses, and the 180 words is this two-word declaration: "I am." Matthew, a former tax collector who’s really good with numbers, reinforces his point. It comes layered like a submarine sandwich. Graphically: Jesus – soaked but strong. Linguistically: Jesus – the "I am" God. Mathematically: whether in the number of words or the weathered world, Jesus – in the midst of it all. That’s because God gets into stuff. He gets into Red Seas, and big fish, and lions’ dens and furnaces. God gets into bankrupt businesses and jail cells; Judean wildernesses, weddings, funerals, fires, and Galilean tempests. Look and you'll find what everyone from Moses to Martha has discovered. God – right there in the middle of our storms. And that includes your storms, too.

Some time ago, a young woman and mother of an eighteen-month-old tragically passed away. Her life abruptly cut short – abbreviated. And the shelves of help and hope are pretty barren at those times. But at her funeral the officiate, who was a close friend of hers, shared a memory in his eulogy that gave those in attendance both the help and hope that the grieving group of family and friends sought that day.

For several years prior to her death the young woman had lived and worked in New York City. Due to their long-standing friendship, the priest had stayed in frequent contact with her via e-mail, and late one night he received a message indicative of God's persistent presence in the young woman’s life. It seems that his friend had missed her station while on the subway. And by the time she realized her mistake, she didn't know what to do. She prayed for safety and a sign of God's presence because this was neither the hour nor the place for a young, attractive woman to be passing through a rough New York neighborhood, especially alone.

At that moment the doors opened, and a homeless, disheveled man came on board and plopped down right beside her. Terrific. “God? Are you near?” she prayed. The answer came in a song. The man pulled out a harmonica and played, "Be Thou My Vision" – her mother's favorite hymn. And the song convinced her – Christ was right there, in the midst of it all.

Frank saw him in the rubble. Matthew saw him in the waves. The young woman saw him in a stranger. And you? Look closer. He's there. Right in the middle of it all because God gets into stuff.

Grace,

Randy