Spiritual Amnesia

 

Spiritual Amnesia

Don’t be afraid. You are worth much more than many sparrows.
(Matt. 10:31) I tell you not to worry about everyday life — whether you have enough. (Matt. 6:25) Take courage. I am here! (Matt. 14:27) Do not fear, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. (Luke 12:32) Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me. . . . I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am. ( John 14:1,3) Don’t be troubled or afraid. (John 14:27) “Why are you frightened?” he asked. “Why are your hearts filled with doubt?” (Luke 24:38) You will hear of wars and rumors of wars but see to it that you are not alarmed. (Matt. 24:6)

Let’s face it. We fear being sued, finishing last or going broke. We fear the mole on the back, the new kid on the block and the sound of the clock as it ticks us closer to eternity. We create investment plans and install elaborate security systems, yet we depend on mood-altering drugs more than any other generation in history. But fear never wrote a symphony, negotiated a peace treaty, or cured a disease. Fear never pulled a family out of poverty, or a country out of bigotry. Fear never saved a marriage or a business. Courage did that. Faith did that. But fear itself? Fear herds us into a prison and slams the door.

Wouldn’t it be great to walk out of that prison? Imagine your life completely untouched by anxiety. What if faith, not fear, was your default reaction to threats? Envision a day, just one day, without the dread of failure, rejection or calamity. Can you imagine a life with no fear? That’s the possibility behind Jesus’ question: “Why are you afraid?” (Matt. 8:26)

At first, we wonder if Jesus was really serious. Maybe he’s kidding. You know, teasing; pulling a fast one. But Jesus doesn’t smile; he’s dead earnest. And so are the men of whom he asks that question. A storm has turned their dinner cruise into a scene from Gilligan’s Island. And here’s how one of them remembered the trip: “Jesus got into a boat, and his followers went with him. A great storm arose on the lake so that waves covered the boat.” (Matt. 8:23–24)

These are Matthew’s words, and for Matthew, a bean counter, not just any description would do. He pulled his Greek thesaurus off the shelf and hunted for a descriptor that exploded like the waves across the bow of the boat that night. He bypassed common terms for spring shower, squall, cloudburst or a downpour because those wouldn’t capture what he felt and saw that night. He recalled more than just a slight breeze and whitecaps. His finger followed the column of synonyms down the page until he landed on a word that worked. “Ah, there it is.” Seismos — a quake; a trembling eruption of sea and sky. “A great seismos arose on the lake.”

The term has a spot in our current vernacular. A seismologist studies earthquakes, a seismograph measures them, and Matthew, along with a crew of recent recruits, felt a seismos that shook them to their core. He used that word on only two other occasions: once at Jesus’ death when Calvary shook (Matt. 27:51–54), and again at Jesus’ resurrection when the graveyard tremored. (28:2) Apparently, the stilled storm shares equal billing in the trilogy of Jesus’ great shake-ups: sin’s defeat on the cross, death at the tomb, and fear on the high seas.

Sudden fear. We know the fear was sudden because the storm was. An older translation reads, “Suddenly a great tempest arose on the sea.” But not all storms come suddenly. Farmers can see the formation of thunderclouds hours before the rain falls. This storm, however, struck like a rattlesnake. One minute the disciples are shuffling cards for a game of Uno, the next they’re gulping sea spray. Peter and John, seasoned sailors, struggle to keep down the sail. Matthew, a confirmed landlubber, struggles to keep down his breakfast. The storm is not what the tax collector bargained for. Sense his surprise in the way he links his two sentences. “Jesus got into a boat, and his followers went with him. A great storm arose on the lake.” (8:23–24)

You’d hope for a chippier second sentence, a happier consequence of obedience, right? “Jesus got into a boat. His followers went with him, and suddenly a great rainbow arched in the sky, a flock of doves hovered in happy formation, and a sea of glass mirrored their mast.” Because don’t Christ-followers always enjoy a calendar full of Caribbean cruises? No. In fact, this story sends the not-so-subtle, and not-too-popular reminder that getting on board with Christ can mean getting soaked. Disciples can expect rough seas and stout winds. “In the world you will [not ‘might,’ ‘may,’ or ‘could’] have tribulation.” (John 16:33) The truth is that Christ-followers get COVID, bury their loved ones, battle addictions and, as a result, face fears. But it’s not the absence of storms that sets us apart; it’s whom we discover in the storm – an unstirred Christ. “Jesus was sleeping.” (Matt. 8:24)

Now there’s a scene, isn’t it? The disciples scream; Jesus dreams. Thunder roars; Jesus snores. He doesn’t just doze, catnap or rest. He slumbers. Could you sleep at a time like that? Could you snooze during a roller coaster ride? How about falling asleep in a wind tunnel? And Mark’s gospel adds two curious details: “[Jesus] was in the stern, asleep on a pillow.” (Mark 4:38) In the stern, on a pillow. Why the first? And where’d the pillow come from?

First-century fishermen used large, heavy seine nets for their work and stored the nets in a nook that was built into the stern for this purpose. Sleeping on the stern of the deck was impractical; it provided no space or protection. But the small compartment beneath the stern? It provided both. It was the most enclosed and only protected part of the boat. So, Christ, perhaps tired from the day’s activities, crawled beneath the deck to get some sleep.

There, he rested his head, not on a fluffy down pillow, but on a leather sandbag. A ballast bag. Mediterranean fishermen still use them. They weigh about a hundred pounds and are used to ballast or stabilize the boat. So, did Jesus take the pillow to the stern so he could sleep, or sleep so soundly that someone rustled him up the pillow? We don’t know. But this much we do know: this was a premeditated slumber. He didn’t accidentally nod off. In full knowledge of the coming storm, Jesus decided it was siesta time, so he crawled into the corner, put his head on the pillow and drifted off into dreamland.

His snoozing troubled the disciples, however. Matthew and Mark record their responses as three staccato Greek pronouncements and one question. The pronouncements: “Lord! Save! Dying!” (Matt. 8:25) And the question: “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re perishing?” (Mark 4:38) They don’t ask about Jesus’ strength: “Can you still the storm?” His knowledge: “Are you aware of the storm?” Or even his expertise: “Do you have any experience with storms?” Rather, they raise doubts about Jesus’ character: “Don’t you care . . . .?”

Fear does that. Fear corrodes our confidence in God’s goodness. We begin to wonder if love lives in heaven. If God can sleep in our storms, if his eyes stay shut when ours grow wide, if he permits storms after we get on his boat, does he really care? Fear unleashes a swarm of anger-stirring doubts. And it turns us into control freaks. “Do something about this!” is the implication of the question from the sailors. “Fix it or . . . or . . . or else!” Fear, at its center, is a perceived loss of control. When life spins wildly, we grab for a component of life that we can manage: our diet, the tidiness of a house, the armrest of a plane or, in many cases, people. And the more insecure we feel, the meaner we become. We growl and we bark. Why? Because we’re bad? Partly, because we’re all sinners. (Rom 3:23) But it’s also because we feel cornered.

Fear deadens our recall. The disciples had every possible reason to trust Jesus. By now they’d seen him “healing all kinds of sickness and all kinds of disease among the people.” (Matt. 4:23) They had witnessed him heal a leper with a touch, and a servant with a command. (Matt. 8:3,13) Peter saw his sick mother-in-law recover (Matt. 8:14–15), and they all saw demons scatter like bats out of . . . a cave. (Matt. 8:16)

So, shouldn’t someone have mentioned Jesus’ track record, or review his résumé? Didn’t they remember the accomplishments of Christ? No, because fear creates a form of spiritual amnesia. It dulls our miracle memory. It makes us forget what Jesus has done and how good God is. It sucks the life out of our souls, and when fear shapes our lives safety becomes our god. And when safety becomes our god, we worship the risk-free life. But can the safety lover do anything great? Can the risk-averse accomplish noble deeds? For God? For others? No.

 The fear-filled cannot love deeply because love is risky. They cannot give to the poor because benevolence has no guaranteed return. The fear-filled can’t dream wildly because what if their dreams sputter and fall from the sky? The worship of safety emasculates greatness. No wonder Jesus wages such a war against fear. His most common command emerges from the “fear not” genre. The Gospels list some 125 Christ-issued imperatives. Of these, 21 urge us to “not be afraid,” or “not fear,” or “have courage,” or “take heart,” or “be of good cheer.” The second most common command, to love God and our neighbor, appears on only eight occasions. So, if quantity is any indicator, Jesus takes our fears seriously. The fact is that the one statement he made more than any other was this: don’t be afraid.

Siblings sometimes laugh or complain about the most common command of their parents. They remember how Mom was always saying, “Be home on time,” or “Did you clean your room?” Dad had his favorite directives, too. “Keep your chin up.” “Work hard.” So, I wonder if the disciples ever reflected on the most-often-repeated phrases of Christ. If so, they would have noted, “He was always calling us to courage, wasn’t he?”

Jesus doesn’t want us to live in a state of fear. Nor do we for that matter because we’ve learned the high cost of fear. So, Jesus’ question is a good one. He lifts his head from the pillow, steps out from the stern into the storm and asks, “Why are you fearful, O you of little faith?” (Matt. 8:26). To be clear, fear serves a healthy function. It is the canary in the coal mine warning of potential danger. Fear is the appropriate reaction to a burning building or growling dog. Fear itself is not a sin, but it can lead to sin.

If we medicate fear with angry outbursts, sullen withdrawals, self-starvation, alcohol or drugs, or even viselike control, we exclude God from the solution and simply exacerbate the problem. We subject ourselves to a position of fear, allowing anxiety to dominate and define our lives. Joy-sapping worries; day-numbing dread; repeated bouts of insecurity that petrify and paralyze us. Hysteria is not from God. “For God has not given us a spirit of fear.” (2 Tim. 1:7) Fear may fill our world, but it doesn’t have to fill our hearts. The promise of Christ is simple: we can fear less tomorrow than we do today.

“Jesus got up and gave a command to the wind and the waves, and it became completely calm.” (Matt. 8:26) The sea becomes as still as a frozen lake, and the disciples are left wondering, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!” (v. 27) What kind of man, indeed. Turning typhoon time into nap time, and silencing waves with just a word. Don’t let spiritual amnesia make you forget what kind of “man” Jesus really is.

Grace,

Randy

Quit Keeping Score

 

Quit Keeping Score

Quit Keeping Score - Audio/Visual 

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast. (Eph. 2:8-9)

I used to coach T-ball, emphasis on “used to.” Teaching five-year-olds an organized sport can be rewarding among other adjectives like “cute” and “frustrating.” Getting a group of kindergartners together presents more than just a single challenge. And good luck if your goal is to get them to act in any sort of organized manner during a practice. Having a common purpose is virtually impossible for five-year-olds. It occurred to me, however, that T-ball is the one sport that’s all about grace. Unlike baseball, or pretty much any other team sport, the rules are pretty simple: (1) when it’s your turn at bat, you can't strike out – you just keep swinging until you hit the ball; (2) an inning is over after three outs, or after everyone gets a turn at bat, whichever occurs last; (3) everybody plays the whole game; and (4) when the game's over, everyone gets a snow cone. Those were the days. But you don’t have to be much older than a kindergartner to know what it’s like to lose. Just ask Peter.

Peter, like that athlete on the old Wide World of Sports telecast, enjoyed the thrill of victory but he also experienced the agony of defeat. He was a fisherman and lived with his wife in Capernaum where they shared a house with his mother-in-law and his brother, Andrew. He and Andrew had their own boat and were in the fishing business with a couple of partners named James and John, Zebedee's sons. The first time Jesus laid eyes on him, he took one look at Peter and said, "So, you're Simon, the son of John." (John 1:42) And then Jesus said that from then on he'd call him Cephas, which is Aramaic for Peter, which is Greek for rock, or pebble. He could stop fishing for fish, Jesus told him. He'd been promoted. From there on out, people were to be his business, and now he could start fishing for people.

And Peter certainly experienced the thrill of victory in this business of being a disciple. For instance, there were all these half-baked ideas about who Jesus was. So, Jesus asked his disciples straight out: "Who do you say that I am?" Nobody wanted to stick their neck out and answer that one. Well, nobody that is except for good ol’ Peter. "You’re the Christ, the Son of the living God," Peter said, to which Jesus responded by blessing him and then telling Peter that it was that very confession upon which Jesus would build his church. Victory.

But Peter also knew the agony of defeat. He didn't always say or do the right thing. One time Jesus was talking about heaven, and Peter wanted to know what sort of special deal he was going to get. But Jesus took it easy on him since a “rock” can't help being a little dense sometimes. And then there was their last supper together. Jesus was explaining that he would have to be going soon, but Peter didn't quite get it. So, Jesus explained that he was going where nobody on earth could follow him. Peter finally seemed to get it, but then he asked Jesus why he couldn't follow him. "I'll lay down my life for you," Peter said. Then Jesus said something to Peter that rocked his world: "Listen, Peter, the rooster won't crow until you've betrayed me three times."

And Jesus was right, of course. After Jesus was arrested, Peter was sitting out there in the courtyard keeping warm by the fire when a girl, and later others, came up to ask him on three separate occasions if he really wasn't one of Jesus’ disciples. And Peter’s response? “What in God’s name are you talking about? I don’t even know the guy.” Then the old rooster crowed at the rising sun and tears began to rain, turning the “rock” into a mudslide.

Peter knew what it's like to be a winner, and he also knew what it's like to be a loser. But everybody's a winner in T-ball. Do you know why everyone's a winner in T-ball? Because you don't keep score. Most of the time, sports are all about no second chances. There are clear winners and clear losers. There are the ones who start and play most of the time, and there are the ones who almost never get to play. There are the ones who get picked first, and there are the ones who’re picked last. Most of the time, sports are about no second chances.

A lot of us would like to live in a world where when we go to church we’d never have to hear Christians confessing their sin. The problem is that each of us has a story, and all of our stories include the truth that we’re guilty; that we’ve betrayed our Lord. So, if you're at home and keeping score, we’re losing and we won’t be getting a snow cone. But the thing is, we don't have to let our guilt and our shame and our failures destroy us. Peter proved that. Yes, the disciple with the foot-shaped mouth.

The Sabbath was over and Mary Magdalene and two other women were going to anoint Jesus' body. So, early on the first day of the week, just before sunrise, they were on the way to the tomb. They were wondering while they walked how they were going to roll the big stone away from the entrance to the tomb. But when they got there, the stone had already been rolled away, and an angel was there who told them that if they were looking for Jesus of Nazareth they’d come to the wrong place. He’d risen. He wasn't there. And then in Mark 16:7, there’s this great line. The angel tells the women, "But go, tell his disciples, and Peter, that he is going before you to Galilee." In other words, “Don't just stand there, ladies. Get going and tell the disciples – especially Peter – that he’s risen and will meet you in Galilee.

You see, Peter didn't let his despair destroy him; somehow he kept going. And then we have this great line in Mark’s gospel. The tomb was empty, Jesus was alive and the angel tells Mary Magdalene and the others to go tell the disciples – and particularly Peter. It's as if even the angel was saying: "Be sure to tell Peter that he's not left out. Tell him that Jesus still wants to see him."

No wonder they call it the gospel of the second chance. Peter betrayed Jesus by something he said, just like you and I sometimes betray Jesus by the things we say and do – or by things we don't say and don't do. But Jesus wanted Peter, in particular, to know that he was alive. Peter got a second chance. Even the angel wanted Peter to know that it wasn't over. The message was loud and clear: be sure and tell Peter that even though he swung and missed, he didn’t strike out. He gets to swing again. And in less than seven weeks’ time, Peter took another swing and this time hit a grand slam at Pentecost and became one of the leaders of the early Christian church where 3,000 people were saved on that day alone.

Recently, rumor had spread that a woman was having visions of Jesus. The reports reached a preacher, and he decided to check her out since, in his opinion, there’s a fine line that separates the real from the lunatic fringe. "Is it true, ma'am, that you’ve had visions of Jesus?" “Yes," replied the woman. "Well, the next time you have one of those visions, I want you to ask Jesus to tell you the sins I confessed last night." "Did I hear you right? You actually want me to ask Jesus to tell me the sins of your past?" "Exactly. So, please call me if anything happens, alright?" “Alright,” said the woman.

Ten days later, the woman informed the preacher of a recent appearance. "Please come," she said. Within the hour, the preacher arrived. "Now, you just told me over the phone a few moments ago that you actually had a vision of Jesus, right?” “Yes,” she replied. “Well, did you do what I asked?" "Yes, I asked Jesus to tell me the sins you confessed the night before our first visit," she replied. The preacher leaned forward with anticipation, his eyes wide with expectancy. "Well, what did Jesus say?" She took his hand, gazed deeply into his eyes and said, “These were Jesus’ exact words: 'I can’t remember.'"

Robert Fulghum, in his book All I Really Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten, listed some things he learned when he was in kindergarten. Things like share everything; play fair; don't hit people; don't take things that aren't yours; say you're sorry when you hurt somebody; and when you go out in the world, watch out for traffic – hold hands and stick together. So lately, I’ve been going over what I’d say if I were coaching T-ball again. I think I’d say stuff like, "Honestly, Johnny, I really don't know the score." Or "Come on Katy, keep swinging until you hit that ball." Maybe even, "Get out on that field, Evan – everyone gets to play." Perhaps "Don’t you know that everybody's a winner, Crystal?" And definitely, "Snow cones for everyone.” But I’m still working on this one, "It's all about grace, Randy."

And therein lies the problem, i.e., working. Working at grace isn’t going to get me there. But if that’s the problem, then what’s the solution? It’s seeing grace as a gift, not as a reward. You see, working at grace is not going to get any of us to heaven. But it is grace that will get us working. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God – not by works, so that no one can boast. (Eph. 2:8-9) Jesus said, “’I tell you the truth, unless you turn from your sins and become like little children, you will never get into the Kingdom of Heaven.’” (Matt. 18:3)  Kids, schmids. What do kindergartners know, anyway? Well, quite a bit actually.

They know that when you get up to bat, you can't strike out, and that everyone gets to play – all the time. And the score? They don’t care since everybody gets a snow cone at the end of the game anyway. And if you’re a child of God, you can’t strike out and you’re in the game until it’s over. More importantly, the score’s inconsequential because Jesus settled that one a long time ago. So, quit keeping score and get in the game. You can’t lose.

Grace,

Randy