Gifts

Gifts

And God has reserved for his children the priceless gift of eternal life; it is kept in heaven for you, pure and undefiled, beyond the reach of change and decay. And God, in his mighty power, will make sure that you get there safely to receive it, because you are trusting him. It will be yours in that coming last day for all to see. (1 Peter 1:4,5)

The poor guy deserves our compassion. When you see him, don’t laugh. Don’t mock. Don’t turn away or shake your head. Just gently lead him to the nearest bench and help him sit down. Have pity on the man. He’s so fearful; so wide-eyed. He’s like a deer on the streets of Manhattan, or Tarzan walking through the urban jungle. He’s a beached whale, wondering how he got there and how he’ll get out.

So, who is this forlorn creature? This ashen-faced orphan? He is — please remove your hats out of respect — he’s the man in the women’s department looking for a gift. The season may be Christmas. The occasion may be her birthday, or maybe even their anniversary. Whatever the motive, he’s come out of hiding. Leaving behind his familiar habitat of sporting goods stores, food courts and the big-screen television in the appliance department, he ventures into the unknown world of women’s wear.

You’ll spot him easily, too. He’s the motionless one in the aisle. Were it not for the rings of perspiration under his arms, you’d think he was a mannequin. But he isn’t. He’s a man in a woman’s world, and he’s never seen so much underwear. At the Wal-Mart where he buys his, it’s all wrapped up and fits on one shelf. But here he is in a forest of lace. His father warned him about places like this, you know. Though the sign above says “linger-ie,” he knows he shouldn’t - linger. So, he moves on but he doesn’t know where to go. You see, not every man has been prepared for a moment like this.

My friend’s dad, on the other hand, saw the challenge of shopping for women as a rite of passage, right in there with birds and bees and tying neckties. He taught his son how to survive when they shopped. In fact, my friend reminisced about the day his dad sat him down and taught him two little words. “You see,” his dad said, “to get around in a foreign country, you need to know the language,” and my friend’s dad taught him the language of the ladies’ department. “There will come a time,” he said solemnly, “when a salesperson will offer to help you. At that moment, take a deep breath and say this phrase, ‘Estee Lauder.’” And, on every gift-giving occasion for years thereafter, my friend’s mom received two gifts from the two men in her life: Estee Lauder and  …  Estee Lauder.

Now, I didn’t use to have any particular fear of the women’s department, but then I met my wife. Sandy doesn’t like Estee Lauder. Though I could have told her that it made her smell womanly or motherly and all, she didn’t change her mind, and I’ve been in a bind ever since. For instance, last year for Christmas, I opted to buy her a dress. When the salesperson asked me Sandy’s size, I said I didn’t know. I honestly don’t. I know I can wrap my arms around her, and that her hand fits perfectly in mine. But her dress size? I never inquired because there’s certain questions a man doesn’t ask. The woman tried to be helpful. “How does she compare to me?” Now, I was taught to be polite to women, but I couldn’t be polite and answer that question because there was only one answer: “She’s much thinner.”

So, I stared at my feet, trying to think of a polite reply. After all, I’m a lawyer. Surely I could think of the right words to say, don’t you think? For instance, I considered being direct: “She’s less of you.” Or complimentary: “You’re more of a woman than she is.” Perhaps a hint would suffice? “I hear the store is downsizing.” Finally, I swallowed and said the only thing I knew to say, “Estee Lauder,” at which the saleslady pointed me in the direction of the perfume department. But I knew better than to go there.

So, I thought I would try the purses. I thought it would be easy. What could be complicated about selecting a tool for holding cards and money? I’ve used the same wallet for years. What could be so difficult about buying a purse? (Oh, naive soul that I am) You know, if you tell an attendant in the men’s department that you want a wallet, you’re taken to a small counter next to the cash register. And once there, your only decision is black or brown. However, tell an attendant in the ladies’ department that you want a purse, and you’re escorted to an entire room. A room full of shelves. Shelves with purses. Purses with price tags. Price tags so potent they should obviate the need for a purse altogether, right?

I was pondering this thought when the salesperson asked me some questions. Questions for which I had no answer. “What kind of purse would your wife like?” My blank look told her I was clueless, so she began listing the options: “Handbag? Shoulder bag? Glove bag? Backpack? Shoulder pack? Change purse?” Dizzied by the options, I had to sit down before I fainted. That didn’t stop her, however. Leaning over me, she continued, “Moneybag? Tote bag? Pocketbook? Satchel?”

“Satchel?” I perked up at the sound of a familiar word. Satchel Paige pitched in the major leagues. This must be an answer. I straightened my shoulders and said proudly, “Satchel.” But apparently she didn’t like my answer because she started to curse at me in some kind of foreign language. Forgive me for relating her vulgarity, but she was downright rude. I didn’t understand all she said, but I do know she called me a “Dooney Bird,” and threatened to “brighten” me with a spade that belonged to someone named Kate. And then she got totally crazy saying something about “Juicy,” and proceeded to slam my favorite musician, “Louie.” (And she had the nerve to call me “Kors!”) But when she laid claim to “our mawny,” I put my hand over the wallet in my hip pocket and said, “No, it’s my money.” And that was it. I got outta there as fast as I could. But as I left the room, I gave her a bit of her own medicine. “Estee Lauder!” I shouted, and ran as fast as I could. It wasn’t very Christian-like, I know.

Oh, the things we do to give gifts to those we love. But we don’t mind, do we? We would do it all over again. The fact is, we do it all again. Every Christmas, every birthday and every so often we find ourselves in foreign territory. Grownups in toy stores. Dads in teen stores. Wives in the hunting department, and husbands in the purse department. And not only do we enter unusual places, we do unusual things. We assemble bicycles at midnight. We hide wagons in the attic. One fellow I heard about rented a movie theater so he and his wife could see their wedding pictures on their anniversary.

And we’d do it all again. Having pressed the grapes of service, we drink life’s sweetest wine — the wine of giving. We are at our best when we are giving. In fact, we are most like God when we are giving.

Have you ever wondered why God gives so much? We could exist on far less, you know. He could’ve left the world flat and gray; we wouldn’t have known the difference. But he didn’t. He splashed orange in the sunrise and cast the sky in blue. And if you love to see geese as they gather, chances are you’ll see that too. Did he have to make the squirrel’s tail furry? Was he obliged to make the birds sing? And the funny way that chickens scurry or the majesty of thunder when it rings? Why give a flower fragrance? Why give food its taste? Could it be he loves to see that look upon your face? (Max Lucado)

If we give gifts to show our love, how much more would he? If we — flecked with foibles and gouged by greed — love to give gifts, how much more does God, pure and perfect God, enjoy giving gifts to us? Jesus asked, “If you hardhearted, sinful men know how to give good gifts to your children, won’t your Father in heaven even more certainly give good gifts to those who ask him for them?” (Matt. 7:1)

God’s gifts shed light on God’s heart, God’s good and generous heart. Jesus’ brother, James, tells us: “Every desirable and beneficial gift comes out of heaven. The gifts are rivers of light cascading down from the Father of Light.” (James 1:17) Every gift reveals God’s love … but no gift reveals his love more than the gifts of the cross. They came, not wrapped in paper, but in passion. Not placed around a tree, but a cross. And not covered with ribbons, but sprinkled with blood. The gifts of the cross. Much has been said about the gift of the cross itself, but what about the other gifts? What of the nails, the crown of thorns? The garments taken by the soldiers. The garments given for the burial. Have you taken time to open those gifts, too?

He didn’t have to give them, you know. The only act, the only required act for our salvation was the shedding of blood. Yet, he did much more. So much more. Search the scene of the cross, and what do you find? A wine-soaked sponge. A sign. Two crosses beside Christ. Divine gifts intended to stir that moment, that split second when your face will brighten, your eyes will widen and God will hear you whisper, “You did this for me?”

  And have you ever thought about why there were two crosses next to Christ? I mean, why not six, or ten, or a dozen or more? And if you’ve thought about that, have you then wondered why Jesus was in the center? Why not on the far right, or far left, instead? Could the crosses on either side of the savior symbolize God’s gift of choice? Perhaps, because the two thieves on either side had a lot in common, didn’t they? They were convicted by the same system; they were condemned to the same death; they were surrounded by the same crowd; and they were equally close to Jesus. In fact, they even began with the same sarcasm: “The two criminals also said cruel things to Jesus.” (Matt. 27:44) But then, one of the thieves changed – he repented.

  Now, a lot has been said about that penitent thief, but what about the other guy? Wouldn’t a personal invitation have been appropriate? Wouldn’t a word of persuasion been timely, especially given the circumstances? I mean, doesn’t the shepherd leave the ninety-nine and pursue the one, lost sheep? And doesn’t the housewife sweep the house until the lost coin is found? Yes, the shepherd pursues and the housewife sweeps. But the father of the prodigal? – the last “lost” parable in the trilogy. He does nothing. Why?

  Well, maybe it’s because the sheep was lost innocently, and the coin was lost irresponsibly. But the prodigal son? He left intentionally. The father had given the prodigal son the choice, and Jesus gave the criminals the same. And there are times in life when God sends nothing but silence as he honors us with the freedom to choose where we spend eternity. And what an honor, don’t you think? I mean, in so many areas of life we don’t really have a choice, do we? For instance, we didn’t choose our gender, our family, our race or our place of birth. And, let’s face it – sometimes that lack of choice really angers us. “It’s not fair,” we say. “It’s not fair that I was born in poverty, or that I sing poorly, or that I run so slowly.” All that changed, however, in the Garden of Eden. Man made a choice, and it wasn’t for God. And man is suffering the consequences of that choice. It’s called sin.

  Granted, it would’ve been nice if God had let us order life like ordering a meal at a smorgasbord. “I’ll take good health and a high IQ, please. But I’ll pass on the music skills. However, give me a great big portion of fast metabolism!” That would’ve been nice, but that’s not what happened. When it came to life on earth, you weren’t given a voice; you weren’t even given a vote. But when it comes to life after death, you’ve got a choice. Have we been given any greater privilege than that of choice? Not only does this privilege offset any injustice, but the gift of free will can offset any mistakes.

  Think about the thief who repented. We don’t know a lot about him, but we know this: he made some pretty bad choices in life. He chose the wrong crowd, the wrong morals, and the wrong behavior. But would you consider his life a waste? Is he spending eternity reaping the fruit of all the bad choices he made? No, just the opposite. He’s enjoying the fruit of the one good choice he made. In the end, all of his bad choices were redeemed by one good choice. And we’ve all made bad choices in life. We’ve chosen the wrong friends, the wrong car, the wrong way or maybe even the wrong career. We look back over the years of our life and say, “If only ….”  “If only I could make up for all those bad choices.” Well, you can. One good choice for eternity offsets a million bad ones made on earth – and the choice is yours to make. Because when one thief prayed, Jesus loved him enough to save him. And when the other mocked him, Jesus loved him enough to let him.

Could it be that the hill of the cross is actually rich with God’s gifts? Examine them. Unwrap these gifts of grace as if — or perhaps, indeed — for the first time. And as you touch them — as you feel the timber of the cross, and trace the braid of the crown and finger the point of the spike — pause and listen. Maybe you’ll hear him whisper:

I did it just for you.

Grace,

 Randy

Bromhidrosis

Bromhidrosis

It was just before the Passover Festival. Jesus knew that the hour had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.

The evening meal was in progress, and the devil had already prompted Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot, to betray Jesus. Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God; so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.

He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus replied, “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” “No,” said Peter, “you shall never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.” “Then, Lord,” Simon Peter replied, “not just my feet but my hands and my head as well!”

Jesus answered, “Those who have had a bath need only to wash their feet; their whole body is clean. And you are clean, though not every one of you.” For he knew who was going to betray him, and that was why he said not everyone was clean. (John 13:1-10)

Feet. Smelly feet. Most guys, even in our culture with a daily shower and Fast Actin’ Tinactin, still have stinky, nasty feet. That’s what bromhidrosis means. The last thing any guy would want to do is clean another guy’s feet. I know this because I know what my feet smell like and, believe me, it’s proof that I have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. But as Jesus sits with his friends, he sees their dirty feet and figures he’ll wash them. And in that culture, that’s the lowliest duty for even the most common slave. If your job description was “foot washer,” you were on the bottom of the social food chain and not really promotion material.

In Jesus’ time, when you walked into a home, the designated foot washer would wash the guests’ feet. However, in our passage, the guys were using a borrowed room for the meal, so there wasn’t a host and, therefore, no one at the bottom of the totem pole to wash Jesus and the disciples’ feet. And so Jesus, looking at his men, determines to wash their feet. Now, I don't know why they hadn’t washed their feet. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they were hungry. Maybe they thought it was demeaning. Maybe they were waiting for one of the others to do it. Maybe they all felt like they were way too good for the job. I don't know. But Jesus set the example. He took off his outer garment (like an overcoat), put a towel around his waist, grabbed a basin of water and then God takes the feet of the men that he created and scrubs them. He takes the dirt and the stank off the feet of his own creatures – humility beyond imagination.

And did you notice something? Look at the passage again. Yep, right there. Jesus even washed Judas’ feet. Can you imagine? Now that’s a tough one. Maybe this will help. Picture a friend you’ve had for oh, I don’t know, three years or so, and during that time you’ve fed him, housed him, loved him and even taught him in your small group. You’ve prayed with your friend; you care deeply for your friend; you’ve never sinned against your friend. But for some reason, even after all of that, your friend just flat out hates you and decides that, tomorrow, he’s going to lead an armed delegation to murder you. But tonight, despite knowing your friend’s evil intentions, and knowing you’ll be dead by tomorrow, you invite him over for dinner. And, when he arrives? Oh yeah, you wash his feet. Really?

Would you do that? I don’t think so. There’s just no way. If I had a large basin of water, I’d put his head in it for a loooooong time until he wasn’t breathing. Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t wash that guy’s feet. I’d drown him, instead. That’s what I’d do. But God is different. God is holy. God is ….. well, God is just other. Jesus washes the feet of Judas Iscariot: the feet of the man that’s going to walk out on the meal, betray him for a few bucks, and then walk back and finger him so he get’s whacked. And Jesus knows it. It’s just scandalous to me because, I mean, at this point you’ve got to be asking yourself the question: “Is Judas ever going to change?” Is he ever going to repent? Is he ever going to be a Christian? Is he ever gonna love God? No! He’s the one doomed for destruction, right?

And what has Judas been doing up to this point in time in the ministry, anyway? That’s right. He’s been stealing money. I mean, if you’re stealing money from Jesus, you get the corner in the Blair Witch basement. That’s just so totally wrong. You can’t take money from Jesus! I mean, you’re not gonna get away with that. It’s bad enough to steal money from a church. That’s bad. That’ll get you in the Blair Witch basement. But, you get the corner if you’re stealing money from Jesus Christ. And Judas has been stealing money for years!

In other words, Judas is going to betray and murder Jesus. He’s going to commit suicide by hanging himself. Judas is going to hell. I don't know about you, but Jesus has already given this guy three years of his life – lovingly affectionate and patiently guiding. He’s only got a few hours left to live, and – if it were me – I’d be like, “Well, to hell with you. You’ve gotten enough of my time, enough of my love, enough of my grace. I’m through with you. That’s it, Judas. You’ve been stealing. You’re gonna murder me. You’re gonna kill yourself. You’re gonna go to hell. That’s the way it’s going down. We all know it. So forget about it, traitor!” But not Jesus.

Why in the world does Jesus wash Judas’ feet when it’s not going to make a bit of difference anyway? Why would he do that? Because he loved the Father, that’s why. Jesus knew, “I’m not scrubbing Judas’ feet for Judas. I’m scrubbing Judas’ feet for the Father. Judas may never appreciate this, but the Father does. Judas may never show me any love, or kindness, or affection, but the Father does. So, I’m not doing this for Judas. I’m doing this to Judas. And I’m doing this out of love for my Father.”

And that’s the heart of humility. The heart of humility is not, “I’m going to do something because it’s going to be successful, or it’s going to work, or it’s going to be a good return on my investment of time, or emotion, or energy or money. I do this because I love God. And whether or not anyone cares or even appreciates it, I’m going to do it because I love God, and God knows my heart.” And that’s why Jesus did it. Jesus didn’t get bitter like, “I’ve wasted my time. I’ve wasted my energy. I’ve wasted my investment.” No, instead he says, “If I love God, and if I’ve done it for the glory of the Father, then my time has not been wasted. My energy hasn’t been spent in vain. It did a good thing, and that was to honor my Father.”

So, Jesus washes the feet of his men, including Judas Iscariot. And I think the hard part about this passage for me is that I’d like to think that I’m a whole lot better than Judas. But it’s this myth that I think we all tell ourselves: Judas is a punk. He’s a thug, a thief, a crook, a hoodlum and he should die and go to hell. That’s just the way it is for Judas. He should have never gotten his feet washed. Why? Because he’s a bad guy, unlike me, who’s a really good guy.

But the issue comes down to this: “Has Christ come to me?” Has Christ humbled himself before me? Has Christ loved me? Has he served me? Has he forgiven me? Has he not only scrubbed my feet, but washed my soul – dealing not just with my dirt but with my sin? Yeah, he has. Well, then, if that’s true, what makes me any different than Judas? I mean, have I taken money that belonged to God and, instead of applying it to God’s purposes, just wasted it? Yeah. Have I denied Christ? Well, yeah, I have on occasion. Have I maintained this outward sense of piety, when, inside, I was bitter and angry against him? Check. Have I thought sometimes, like Judas, that God was wrong, or that God didn’t know what he was doing, or that God wasn’t to be trusted, or that – somehow – Jesus needed my advice? Yep. We all have. And I think the reason that Judas bothers me so much is because I’m a lot more like Judas than I am like Christ. Does the sandal fit? Well, you can call me Cinderella.

But then “(h)e came to Simon Peter.” I just love Peter, don’t you? Peter’s impetuous, he’s loud and he’s brash. A lot of people think Peter’s got some sort of character defect. There are even those who call Peter the apostle with the “foot-shaped mouth.” Personally, I think he was Irish. “He came to Simon Peter who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’” Peter is apparently skilled in recognizing the obvious. Case-in-point: Jesus has just washed a bunch of guys’ feet. He’s got a bucket. He’s got a towel. He picks up your foot and you say, “Are you gonna wash my feet?” “Yes, Columbo, I am.” Genius. But Jesus, rather than embarrassing Peter, simply moves on: “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” In other words, Jesus is saying, “Peter, you don’t know what I’m doing, but trust me. In hindsight, in retrospect, some time down the road you’ll look back and say, ‘Now it all makes sense.’ But right now, you don’t understand.”

Anyone who tells you that they know the entirety of God’s will is lying. We have no idea what God’s complete will is. What we do know is that we’re supposed to love God, do what pleases him and just follow after him in keeping with what we do know. Then, when you least expect, expect it. Expect what? Expect one of those “Aha” moments when you say, “Ohhhhhh, now I get it. So that’s what God’s been up to. Brilliant! He had it figured out the whole time. Amazing.” In other words, looking in the rearview mirror, it all makes sense. You know, objects in the mirror are closer than they appear kind of stuff? Right. But in the meantime, it’s all fake.

Have you noticed that most of the books on faith you can buy in a Christian bookstore are written by people who’ve looked back and taken note of the things that have happened in the pieces of their lives? Then, they turn these pieces into steps. Step 1, Step 2, Step 3, Step 4. Problem is, that’s how they got to the place where they finally arrived. But before then? They got there by faith. They didn’t know what God was doing. And that’s what Jesus was telling Peter, “Just trust me; go with it. One day you’re gonna look back and this is all going to make sense to you.”

Peter’s response? “No!” Excuse me? He’s screaming like a two year old! You’re telling Jesus “No?” Are you kidding me? Well, read it for yourself: “No, said Peter, you shall never wash my feet.” Peter likes to tell Jesus what to do. (I know none of us can relate to that) “And Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.” In other words, unless you can receive my grace and my humility and my service and my concern for you, then we don’t have a relationship. “’Then, Lord,’ Simon Peter replied, ‘not just my feet but my hands and my head as well!” Still telling Jesus what to do. “Okay, you’re God, I recognize that, but I’m still gonna tell you what to do. So, go ahead. Wash my whole body, and here’s the soap and my luffa.”

Why does Peter struggle with Jesus washing his feet? Tell me. Why is it so hard for Peter to have Jesus serving him in that way? Pride. It’s hard, isn’t it? There’s just something in us that prizes autonomy and self-sufficiency. I stand on my own two feet. I take care of myself. I don’t need anybody. I can pull myself up by my own bootstraps. And Christ comes to us and he says, “No, really, you need me.” “No, no, no. I’ll take care of my own dirt, Jesus.” Answer? “You can’t take care of your own dirt. You’re way too dirty. You need me.” In other words, Jesus is saying, “No. I’ll take care of everything. You just need to receive me. You need to let me wash you. I’ll take care of your mud. I’ll take care of your dirt. I’ll take care of your stench.” And Peter wrestles with that. And I’m a lot like that, too. You see, some of us have a hard time being like Jesus and taking care of others, while others of us have a hard time being like Peter and allowing others to take care of us. I’m in that latter category.

But, rather than embarrassing Peter, Jesus uses this as a teaching opportunity. “Jesus answered, ‘A person who has had a bath needs only to wash his feet; his whole body is clean. And you are clean, though not every one of you.’” Jesus is using this opportunity as a metaphor for salvation. We are filled with dirt and sin and the mud of our own lives. But Jesus’ crucifixion conquered the enemies of sin and death and, as a result, his blood has washed us clean. Now, don’t get me wrong. We’ll still sin and get dirt on our hands. We’ll still sin and get some dirt on our face. And when we do? We wash our hands and our face. We confess our sin to God and repent. We tell God that we’re sorry. We tell Him that we’ve strayed. And then Christ comes in his humility and his kindness, and he washes us up again. But not Judas. “But, not everybody’s clean.” Judas was not clean. Apparently he never was.

You know, your first instinct in reading this story is to pick on Peter. But at least Peter’s honest. Peter thinks out loud. Peter is one of those guys who has no real boundary between what he’s thinking and feeling, and what he actually says. He just tells you where he’s at. He tells you what he’s thinking. He tells you what’s going on. And the thing I love about Peter is that when Jesus rebukes him, Peter repents and he changes his mind. Jesus says, “No. unless I wash you ….” And Peter’s like, “Oh. Okay.” He’s honest and he’s brash, but he’s also teachable. On the other hand, Judas was not. Judas maintained this pious, outward exterior. Through the Gospels, we don’t hear Judas saying a lot. But he doesn’t pick any fights. Doesn’t tell you how he’s doing. Let’s Jesus wash his feet and doesn’t even put up a fight. But, Judas has got this callous, hard heart just like pharaoh back in the day. The more kindness Judas received, the harder it got. Mercy didn’t break him.

For some of you, like me, accepting grace is the hard part. Understanding that Christ has humbled himself before us, loved us, served us, forgiven us, scrubbed our feet and washed our souls is hard to accept when you’re feeling a whole lot more like Judas than Jesus. But the fact is that Jesus is madly in love with us. So much so that he took our place, took our penalty and was put to death as a common criminal. That’d be like a judge sentencing a criminal defendant to death and then taking off his robe, stepping down from the bar, taking the defendant’s place and then being executed for a crime he never committed. Who’d do that? Jesus.

Grace,

Randy

Seeing

Seeing

“I had heard about you before, but now I have seen you.” (Job 42:5)

It all happened in an instant; in a moment; in a flash. One day he could choose his tee time at the nicest course on the planet; the next he couldn’t even be a caddie. One day he could zip across the country in his Lear jet to see the heavyweight bout at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas; the next he couldn’t afford a bus across town. Talk about your calm becoming chaos.

The first thing to go was his empire – the market crashes and his assets tumble; what’s liquid goes dry. What’s been up goes down. Stocks go flat, and Job goes broke. And there he sits in his leather chair and soon-to-be-auctioned-off mahogany desk when the phone rings with news of the next calamity: the kids were at a nearby resort for the holiday when a storm blew in and took them with it.

Shell-shocked and speechless, Job stares out the window and into the sky that seems to be getting darker by the second. He starts praying, telling God that things simply can’t get any worse than they already are. And that’s exactly what happens. He feels a pain in his chest that’s more than last night’s chili. The next thing he knows, he’s bouncing in the back of an ambulance with wires stuck to his chest and needles stuck in his arm. He ends up hooked up to a heart monitor in a community hospital room. Next to him is an illegal immigrant who can’t speak English. Not that Job is lacking for conversation, mind you.

First there’s his wife. And who could blame her for being crazy upset at the day’s calamities? Who could blame her for telling Job to curse God? But to curse God and die? You know, if Job didn’t feel completely abandoned before, you know he does the minute his wife tells him to pull the plug and get it over with.

Then there’s Job’s friends. They have the bedside manners of a platoon of drill sergeants, and the compassion of serial killers. A slightly revised version of their theology might sound a little bit like this: “Wow, you must have done something really bad! We know that God is good, so if bad things are happening to you then you must have been pretty bad. Period.”

“You are doctors who don’t know what they’re doing,” Job says. “Oh, please be quiet! That would be your highest wisdom.” (Job 13:4-5)  Translation?  “Why don’t you just shut up and take your stupid philosophy back to the dump where you learned it.” “I’m not a bad man,” Job argues. “I’ve paid my taxes. I’m active in my community. I’m a major contributor to the United Way and a volunteer at my kids’ school.” Job is, in Job’s eyes, a good man. And a good man, he reasons, deserves a good answer.

“Your suffering is for your own good,” says Elihu, a young preacher fresh out of seminary who hasn’t lived long enough to be cynical, or hurt enough to just be quiet. He paces back and forth in the hospital room with his Bible under his arm and his finger punching the air. “God does all these things to a man — twice, even three times — to turn back his soul from the pit, that the light of life may shine on him.” (Job 33:29)

Job follows his pacing like you’d follow a Ping-Pong match – head turning from side to side in rapid succession. What the young man says isn’t particularly bad theology, but it isn’t a lot of comfort either. So, Job slowly begins to tune him out and gradually slides lower and lower under the covers. His head hurts; his eyes burn; his legs ache. And he can’t stomach any more hollow homilies. Yet his question still hasn’t been answered: “God, why is this happening to me?”

So God speaks.

Out of the thunder, he speaks. Out of the sky, he speaks. For all of us who would put ditto marks under Job’s question and sign our names to it, he speaks. For those of us who have dared to say, “If God is God … ,” or “If God is so good, then why …,” God speaks. He speaks out of the storm and into the storm, because that’s where Job is. And sometimes that’s where God is best heard. God’s voice thunders in the room. Elihu sits down and Job sits up, and the two will never be the same again.

"Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge?" (Job 38:2) Job doesn't respond. "Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me." (Job 38:3) "Where were you when I lad the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you know so much." (Job 38:4) One question would have been enough for Job, but it isn't enough for God.

“Do you know how its dimensions were determined and who did the surveying?” God asks. “What supports its foundations, and who laid its cornerstone, as the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy?” (Job 38:5-7)

Questions rush out like sheets of rain. They splash in the chambers of Job’s heart with a wildness and a beauty and a terror that leave Job, and every Job who has ever lived drenched and speechless, watching the Master redefine who’s who in the universe.

“Have you ever once commanded the morning to appear, and caused the dawn to rise in the east? Have you ever told the daylight to spread to the ends of the earth, to end the night’s wickedness?” (Job 38:12)  God’s questions aren’t intended to teach; they’re intended to stun. They aren’t intended to enlighten; they’re intended to awaken. They aren’t intended to stir the mind; they’re intended to bend the knees.

“Has the location of the gates of Death been revealed to you? Do you realize the extent of the earth? Tell me about it if you know! Where does the light come from, and how do you get there? Or tell me about the darkness. Where does it come from? Can you find its boundaries, or go to its source? But of course you know all this! For you were born before it was all created, and you are so very experienced!” (Job 38:17-21)

Finally, Job’s feeble hand lifts and God stops long enough for him to respond. “I am nothing — how could I ever find the answers? I lay my hand upon my mouth in silence. I have said too much already.” (Job 40:4-5)

God’s message has finally connected: Job’s a peasant, telling the King how to run the kingdom. Job’s an illiterate, telling e. e. cummings to capitalize his personal pronouns. Job’s a bat boy, telling Babe Ruth to change his batting stance. Job is the clay, telling the potter not to press so hard. “I owe no one anything,” God declares in the crescendo of the wind. “Everything under the heaven is mine.” (Job 41:11)

And Job couldn’t argue. Job can’t argue. What’s Job got to say? God owes no one anything. No explanations. No excuses. No help. God has no debt, no outstanding balance, no favors to return. God owes no man anything. Which makes the fact that he gave us everything even more unbelievable, don’t you think?

And how you interpret this holy presentation is, in my opinion, key. Because you can interpret God’s hammering speech as a divine “in-your-face” beat-down if you want. You can use the list of unanswerable questions to prove that God is harsh, cruel and distant. You can use the Book of Job as evidence that God gives us questions with no answers. But if you’re going to do that, you’re gonna need some scissors. Because to do that requires you to cut out the rest of the book of Job.

Because that’s not how Job heard it. All his life, Job had been a good man. All his life, he’d believed in God. All his life, he talked about God, had notions about God, prayed to God. But in the storm Job sees God. He sees Hope. Lover. Destroyer. Giver. Taker. Dreamer. Deliverer. It’s no longer just talk about God. It’s no longer just having some thoughts about God. It’s no longer just an intellectual exercise praying to an invisible God. It’s seeing God.

Job sees the tender anger of a God whose unending love is often received with mistrust. Job stands like a blade of grass against the consuming fire of God’s splendor. Job’s demands melt like wax as God pulls back the curtain and heaven’s light falls unsurpassed across the earth. Job sees God.

And God could have turned away at this point. Right? I mean the gavel has been slammed and the verdict’s been rendered. The Eternal Judge has spoken. But God isn’t angry with Job.

Firm? Yes.

Direct? No doubt about it.

Clear and convincing? Absolutely.

But angry? No.

God is never irritated by the questions of an honest seeker. And if you were to underline any passage in the Book of Job, I’d underline this one: “I had heard about you before, but now I have seen you.” (Job 42:5)

Job sees God — and that’s enough. But that’s not enough for God.

The years to come find Job once again sitting behind his mahogany desk with his health restored and profits way up. His lap is once again full of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren — for four generations. And if Job ever wonders why God doesn’t bring back the children he had taken away, he doesn’t ask. But maybe he doesn’t ask because he knows that his children could never be happier than where they are – in the presence of the One he’s seen so briefly.

And something tells me that Job would do it all over again, if that’s what it took to hear God’s voice and to stand in His presence. Even if God left him with his bedsores and bills, Job would do it again. Why? Because God gave Job more than Job ever dreamed. God gave Job Himself.

And he’s done the same for us. “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

I guess seeing is believing. Or, is believing seeing?

Grace,

                Randy