Tests

Tests

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. The I Am is here.
(Matt. 14:22-27)

There’s a window in your heart through which you see God. Once upon a time, the window was clear and your view of God was crisp. You could see God as vividly as you could see a gentle valley or a grassy hillside. The glass was clean, the pane unbroken. You knew God. You knew how he worked. You knew what he wanted you to do. No surprises. Nothing unexpected. You knew that God had a will, and you continually discovered what it was.

Then, suddenly, the window cracked. A pebble broke the window. A pebble of pain. Perhaps the rock came through the window when you were a child and a parent left home — forever. Maybe the rock hit in adolescence when your heart was broken. Maybe you made it into adulthood before the window was cracked. But the rock came nevertheless.

Was it a phone call? “We have your daughter at the station. You’d better come down.” Was it a letter on the kitchen table? “I’ve left. Don’t try to reach me. Don’t try to call me. It’s over. I just don’t love you anymore.” Was it a diagnosis from the doctor? “I’m afraid the news is not very good.” Was it a telegram? “We regret to inform you that your son is missing in action.”

Whatever the rock’s form, the result’s the same — a shattered window. The pebble rocketed into the pane and shattered it. The crash echoed down the halls of your heart. Cracks shot out from the point of impact, creating a spider web of fragmented pieces. And suddenly God wasn’t so easy to see. The view that had once been so crisp had changed. You turned to see God, and his figure was distorted. It was hard to see him through the pain. It was hard to see him through the fragments of hurt.

And you’re left puzzled. God wouldn’t allow something like this to happen, would he? Tragedy and travesty weren’t on the agenda of the One you had seen, were they? Had you been fooled? Had you been blind?

The moment the rock struck, the glass became a reference point for you – because from then on there was life before the pain and life after the pain. Before your pain, the view was clear; God seemed so near. After your pain, well, he was harder to see. He seemed a bit distant . . . harder to perceive. Your pain distorted the view. It didn’t eclipse it . . . just distorted it.

Maybe this doesn’t describe your situation. There are some people who never have to redefine or refocus their view of God. But most of us do. Most of us know what it means to feel disappointed by God. Most of us have a way of completing this sentence: “If God is God, then why would he . . . .” Call it an agenda; a divine job description. Each of us has an unspoken, yet definitive, expectation of what God should do. “If God is God, then why . . . .”

You know the agenda, don’t you? Stuff like, there will be no financial collapse in my family; my children will never be buried before me; people will treat me fairly; this church will never divide; my prayer will be answered. These aren’t articulated criteria. They’re not written down or notarized. But they’re real. They define the expectations we have of God. And when pain comes into our world — when the careening rock splinters the window of our hearts — these expectations go unmet and doubts may begin to surface.

We look for God, but can’t find him. Fragmented and shattered glass hinders our vision. God is enlarged through this piece and reduced through that one. Lines jigsaw their way across his face. Large sections of shattered glass opaque the view, and the shards in our hands cut us to the quick. And now we aren’t quite sure what we see.

The disciples weren’t quite sure what they saw, either. Jesus failed to meet their expectations, too. The day Jesus fed the five thousand men, he didn’t do what they wanted him to do.

The twelve had just returned from their mission followed by an army. They’d finished their training. They’d recruited the soldiers. They were ready for battle. They expected Jesus to let the crowds crown him as king and attack the city of Herod. They expected battle plans . . . strategies . . . a new era for Israel. What did they get? Just the opposite.

Instead of weapons, they got oars. Rather than being sent to fight, they were sent afloat. The crowds were sent away. Jesus walked away. And they were left on the water with a storm brewing in the sky. What kind of Messiah would do that?

Note the sequence of the stormy evening as Matthew records it: “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.” (Matthew 14:22-24)

Matthew is specific about the order of events. Jesus sent the disciples to the boat. Then he dismissed the crowd and ascended a mountainside. It was evening, maybe around 6:00 p.m. The storm struck immediately, because the sun had scarcely set before typhoon-like winds began to whistle and roar down the mountainside.

Note that Jesus sent the disciples out into the storm alone. Even as he was ascending the mountainside, he could feel and hear the gale’s force. Jesus wasn’t ignorant of the storm. He was aware that a torrent was coming that would carpet-bomb the Galilean sea’s surface. But he didn’t turn around. The disciples were left to face the storm . . . alone.

But the greatest storm that night probably wasn’t in the sky; it was in the disciples’ hearts. Their greatest fear was not from seeing the storm-driven waves; it came from seeing the back of their leader as he left them to face the night with only questions as companions. It was this fury that the disciples were facing that night. Imagine the incredible strain of bouncing from wave to wave in a tiny fishing boat. One hour would tire you; two hours would exhaust you.

Surely Jesus will help us, they probably thought. They’d seen him still storms like this before. On this same sea, they had awakened him during a storm and he had commanded the skies to be silent. They’d seen him quiet the wind and soothe the waves. Surely he will come off the mountain, they must have thought. But he doesn’t. Their arms begin to ache from rowing. Still no sign of Jesus. Three hours. Four hours. The winds rage. The boat bounces. Still no Jesus. Midnight comes. Their eyes search for God.

By now the disciples have been on the sea for at least six hours. And all this time they have fought the storm and sought the Master. And, so far, the storm is winning. And the Master is nowhere to be found. You can just hear them, can’t you? “Where is he?” cried one. “Has he forgotten about us?” yelled another. “Yeah, he feeds thousands of strangers and leaves us here to die?” muttered a third.

The Gospel of Mark adds some compelling insight into the disciples’ attitude. “(T)hey still didn’t understand the significance of the miracle of the loaves. Their hearts were too hard to take it in.” (Mark 6:52) What does Mark mean by that? Simply this: the disciples were mad. They began the evening in a huff. Their hearts were hardened toward Jesus because he’d fed the multitude. Their preference, remember, had been to “send the crowds away.” (Matthew 14:15) But Jesus had told them to feed the people, instead. And they wouldn’t even try. They said it couldn’t be done. They told Jesus to let the people take care of themselves.

Remember, too, that the disciples had just spent some time on center stage. They’d tasted stardom. They were celebrities. They had rallied crowds. They had recruited an army. They were, no doubt, pretty proud of themselves. With chests a bit puffy and heads a bit swollen, they’d told Jesus, “Just send them away.” But Jesus didn’t. Instead, he chose to bypass the reluctant disciples and use the faith of an anonymous boy. What the disciples said couldn’t be done was done in spite of them, not through them.

So, they pouted. They sulked. Rather than being amazed by the miracle, they were mad at the Master. After all, they’d felt foolish passing out the very bread they said could not be multiplied. Add to that Jesus’ command to go to the boat when they wanted to go to battle, and maybe it’s easier to understand why these guys were steamed. “Now what’s Jesus up to? Leaving us out on the sea on a night like this? Terrific. Thanks a lot, Jesus.”

It’s midnight, no Jesus. It’s 1:00 A.M., no Jesus. It’s 2:00 A.M., no Jesus.

Peter, Andrew, James and John have seen storms like this. They’re fishermen; the sea is their life. They know the havoc the gale-force winds can wreak. They’ve seen the splintered hulls float to shore. They’ve attended the funerals. They know, perhaps better than anyone else in that boat, that this night could be their last. “Why doesn’t he come?” they whimper.

Finally, he does. “About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water.” (Matthew 14:15) Jesus came. He finally came. But between verse 24 — being thrashed by the waves — and verse 25 — when Jesus appeared — a thousand questions had likely been asked during the night that seemed more like a lifetime.

Questions you’ve probably asked, too. Maybe you know the angst of being suspended between verses 24 and 25. Maybe you’re riding a storm, searching the coastline for a light, a glimmer of hope. You know that Jesus knows what you’re going through. You know that he’s aware of your storm. But as hard as you look to find him, you can’t see him. Maybe your heart, like the disciples’ hearts, has been hardened by unmet expectations. Your pleadings for help are salted with angry questions.

You know what storms do. Storms attack your faith. Storms destroy. Storms come at you like a missile. Storms usher in the night. And storms bring questions. Questions like, “Where’s God in this?” and “Why would he do this?”

Frankly, each day can seem like a pop quiz. And some seasons feel more like final exams. Brutal, sudden pitfalls of stress, sickness or sadness. So, what’s the purpose of the test? The apostle James, Jesus’ half-brother, said, “For when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be strong in character and ready for anything.” (James 1:3-4)

Tests. This chapter in your life may look like rehab, or smell like unemployment, or even sound like a hospital. But you’re in training. God hasn’t forgotten you. It’s just the opposite. He’s chosen to train you. Forget the notion that God doesn’t see your struggle. To the contrary. God is fully engaged. He is the Potter, we are the clay. He’s the Shepherd, we’re the sheep. He’s the Teacher, we’re the students. Trust His training.

You’ll get through this, and you’ll get to the other side of your storm.

Grace,

Randy

Delight

Delight

God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs. God blesses those who mourn, for they will be comforted. God blesses those who are humble, for they will inherit the whole earth. God blesses those who hunger and thirst for justice, for they will be satisfied. God blesses those who are merciful, for they will be shown mercy. God blesses those whose hearts are pure, for they will see God. God blesses those who work for peace, for they will be called the children of God. God blesses those who are persecuted for doing right, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs. (Matthew 5:3-10)

Frankly, she had every reason to be bitter. Though talented, she went unrecognized for years. Prestigious opera circles closed their ranks when she tried to enter, and American critics completely ignored her compelling voice. She was repeatedly rejected for parts for which she was easily qualified. And, it was only after she went to Europe and won the hearts of the tough-to-please European audience that stateside opinion leaders finally acknowledged her immense talent.

However, not only was her professional life a battle, but her personal life was also marked by challenges. She was the mother of two handicapped children, one of whom is profoundly deaf and has multiple sclerosis; the other is severely autistic and institutionalized. To meet their needs, she restricted her performances to care for her children. Years ago, in order to escape the pace of New York City, she purchased a home on Martha’s Vineyard. It burned to the ground two days before she was to move in.

Professional rejection. Personal setbacks. Perfect soil for the seeds of bitterness. A receptive field for the roots of resentment. But in this case, anger didn’t find a home. Her friends never called her bitter; they called her “Bubbles.” Beverly Sills. Internationally acclaimed opera singer. Retired director of the New York City Opera, who passed away in July, 2007.

But if you ever saw her interviewed, her phrases were sugared with laughter. Her face was softened with serenity. After interviewing her, Mike Wallace stated that “she is one of the most impressive — if not the most impressive — ladies I’ve ever interviewed.”

How can a person handle such professional rejection and personal trauma and still be known as Bubbles? “I choose to be cheerful,” she said. “Years ago I knew I had little or no choice about success, circumstances or even happiness; but I knew I could choose to be cheerful.” Wow.

And then there’s him. No man had more reason to be miserable than this one — yet no man was more joyful. His first home was a palace. Servants were at his fingertips. The snap of his fingers changed the course of history. His name was known and loved. He had everything — wealth, power, respect.

And then he had nothing.

Students of the event still ponder it. Historians stumble as they attempt to explain it. How could a king lose everything in one instant? One moment he was royalty; the next he was in poverty. His bed became, at best, a borrowed pallet — and was usually just hard ground. He never owned even the most basic mode of transportation, and was dependent upon handouts for his income. He was sometimes so hungry that he would eat raw grain or pick fruit off of a tree. He knew what it was like to be rained on, to be cold. He knew what it meant to have no home.

His palace grounds had been spotless; now he was exposed to filth. He had never known disease, but was now surrounded by illnesses of all kinds. In his kingdom he had been revered; now he was ridiculed. His neighbors tried to lynch him. Some called him a lunatic. His family tried to confine him to their house. Those who didn’t ridicule him tried to use him. They wanted favors. They wanted tricks. He was a novelty. They wanted to be seen with him — that is until being with him was out of fashion. Then they wanted to kill him. He was accused of a crime he never committed. Witnesses were hired to lie. The jury was rigged. No lawyer was assigned to his defense. A judge swayed by politics handed down the death penalty.

They killed him.

He left as he came — penniless. He was buried in a borrowed grave, his funeral financed by some compassionate friends. Though he once had everything, he died with nothing. He should have been miserable. He should have been bitter. He had every right to be a pot of boiling anger. But he wasn’t.

He was joyful.

You see, sourpusses don’t attract a following. But people followed him wherever he went. Children avoid soreheads. But children scampered after this man. Crowds don’t gather to listen to the woeful. But crowds clamored to hear him. Why?

He was joyful. He was joyful when he was poor. He was joyful when he was abandoned. He was joyful when he was betrayed. He was even joyful as he hung on a tool of torture, his hands pierced with six-inch Roman spikes. Jesus embodied a stubborn joy. A joy that refused to bend in the wind of hard times. A joy that held its ground against pain. A joy whose roots extended deep into the bedrock of eternity.

What type of joy is this? What’s this cheerfulness that dares to wink at adversity? What’s this bird that sings while it’s still dark? What is the source of this peace that defies pain? Some call it sacred delight.

It’s sacred because it’s not of the earth. What is sacred is God’s. And this joy is God’s. And it’s delight because delight can both satisfy and surprise.

Delight is the Bethlehem shepherds dancing a jig outside a cave. Delight is Mary watching God sleeping in a feeding trough. Delight is white-haired Simeon praising God, just before he’s about to be circumcised. Delight is Joseph teaching the Creator of the world how to hold a hammer.

Delight is the look on Andrew’s face at the lunch pail that never came up empty. Delight is the dozing wedding guests who drank the wine that had once been water. Delight is Jesus walking through waves as casually as you walk through curtains. Delight is a leper seeing a finger where there’d once been only a nub . . . a widow hosting a party with food made for a funeral . . . a paraplegic doing somersaults. Delight is Jesus doing impossible things in crazy ways: healing the blind with spit, paying taxes with a coin found in a fish’s mouth, and coming back from the dead disguised as a gardener.

What is sacred delight? It’s God doing what gods would be doing only in your wildest dreams —wearing diapers, riding donkeys, washing feet, dozing in storms. Delight is the day they accused God of having too much fun, attending too many parties, and spending too much time with the Happy Hour crowd.

Delight is the day’s wage paid to workers who had worked only one hour. . . the father scrubbing the pig smell off his son’s back. . . the shepherd throwing a party because the sheep was found. Delight is a discovered pearl, a multiplied talent, a heaven-bound beggar, a criminal in the kingdom. Delight is the surprise on the faces of street folks who’ve been invited to a king’s banquet. Delight is the Samaritan woman big-eyed and speechless, the adulteress walking out of the stone-cluttered courtyard, and a skivvy-clad Peter plunging into cold waters to get close to the one he’d cursed.

Sacred delight is good news coming through the back door of your heart. It’s what you’d always dreamed, but never expected. It’s the too-good-to-be-true coming true. It’s having God as your pinch-hitter, your lawyer, your dad, your biggest fan, and your best friend. God on your side, in your heart, out in front, and protecting your back. It’s hope where you least expected it: a flower in life’s sidewalk.

It’s sacred because only God can grant it. It’s a delight because it thrills. And since it is sacred, it can’t be stolen; since it’s delightful, it can’t be predicted.

It was this gladness that danced through the Red Sea. It was this joy that blew the trumpet at Jericho. It was this secret that made Mary sing. It was this surprise that put the springtime into Easter morning.

It’s God’s gladness. It’s sacred delight.

And it’s this sacred delight that Jesus promises in the Sermon on the Mount.

Nine times he promises it. And he promises it to an unlikely crowd:

“The poor in spirit.” (Beggars in God’s soup kitchen)

“Those who mourn.” (Sinners Anonymous bound together by the truth of their introduction: “Hi, I’m _________. I’m a sinner)

“The meek.” (Pawnshop pianos played by Van Cliburn – he’s so good no one notices the missing keys)

“Those who hunger and thirst.” (Famished orphans who know the difference between a TV dinner and a Thanksgiving feast)

“The merciful.” (Winners of the million-dollar lottery who share the prize with their enemies)

“The pure in heart.” (Physicians who love lepers and escape infection)

“The peacemakers.” (Architects who build bridges with wood from a Roman cross)

“The persecuted.” (Those who manage to keep an eye on heaven while walking through hell on earth)

It is to this band of pilgrims that God promises a special blessing. A heavenly joy. A sacred delight. But this joy isn’t cheap. What Jesus promises is not a gimmick to give you goose bumps, or a mental attitude that has to be pumped up at pep rallies. No, Matthew 5 describes God’s radical reconstruction of the heart. And pay particular note of the sequence.

First, we recognize we are in need (we’re poor in spirit). Next, we repent of our self-sufficiency (we mourn). We quit calling the shots and surrender control to God (we’re meek). So grateful are we for his presence that we yearn for more of him (we hunger and thirst). As we grow closer to him, we become more like him: we forgive others (we’re merciful); we change our outlook (we’re pure in heart); we love others (we’re peacemakers); and we endure injustice (we’re persecuted).

It’s no casual shift of attitude. It’s a demolition of the old structure and a creation of the new. The more radical the change, the greater the joy. And it’s worth every effort, for this is the joy of God. It’s no accident that the same word used by Jesus to promise sacred delight is the word used by Paul to describe God: “The blessed God. . .” (1 Tim. 1:11); “God, the blessed and only Ruler . . . .” (1 Tim. 6:15)

Think about God’s joy. What can cloud it? What can quench it? What can kill it? Is God ever in a bad mood because of bad weather? Does God get ruffled over long lines or traffic jams? Does God ever refuse to rotate the earth because his feelings are hurt? No. His is a joy which consequences cannot quench. His is a peace which circumstances cannot steal. There’s a delicious gladness that comes from God. A holy joy. A sacred delight.

And it’s within your reach, because you’re only one decision away.

What’s your choice?

Grace,

Randy

Jesus

Jesus

In the beginning the Word already existed. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. He existed in the beginning with God. God created everything through him, and nothing was created except through him. The Word gave life to everything that was created, and his life brought light to everyone. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it …. So the Word became human and made his home among us. He was full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory of the Father’s one and only Son. (John 1:1-5; 14)

The heavy door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open. In just a few strides, he crossed the silent shop and opened the wooden shutters to a square shaft of sunshine that pierced the darkness, painting a box of daylight on the dirt floor.

He looked around the carpentry shop. He stood for a moment in the refuge of the little room that housed so many sweet memories. He balanced the hammer in his hand. He ran his fingers across the sharp teeth of the saw. He stroked the smoothly worn wood of the sawhorse. He had come to say good-bye.

It was time for him to leave. He had heard something that made him know it was time to go. So he came one last time to smell the sawdust and the lumber.

Life was peaceful here. Life was so . . . safe. It was here that he’d spent countless hours of contentment. On this very dirt floor he had played here as a toddler while his father worked. Here Joseph had taught him how to grip a hammer. And on that workbench he had built his first chair.

I wonder what he thought as he took one last look around the room. Perhaps he stood for a moment at the workbench looking at the tiny shadows cast by the chisel and the shavings. Perhaps he listened as voices from the past filled the air: “Good job, Jesus;” “Joseph, Jesus — come and eat!”; “Don’t worry sir, it’ll be finished on time. I’ll get Jesus to help me.”

I wonder if he hesitated. I wonder if his heart was torn. I wonder if he rolled a nail between his thumb and fingers, anticipating the pain.

It was in the carpentry shop that he must have given birth to his thoughts. Concepts and convictions had been woven together in this place to form the very fabric of his future ministry.

You can almost see the tools of the trade in his words as he spoke. You can see the trueness of a plumb line as he called for moral standards. You can hear the whistle of the plane as he pleads for religion to shave away its unnecessary traditions. You can picture the snugness of a dovetail as he demands loyalty in relationships. You can imagine him with a pencil and a ledger as he urges honesty.

It was here that his human hands shaped the very wood that his divine hands had created. And it was here that his body matured while his spirit waited for the right moment, the right day.

And now that day had arrived.

It must have been difficult to leave. After all, life as a carpenter wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all. Business was good, the future was bright, and his work was enjoyable.

In Nazareth he was known only as Jesus, the son of Joseph. And you can be sure he was respected in the community. He was good with his hands. He had lots of friends. He was a favorite among the kids. He could tell a good joke, and had a habit of filling the air with contagious laughter.

I wonder if he wanted to stay. He could do a good job here in Nazareth. He could settle down. He could raise a family. Be a civic leader, maybe?

I wonder about these things, because I know he’d already read the last chapter. He knew that the feet that would step out of the safe shadow of the carpentry shop wouldn’t rest until they’d been rammed through with a spike and placed on a Roman cross.

You see, he didn’t have to go. He had a choice. He could have stayed. He could have kept his mouth shut. He could have ignored the call, or at least postponed it. And had he chosen to stay, who’d have known? Who’d have blamed him?

Or, he could have come back as a man in another era – when society wasn’t so volatile, religion not so stale, and at a time when people would listen better. He could have come back when crosses were out of style. Crosses made out of wood.

But his heart wouldn’t let him. If there was hesitation on the part of his humanity, it was overcome by the compassion of his divinity. His divinity heard the voices. His divinity heard the hopeless cries of the poor, the bitter accusations of the abandoned, the dangling despair of those who are trying to save themselves.

And his divinity saw the faces. Some wrinkled. Some weeping. Some hidden behind veils. Some obscured by fear. Some earnest with searching. Some blank with boredom. From the face of Adam to the face of the infant born somewhere in the world this very minute, he saw them all.

And you can be sure of one thing. Among the voices that found their way into that carpentry shop in Nazareth was your voice; my voice. Your silent prayers uttered on tear-stained pillows were heard before they were said. Our deepest questions about death and eternity were answered before they were asked. And our direst need, our need for a Savior, was met before we ever sinned.

He left because of you; he left because of me.

He laid his security down with his hammer. He hung tranquility on the peg with his nail apron. He closed the window shutters on the sunshine of his youth, and locked the door on the comfort and ease of anonymity.

Since he could bear your sins more easily than he could bear the thought of your hopelessness, he chose to leave. It wasn’t easy. Leaving the carpentry shop never has been.

Many of the names in the Bible that refer to our Lord are nothing less than palatial and august: Son of God, the Lamb of God, the Light of the World, the Resurrection and the Life, the Bright and Morning Star, He that Should Come, and the Alpha and Omega.

They’re phrases that stretch the very boundaries of human language in an effort to capture what can't be captured: the grandeur of God. And try as they might to draw as near as they may, they always fall short. Hearing them is like hearing a Salvation Army Christmas band on the street corner playing Handel’s Messiah. Good try, but it really doesn’t work so well. The message is just too majestic for the medium.

And such it is with language. The phrase “There are no words to express. . . ,” is really the only one that can honestly be applied to God. No names do him justice.

But there is one name which recalls a quality of the Master that bewildered and compelled those who knew him. It reveals a side of him that, when recognized, is enough to make you fall on your face. It’s not too small, but it’s not too grand. It’s a name that fits like the shoe fit Cinderella’s foot.

Jesus.

In the gospels, it’s his most common name — used almost six hundred times. And a common name it was. Jesus is the Greek form of Joshua, Jeshua, and Jehoshua — all familiar Old Testament names. In fact, there were at least five high priests known as Jesus. The writings of the historian Josephus refer to about twenty people called Jesus. The New Testament speaks of Jesus Justus, the friend of Paul (Colossians 4:11), and the Jewish sorcerer of Paphos was called Bar-Jesus. (Acts 13:6) Some manuscripts give Jesus as the first name of Barabbas: “Which would you like me to release to you — Jesus Barabbas or Jesus called the Messiah?” (Matthew 27:16-17)

Not only was Barabbas's first name Jesus, but his last name, Barabbas, means son (bar) of the father (abba). Jesus had always referred to himself as the Son of the Father, but his adversaries had always refused to acknowledge that he was. So, now there are two men named Jesus, each a "son of the father," but of opposite fathers because Jesus was an innocent man about to be murdered, and Barabbas was a murderer about to be set free. Interesting that, by “coincidence,” the people’s choice between God and the devil was being reflected back at them by the magnifying glass of circumstance.

Okay, but what’s the point? Well, the point is that Jesus could have been a “Joe.” If Jesus came today, his name might have been John or Bob or Jim. Were he here today, it’s doubtful he would distance himself with a lofty name like His Reverend Holiness Angelic Divinity III. No, when God chose the name his son would carry, he chose a human name. He chose a name so typical that it would appear two or three times on any given kindergarten class roll. “The Word became flesh,” in other words.

He was touchable, approachable and reachable. And, what’s more, he was “ordinary.” In fact, if he were here today, you probably wouldn’t notice him as he walked through Westfield’s North County Fair mall. He wouldn’t turn heads by the clothes he wore, or the jewelry he flashed. In fact, according to the prophet Isaiah, Jesus was . . . well . . . unattractive. (Isaiah 52:14 – 53:3)

“Just call me Jesus,” you can almost hear him say.

He was the kind of fellow you’d invite to watch the Chargers-Raiders game at your house. He’d wrestle on the floor with your kids, doze on your couch, and cook steaks on your grill. He’d laugh at your jokes, and tell a few of his own. And when you spoke, he’d listen to you as if he had all the time in eternity. And one thing’s for sure – you’d invite him back.

It’s worth noting that those who knew him best remembered him as Jesus. The titles Jesus Christ and Lord Jesus are seen only six times. Those who walked with him remembered him not with a title or designation, but with a name — Jesus.

And just think about the implications of that. When God chose to reveal himself to mankind, what medium did he use? A book? No, that was secondary. A church? No, that was consequential. A moral code? No, because to limit God’s revelation to a cold list of do’s and don’ts is as tragic as looking at a California road map and saying you’ve seen Yosemite.

When God chose to reveal himself, he did so through a human body. The tongue that called forth the dead was a human one. The hand that touched the leper had dirt under its nails. The feet upon which the woman wept were callused and dusty. And his tears, don’t miss the tears, they came from a face less fortunate, but from a heart as broken as yours or mine has ever been.

“For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses.” (Heb. 4:15)

So, people came to him. Oh, how they came to him! They came at night; they touched him as he walked down the street; they followed him around the sea; they invited him into their homes, and placed their children at his feet. Why? Because he refused to be a statue in a cathedral, or a preacher in an elevated pulpit. He chose, instead, to be Jesus.

There’s not a hint of one person who was afraid to draw near him. Oh, there were those who mocked him, and there were those who were envious of him. There were those who misunderstood him, and there were those who revered him. But there was not one person who considered him too holy, too divine, or too celestial to touch. There was not one person who was reluctant to approach him for fear of being neglected. Remember that.

Remember that the next time you find yourself amazed at your own failures. Or the next time acidic accusations burn holes in your soul. Remember that the next time you see a cold cathedral, or hear a lifeless sermon. Remember. It’s man who creates the distance. It’s Jesus who builds the bridge.

“Just call me, Jesus.”

“Just call me.”

Love,

Jesus