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