Finish

Finish

Dear brothers and sisters, if another believer is overcome by some sin, you who are godly should gently and humbly help that person back onto the right path. And be careful not to fall into the same temptation yourself. Share each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ. If you think you are too important to help someone, you are only fooling yourself. You are not that important….

So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Therefore, whenever we have the opportunity, we should do good to everyone — especially to those in the family of faith. (Gal. 6:1-3; 9-10)

While Jesus was climbing up the hill of Calvary, Judas was climbing another — the hill of regret. And he walked it alone. Its trail was rock-strewn with shame and hurt, and its landscape as barren as his soul. Thorns of remorse tore at his ankles and shins. The lips that had once kissed a king were now cracked with grief. And on his shoulders he bore a burden that bowed his back — his own failure. Why Judas betrayed his master is really not important. Whether motivated by anger or greed, the end result was the same — regret.

Many years ago, I visited the Supreme Court. And as I sat in the visitors’ chambers, I imagined the splendor of the scene. The chief justice, flanked by his colleagues, robed in honor. The apex of justice. The representation of the efforts of countless minds through thousands of decades. Here was man’s best effort to deal with his own failures.

How pointless it would have been, however, if – in my mind’s eye – I had approached the bench and requested the Court’s forgiveness of my mistakes. Forgiveness for talking back to my mother. Forgiveness for being disloyal to a friend. Forgiveness for pledging “I won’t” on Sunday, and then saying “I will” on Monday. Forgiveness for the countless hours I’ve spent wandering in society’s gutters.

It would be pointless because the Justices could do nothing. Maybe a few days in jail to appease my guilt. But forgiveness? It’s not the Court’s to give. Maybe that’s why so many of us spend so many hours on that hill of regret: we haven’t found a way to forgive ourselves.

So up the hill we trudge. Weary, wounded hearts wrestling with unresolved mistakes. Sighs of anxiety; tears of frustration; words of rationalization; moans of doubt. For some the pain is on the surface. For others the hurt is submerged, buried in a past of bad memories. Parents, lovers, professionals. Some trying to forget, others trying to remember, but all trying to cope. We walk silently in single file with shackles of guilt. Paul was the man who posed the question that’s on all our lips: “Who will rescue me from this body of death?” (Rom. 7:24)

And at our trail’s end there stand two trees. One is weathered and leafless. It’s dead but still sturdy; it’s bark is gone, leaving smooth wood bleached white by the years. Twigs and buds no longer sprout. Only bare branches fork from the trunk. And on the strongest of these branches is a hangman’s noose. It was there that Judas dealt with his failure. If Judas had only looked at the adjacent tree. It’s dead, too, and it’s wood is also smooth. But there’s no noose tied to its crossbeam. No more death on this tree. Once was enough. One death for all.

Those of us who have also betrayed Jesus know better than to be too hard on Judas for choosing the tree he did. Because to think that Jesus would really unburden our shoulders and unshackle our legs after all we’ve done to him is hard to believe. In fact, it takes just as much faith to believe that Jesus can look past my betrayals as it does to believe that he rose from the dead. Both are just as miraculous.

What a pair, these two trees. Only a few feet from the tree of despair stands the tree of hope. Life so paradoxically close to death. Goodness within arm’s reach of darkness. A hangman’s noose and a life preserver swinging in the same shadow. But there they stand.

And we can’t help but be a bit stunned by the inconceivability of it all. Why does Jesus stand on life’s most barren hill and await me with outstretched, nail-pierced hands? A crazy, holy grace it’s been called. A type of grace that doesn’t hold up to logic. But then I guess grace doesn’t have to be logical; if it were, it wouldn’t be grace. But grace unaccepted leads to regrets unaffected. And regret can keep us from finishing, making quitters of us all.

Many years ago, Simon and Garfunkel enchanted those of us who can remember with the song of a poor boy who went to New York on a dream, but fell victim to the harsh life of the city. Penniless, and with only strangers as friends, he spent his days “laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know.”

It’s easy to picture this young lad, dirtied face and worn clothes, looking for work and finding none. He trudges the sidewalks and battles the cold, and dreams of going “where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me, leading me home.” He entertains thoughts of quitting. Going home. Giving up — something he never thought he would do.

But just when he picks up the towel to throw it into the ring he encounters a boxer. Remember these words? In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade, and he carries a reminder of every blow that laid him down or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame ‘I am leaving, I am leaving!’ but the fighter still remains.

“The fighter still remains.” There’s something magnetic in that phrase. It rings with a trueness. Those who can remain like the boxer are a rare breed. I don’t necessarily mean winning; I just mean remaining. Hanging in there. Finishing. Sticking with it until it’s done.

Unfortunately, few of us actually do that. Our human tendency is to quit too soon. Our human tendency is to stop before we cross the finish line. And our inability to finish what we’ve started is sometimes seen in the smallest of things: a partly mowed lawn; a half-read book; letters begun but never completed; an abandoned diet; a car up on blocks. Or, it shows up in life’s most painful areas: an abandoned child; a cold faith; a job hopper; a wrecked marriage; an un-evangelized world.

Any chance you’ve considered giving up? If so, I want to encourage you to remain. I want to encourage you to remember Jesus’ determination on the cross. Jesus didn’t quit. But don’t think for one minute that he wasn’t tempted to. Watch him wince as he hears his apostles backbite and quarrel. Look at him weep as he sits at Lazarus’s tomb, or hear him wail as he claws the ground of Gethsemane. Did he ever want to quit? You bet. That’s why his words are so splendid. “It is finished.”

Stop and listen for a moment. Can you imagine that cry from the cross? The sky is dark. The other two victims are moaning. The jeering mouths are silent. Perhaps there’s thunder. Perhaps there’s weeping. Perhaps there’s silence. Then Jesus draws in a deep breath, pushes his feet down on that Roman nail and cries, “It is finished!” Tetelestai – paid in full.

Finished? What’s finished?

The history-long plan of redeeming man was finished. The message of God to man was finished. The works done by Jesus as a man on earth were finished. The task of selecting and training ambassadors was finished. The job was finished. The song had been sung. The blood had been poured. The sacrifice had been made. The sting of death had been removed. It was over. Tetelestai. In the Greek perfect tense, it could just as easily be translated, “It has been finished.” In other words, a completed action with consequences into the future.

So, was that a cry of defeat? Hardly. Had his hands not been fastened down maybe a triumphant fist would have punched the dark sky. No, this was no cry of despair. It was a cry of completion. A cry of victory. A cry of fulfillment. Yes, even a cry of relief. The fighter remained. And thank God that he did. Thank God that he endured.

Are you close to quitting? Reconsider. Are you discouraged as a parent? Hang in there. Are you weary with doing good? Do just a little more. Are you pessimistic about your job? Roll up your sleeves and go at it again. No communication in your marriage? Give it one more shot. Can’t resist temptation? Accept God’s forgiveness and go one more round. Is your day framed with sorrow and disappointment? Are your tomorrows turning into never? Is hope a forgotten word?

Remember, a finisher is not a person without wounds or weariness. To the contrary, the finisher, like the boxer, is scarred and bloody. Mother Teresa is credited with saying, “God didn’t call us to be successful, just faithful.” The fighter, like our Master, is pierced and full of pain. He, like Paul, may even be bound and beaten. But he remains.

The Land of Promise, says Jesus, awaits those who endure. It’s not just for the ones who make the victory laps, or drink the champagne. The Land of Promise is for those who simply remain to the end. So, let’s endure and be encouraged by a chorus of verses designed to give us staying power:

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. (James 1:2-3)

Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed. (Heb. 12:12-13)

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. (Gal. 6:9)

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day — and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing. (2 Tim. 4:7-8)

Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him. (James 1:12)

So, thank you, Paul Simon. Thank you, apostle Paul. Thank you, apostle James. But most of all, thank you, Lord Jesus, for teaching us to remain, to endure, and in the end, to finish.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Randy

Refined

Refined

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. (Matt. 5:3-8)

I can still remember the first time I saw one. The day started with a family drive to Signal Hill in Long Beach, California. The “hill” the city is named after sits 365 feet above the surrounding town of Long Beach, just a few miles from where I grew up. Because of its height, the hill – centuries ago – had been used by the Puva Indians to signal other native tribes on Santa Catalina Island, some 26 miles off-shore. Because of its use as a signaling point, subsequent Spanish settlers called the hill, "Loma Sental," which translated means, "Signal Hill." But that all changed on June 23, 1921.

You see, Signal Hill would soon become part of the Long Beach Oil Field, one of the most productive oil fields in the world, when – on June 23 – Shell Oil Company’s Alamitos #1 well erupted. The pressure in the well was so great that a gusher some 114 feet high split the air. Soon, Signal Hill was covered with 100’s of oil derricks, whose prickly appearance at a distance was affectionately known by the locals as “Porcupine Hill.” Ultimately one of the richest oil fields in the world, it produced over 1 billion barrels of oil by 1984, and is still active today.

So there I was, sitting in the car as tall as I could, stretching to see the endless towers and nodding donkey pumps. I guess that’s why the thing seemed so colossal to me at the time, because it stood out on the horizon like a science-fiction city. “What’s that?” “Oil wells,” Mom and Dad answered. “And do you see that, off in the distance? That’s where all the oil goes; it’s called a refinery,” Dad continued.

A refinery. A jungle of pipes and tanks and tubes and generators – heaters, pumps, pipes, filters, valves, hoses, conduits, switches and circuits. It looked like a giant Tinker-Toy set. And the function of that maze of machinery is defined by its name: it “refines.” Gasoline, oil, chemicals — the refinery takes whatever comes in and purifies it so that it’s ready to go out. In that same sense, the refinery does for petroleum and other products what your “heart” should do for you. It takes out the bad and utilizes the good. And we tend to think of the heart as the seat of emotion. For instance, we speak of “heartthrobs,” “heartaches,” and “broken hearts.”

But when Jesus said, “God blesses those whose hearts are pure,” he was speaking in a different context. To Jesus’ listeners, the heart was the totality of the inner person — the control tower at the airport, or the cockpit of a plane. The heart was considered the seat of the character — the origin of desires, affections, perceptions, thoughts, reasoning, imagination, conscience, intentions, purpose, will and faith. Thus, the writer of the Proverbs admonished, “Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life.” (Prov. 4:23)

To the Hebrew mind, the heart was like a freeway cloverleaf where your emotions and prejudices and wisdom converge: kind of like a switch house that receives freight cars loaded with moods, ideas, emotions and convictions, and then puts them each on the right track.

And just as a low-grade oil, or alloyed gasoline would cause you to question the performance of a refinery, evil acts and impure thoughts cause us to question the condition of our hearts. “But the words you speak come from the heart — that’s what defiles you. For from the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, all sexual immorality, theft, lying, and slander. These are what defile you.” (Matt. 15:18-20) And, “A good person produces good things from the treasury of a good heart, and an evil person produces evil things from the treasury of an evil heart. What you say flows from what is in your heart.” (Luke 6:45)

These verses hammer home the same truth: the heart is at the center of our spiritual life. For instance, if the fruit of a tree is bad, you don’t try and fix the fruit – you treat the roots. And if a person’s actions are evil, it’s not enough to change habits – you have to go deeper. You have to go to the heart of the problem, which is the problem of the heart. That’s why the state of the heart is so critical.

So, what’s the state of yours?

When someone barks at you, do you bark back, or bite your tongue? That depends on the state of your heart. When your schedule is too tight, or your to-do list is too long, do you lose your cool, or keep it? That depends on the state of your heart. When you’re offered a morsel of gossip marinated in some slander, do you turn it down, or do you pass it on? That depends on the state of your heart. And if you see a homeless person on the street or in the park, do you see them as a burden on society, or as an opportunity for God? That, too, depends on the state of your heart.

The state of your heart dictates whether you harbor a grudge, or give grace; seek self-pity, or seek Christ; drink human misery, or taste God’s mercy. No wonder, then, the wise man begs, “Guard your heart above all else.” And maybe David’s prayer should be our own: “Create in me a clean heart, 0 God.” (Psalm 51:10)

So, Jesus’ statement rings true: “God blesses those whose hearts are pure, for they will see God.” But note the order of this beatitude: first, purify your heart, then you will see God. In other words, clean the refinery and the result will be a pure product. Unfortunately, we usually reverse the order – we try to change the inside by altering the outside. But the message of the beatitude is a clear one: You change your life by changing your heart.

So, how do you change your heart? Well, Jesus gave that plan on the mountain. And for just a minute, take a step back from the beatitudes and see them in sequence, as a whole.

The first step is an admission of poverty: “God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him ….” God’s gladness is not received by those who earn it, but by those who admit they don’t deserve it. The joy of Sarah, Peter and Paul came when they surrendered, when they pleaded for a lifeguard instead of a swimming lesson; when they sought a savior instead of a system.

The second step is sorrow: “God blesses those who mourn ….” Stated differently, joy comes to those who are sincerely sorry for their sin. We discover gladness when we leave the prison of pride and repent of our rebellion.

Sorrow is then followed by meekness, or humility. The humble are those who are willing to be used by God. Amazed that God would save them, they are just as surprised that God could use them. They are like a junior-high-school clarinet section playing with the Boston Pops. They don’t tell the maestro how to conduct; they’re just thrilled to be part of the concert.

The result of these first three steps? Hunger. Never have you seen anything like what’s happening to you. You admit sin — you get saved. You confess weakness — you receive strength. You say you’re sorry — you find forgiveness. It’s a zany, unpredictable path full of pleasant encounters. But for once in your life, you’re addicted to something positive — something that gives life instead of draining it. And you want more.

So then comes mercy. The more you receive, the more you give. You find it easier to give grace because you realize you’ve been given so much. What has been done to you is nothing compared to what you did to God. And for the first time in your life, you’ve found a permanent joy, a joy that’s not dependent upon your whims or actions. It’s a joy from God, a joy no one can take away from you.

A sacred delight is placed in your heart. It’s sacred because only God can grant it, and it’s a delight because you would never expect it. It’s God doing what gods would be doing only in your wildest dreams — wearing diapers, riding donkeys, washing filthy feet and 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, or the adulteress walking out of the stone-cluttered courtyard, or a skivvy-clad Peter plunging into cold waters to get close to the one he’d cursed just a few days before.

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’d least expect it – like a flower in a sidewalk crack.

It’s sacred because only God can grant it, and it’s a delight because it thrills. And since it’s sacred, it can’t be stolen; since it’s delightful, it can’t be predicted. And it’s this sacred delight that Jesus promises in the Sermon on the Mount.

In fact, he promises it nine times to a very unlikely crowd, i.e., beggars in God’s soup kitchen (the poor in spirit); Sinners Anonymous bound together by the truth of their introduction: “Hi, I’m _________. I’m a sinner (the mourners); pawnshop pianos played by Van Cliburn – who’s so good no one notices that some of the keys are missing (the meek); famished orphans who know the difference between a TV dinner and a Thanksgiving feast (the hungry and thirsty); winners of the million-dollar lottery who share the prize with their enemies (the merciful); physicians who love lepers and escape infection (the pure in heart); architects who build bridges with wood from a Roman cross (the peacemakers); and those who manage to keep an eye on heaven while walking through hell on earth (the persecuted).

Though your heart isn’t perfect, it isn’t rotten. And although you’re not invincible, at least you’re plugged in. And you can bet that the One who made you knows just how to purify and refine you — from the inside out.

Grace,

 Randy