Voices

Voices

I solemnly assure you that the man who hears what I have to say and believes in the one who has sent me has eternal life. He does not have to face judgment; he has already passed from death into life. Yes, I assure you that a time is coming, in fact has already come, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God and when they have heard it they will live! For just as the Father has life in himself, so by the Father’s gift, the Son also has life in himself. And he has given him authority to judge because he is Son of Man. No, do not be surprised—the time is coming when all those who are dead and buried will hear his voice and out they will come—those who have done right will rise again to life, but those who have done wrong will rise to face judgment! (John 5:24-30)

You want success? Here’s your model. You want achievement? Here’s your prototype. You want bright lights, pageants and media attention? Consider a previous front-page, center article from the nation’s largest daily newspaper, The New York Times. It was a caricature of “Miss America.”

The “vital” data of the fifty-one participants was compiled to present the perfect woman: a brown haired, brown eyed beauty who can sing. Oh, and she has the perfect figure, too: 35–24–35. She’s Miss America. She’s the ideal. The message leaps off the page: “This is the standard for American women.” And the implication is clear: Do what it takes to be like her – firm your thighs, deepen your cleavage, pamper your hair and improve your walk. No reference is made to her convictions, or her honesty, or her faith, or even to her God. But you’re given her hip size because, well … that’s important.

And in a small photo, four inches to the left, is another woman. Her face is thin. Her skin is wrinkled, almost leathery. No makeup; no blush; no lipstick. There’s a faint smile on her lips and a glint in her eye. She looks kind of pale. Maybe it’s the imagination; then again, maybe it’s true. The caption reads, “Mother Teresa: In serious condition.” (Jan. 1, 1992)

Mother Teresa. You know her story. When she won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1985, she gave the $200,000 to the poor of Calcutta. When a businessman bought her a new car, she sold it and gave the money to the underprivileged. She owned nothing. She owed nothing.

And there you have it. Two women: Miss America and Mother Teresa. One walks the boardwalk; the other works the alleys. Two voices. One promises crowns, flowers and crowds. The other promises service, surrender and joy. Now, I’ve got nothing against beauty pageants, but I do have something against the lying voices that are the cacophony of our world.

You’ve heard them. I’ve heard them. The voices that tell you to swap your integrity for a new sale. To barter your convictions for an easy deal. And on and on they go. They whisper. They woo. They taunt. They tantalize. They flirt. They flatter. They say, “Go ahead, it’s OK.” Or, “Just wait until tomorrow.” Even, “Don’t worry, no one will know.” The voices of the crowd.

Our lives are like Wall Street – chaotic stock markets shouting their demands. Grown men and women barking in a frantic effort to get all they can before time runs out. “Buy. Sell. Trade. Swap. But whatever you do, do it fast and do it so everyone can hear you.” A carnival of pants suits and three-piece suits where no one smiles and everyone’s running. An endless chorus of booming voices – some offering, some taking but all screaming. What do we do with the voices?

Picture yourself seated at a desk in a hotel room, away from home. Away from people who know you. Away from family members who love you. Voices that encourage and affirm are distant. But voices that tantalize and entice are near. Although the room is quiet, if you listen, their voices are crystal clear.

A placard on the nightstand invites you to a lounge in the lobby, where you can “make new friends in a relaxing atmosphere.” An advertisement on top of the television promises you that with the request of a late-night adult movie your “fantasies will come true.” On the television, a talk-show host discusses the day’s topic: “How to succeed at sex without really trying.”

Voices. Some for pleasure. Some for power. Some promise acceptance. Some promise tenderness. But all promise something. Even the voices that Jesus heard promised something. “After the people saw the miraculous sign that Jesus did, they began to say, ‘Surely this is the Prophet who is to come into the world.’” (John 6:14)

To the casual observer, those are the voices of victory. To the untrained ear, those are the sounds of triumph. What could be better? Five thousand men plus women and children proclaiming Christ to be the Prophet. Thousands of voices swelling into a roar of revival. And the people have everything they need for a revolution. They have an enemy: Herod. They have a martyr: John the Baptist. They have leadership: the disciples. They have ample supplies: Jesus the bread maker. And they have a king: Jesus of Nazareth. Why wait? The time has come. Israel will be restored. God’s people have heard God’s voice. “King Jesus!” someone proclaims. And the crowd chimes in. And don’t think for a minute that Christ didn’t hear their adulation.

A chorus promising power was intoxicating. No cross was needed. No sacrifice was required. An army of disciples was at his fingertips. The power to change the world was there without having to die doing it. Sweet revenge. Yes, Jesus heard the voices. He heard the Sirens’ song. But he also heard someone else. And when Jesus heard him, he sought him.

“Jesus, knowing that they intended to come and make him king by force, withdrew again to a mountain by himself.” (John 6:15) Jesus preferred to be alone with the true God, rather than in a crowd with the wrong people. Logic didn’t tell him to dismiss the crowds. Conventional wisdom didn’t tell him to turn his back on a willing army. No, it wasn’t a voice from without that Jesus heard. It was a voice from within.

The mark of a sheep is its ability to hear the Shepherd’s voice. “The sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.” (John 10:3) The mark of a disciple is his or her ability to hear the Master’s voice. “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.” (Rev. 3:20)

Today, the world rams at your door; Jesus taps at your door. The voices scream for your allegiance; Jesus softly and tenderly requests it. The world promises flashy pleasure; Jesus promises a quiet dinner with God: “I will come in and eat.” Which voice do you hear?

There’s never a time when Jesus isn’t speaking. Never. There’s never a place where Jesus isn’t present. Never. There’s never a room so dark, or a lounge so sensual, or an office so sophisticated that the ever-present, ever-pursuing, relentlessly tender Friend is not there, tapping gently on the doors of our hearts and waiting to be invited in. Unfortunately, few hear his voice; fewer still bother to even open the door.

But we should never interpret our numbness of hearing with his absence. Because amid the fleeting promises of pleasure is the timeless promise of his presence. “Surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matt. 28:20) “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” (Heb. 13:5) There is no chorus so loud that the voice of God cannot be heard – if we will just listen.

That’s true in that hotel room. Go back there in your mind’s eye. It might take you a few minutes to find it, but you will. It may not be as visible as the lounge placard or the movie advertisement. But it’s there. It doesn’t grab your attention like the escort ads. But wouldn’t you give up those lies every time for the peace you can find in that treasure? Treasure? What treasure?

A Bible. A simple, hard-covered, Gideon-placed, King James Version Bible. It might take you a few minutes to find it, but you will. And when you do, open it to one of those “voice” passages: “A time is coming when all who are in their graves will hear his voice and come out — those who have done good will rise to live, and those who have done evil will rise to be condemned.” (John 5:28-29)

Interesting. A day’s coming when everyone will hear his voice. A day’s coming when all the other voices will be silenced; his voice — and only his voice — will be heard. Some will hear his voice for the very first time. It’s not that he never spoke, it’s just that they never listened. For those, God’s voice will be the voice of a stranger. They will hear it once — and never hear it again. They will spend eternity fending off the voices they followed on earth.

But others will be called from their graves by a familiar voice. For they’re the sheep who know their shepherd. They’re the servants who opened the door when Jesus knocked. Now the door will open again.

Only this time, it won’t be Jesus who walks into our house; it’ll be us, who walk into his.

Grace,

Randy

Compassion

Compassion

As soon as Jesus heard the news, he left in a boat to a remote area to be alone. But the crowds heard where he was headed and followed on foot from many towns. Jesus saw the huge crowd as he stepped from the boat, and he had compassion on them and healed their sick.

That evening the disciples came to him and said, “This is a remote place, and it’s already getting late. Send the crowds away so they can go to the villages and buy food for themselves.” But Jesus said, “That isn’t necessary — you feed them.” “But we have only five loaves of bread and two fish!” they answered. “Bring them here,” he said.

Then he told the people to sit down on the grass. Jesus took the five loaves and two fish, looked up toward heaven, and blessed them. Then, breaking the loaves into pieces, he gave the bread to the disciples, who distributed it to the people. They all ate as much as they wanted, and afterward, the disciples picked up twelve baskets of leftovers. About 5,000 men were fed that day, in addition to all the women and children! (Matthew 14:13-21)

 Theresa Briones is a tender, compassionate, loving mother. She also has a wicked left hook that she used to punch a woman in a Laundromat. As reported in the Victoria Advocate, some kids were apparently making fun of Theresa’s daughter, Alicia. Alicia is bald. Her knees are arthritic. Her nose is pinched. Her hips are creaky. Her hearing’s bad. She’s missing teeth. She has the stamina of a seventy-year-old. And she’s only ten.

“Mom,” the kids taunted, “come and look at the monster!” Alicia weighs only twenty-two pounds and is shorter than most preschoolers. She suffers from progeria — a genetic aging disease that strikes 1 in 8,000,000 children. Kids with progeria seldom live beyond their mid-teens, and there are only 100 known cases of the disease in the world. “She’s not an alien. She’s not a monster,” Theresa defended. “She’s just like you and me.” Mentally, Alicia is a bubbly, fun-loving third grader with a long list of friends. She watches television in a toddler-sized rocking chair, and plays with Barbie dolls and teases her younger brother. Theresa has grown accustomed to the glances and questions. She’s patient with the constant curiosity. Genuine inquiries she accepts. Insensitive slanders she does not.

The mother of the finger-pointing children came to investigate. “I see ‘it,’” she told the kids. “My child is not an ‘it,’” Theresa stated. Then she decked the woman. That’s the nature of parental love. Mothers and fathers have a God-given ability to love their children regardless of imperfections. Not because the parents are blind. It’s just the opposite, really – they see vividly. Theresa sees Alicia’s inability as clearly as anyone. But she also sees Alicia’s value.

So does God. God sees us with the eyes of a Father. He sees our defects, errors and blemishes. But he also sees our value. He knows that each human being is a treasure. And because he does, people aren’t a source of stress but a source of joy. And when Jesus lands on the shore of Bethsaida, he steps into a sea of humanity. Keep in mind, he crossed the Galilee to get away from the crowds because he needed to grieve alone, and then be with his disciples. The last thing he needed was another crowd of thousands to teach and heal.

But his love for people overcame his need for rest, and when Jesus landed and saw a large crowd he had compassion on them and healed their sick. He had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. He welcomed them and spoke to them about the kingdom of God, and healed those who needed healing. It’s doubtful that anyone in the crowd thought to ask Jesus how he was doing, however. There’s no indication that anyone was concerned with how Jesus felt. The truth is, no one came to give; all had come to take.

It was like 5:00 p.m. on most weekdays in a lot of homes. The time of day when everyone wants a piece of Mom. One’s hungry, and the other wants her to read him a book. Another needs help with her homework, and the husband wants to tell her about his day. All at once. It’s Piranha Hour. When’s yours? When do people in your world demand a lot and offer little? Every boss has had a day in which the requests outnumber the results. There’s not a businessperson alive who hasn’t groaned as an armada of assignments docks at his or her desk. For the teacher, the piranha hour often begins when the first student arrives and ends when the last student leaves. Piranha hours: parents have them, bosses endure them, assistants dread them, teachers are besieged by them, and Jesus taught us how to live through them – successfully.

When hands extended and voices demanded, Jesus responded with love. He did so because the code within him disarmed the alarm. The code is worth noting, too: People are precious. “Sure,” you say, “but that was a piece of cake for Jesus. He’s God. He could do things like that; I can’t. After all, he was divine.” True, Jesus was equally God and man. But don’t be too quick to dismiss what he did. Consider his loving response from another perspective. Consider that, along with his holy strength, he also had a holy awareness. There weren’t any secrets on the mountain that day; Jesus knew the hearts of each person. He knew why they were there and what they would do.

Matthew writes that Jesus “healed their sick.” Not some of their sick. Not the righteous among the sick. Not the deserving among the sick. But “the sick.” Surely, among the many thousands, there were a few people unworthy of good health because the same divinity that gave Jesus the power to heal also gave him the power to perceive. For instance, I wonder if Jesus was tempted to say to the rapist, “Heal you? After what you’ve done?” Or to the child molester, “Why should I restore your health?” Or to the bigot, “Get out of here, and take your arrogance with you.”

And he could see not only their past, but their future as well. Undoubtedly, there were those in the multitude who would use their newfound health to hurt others. Jesus gave voice to the speechless who would curse. He gave sight to eyes that would lust. He healed hands that would kill. Many of those he healed would never say, “Thank you.” But he healed them anyway. Most were probably more concerned with being healthy than being holy. But he healed them anyway. Some of those who asked for bread that day would cry for his blood a few months later. But he healed them anyway.

Jesus chose to do what you and I seldom, if ever, choose to do. He chose to give gifts to people, knowing full well that those gifts could be used for evil. So, don’t be too quick to attribute Jesus’ compassion to his divinity. Remember both sides. For each time Jesus healed, he had to overlook the future and the past. (Something, by the way, that he still does) Have you noticed that God doesn’t ask you to prove that you’ll put your salary to good use? Have you noticed that God doesn’t turn off your heart when you misuse his gifts? Aren’t you glad that God doesn’t give you only that for which you remember to thank him?

God’s goodness is spurred by his nature, not by our worthiness. God does it daily, for millions of people. So, what did Jesus know that allowed him to do what he did? What internal code kept his calm from erupting into chaos? He knew the value of people.

Interestingly, the stress seen that day is not on Jesus’ face, but on the faces of the disciples. “Send the crowds away,” they demanded. Fair request. “After all,” they’re saying, “you’ve taught them. You’ve healed them. You’ve accommodated them. Now they’re getting hungry. And if we don’t send them away, they’ll want you to feed them, too!” I wish I could have seen the expression on the disciples’ faces when they heard the Master’s response. “That isn’t necessary. You feed them.”

I used to think that that was a rhetorical statement. I used to think that Jesus knew the disciples couldn’t feed the crowd, but that he asked them anyway. I used to think that it was a “test” to teach them to rely on God for what they couldn’t do. I don’t see it quite like that anymore. I still think it was a test, but not a test to show them what they couldn’t do, but a test to demonstrate what they could do. After all, they’d just come back from a road trip achieving the impossible. Jesus was asking them to do it again. “You give them something to eat.”

And I wish I could tell you that the disciples did it. I wish I could say that they knew God wouldn’t ask them to do something he wouldn’t empower them to do, so they fed the crowd. I wish I could tell you that the disciples miraculously fed the five thousand men plus women and children. But I can’t. Because they didn’t. Rather than looking to God, they looked in their wallets: “That would take eight months of a man’s wages! Are we to go and spend that much on bread and give it to them to eat?” (John 6:7) It’s as if they were saying, “Y-y-y-you’ve got to be kidding.” “He can’t be serious.” “It’s one of Jesus’ jokes, right?” “Do you know how many people are out there?”

Eyes big as saucers. Jaws dangling open. One ear hearing the din of the crowd, the other the command of God. Don’t miss the contrasting views. When Jesus saw the people, he saw an opportunity to love and affirm them because they had value. But when the disciples saw the people, they saw thousands of problems. And don’t miss the irony, either. The disciples tell the “Bread of Life” that there’s no bread. How silly we must appear to God.

And here’s where Jesus should have given up. This is the point in the pressure-packed day where Jesus should have exploded. The sorrow, the life threats, the exuberance, the crowds, the interruptions, the demands, and now this. His own disciples can’t do what he asks them. In front of five thousand men, they let him down. “Beam me up, Father,” should have been Jesus’ next words. But they weren’t. Instead he inquires, “How many loaves do you have?” The disciples bring him a little boy’s lunch. And a lunch pail becomes a banquet; all are fed. No word of reprimand is given. No furrowed brow of anger is seen. No “I-told-you-so” speech is delivered. The same compassion Jesus extends to the crowd is extended to his closest friends.

Look at this day one more time. Review what our Lord faced. Intense sorrow — the death of a dear friend and relative. Immediate threat — his name is on the wanted poster. Immeasurable joy — a homecoming with his followers. Immense crowds — a Niagara of people followed him everywhere. Insensitive interruptions — he sought rest and got people. Incredible demands — crowds of thousands clamored for his touch. Inept assistance — the one and only time he asked for help, he got a dozen “you’re-pulling-my-leg” expressions.

But the calm within Christ never erupted. The alarm never sounded. What did Jesus know that enabled him to do what he did? He knew the incredible value of people. As a result, he didn’t stomp his feet and demand his own way. He didn’t tell the disciples to find another beach where there were no people. He didn’t ask the crowds why they hadn’t brought their own food. He didn’t send the apostles back into the field for more training. Most importantly, he stayed calm in the midst of chaos. He even paused, in the midst of it all, to pray a prayer of thanks.

A boy went into a pet shop, looking for a puppy. The store owner showed him a litter in a box. The boy looked at the puppies. He picked each one up, examined it and then put it back into the box. After several minutes, he walked back to the owner and said, “I picked one out. How much will it cost?” The man gave him the price, and the boy promised to be back in a few days with the money. “Don’t take too long,” the owner cautioned. “Puppies like these sell quickly.” The boy turned and smiled knowingly, “I’m not worried,” he said. “Mine will still be here.”

The boy went to work — weeding, washing windows, cleaning yards. He worked hard and saved his money. When he had enough for the puppy, he returned to the store. He walked up to the counter and laid down a pocketful of wadded bills. The store owner sorted and counted the cash, and after verifying the amount, he smiled at the boy and said, “All right, son, you can go get your puppy.” The boy reached into the back of the box, pulled out a skinny dog with a limp leg, and started to leave.

The owner stopped him. “Don’t take that puppy,” he objected. “He’s crippled. He can’t play. He’ll never run with you. He can’t fetch. Get one of the healthy pups.” “No thank you, sir,” the boy replied. “This is exactly the kind of dog I’ve been looking for.” And as the boy turned to leave, the store owner started to speak but kept silent. He suddenly understood. You see, extending from the bottom of the boy’s pants was a brace — a brace for his leg that had been “crippled” in an accident.

Why did the boy want that particular dog? Because he knew how it felt, and he knew the dog was very special. And what did Jesus know that enabled him to do what he did? Because he knew how the people felt, and he knew that they were very special. Don’t forget that. Jesus knows how you feel.

Under the gun at work? Jesus knows how you feel. You’ve got more to do than is humanly possible? So did he. You’ve got children who make a “piranha hour” out of your dinner hour? Jesus knows what that’s like. People take more from you than they give in return? Jesus understands. Your teenagers won’t listen? Your students won’t try? Your employees give you blank stares when you assign tasks? Believe me, Jesus knows how you feel.

You are precious to him. So precious that he became like you so that you would come to him. When you struggle, he listens. When you ache, he responds. When you question, he hears. He’s been there. You’ve heard that before, but you need to hear it again. He loves you with the love of a Theresa Briones. He understands you with the compassion of the “crippled” boy. And like Theresa, he battles with hell itself to protect you.

And, like the boy, he paid a great price to take you home.

Grace,

Randy

Empathy

Empathy

Seeing that we have a great High Priest who has entered the inmost Heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to our faith. For we have no superhuman High Priest to whom our weaknesses are unintelligible — he himself has shared fully in all our experience of temptation, except that he never sinned. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with fullest confidence, that we may receive mercy for our failures and grace to help in the hour of need. (Hebrews 4:14-16)

Chippie the parakeet never saw it coming. One second he was peacefully perched in his cage – the next he was sucked in, washed up and blown over. The problems began when Chippie’s owner decided to clean Chippie’s cage with a vacuum cleaner. She removed the attachment from the end of the hose and stuck it in the cage. Then the phone rang. She turned to pick up the phone and had barely said “hello” when, “Sssopp!” Chippie got sucked in. The bird owner gasped, put the phone down, turned off the vacuum and opened the bag. There was Chippie — still alive, but stunned. But since the bird was now covered with dust and soot, she grabbed him and raced to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and held Chippie under the running water. Then, realizing that Chippie was soaking wet and shivering, she did what any compassionate bird owner would do … she reached for the hair dryer and blasted the pet with hot air. Poor Chippie never knew what hit him.

A few days after the trauma, the Galveston reporter who’d initially written about the event contacted Chippie’s owner to see how the bird was recovering. “Well,” she replied, “Chippie doesn’t sing much anymore — he just sits and stares.” Sucked in, washed up, and blown over … that’s enough to steal the song from the stoutest heart.

Ever felt like Chippie? One minute we’re seated in familiar territory with a song on our lips, then .….. the pink slip comes; the rejection letter arrives; the doctor calls; the check bounces; a policeman knocks on the door. Sssopp! You’re sucked into a black cavern of doubts, doused with the cold water of reality, and stung with the hot air of empty promises. A life that had been so calm is now so stormy. It’s like you’re being hail stormed by demands. Assailed by doubts. Pummeled by questions. And somewhere in the trauma, you lose your joy. Somewhere in the storm, you lose your song.

There’s a day in the life of Christ that you need to know about; aside from the Crucifixion, it’s probably the most stressful day of his life. A roaring sequence of bad news, demanding crowds and doubting friends. 24 hours in which Jesus faces the same gale-force fears that you and I do. Clouds of darkness billow. Yet through it all Jesus remains calm. He endures the day without losing his song. How?

He begins the morning by hearing about the death of John the Baptist: his cousin, his forerunner, his co-worker, his friend. The man who came closer to understanding Jesus than any other is now dead. Imagine losing the one person who knows you better than anyone else. Reflect on the horror of being told that your dearest friend has just been murdered. Consider your reaction if you were told that your best friend had just been decapitated by a people-pleasing, incestuous monarch, and you’ll see how the day begins for Christ. His world is beginning to turn upside down – and the day’s just begun.

The emissaries brought more than news of sorrow, however; they brought a warning: “The same Herod who took John’s head is interested in yours.” Listen to how Luke presents the monarch’s madness: “Herod said, ‘I beheaded John. Who, then, is this I hear such things about?’ And he tried to see him.” (Luke 9:9) Something tells me that Herod wanted to make more than just a social call.

So, with John’s life taken and his own life threatened, Jesus chooses to get away for a while. “When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place.” (Matt. 14:13) But before he can get away, his disciples arrive. Mark’s gospel states that the “apostles gathered around Jesus and reported to him all they had done and taught.” (Mark 6:30) They return exuberant because Jesus had earlier commissioned them to proclaim the gospel and authenticate it with miracles. So, they went out and preached that people should repent. “They drove out many demons and anointed many sick people with oil and healed them.” (Mark 6:13) Can you imagine the excitement? Can you envision the scene? A reunion of twelve friends. A reuniting of disciples with their teacher. A homecoming bubbling with testimonies: Peter describing a lame man he healed. John telling about a crowd he taught. Andrew recounting the deliverance of an epileptic. James relating to Jesus how the crowds followed him wherever he went. Matthew reporting the healing of a blind woman.

Remember, these disciples were ordinary men. They weren’t orators, scholars, kings or saints. They were fishermen and a tax collector; common laborers who, by God’s power, had taken a nation by storm. The emotion? Exuberance. So, in a matter of moments, Jesus’ heart goes from the pace of a funeral dirge to the triumphant march of a ticker-tape parade. And look who follows the disciples to locate Jesus. About five thousand men plus women and children. Rivers of people cascade out of the hills and villages. They swarm around Jesus, each of them with only one desire: to meet the man who had empowered the disciples. What had begun as a mournful morning now buzzes with frenetic activity.

The morning has been a jungle trail of the unexpected. First, Jesus grieves over the death of a dear friend and relative. Then his life is threatened. Next he celebrates the triumphant return of his followers. Then he is nearly suffocated by a brouhaha of humanity. Bereavement … jeopardy … jubilation … bedlam. And the day’s not even half over.

In light of all the commotion, Jesus decides to take the disciples to a quiet place where they can rest and reflect. He shouts a command over the noise of the crowd. “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” (Mark 6:31) So, the thirteen fight their way to the beach and climb into a boat. And, for a few precious moments, the world is quiet again. The din of the crowd grows distant and the only sound is the slap of the water against the hull of the boat. Jesus’ heart is weighed down by sorrow and buoyed by joy. He watches his followers swapping stories of victory. Then he raises his glance and sees on the horizon Tiberias, the city constructed by John the Baptist’s murderer, Herod. Joy suddenly married to indignation causes his fists to clench and his eyes to moisten.

And who would question his desire to get away from the people? He just needs a few hours alone. Just a bit of a respite. A little retreat. A time to pray. A time to ponder. A time to weep. A time without the crowds or their demands. A campfire wreathed with friends. An evening with those he loves. The people can wait until tomorrow.

The people, however, have other ideas. “The crowds learned about it and followed him.” (Luke 9:11) It’s a six-mile walk around the northeastern corner of the Sea of Galilee, so the crowd takes a hike. So when Jesus got to Bethsaida, his desired retreat had become a roaring arena. “Surprise!”

Add to the list of sorrow, peril, excitement and bedlam the word interruption. Jesus’ plans are interrupted. What he has in mind for his day and what the people have in mind for his day are two completely different agendas. What Jesus seeks and what Jesus gets are not the same. Sound familiar? Remember when you sought a night’s rest and got a colicky baby? Remember when you sought to catch up at the office and got even further behind? Remember when you wanted to use your Saturday for leisure, but ended up fixing the neighbor’s sink? It happened to Jesus, too. Jesus knows how you feel.

Ponder this and use it the next time your world goes from calm to chaos. His pulse has raced. His eyes have grown weary. His heart has grown heavy. He’s had to climb out of bed with a sore throat. He’s been kept awake late and had gotten up early. He knows how you feel. But you may have trouble believing that. You probably believe that Jesus knows what it means to endure heavy-duty tragedies. You’re likely convinced that Jesus is acquainted with sorrow and has wrestled with fear. Most people accept that. But can God relate to the hassles and headaches of our lives? For some reason, that’s harder to believe.

Maybe that’s why portions of this day are recorded in all the Gospel accounts. No other event, other than the Crucifixion itself, is told by all four Gospel writers. Not Jesus’ baptism. Not his temptation. Not even his birth. But all four writers chronicle this day. It’s as if Matthew, Mark, Luke and John knew that you’d be wondering if God really understands. And they proclaim their response in four-part harmony: Jesus knows how you feel.

Of the many messages Jesus taught us that day about stress, the first one is this: “God knows how you feel.” Re-read Hebrews 4:15. The writer of Hebrews is adamant, almost to the point of redundancy. It’s as if he anticipates our objections. So he boldly proclaims Jesus’ ability to understand. Look at the wording again. He himself – not an angel; not an ambassador. Not an emissary, but Jesus himself. Shared fully – not partially; not nearly; not to a large degree. Entirely. Jesus shared fully. In all our experience – every hurt; each ache; all the stresses and all the strains. No exceptions. No substitutes. Why? So he could sympathize with our weaknesses.

Every page of the Gospels hammers home this crucial principle: God knows how you feel. From the funeral, to the factory, to the frustration of a demanding schedule. Jesus understands. When you tell God that you’ve reached your limit, he knows what you mean. When you shake your head at impossible deadlines, he shakes his, too. When your plans are interrupted by people who have other plans, he nods in empathy. He’s been there. He knows how you feel.

Let me take you to the operating room of the Kane Summit Hospital, Pennsylvania. A doctor is performing an appendectomy. The patient has complained of severe abdominal pain. The diagnosis is clear: an inflamed appendix. Dr. Evan O’Neill Kane is performing the surgery. In his distinguished thirty-seven year medical career, he has performed nearly four thousand appendectomies, so this surgery will be uneventful in all ways except two.

The first novelty was the use of local anesthesia in major surgery. Dr. Kane was a crusader against the hazards of general anesthesia. He contended that a local application was far safer. Many of his colleagues agreed with him in principle, but in order for them to agree in practice they would have to see the theory applied. So, Dr. Kane searched for a volunteer, a patient who was willing to undergo surgery while under local anesthesia. But a volunteer was not so easily found. Many were squeamish at the thought of being awake during their own surgery. Others were fearful that the anesthesia might wear off too soon. Eventually, however, Dr. Kane found a candidate.

So, on Tuesday morning, February 15, 1921, the historic operation occurred. The patient was prepped and wheeled into the operating room. A local anesthetic was applied. And as he had done thousands of times, Dr. Kane dissected the superficial tissues and located the appendix. He skillfully removed it and concluded the surgery. And during the procedure, the patient had only complained of minor discomfort. The volunteer was taken into post-op, then placed in a hospital ward. He recovered quickly and was discharged the next day. Dr. Kane had proven his theory. Thanks to the willingness of a brave volunteer, Kane had successfully demonstrated that local anesthesia was a viable, and even preferable, alternative. But recall that I had said there were two facts that made the surgery unique. You’ve only heard the first.

The second was the patient. The courageous candidate for surgery by Dr. Kane was Dr. Kane, himself. To prove his point, the 60 year-old had operated on himself using mirrors. The doctor became a patient in order to convince the patients to trust the doctor. But the story of the doctor who became his own patient is mild compared to the story of the God who became human. But Jesus did. So that you and I would believe that the Healer knows our hurts, he voluntarily became one of us. He placed himself in our position. He suffered our pains and felt our fears.

Rejection? He felt it. Temptation? He knew it. Loneliness? He experienced it. Death? He tasted it. And stress? He could write a best-selling book about it. And why did he do it? One reason. So that when you hurt, you will go to him — your Father and your Physician — and let him heal you.

Jesus knows how you feel. That’s empathy. That’s grace. That’s God.

Grace,

Randy