Destiny

Destiny

They spotted him off in the distance. By the time he got to them they had cooked up a plot to kill him. The brothers were saying, “Here comes that dreamer. Let’s kill him and throw him into one of these old cisterns; we can say that a vicious animal ate him up. We’ll see what his dreams amount to….” ¶When Joseph reached his brothers, they ripped off the fancy coat he was wearing, grabbed him, and threw him into a cistern. The cistern was dry; there wasn’t any water in it.

Then they sat down to eat their supper. Looking up, they saw a caravan of Ishmaelites on their way from Gilead, their camels loaded with spices, ointments, and perfumes to sell in Egypt. Judah said, “Brothers, what are we going to get out of killing our brother and concealing the evidence? Let’s sell him to the Ishmaelites, but let’s not kill him—he is, after all, our brother, our own flesh and blood.” His brothers agreed.

By that time the Midianite traders were passing by. His brothers pulled Joseph out of the cistern and sold him for twenty pieces of silver to the Ishmaelites who took Joseph with them down to Egypt. (Genesis 37: 18-20; 23-28)

Joseph's troubles started when his mouth did. He came to breakfast one morning, blabbering in detail about the images he’d seen in his sleep the night before: sheaves of wheat lying in a circle, all bundled up, ready for harvest. Each one tagged with the name of a different brother – Reuben, Gad, Levi, etc. And in the center of the circle was Joseph's sheaf. In Joseph’s dream only his sheaf stood up. The implication? You’ll bow down to me. What was the boy thinking? Did he actually expect his brothers to be excited about his dream? To pat him on the back and proclaim, "We’ll gladly kneel before you, our dear baby brother"? Uh, no. They didn't. They kicked dust in his face and told him to get lost.

Apparently, Joseph didn't take the hint because he came back with another doozy. Instead of sheaves it was now stars, a sun and a moon. The stars represented the brothers. The sun and moon symbolized Joseph's father and deceased mother. All were bowing to Joseph – the kid with the elegant coat and soft skin. And there’s that bowing thing again, too. He should’ve kept his dreams to himself, and his big mouth shut. But no.

So, maybe that’s what Joseph was thinking as he sat in the bottom of the cistern. His calls for help hadn't done any good. His brothers had seized the chance to silence him once and for all; they weren’t listening. But from deep in the pit, Joseph detected a new sound – the sound of a wagon and a camel, but probably more. Then a new set of voices. Foreign. They spoke to the brothers with an accent. Joseph strained to understand the conversation – something about, "We'll sell him to you . . ." and "How much?" Joseph looked up to see a circle of faces staring down at him. Finally, one of the brothers was lowered into the pit on the end of a rope. He wrapped both arms around Joseph, and the others pulled them out.

The traders likely examined Joseph from head to toe. They probably stuck fingers in his mouth and counted his teeth. They pinched his arms for muscle. The brothers then made their pitch: "Not an ounce of fat on those bones. Strong as an ox, that kid. The boy can work all day." The merchants huddled, and when they came back with an offer, Joseph realized what was going on. "Hey! Stop! Stop it right now! I’m your brother! You can't sell me!" His brothers shoved him to the side and began to barter with the businessmen.

"What will you pay for him?" "We'll give you ten coins," the strangers said. "No less than thirty," the brothers countered. "Fifteen and no more," wagered the Bedouins. "Twenty-five," countered the boys. "Twenty and that’s our last offer," the merchants concluded. Pretty good pay for a day’s work, so the brothers took the coins, grabbed the fancy coat and walked away. Joseph, on the other hand, fell on his knees and wailed. The traders tied one end of a rope around his neck and the other to the wagon. Joseph, dirty and tearstained, had no choice but to follow. He fell in behind the creaking wagon and the rack-ribbed camels. He cast one final glance over his shoulder at the backs of his brothers, who disappeared over the horizon. "Help me!" No one turned around. "His brothers . . . sold him for twenty pieces of silver to the Ishmaelites who took Joseph with them down to Egypt." (Gen. 37:28)

Just a few hours ago Joseph's life had been looking up. He had a new coat and a pampered place in the house. He dreamed his brothers and parents would look up to him. But what goes up must come down, and Joseph's life came down – hard. Put down by his siblings. Thrown down into an empty well. Let down by his brothers, and sold down the river as a slave. Then led down the road to Egypt.

Down, down, down. Stripped of his name, status and position. Everything he had, everything he thought he'd ever have – gone. Vanished. Poof. Just like that. Has that ever happened to you? Have you ever been down in the mouth, down to your last dollar, down to the custody hearing, down to the bottom of the pecking order, down on your luck, down on your life . . . down . . . down . . . down to Egypt?

Life can pull us down. Joseph arrived in Egypt with absolutely nothing. Not a penny to his name, or a name worth a red cent. His family tree was meaningless, and his occupation was despised; the clean-shaven people of the pyramids avoided the woolly Bedouins of the desert. No credentials to stand on. No vocation to call upon. No family to lean on. He’d lost everything. Well, everything that is with one exception . . . his destiny.

Those odd dreams had convinced Joseph that God had plans for him. The details were vague and ill defined, for sure. Joseph had no way of knowing the specifics of his future. But the dreams told him this much: he would have a place of prominence in the midst of his family. So, Joseph latched onto his dreams for the life jacket they were. He didn’t have anything else.

How else do we explain his survival? The Bible says nothing about his training, education, superior skills or talents. But the narrator made a lead story out of Joseph's destiny. The Hebrew boy lost his family, lost his dignity, and lost his home country, but he never lost his belief in God's belief in him. Trudging through the desert toward Egypt, he resolved, “It won't end this way. God has a purpose for my life.” While wearing the heavy chains of the slave owners, he remembered, “I've been called to something more than this.” Dragged into a city of strange tongues and shaved faces, he told himself, “God has bigger plans for me.”

To be sure, God had a destiny for Joseph. And the boy believed in it. Do you believe in God's destiny for you? I don’t know about you, but I've met a few Egypt-bound people in my life, and I've learned to ask a few questions. For instance, let’s say you and I were having this talk over a cup of coffee. At this point in the conversation, I’d lean across the table and likely ask, "What do you still have that you can’t lose? The difficulties have taken away a lot. I get that. But there’s one gift your troubles can’t touch: your destiny. So, let’s talk about that.”

You see, you are God's child. He saw you, picked you and placed you. "You did not choose me; I chose you," Jesus said. (John 15:16) Before you are a butcher, baker, or cabinetmaker, male or female, Asian or black, you are God's child. You’re his first choice, and that’s not always the case in life. Once, just minutes before jury selection, the Assistant District Attorney leaned over and whispered to me, "You weren't my first choice." Flummoxed, I said: "I wasn't?" "No, the attorney we really wanted is still in trial in another department." "Oh." "But thanks for filling in," my supervisor added. "Sure … uh, anytime." At that point, I gave serious thought to arguing the State’s case as “Mr. Substitute."

You'll never hear those words from God. He chose you. The choice wasn't obligatory, required, compulsory, forced or compelled. He selected you because he wanted to. You are his open, willful, voluntary choice. He walked onto the auction block where you stood, and he proclaimed, "That child’s mine." And he bought you with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot." (1 Peter 1:19) You are God's child. And you are his child forever.

Don't believe the tombstone. You are more than a dash between two dates. "When this tent we live in – our body here on earth – is torn down, God will have a house in heaven for us to live in, a home he himself has made, which will last forever." (2 Cor. 5:1) Don't get sucked into that short-term kind of thinking. Your struggles will not last forever, but you will. God will have his Eden. He is creating a garden in which Adams and Eves will share in his likeness and love, and at peace with each other, animals and nature. We will rule with him over lands, cities and nations. "If we endure, we shall also reign with Him." (2 Tim. 2:12) Believe that. Hang onto that. Tattoo it on the interior of your heart. It may seem as if calamity has sucked your life out to sea, but it hasn't. You still have your destiny.

Unfortunately, we forget this on the road to Egypt. Forgotten destinies litter the landscape like carcasses. We redefine ourselves according to our catastrophes: "I’m the divorcee, the addict, the bankrupt businessman, the kid with the disability, or the man with the scar." We settle for a small destiny: to make money, make friends, make a name or make muscles. Determine not to make that mistake. Because if you think you’ve lost it all, you haven't. "God's gifts and God's call are under full warranty — never canceled, never rescinded." (Rom. 11:29) Here's an example.

Let’s say your company is laying off employees. Your boss finally calls you into his office. As kind as he tries to be, a layoff is a layoff. All of a sudden you’re cleaning out your desk. Voices of doubt and fear raise their volume. “How will I pay the bills? Who’s going to hire me?” Dread dominates your thoughts. But then you remember your destiny: “What do I have that I cannot lose? Wait a second. I’m still God's child. My life is more than this life. These days are a vapor, a passing breeze. This will eventually pass. God will make something good out of this. I will work hard, stay faithful and trust him no matter what.” Bingo. You just trusted your destiny.

Or try this one. Your fiancé wants his engagement ring back. All those promises and the proposal melted the moment he met the new girl at work. The jerk. The bum. The no-good, pond scum. Like Joseph, you've been dumped into the pit. And, like Joseph, you choose to heed the call of God on your life. It's not easy. You're tempted to get even. But you choose instead to ponder your destiny: “I am God's child. My life is more than this life . . . more than this broken heart. This is God's promise, and unlike that sorry excuse for a guy I used to know, God won't break his promise to me.” Bam. Another victory.

Only God could have taken the events of Joseph’s life to make his dreams come true – some thirty years later. There was nothing Joseph could have done by his own might or works, other than to be patient and hold on to his faith. God’s history is redeemed in lifetimes, not necessarily in minutes. That’s God’s perspective, and he invites you to share it. Survival in Egypt begins with a yes to God's call on your life, and He’s calling you now.

How will you answer?

Grace,

Randy

The Pits

The Pits

They spotted him off in the distance. By the time he got to them they had cooked up a plot to kill him. The brothers were saying, “Here comes that dreamer. Let’s kill him and throw him into one of these old cisterns; we can say that a vicious animal ate him up. We’ll see what his dreams amount to.”

Reuben heard the brothers talking and intervened to save him, “We’re not going to kill him. No murder. Go ahead and throw him in this cistern out here in the wild, but don’t hurt him.” Reuben planned to go back later and get him out and take him back to his father.

When Joseph reached his brothers, they ripped off the fancy coat he was wearing, grabbed him, and threw him into a cistern. The cistern was dry; there wasn’t any water in it.

Then they sat down to eat their supper. (Genesis 37:18-25)

She was trembling, the kind of inner tremor you can just sense with even the slightest hand on a shoulder. She was in the grocery store. Her eyes were teary, and her chin quivered. He'd left her. After twenty years of marriage, three kids and a dozen moves, gone. Traded her in for a younger model.

He'd just been fired, and the ouster was entirely his fault. He'd made stupid, inappropriate remarks at work. Crude, offensive statements, to be accurate. His boss canned him. Now, he's a fifty-seven-year-old unemployed manager in a struggling economy. He feels terrible, and sounds even worse. Wife’s angry. Kids are confused.

She’s fresh out of high school, hoping to get into college next month. Her life hasn't been easy. When she was six years old, her parents divorced. When she was fifteen, they remarried, only to divorce two years later. Her parents told her to choose: live with Mom or live with Dad.

What a mess. The pits. Can God use such chaos for good? The answer comes from another pit.

A deep, dark pit. So steep, the boy couldn’t climb out. Had he been able to, his brothers would have just shoved him back down. They were the ones who’d thrown him in. “When Joseph reached his brothers, they ripped off the fancy coat he was wearing, grabbed him, and threw him into a cistern. The cistern was dry; there wasn’t any water in it. Then they sat down to eat their supper.” (Gen. 37:23-25)

An abandoned cistern. Jagged rocks and roots extended from its sides where the seventeen-year-old boy lay at the bottom. Downy beard, spindly arms, scrawny legs. Eyes wide with fear. His voice hoarse from screaming. And it wasn't like his brothers didn't hear him. Twenty-two years later, when a famine had tamed their swagger and guilt had dampened their pride, they would confess: "We saw the anguish of his soul when he pleaded with us, and we would not hear." (Gen. 42:21)

These are the great-grandsons of Abraham. The sons of Jacob. Couriers of God's covenant to a galaxy of people. Tribes will carry their banners. The name of Jesus Christ will appear on their family tree. They’re the Scriptures' equivalent of royalty. But on this day they were the Bronze Age version of a dysfunctional family. They could have had their own reality show, or been guests on Jerry Springer.

In the shadow of a sycamore, within earshot of Joseph's appeals, they chew on venison and pass the wineskin. Hearts as hard as the Canaanite desert they’re herding. Lunch mattered more than their brother. They despised Joseph: "They hated him and could not speak peaceably to him . . . they hated him even more . . . they hated him . . . his brothers envied him." (Gen. 37:4-5, 8, 11) Here's why.

The boys’ father pampered Joseph like a prized calf. Jacob had two wives, Leah and Rachel, but one love – Rachel. So when Rachel died, Jacob kept her memory alive by fawning all over their first son. The brothers worked all day; Joseph played all day. They wore clothes from a secondhand store; Jacob gave Joseph a hand-stitched, multicolored coat with embroidered sleeves. They slept in the bunkhouse; he had a queen-sized bed in his own room. While they ran the family herd, Joseph, Daddy's little darling, stayed home. Jacob treated the eleventh son like a firstborn. The brothers spat at the sight of Joseph.

To say the family was in crisis would be like saying a grass hut might be unstable in a hurricane. The brothers caught Joseph far from home, sixty miles away from Daddy's protection, and went nuclear on him: "they ripped off the fancy coat he was wearing, grabbed him, and threw him into a cistern." (vv. 23-24). Defiant verbs. They not only wanted to kill Joseph, but to hide the evidence, too. This was a murderous plot from the beginning. "We can say that a vicious animal ate him up." (v. 20) Premeditated.

Joseph never saw the assault coming. It’s not like he climbed out of bed that morning and thought, “I'd better get dressed in some padded clothing because today’s the day I get tossed into a hole.” The attack caught him completely off guard. And, probably, so did yours. Joseph's pit came in the form of a cistern; maybe yours came in the form of a diagnosis, a foster home, or a traumatic injury. Joseph was thrown in a hole and despised. And you? Thrown in an unemployment line and forgotten; thrown into a divorce and abandoned; thrown into bed and abused. The pit. A kind of death – waterless and austere. Some people never recover. For them, life is reduced to one quest: to get out and never be hurt again. But that’s easier said than done because pits have no easy exits.

And Joseph's story gets worse before it gets better. Abandonment led to enslavement, then entrapment, and finally imprisonment. He was sucker punched. Sold out. Mistreated. People made promises only to break them; offered gifts only to take them back. If hurt were a desert, then Joseph was sentenced to a life of hard labor in the Mojave. Yet he never gave up. Bitterness never staked its claim. Anger never metastasized into hatred. His heart never hardened; his resolve never vanished. He not only survived; he thrived. He ascended like a helium balloon: an Egyptian official promoted him to chief servant; the prison warden placed him over the inmates; and Pharaoh, the highest ruler on the planet, shoulder-tapped Joseph to serve as his prime minister. By the end of his life, Joseph was the second most powerful man of his generation, and it’s not hyperbole to say that he saved the world from starvation. But how?

How’d he flourish in the midst of tragedy? We don't have to speculate. Some twenty years later the roles were reversed – Joseph as the strong one and his brothers the weak ones. They came to him in dread. They feared he would settle the score and throw them into a pit of his own making. But Joseph didn't. And in his explanation we find his inspiration: “As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good in order to bring about this present result, to preserve many people alive.” (50:20)

Intended evil becomes eventual good in God’s hands. So, Joseph tied himself to the pillar of that promise and held on for dear life. Nothing in his story glosses over the presence of evil. Quite the contrary; there’s bloodstains and tearstains everywhere. Joseph's heart was rubbed raw against the rocks of disloyalty and miscarried justice. Yet time and time again God redeemed the pain. The torn robe became a royal one; the pit became a palace; the broken family grew old together. The very acts intended to destroy God's servant turned out to strengthen him. "You meant evil against me," Joseph told his brothers, using a Hebrew verb that traces its meaning to "weave." "You wove evil," he was saying to his brothers, "but God rewove it together for good." God, the Master Weaver.

He stretches the yarn and intertwines the colors, the ragged twine with the velvet strings, and the pains with the pleasures. Nothing escapes his reach. Every king, every despot, every weather pattern, and every molecule is at his command. He passes the shuttle back and forth across the generations, and as he does, a design emerges. Satan weaves; God reweaves. That’s the meaning behind Joseph's words: "God meant it for good in order to bring about . . . many people alive."

The Hebrew word translated as “bring about” is actually a construction term. It describes a task or building project similar to the one you’ve probably driven through during weekday rush hours. Three lanes have been reduced to one, transforming your morning commute into a daily stew. The California interstate projects, like human history, have seemingly been in development since before time began. Cranes hover overhead; workers hold signs and lean on shovels, while several million people grumble: how much longer is this going to take? Highway engineers, on the other hand, have a much different attitude about “carmageddon.” They endure the same traffic jams and detours like the rest of us, but do it with a much better attitude. Why? Because they know how these projects develop, and they know they’ll eventually get finished. They know because they've seen the plans and know the builder.

By giving us stories like Joseph's, God allows us to study his plans. And in Joseph’s case, those plans look pretty messy. Brothers dumping brother. Entitlements. Famines and family feuds scattered about like nails and cement bags on a freeway project. Satan's logic was sinister and simple: destroy the family of Abraham and thereby destroy his seed, Jesus Christ. All of hell, it seems, had set its target on Jacob's boys. But watch the Master Builder at work. He cleared debris, stabilized the structure, and bolted trusses until the chaos of Genesis 37:24 ("They . . . cast him into a pit") became the triumph of Genesis 50:20 ("life for many people.") God as Master Weaver, Master Builder. He redeemed the story of Joseph. And if He did it for Joseph, can't he redeem your story as well?

You'll get out of the pits; it’s not forever. You fear you won't. We all do. We fear that the depression will never lift, the yelling will never stop, and the pain will never leave. Here in the pits, surrounded by steep walls and angry brothers, we wonder, “Will this gray sky ever brighten; these loads ever lighten?” We feel stuck, trapped, locked in. Predestined for failure. Will I ever exit this pit? Yes, you will. Deliverance is to the Bible what jazz music is to Tuesday’s Mardi Gras: bold, brassy, and everywhere. Out of the lions' den for Daniel, the prison for Peter, the whale's belly for Jonah, Goliath's shadow for David, the storm for the disciples, disease for the lepers, doubt for Thomas, the grave for Lazarus, and the shackles for Paul. God gets us through stuff.

Through the Red Sea onto dry ground (Ex. 14:22), through the wilderness (Deut. 29:5), through the valley of the shadow of death (Ps. 23:4), and through the deep sea. (Ps. 77:19) “Through” seems to be a favorite word of God's: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you.” (Isa. 43:2)

It won't be painless. For instance, have you wept your final tear or received your last round of chemotherapy? Not necessarily. Will your unhappy marriage become happy in a heartbeat? Not likely. Are you exempt from a trip to the cemetery? Does God guarantee the absence of struggle and the abundance of strength? Not in this life. But he does pledge to reweave your pain for a higher purpose.

And, it may not be quick, either. Joseph was 17 years old when his brothers abandoned him. He was at least 37 when he saw them again. Another couple of years passed after that before he saw his father again. Sometimes God takes his time: 120 years to prepare Noah for the flood, 80 years to prepare Moses for his work. God called young David to be king, only to return him to the sheep pasture and then run for his life like Ben Gazzara for more than a decade from the crazy king he was anointed to replace. He called Paul to be an apostle and then isolated him in Arabia for three years. Jesus was on the earth for three decades before he built anything more than a kitchen table. How long will God take with you? He may take his time. His history is redeemed in lifetimes, not in minutes.

But God will use the pits in life for His good. We see a perfect mess; God sees a perfect chance to train, test, and teach the future prime minister. We see a prison; God sees a kiln. We see famine; God sees the relocation of his chosen people. We call it Egypt; God calls it protective custody, where the sons of Jacob can escape Canaanite cruelty to multiply in peace abundantly. We see Satan's tricks and ploys; God sees Satan tripped and foiled. You’re a version of Joseph in your generation. You represent a challenge to Satan's plan. You carry something of God within you, something noble and holy, something the world needs – wisdom, kindness, mercy, skill. And if Satan can neutralize you, he can mute your influence.

The story of Joseph is in the Bible to teach us to trust God to trump evil. What Satan intends for evil, God, the Master Weaver and Master Builder, redeems for good. Joseph would be the first to tell you that life in the pit stinks. Yet for all its rottenness the pit does at least this much – it forces you to look up, i.e., someone from up there must come down here and give you a hand. God did that for Joseph – at the right time, and in the right way. He will do the same for you.

Because He knows your name. (John 10:3)

Grace,

Randy

Go

Go

Jesus and his followers went to the other side of the lake to the area of the Gerasene people. When Jesus got out of the boat, instantly a man with an evil spirit came to him from the burial caves. This man lived in the caves, and no one could tie him up, not even with a chain. Many times people had used chains to tie the man's hands and feet, but he always broke them off. No one was strong enough to control him. Day and night he would wander around the burial caves and on the hills, screaming and cutting himself with stones. While Jesus was still far away, the man saw him, ran to him, and fell down before him.

The man shouted in a loud voice, "What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I command you in God's name not to torture me!" He said this because Jesus was saying to him, "You evil spirit, come out of the man."

Then Jesus asked him, "What is your name?" He answered, "My name is Legion, because we are many spirits." He begged Jesus again and again not to send them out of that area. A large herd of pigs was feeding on a hill near there. The demons begged Jesus, "Send us into the pigs; let us go into them." So Jesus allowed them to do this. The evil spirits left the man and went into the pigs. Then the herd of pigs – about two thousand of them — rushed down the hill into the lake and were drowned.

The herdsmen ran away and went to the town and to the countryside, telling everyone about this. So people went out to see what had happened. They came to Jesus and saw the man who used to have the many evil spirits, sitting, clothed, and in his right mind. And they were frightened. The people who saw this told the others what had happened to the man who had the demons living in him, and they told about the pigs. Then the people began to beg Jesus to leave their area.

As Jesus was getting back into the boat, the man who was freed from the demons begged to go with him. But Jesus would not let him. He said, "Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you and how he has had mercy on you." So the man left and began to tell the people in the Ten Towns about what Jesus had done for him and everyone was amazed. (Mark 5:1-20)

Here’s a trivia question: Who was the first missionary Jesus ever sent? Someone well trained, perhaps? You know . . . someone who had an intimate relationship with Christ; a devoted follower; a close disciple; a thorough knowledge of Scripture and sacrifice. Right? Wrong. Here’s a hint: to find this guy, you don't have to go to the Great Commission. He’s not even on the short list of apostles, or one of the seventy-two disciples sent out by Jesus. The epistles, then? No. Long before Paul picked up a pen, this preacher was already at work. Okay, so where did Jesus go to find his first missionary? A cemetery. And who was the first ambassador he commissioned? A raging lunatic. The man Jesus sent out was a madman turned missionary.

“When Jesus got out of the boat, instantly a man with an evil spirit came to him from the burial caves. This man lived in the caves, and no one could tie him up, not even with a chain. Many times people had used chains to tie the man's hands and feet, but he always broke them off. No one was strong enough to control him. Day and night he would wander around the burial caves and on the hills, screaming and cutting himself with stones.” (Mark 5:2-5)

He's the man your mother told you to avoid. He's the guy police put away on a §5150, i.e., a section of the California Welfare and Institutions Code that allows an officer or clinician to involuntarily confine a person, for up to 14 days, suspected of having a mental disorder that makes him or her a danger to themselves, or to others. He's the deranged lunatic who stalks neighborhoods and murders families. His fearsome face and behavior fills television screens nationwide during the nightly news. And this guy is the first missionary of the church. Terrific. Palestine didn't know what to do with him. They tried to restrain him, but he broke the chains. He ripped off his clothes. He lived in caves. He cut himself with rocks. He was a rabid dog on the loose, a menace to society. He was absolutely no good to anyone. No one had a place for him. Well, no one except Jesus, that is.

By today’s standards, the best that modern medicine could offer a guy like that would be a ton of psychotropic meds and years of psychotherapy. And maybe, with time, thousands of dollars and a legion of professionals, his destructive behaviors could be kept in check. But that would take years, and there’d be no guarantee of success. With Jesus, it took seconds and the man was permanently healed.

The encounter at the lakeshore was probably pretty explosive. The disciples' boat had just beached by a graveyard and a nearby herd of pigs. The disciples are exhausted from the previous nights’ events – when they’d almost lost their lives until Jesus calmed the storm on the Sea of Galilee. Now they’re in Gentile country where graveyards and pigs are ritually and culturally unclean for Jews. So you can imagine their astonishment when they’re met by a crazy man sprinting toward them from the graveyard. Wild hair; bloody wrists; arms flailing and voice screaming; naked bedlam. The apostles gawk, then they gulp, and then they put one foot back into the boat. They’re horrified. But Jesus isn't. And the next few verses provide a glimpse into unseen warfare where, for just a moment, the invisible conflict becomes visible, and we, along with the disciples, are offered a position overlooking the battlefield.

Jesus speaks first: "You evil spirit, come out of the man." (v. 8) The spirit panics: "What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?" (v. 7) Jesus wants the man back, of course. And the demons muster absolutely no challenge whatsoever. They don’t even offer a threat. They've heard this voice before, and when God demands, the demons have only one response: they plead. So, they "begged Jesus again and again not to send them out of that area." (v. 10)

Jesus' mere appearance humbled the demons. Though they had dominated this man, they cower before God. Though they had laced an entire region with fear, they now beg for mercy. Jesus’ words reduce them to sniveling, groveling weaklings. So, feeling safer in a herd of pigs than in the presence of God, the demons ask to be sent into the swine. Jesus consents and two thousand demon-possessed pigs hurl themselves into the sea and drown. All the while the disciples do absolutely nothing. While Jesus fights, the followers stare because they don't know what else to do.

Can you relate? Do you watch a world out of control and don't know what to do? If so, do what the disciples did: when the fighting gets fierce, stand back and let the Father fight. Here’s what I mean.

In 1963, my father and I were in the back of an ambulance racing the two of us, including my unconscious mother, to the hospital. We’d just been involved in a head-on collision with a VW Bug driven by a woman who’d crossed over a double-yellow line as she turned to hand her kids some McDonald’s hamburgers over the back seat. We were driving in my parents brand new car: a sea-foam green, Ford Falcon. One minute I was coloring Lassie with a silver crayon; the next I was slammed into the back of the front seat so hard that it broke my arm. Mom and Dad weren’t quite as lucky. Mom was unconscious with a broken jaw, and Dad, among other injuries, had a huge gash in his shin.

Aside from a 5 year-old’s excitement riding in the back of an ambulance racing through red lights, I kept asking my Dad if Mom was alright. But as the seconds passed into minutes, the excitement of going through red lights with sirens blaring was wearing off. It was beginning to dawn on me that Mom was more than just asleep, and that Dad was struggling to remain calm while wrestling with his pain and the safety of his wife and kindergartner. I was beginning to wonder if we were going to make it.

So there’s my Dad – one hand on his wife and the other clutching his leg which had blown up to gargantuan proportions. I was in front looking back. Toward him. Tears are starting to fall. The race against time seems to worsen as the sirens scream. I’m headed to a location I’ve never been, experiencing a degree of pain I’d never felt, talking with my Dad whose voice doesn’t sound the same, and a mother who’s not talking at all. I grab both sides of the railing and hang on. For dear life.

           

          Where’s that hospital? It's buried by a blur of traffic. So, I look for my coloring book . . . . Oh, it’s still in the smoldering Falcon. I look for something familiar and all I see is paramedic stuff. Everything I see frightens me. There’s only one reassuring sight – the face of my father. Pain-wrecked and grimacing, he looks ahead with a steely stare. His shirt is stuck to his skin, and his hands are stuck to his wife. And right then I made a decision. I quit looking at the stop lights, the traffic, the medical supplies, my mother’s unconscious face, and just watched my father. It just made sense. Watching everything around me brought fear; watching my father brought calm. So I focused on Dad. So intent was my gaze that five decades later I can still see him and hear him say, “It’ll be alright, Tiger; Mom’s going to be okay.”

God wants us to do the same. He wants us to focus our eyes on him. What good does it do to focus on the storm? Why study the enemy? We won't defeat him. Only God will. The disciples can't destroy Satan; only God can. And that's what Jesus did. As the stunned disciples look on, Jesus goes into action and God delivers a lunatic. Pigs are embodied by demons. And a disciple is made in a cemetery.

Outlandish story? Hardly. You haven’t heard the half of it yet. Because if you think the reaction of the demons is bizarre, just look at the response of the people who’d come to see the train wreck in the graveyard: “The herdsmen ran away and went to the town and to the countryside, telling everyone about this. So people went out to see what had happened. They came to Jesus and saw the man who used to have the many evil spirits, sitting, clothed, and in his right mind. And they were frightened. The people who saw this told the others what had happened to the man who had the demons living in him, and they told about the pigs. Then the people began to beg Jesus to leave their area.” (Mark 5:15-17)

They did what? “The people began to beg Jesus to leave the area.” You mean the people asked Jesus to leave? Correct. Rather than thank him, they dismissed him? Yep. What would cause the people to do that? Good question. What would cause people to prefer pigs and lunatics over the presence of God? Better yet, what would cause an addict to prefer stupor over sobriety? What would cause a church to prefer slumber over revival? What would cause a nation to prefer slavery over freedom? What would cause people to prefer yesterday's traditions over today's living God? The answer? Fear. Fear of change.

Change is hard work. It's easier to follow the same old path than to move out into uncharted territory. And here it appears that the herdsmen didn’t know what had happened to the lunatic; they only knew that their pigs tried to sprout wings and fly into a lake. All 2,000 of them. Frightened, they go into town and tell others who then, in turn, rush to the scene and see the crazy man they’d heard about now seated, clothed and perfectly sane. They’re confused. So, they share their story with the shepherds and, collectively, the townspeople conclude that what’s just happened is sheer madness. As a result, the people beg Jesus to leave because, apparently, he’s the crazy one. And since Jesus never goes where he isn't invited, he steps back into the boat. But then watch what happens.

“As Jesus was getting back into the boat, the man who was freed from the demons begged to go with him. But Jesus would not let him.” (Mark 5:18) Kind of a strange way to treat a new believer, don't you think? Why wouldn't Jesus take him along? Simple. He had greater plans for him. "Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you and how he has had mercy on you." (v. 19)

There it is. The commissioning of the first missionary. One minute insane, the next in Christ. No training. No teaching. No nothing. All he knew was that Jesus could scare the hell out of hell and apparently that was enough. But even more surprising than the man who was sent is the fact that anyone was sent at all. I mean, I wouldn't have sent a missionary to a bunch of people who’d just given me the bum’s rush. Would you? A plague maybe, but not a missionary. But Jesus did, and the instructions to that first missionary were pretty simple: “Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you and how he has had mercy on you.”

Today, Jesus still sends the message to the unworthy. And he still uses the unworthy as messengers. After all, look who's reading this? Better yet, look who wrote it. So, be a missionary.

Go. Tell your story to people you know. It’s not that complicated.

Grace,

Randy