Enough

Enough - Audio/Visual

Enough

To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Corinthians 12:7-9)

Picture you and me and a half-dozen others flying across the country in a chartered plane. All of a sudden the engine bursts into flames, and the pilot rushes out of the cockpit. "We're going to crash!" he yells. "We've got to bail out!" Good thing he knows where the parachutes are because we don't. He passes them out, gives us a few pointers and we stand in line as he throws the door open.

The first passenger steps up to the door and shouts over the wind, "Could I make a request?" "Sure, what is it?" "Any way I could get a pink parachute?" The pilot shakes his head in disbelief. "Isn't it enough that I gave you a parachute at all?" And so the first passenger jumps. The second steps to the door. "I'm wondering if there is any way you could ensure that I won't get nauseated during the fall?" "No, but I can ensure that you will have a parachute for the fall." And out goes the next. "Please, Captain," says another, "I’m afraid of heights. Would you remove my fear?" "No," he replies, "but I'll give you a parachute." Yet another pleads for a different strategy, "Couldn't you change the plans? Let's crash with the plane. We might survive." The pilot smiles and says, "You don't know what you’re asking," and gently shoves the guy out the door with his parachute securely strapped to his back.

One passenger wants some goggles, another wants boots, another wants to wait until the plane is closer to the ground. "You people don't understand," the pilot shouts as he "helps" us, one by one. "I've given you a parachute; that’s enough." Only one item is necessary for the jump, and he provides it. He places the strategic tool in our hands. The gift is adequate. But are we content? No. We’re restless, anxious, even demanding. Too crazy to be possible? Maybe in a plane with a pilot and parachutes, but on earth with people and grace? God hears thousands of appeals per second.

Some are legitimate. We, too, ask God to remove the fear, or change the plans. He usually answers with a gentle shove that leaves us airborne and suspended by his grace. There are times, however, when the one thing you want is the one thing you never get. You're not being picky or demanding; you're only obeying his command to "ask God for everything you need." (Phil. 4:6) All you want is an open door, or an extra day, or an answered prayer. And so you pray and wait. No answer. You pray and wait some more. No answer. You pray and wait again. But what if God says no? What if the request is delayed or even denied? When God says no to you, how will you respond? If God says, "I've given you my grace, and that’s enough," will you be content?

Content. A state of heart in which you would be at peace if God gave you nothing more than he already has. What if God's only gift to us was his grace to save us? Would we be content? But she begs him to save the life of her child. He pleads with him to keep his business afloat. You implore him to remove the cancer from your body. What if his answer is, "My grace is enough?" Would you be content?

From heaven's perspective, grace is enough. If God did nothing more than save us from hell, could anyone complain? Given eternal life, can we really grumble at an aching body? Having been given heavenly riches, can we complain about earthly poverty? But God hasn’t left us with "just salvation." If you have eyes to read the paper, or hands to hold a Starbucks, he’s already given you grace upon grace.

The vast majority of us have been saved, and then blessed even more. But there are times when God, having given us his grace, hears our appeals anyway and says, "My grace is sufficient for you." Is he being unfair? Is God still a good God when he says no? Is God good all the time, and all the time God good? Paul wrestled with that question. He knew the angst of unanswered prayer. At the top of his prayer list was an unidentified request that dominated his thoughts. He even gave the appeal a code name: "a thorn in my flesh." (2 Cor. 12:7) Perhaps the pain was too intimate to put on paper. Maybe the request was made so often he reverted to shorthand. "I'm here to talk about that thorn-thing again, Father." Or could it be that by leaving the appeal generic, Paul's prayer could be our own? Don't we all have a thorn in the flesh?

Somewhere on life's path our flesh is pierced by a person or a problem. Our stride becomes a limp, our pace is slowed to a halt, and we try to walk again only to wince at each effort. Finally we plead with God for help. And such was the case with Paul. His was a “thorn.” You don't get thorns unless you're on the move, and Paul never stopped. Thessalonica, Jerusalem, Athens and Corinth – if he wasn't preaching, he was in prison because of it. But his walk was hampered by this “thorn.” The barb pierced through the sole of his sandal and into the soul of his heart and soon became a matter of intense prayer. "I begged the Lord three times to take this problem away from me." (2 Cor. 12:8)

This was no casual request, either; no P.S. at the end of a letter. It was the first plea of the first sentence. "Dear God, I need some help!" Nor was this some superficial prickle. It was a "stabbing pain," at least as rendered in the Phillips translation of this same verse. Every step he took sent a shudder up his leg. Three different times he limped over to the side of the road and prayed. His request was clear, and so was God's response. "My grace is sufficient." (v. 9) So what “thorn” is he talking about? No one knows for sure, but here’s some possibilities. The first could have been sexual temptation.

Paul battling the flesh? Maybe. After all, Paul was a single man, probably the result of a divorce after he met Jesus on the road to Damascus. As a former member of the Sanhedrin, he was likely married before, and probably to one of the pretty people. He describes the temptress like a guy who knew her firsthand. "I want to do the things that are good, but I do not do them. I do not do the good things I want to do, but I do the bad things I do not want to do." (Rom. 7:18-19) Is Paul asking God to finally deliver him from the hunger of an appetite he’d sated before he came to Christ? Perhaps.

But maybe the problem was not his flesh but foes, not temptation but opposition. The passage hints at it. "This problem was a messenger from Satan." (2 Cor. 12:7) Paul had his share of opponents. There were those who questioned his apostleship (2 Cor. 12:12), and there were some who undermined his message of grace. (Gal. 1:7) By the way, when Paul wrote that this "messenger of Satan" was sent "to beat me," he wasn't exaggerating. Look at his scars. He received 39 lashes five times; was beaten with rods on three others; nearly stoned to death; and shipwrecked more than once. (2 Cor. 11:21-28)

Some, on the other hand, think the thorn was his abrasive nature. Whatever he learned at the feet of Gamaliel, he must have been dozing off the day they discussed the topic of tact. Because before he knew grace, he’d killed Christians. And after he knew grace, he grilled the Christians. Example? "When Peter came to Antioch, I challenged him to his face, because he was wrong." (Gal. 2:11) Written like a true diplomat. In Paul's view, you were either on God's side or Satan's side, and should you slide from the first to the second, he didn't keep it a secret. "Hymenaeus and Alexander have done that, and I have given them to Satan so they will learn not to speak against God." (1 Tim. 1:20) Everyone within range of his tongue and pen knew how he felt, and knew when to duck.

However, a case can be made that the thorn was not temptation, opposition, or public relation skills. It could have been related to his body, instead. Remember his words at the end of one of his letters? "See what large letters I use to write this myself." (Gal. 6:11) Maybe his eyes were bad. Could be he never got over that trip to Damascus. God got his attention with a light so bright that Paul was left blind for three days. Maybe he never fully recovered. His clear vision of the cross may have come at the cost of a clear vision of anything else. He wrote of the Galatians that "you would have taken out your eyes and given them to me if that were possible." (4:15) In Paul's profession, poor eyesight could be an occupational hazard. It's hard to travel if you can't see the trail, and it’s hard to stitch a tent if you can’t see the needle. It’s not any easier to write epistles if you can't see the page. Poor vision leads to strained eyes, which leads to headaches, which leads to late nights and long prayers for relief. It's hard to impress the crowd if you're making eye contact with a tree, instead. Which leads to a final possibility.

We assume that Paul was a dynamic speaker, but those who heard him apparently disagreed. "His speaking is nothing," he overheard them say in Corinth (2 Cor. 10:10), and Paul didn't seem to argue with them. In fact, earlier he’d said, "When I came to you, I was weak and fearful and trembling. My teaching and preaching were not with words of human wisdom that persuade people but with proof of the power that the Spirit gives." (1 Cor. 2:3-4) Translation? I was so scared that I stuttered, so nervous that I forgot my point, and the fact that you heard anything at all is testimony to God. So, let's tally this up. Tempted often. Beaten regularly. Opinionated. Dim-sighted. Thick-tongued. Is this really the apostle Paul? No wonder some questioned if he were actually an apostle. And it’s no wonder why he prayed.

Are any of these requests inappropriate? Would he have been a better apostle with no temptation, no enemies, a calm demeanor, good eyes and a glib tongue? Maybe. But then again, maybe not. Had God removed temptation, Paul may have never embraced God's grace. Only the hungry value a feast, and Paul was starving. The self-given title on his door read, "Paul, Chief of Sinners." No pen ever articulated grace like Paul's. That may be because no person ever appreciated grace like Paul. And had God stilled the whips, Paul may have never known love. "If I were burned alive for preaching the Gospel but didn't love others, it would be of no value whatsoever." (1 Cor. 13:3) Persecution distills motives. In the end, Paul's motives were distilled into one force, "the love of Christ controls us." (2 Cor. 5:14)

Had God made him meek and mild, who would have faced the legalists, confronted the hedonists and challenged the judgmentalists? The reason the letter of Galatians is in your Bible is because Paul couldn't stomach a diluted grace. Attribute the letters to Corinth to Paul's intolerance of a sloppy faith. Paul's honesty may not have made him many friends, but it sure made a lot disciples.

And Paul's eyes. If God had healed his eyesight, would Paul have had such insights? While everyone else was watching the world, Paul was seeing visions too great for words. (2 Cor. 12:3-4) And public speaking? Nothing intoxicates like the approval of the crowd. God may have just been keeping his apostle sober. Whatever the affliction, it was there for a purpose. And Paul knew it. It was “to keep me from becoming conceited.” The God who despises pride did whatever was necessary to keep Paul from becoming proud. In this case, he simply told him, "My grace is sufficient." (See, 2 Cor. 12)

Maybe he’s saying the same thing to you. Have you ever wondered why God doesn't remove temptation from your life? If he did, you might lean on your own strength instead of his grace. A few stumbles might be what you need to convince you that his grace is sufficient for your sin. Ever wonder why God doesn't remove the enemies in your life? Perhaps it’s because he wants you to love like he loves. Anyone can love a friend, but only a few can love an enemy. So what if you aren't everyone's hero? His grace is sufficient for your self-image. Wonder why God doesn't alter your personality? Maybe you, like Paul, are a little rough around the edges; say things you later regret, or do things you later question. Why doesn't God make you more like him? He is. He's just not finished with you yet. And until he is, his grace is sufficient to overcome your flaws.

Wonder why God doesn't heal you? He has. If you’re in Christ, you have a perfected soul and a perfected body. His plan is to give you the soul now and the body when you get home. He may choose to heal parts of your body before heaven. But if he doesn't, don't you still have reason to be grateful? If he never gave you more than eternal life, could you ask for anything more than that? His grace is sufficient for gratitude. Ever wonder why God won't give you a skill? If only God had made you a singer, or a runner, or a missionary. But there you are, tone-deaf and slow of foot and mind. Don't despair. God's grace is still sufficient to finish what he began.

And until he's finished, let Paul remind you that the power is in the message, not the messenger. His grace is sufficient to speak clearly, even when you don't. For all we don't know about thorns, we can be sure of this: God would prefer we have an occasional limp than a perpetual strut. And if it takes a thorn for him to make his point, he loves us enough not to grab the tweezers and pluck it out. God has every right to say no to us. And we have every reason to say thanks to him.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Randy

Surrender

Surrender - Audio/Visual

Surrender

It happens so regularly that it’s predictable. The moment I decide to do good, sin is there to trip me up. I truly delight in God’s commands, but it’s pretty obvious that not all of me joins in that delight. Parts of me covertly rebel, and just when I least expect it, they take charge. I’ve tried everything and nothing helps. I’m at the end of my rope. Is there no one who can do anything for me? Isn’t that the real question? The answer, thank God, is that Jesus Christ can and does. (Romans 7:21-25)

Charles Robertson should have turned himself in. Not that he’d have been acquitted, or anything; he robbed a bank. But at least he wouldn't have been the laughingstock of Virginia Beach. Cash-strapped Robertson, 19, went to Jefferson State Bank on a Wednesday afternoon, filled out a loan application, and left. Apparently he changed his mind about the loan and opted for a quicker plan. He returned within a couple of hours with a pistol, a bag and a note demanding money. The teller complied, and all of a sudden Robertson was holding a sack of cash. Figuring the police were fast on their way, he dashed out the front door. He was halfway to the car when he realized he'd left the note. Fearing it could be used as evidence against him, he ran back into the bank and snatched it from the teller.

Now holding the note and the money, he ran a block to his parked car. That's when he realized he'd left his keys on the counter when he'd returned for the note. Panic set in. So, Robertson ducked into the restroom of a fast-food restaurant. He dislodged a ceiling tile and hid the money and the .25 caliber handgun. Scampering through alleys and creeping behind cars, he finally reached his apartment where his roommate, who knew nothing about the robbery, greeted him with the words, "I need my car." You see, Robertson's getaway vehicle was a loaner. But rather than confess to the crime and admit the bungle, Robertson shoveled yet another spade of dirt deeper into the hole: "Uhhhhh …, your car was stolen," he lied.

While Robertson watched in panic, the roommate called the police to inform them of the stolen vehicle. About twenty minutes later an officer spotted the "stolen" car a block from the recently robbed bank. Word was already on the scanner that the robber had forgotten his keys. The officer put two and two together and tried the keys in the car. They worked. So, detectives went to the address of the person who'd reported the missing car. There they found Robertson. He confessed, was charged with robbery, and was put in jail. No bail. No loan. No kidding. Some days it's hard to do anything right.

It's even harder to do anything wrong right. But then again, Robertson's not alone. We've all done the same. Perhaps we didn't take money, but we've taken advantage, or taken control, or taken leave of our senses. And then, like the thief, we've taken off. Dashing down alleys of deceit. Hiding behind buildings of work to be done, or deadlines to be met. Though we try to act normal, anyone who looks closely at us can see we are on the lam: eyes darting and hands fidgeting, we chatter nervously. Committed to the cover-up, we scheme and squirm, changing the topic and changing direction. We don't want anyone to know the truth, especially God.

But from the beginning God has called for honesty. He's never demanded perfection, but he has expected truthfulness. Nehemiah knew the value of honesty. Upon hearing of the crumbled walls in Jerusalem, did he fault God? Did he blame heaven? Hardly. Read his prayer: "I confess the sins we Israelites have done against you. My father's family and I have sinned against you. We have been wicked toward you and have not obeyed the commands, rules, and laws you gave your servant Moses." (Neh. 1:6-7) Here’s the second most powerful man in the kingdom turning himself in, and accepting responsibility for the downfall of God’s people. Why? Because before there can be honest worship, there have to be honest hearts.

Confession does for the soul what preparing the land does for the field. Before the farmer sows the seed, he works the acreage, removing the rocks and pulling the stumps. He knows that seed grows better if the land is prepared. Confession is the act of inviting God to walk the acreage of our hearts. God's seed grows better if the soil of the heart is cleared. And so the Father and the Son walk the field together, digging and pulling, preparing the heart for seed and then for fruit. Confession invites the Father to work the soil of the soul. Confession seeks pardon from God, not amnesty.

Pardon presumes guilt; amnesty, derived from the same Greek word as amnesia, "forgets" the alleged offense without imputing guilt. Confession admits wrong and seeks forgiveness; amnesty denies wrong and claims innocence. Many mouth a prayer for forgiveness while in reality claiming amnesty. Consequently our worship is cold, and our faith is weak. We’re better at keeping God out than we are at inviting God in. Sunday mornings are full of preparing the body for worship, preparing the hair for worship, preparing the clothes for worship . . . but preparing the soul? It’s like going to church on the run. Just like we spend our lives – on the run. But grace means you don’t have to run anymore; it's finally safe to turn ourselves in. That’s what Peter did.

Remember Peter? Flash-the-sword-and-deny-the-Lord Peter? The apostle who boasted one minute and bolted the next? He snoozed when he should have prayed. He denied when he should have defended. He cursed when he should have comforted. He ran when he should have stayed. We remember Peter as the one who turned and fled, but do we remember Peter as the one who returned and confessed? We should. Because how did the New Testament writers know of his sin? For instance, who told them of his betrayal? And how did they know the details? Who told them of the girl at the gate and the soldiers surrounding the fire? How did Matthew know it was Peter's accent that made him a suspect? How did Luke learn of Jesus’ stare after the rooster crowed? And, for that matter, who told all four of the noisy bird and the flowing tears? The Holy Spirit? Maybe. But isn’t it also possible that each learned of the betrayal as a result of an honest confession from the man himself?

Like the bank robber, Peter bungled it and ran. But unlike the robber, Peter stopped and thought. Somewhere in the Jerusalem shadows he quit running, fell to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and gave up. But not only did he give up, he opened up. He went back to the room where Jesus had broken the bread and shared the wine. There he was, every burly bit of him filling the door frame. "Guys, I've got to get something off my chest." And that's when they learned of the fire and the girl and the look from Jesus. That's when they hear of the cursing mouth and the crowing rooster. Maybe that's how they heard the story. Peter had turned himself in. How can we be so sure? Well, two reasons.

The first is that he couldn’t stay away. When word came the tomb was empty, who was first out the room? Peter. When word came that Jesus was on the shore, who was first out of the boat? Peter. He was on the run again. Only now he was running in the right direction. Here’s a good rule of thumb: those who keep secrets from God keep their distance from God. Those who are honest with God draw near to God. This isn’t novel. It happens between people. If you loan me your car and I wreck it, will I look forward to seeing you again? No. And it’s no coincidence that the result of the very first sin was to duck into the hedges. Adam and Eve ate the fruit, heard God in the garden, and crept behind the bushes.

The second is that he couldn't stay silent. Only fifty days after denying Christ, Peter is preaching Jesus. Peter cursed his Lord at the Passover, but he proclaimed his Lord at the feast. This isn’t the action of a fugitive. So, what took him from traitor to orator? He let God deal with the secrets of his life. "If we confess our sins, he will forgive our sins, because we can trust God to do what is right. He will cleanse us from all the wrongs we have done." (1 John 1:9) The fugitive lives in fear, but the penitent lives in peace.

Jesus has never demanded that we be perfect, only that we be honest. But honesty is a stubborn virtue for most of us. "Me, a thief?" we ask with the revolver in one hand and the bag of cash in the other. It wasn't easy for Peter, because he considered himself the MVA – most valuable apostle. Wasn't he one of the early draft picks? Wasn't he one of the chosen three? Didn't he confess Christ while the others were silent? Peter never thought he needed help until he lifted his eyes from the fire and saw the eyes of Jesus. "While Peter was still speaking, a rooster crowed. Then the Lord turned and looked straight at Peter." (Luke 22:60-61)

Jesus and Peter were not the only two in the midnight street that night, but they might as well have been. Jesus is surrounded by accusers, but he doesn't respond. The night air is full of taunts, but Jesus doesn't hear. But let one follower slip when he should have stood, and the Master's head pops up and his eyes search through the shadows and the disciple knows. "The Lord looks down from heaven and sees every person. From his throne he watches all who live on earth. He made their hearts and understands everything they do." (Ps. 33:13-15) You know when God knows. You know when he’s looking. Your heart tells you. Your Bible tells you. Your mirror tells you. The longer you run, the more complicated life gets. But the sooner you confess, the lighter your load becomes.

David knew this. He wrote: “When I kept things to myself, I felt weak deep inside me. I moaned all day long. Day and night you punished me. My strength was gone as in the summer heat. Then I confessed my sins to you and didn't hide my guilt. I said, ‘I will confess my sins to the LORD,’ and you forgave my guilt.” (Ps. 32:3-5) So, are you keeping any secrets from God? Any parts of your life off-limits? Any part of your past or present that you hope you and God will never discuss? Learn a lesson from the robber: the longer you run, the worse it gets. And learn a lesson from Peter: the sooner you speak to Jesus, the more you'll speak for Jesus. Once you're in the grip of grace, you're free to be honest. So, surrender before things get worse. You'll be glad you did. Honest to God, you will.

Grace,

Randy

Paupers

Paupers - Audio/Visual

Paupers

(Saul’s son Jonathan had a son named Mephibosheth, who was crippled in both feet. He was five years old when the news came from Jezreel that Saul and Jonathan were dead. Mephibosheth’s nurse had picked him up and ran away. But as she hurried to leave, she dropped him, and now he was lame ….) (2 Sam. 4:4)

Family therapist, Paul Faulkner, tells the story of a man who took steps to adopt a troubled teenager. But you’d have to question his logic – the girl was destructive, disobedient and dishonest. One day, she came home from school and thrashed the house looking for money. By the time the father arrived home from work, she was gone and the house was a disaster. Friends urged him to terminate the adoption. “Let her go,” they said. “After all, she’s not really your daughter.” His response was simply, “Yes, I know. But I told her she was.”

God, too, made a covenant to adopt His people, and His covenant’s not invalidated by our ransacking His house looking for something to steal. But it’s one thing to love us when we’re obedient and willing, but when we ruin his house and steal what’s His? But the father didn’t look at the wrecked house and say, “Come back when you’ve learned some respect, young lady!” And God doesn’t look at our frazzled lives and say, “I’ll die for you when you deserve it,” any more than David looked at Mephibosheth and say, “I’ll rescue you when you’ve learned to walk.”

(Saul’s son Jonathan had a son named Mephibosheth, who was crippled in both feet. He was five years old when the news came from Jezreel that Saul and Jonathan were dead. Mephibosheth’s nurse had picked him up and ran away. But as she hurried to leave, she dropped him, and now he was lame ….) (2 Sam. 4:4) The parentheses around this verse are not a typographical error. Mephibosheth is bracketed into the Bible – literally. Frankly, the verse doesn’t tell us much, either: just his name (Mephibosheth); his calamity (he was dropped by his nurse); and his deformity (he was handicapped).

Mephibosheth was the son of Jonathan, and the grandson of Saul, the first king of Israel. Saul and Jonathan had been killed in battle, leaving the throne to be occupied by David. Now in those days, the new king often staked out his territory by “eliminating” the family of the previous king. And although David had no intention of following this tradition, Saul’s family didn’t know that. So, they hurried to escape, and of special concern to them was little, five year old Mephibosheth since, upon the deaths of his father and grandfather, he was the presumptive heir to the throne. So, if David was intent on murdering Saul’s heirs, this boy would be first on his “hit list.” As a result, the family got out of town. But in their haste, Mephibosheth slipped from the arms of his nurse, permanently damaging both feet. And for the rest of his life he would be handicapped – a cripple.

For nearly twenty years the young prince had lived far away, unable to walk to the king and way too fearful to talk to him. He was unable to help himself. Meanwhile, David’s kingdom was flourishing. Under his leadership, Israel grew to ten times its original size. He knew no defeat in battle, or insurrection in his court. Israel was at peace, the people were thankful, and David, the shepherd-made-king, did not forget his promise to Jonathan.

David and Jonathan had been legendary friends, meeting its ultimate test the day David learned that Saul was trying to kill him. Jonathan pledged to save David, but asked his friend for one favor in return: “You must never stop showing your kindness to my family, even when the Lord has destroyed all your enemies from the earth.” (1 Sam. 20:14-15)

So now David, perhaps standing on the balcony overlooking his kingdom, was reminiscing about his friendship with Jonathan. Perhaps David thought, “Had it not been for Jonathan saving my life, none of this would’ve happened.” Whatever his mood, David turned to his servants and said, “Is anyone still left in Saul’s family? I want to show kindness to that person for Jonathan’s sake!” (2 Sam. 9:1) David had been delivered, and now he wanted to return the favor. A servant named Ziba knew of a descendant. “Jonathan has a son still living who is crippled in both feet.’ The king asked Ziba, ‘Where is this son?’ Ziba answered, ‘He is at the house of Makir son of Ammiel in Lo Debar.’” (Vs. 3 and 4)

Just one sentence and David knew he had more than he’d bargained for. The boy was crippled in both feet, and who would’ve blamed David for asking Ziba, “Are there any other options, like any healthy family members?” Who would have faulted David for thinking, A cripple just won’t fit into the castle crowd. Only the elite walk these floors, and this kid can’t even walk. And what service can he provide? He has no wealth, no education, no training. And who knows what he looks like. All these years he’s been living in … what was it again? Lo Debar? Even the name means “barren place.” Surely there’s someone I can help who isn’t so needy.  But David’s only response was, “Where is this son?” (Vs. 4)

How long had it been since Mephibosheth had been called a son? In all previous references he was called a cripple. Every mention of him thus far was followed by his handicap. But the words of David make no mention of his affliction. He doesn’t ask, “Where’s Mephibosheth, this problem child?” Rather, he asks, “Where’s this son?” Maybe you know what it’s like; each time your name is mentioned, your calamity follows – like Pig Pen in the Peanuts comic strip. “Have you heard from John lately? You know, the guy who got divorced?” Or, “We got a letter from Jerry. Remember him, the addict?” Or, “Sharon’s in town. What a shame she has to raise those kids alone.” Or, maybe, “I saw Melissa today. I don’t know why she can’t keep a job.” Your past follows you wherever you go, and Mephibosheth carried his stigma for twenty years. When people mentioned his name, they mentioned his problem.

There’s a knock on the front door. Makir goes to answer it and there stands Ziba with an authoritative look on his face in his gardening cloths. He bluntly tells Makir the news: "David wants to see Mephibosheth. And there sits middle-aged Mephibosheth, sitting on his mat in the corner of the room by the cool breeze of a window. Even in the heat of the day, however, he feels a cold chill run through his arms and back. Now, finally, after all of these years, David’s found him and his life’s over. “It’s not fair,” he thinks. I mean, it’d started out great: his father was prince Jonathan, and his grandfather was King Saul, the first great king of Israel and Judah. He was royalty, and royalty had its perks. When he was young, everything seemed to come his way - the gifts, the friends, and the fun - all because he was royalty. Back then he even had a royal name, "Mirab Baal," meaning "opponent of Baal." Baal was a false god. But now even his name was different: Mephibosheth – “Son of Shame," all because of that one day when his world was turned upside-down.

On the day that his dad Prince Jonathan, and his grandpa King Saul died in battle, Mirab Baal's life went terribly wrong. His nurse took him to Lo Debar, a city far away from the palace. To further protect the now-dethroned heir apparent, his name was changed from Mirab Baal to Mephibosheth; after all who would be interested in a person with a name like "Son of Shame." He had to learn how to live without functional legs. He had to learn to sit again. He had to learn to be carried by others. He had to learn to be cared for by others. And his nurse continued to care for him, but living in secret, without his dad, without his grandpa, was hard, very hard, and hard for a very long time.

It wasn't fair. He’d heard his grandpa had badly disobeyed God: King Saul, again and again, had tried to kill David. King Saul had even gone to a witch to see if he could get some spiritual advice. As a result, grandpa Saul died, and so did his dad, Prince Jonathan, and Mirab Baal, now Mephibosheth, was left for years to fend for himself. Now, Ziba was at the door. "King David wants to see Mephibosheth. NOW!" And just then, a flash of anger ripped through Mephibosheth. How did King David hear that he was here, anyway? There was only one answer – Ziba. Ziba was in charge of taking care of his property, and Ziba wanted the property for himself. So what better way than to rat out Mephibosheth so that the new king would eliminate him and leave all the property to Ziba.

But there was nothing Mephibosheth could do. His legs didn’t work. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t fight. He could only face the end of his life with honor. He was cursed. Because of his grandfather, everything had gone wrong for him, and at times he’d wished he’d never been born a prince. But there was no way of changing that now. Ziba was at the door, and soldiers, the king’s soldiers no less, had forced their way in past Makir. They picked him up by the arms and placed him on the muddy floor of a chariot and the cross-country race began to the city of Jerusalem.

When they arrived, they put him on the floor, down the steps from the throne where King David was seated. Mephibosheth stretched out his hands and put his face to the ground not daring to even look at the king. He hoped that the sword would fall quickly to end his life. Though he may have been told that David was kind, what assurances did he have? And though the emissaries surely said that David meant no harm, he was afraid. The anxiety was on his face that faced the floor, and David’s first words to him were, “Don’t be afraid.” Your King is known to say the same thing to you, too. The most repeated command from the lips of Jesus is, “Fear not.” In fact, the command to not be afraid appears in every book of the Bible. Mephibosheth had been called, found and rescued, but he still needed assurance. Don’t we all.

And just as David kept his promise to Jonathan, so God keeps his promise to us. The name Mephibosheth means “Son of Shame.” And that’s exactly what David intended to correct for the young prince. In quick succession, David returned all of Mephibosheth’s land, crops, and servants, and then insisted that the cripple eat at the king’s table – not just once but four (4) times. “I will give you back all the land of your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table.” “But Mephibosheth, your master’s grandson, will always eat at my table.” “So Mephibosheth ate at David’s table as if he were one of the king’s sons.” “Mephibosheth lived in Jerusalem, because he always sat at the king’s table.  And he was crippled in both feet.” (2 Sam. 9:7, 10, 11, 13) Do you see yourself in this story?

We are children of royalty, crippled by the fall, permanently marred by sin, living parenthetical lives on earth only to be remembered by the King. Driven not by our beauty but by his promise, He calls us to Himself and invites us to take a permanent place at His table. And though we often limp more than we walk, we take our place next to the other sinners-made-saints and we share in God’s glory. Like Mephibosheth, we are sons and daughters of the King, and our greatest offering is nothing in comparison to what we’ve been given.

“Crippled.” “Pauper” – they’re not a pejorative; they’re an adjective. It describes a noun, maybe a person just like you.

Grace,

Randy