Unmasked

Unmasked

Unmasked - Audio/Visual

Jesus, tired from the long walk, sat wearily beside the well about noontime. Soon a Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Please give me a drink.” The woman was surprised, for Jews refuse to have anything to do with Samaritans. She said to Jesus, “You are a Jew, and I am a Samaritan woman. Why are you asking me for a drink?” Jesus replied, “If you only knew the gift God has for you and who you are speaking to, you would ask me, and I would give you living water….”

“I know the Messiah is coming – the one who is called Christ. When he comes, he will explain everything to us.” Then Jesus told her, “I Am the Messiah!” … The woman left her water jar beside the well and ran back to the village, telling everyone, “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?” (John 4:6-7; 8-10; 25-26; 28-29)

The property is like a lot of others – an island of history that holds its own against a river of progress and single-family homes. It’s a cemetery, where hundreds of tombstones stand, many alive with yesterday. One of them announces the location of Grace Llewellyn Smith. No date of birth is listed; no date of death. Just the names of her two husbands, and this epitaph: Sleeps, but rests not. Loved, but was loved not. Tried to please, but pleased not. Died as she lived – alone. Words of futility.

Makes you wonder about her life. For instance, did she write the words, or did she live them? Did she deserve the pain? Was she bitter? Was she beaten? Was she plain, or was she beautiful? Why are some lives so fruitful, while others so futile? For Grace, it probably meant long nights, empty beds and the sound of silence. No response to her countless messages and letters; no love returned in exchange for a love she had given; tried to please and utterly failed. In fact, if you listen carefully, you can hear the hatchet of disappointment coming down on her life. “How many times do I have to tell you?” Chop. “You’ll never amount to anything!” Chop. Chop. “Why can’t you do anything right?” Chop, chop, chop.

How many people will die in loneliness? Maybe it’s the homeless person, or the happy hour hopper. Maybe the bag lady at the local grocery store. It could be anyone who doubts whether the world needs them. It’s anyone who’s convinced that nobody really cares. Someone who’s been given a ring, but not a heart; criticism, instead of a chance; a bed, but no rest. These are the victims of futility. And unless someone intervenes, unless something happens, Grace’s epitaph will be theirs, too. That’s why John’s story is so significant. It’s the story of another epitaph, of a sort. This time, however, the tombstone doesn’t mark the death of a person – it marks her birth. Grace - unmasked.

Her eyes squint against the noonday sun. Her shoulders stoop under the weight of a water jug. Her feet trudge along the path stirring up the dust. She keeps her eyes down so she can dodge the stares of others. She’s a Samaritan and knows the sting of racism; she’s a woman who’s bumped her head on the ceiling of sexism. She’s been married to five men. Five different beds. Five different rejections. She knows the sound of slamming doors. She knows what it means to love and receive no love in return. In fact, her current partner won’t even give her his name, just a place to sleep.

On that particular day, she came to the well at noon. Why she hadn’t gone in the early morning with the other women we’ll never know. But maybe it was the other women she was trying to avoid. For her, a walk in the hot sun was a small price to pay to escape their sharp tongues. “Shhhhhh, here she comes. They say she’ll sleep with anyone.” So, she came to the well at noon. She expected silence; she expected solitude. Instead, she found someone who knew her better than she knew herself. He was seated on the ground – maybe with his legs outstretched, hands folded, back resting against the well. His eyes were closed. She stopped and looked at him, and then looked around. No one was near. Again, she looked back at him. He was obviously Jewish, so what was he doing here? Then his eyes opened and hers ducked in embarrassment. She went quickly about her task, trying to ignore Him.

Sensing her discomfort, Jesus asked her for water. But she was too streetwise to think that was all he wanted. She wanted to know what he really had on his mind. And, her intuition was correct – sort of. He was interested in more than water, alright. He was interested in her heart. And so they talked. Who could remember the last time a man had spoken to her with respect? He told her about a spring of water that would quench her soul, not her throat. That kind of water intrigued her. “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming back here to draw water.” Jesus responded, “Go, call your husband and come back.” (John 4:15-16)

Her heart must have sunk with that request. Here was a Jew who didn’t care if she was a Samaritan. Here was a man who didn’t look down on her as a woman. Here was the closest thing to gentleness she’d ever seen. And now? Now he was asking her about … that. Anything but that. Maybe she thought about lying. “Oh, my husband? He’s at the office.” Or, maybe she wanted to change the subject. Or then again, maybe she simply wanted to turn and run away. But she didn’t. She stayed. And, she told the truth. “I have no husband.”

Aren’t there times when we want to take our masks off? Don’t we sometimes want to stop pretending? Don’t we occasionally wonder what God would do if we opened up and revealed who we really are, even though he knows already? This woman did, but she probably wondered what Jesus would do when he heard. She must have wondered if the kindness would cease when the truth was out. “He’ll be angry and leave me, just like all the others. “He’ll think I’m worthless.” And Jesus’ response? “You’re right. You’ve had five husbands and the man you’re with now won’t even give you his name.”

What? No criticism? No anger? No what-kind-of-a-mess-have-you-made-of-your-life lecture? No, none of that. It wasn’t perfection that Jesus was seeking. It was honesty. The woman was amazed. “I can see that you’re a prophet,” she says. Translation? “There’s something different about you. Do you mind if I ask you something?” And then she asked the question that revealed the gaping hole in her soul: “Where’s God? My people say He’s on the mountain. Your people say He’s in Jerusalem. I’m confused. I don’t know where He is.” (vs. 20)

Of all the places to find a hungry heart – Samaria. Of all the Samaritans to be searching for God – a woman. Of all the women to have an insatiable appetite for God – a five-time divorcé. And of all the people to be chosen to personally receive the secret of the ages – an outcast among outcasts, and the most insignificant person in the region. Jesus must have smiled when he said, “I Am the Messiah.”

The most important phrase in this story is easily overlooked. “The woman left her water jar beside the well and ran back to the village, telling everyone, ‘Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?’” (John 4:28-29) And don’t miss the drama of the moment. Look at her eyes, wide with amazement. Watch as she scrambles to her feet, takes one last look at the grinning Nazarene, turns and probably runs right into Peter just returning from the Sychar In-N-Out with food for the boys.

Did you notice what she forgot? She forgot her water jar. She left behind the jug that had caused the sag in her shoulders. She left behind the burden that she’d brought. Suddenly the shame of her tattered romances disappeared. Suddenly the insignificance of her life was swallowed up by the significance of the moment. “God is here! God has come! God cares . . . for me!” That’s why she forgot her water jar. That’s why she ran to the city. That’s why she grabbed the first person she saw and announced her discovery, “I just talked to a man who knows everything I ever did … and he loves me anyway!”

For some, the story of these two women may be touching but distant. Distant because maybe you belong; you’re needed. You’ve got more friends than you can visit. Insignificance will not be chiseled on your tombstone. And if that’s you, be thankful. But for others, it may be different. We’ve paused at the epitaph because, well . . . maybe it’s ours. We see the face of Grace Llewellyn Smith when we look into the mirror. We know why the Samaritan woman was avoiding people. We know what it’s like to have no one sit by us at the cafeteria, or at the bus stop, or just about any place. We’ve wondered what it would be like to have just one really good friend. We’ve been in love and wonder if it’s worth the pain to do it again. And we’ve sometimes wondered, “Where’s God in all of this?” That was Barbara’s question.

Joy teaches Sunday school to underprivileged children in an inner city church. Her class was a lively group of nine-year olds who loved life and weren’t afraid of God. There was one exception, however – a timid girl by the name of Barbara. Her difficult home life had left her afraid and insecure. For the many weeks that Joy taught the class, Barbara never spoke. Ever. While the other children talked, she sat. While the other children sang, Barbara was silent. While the others giggled and joked with each other, Barbara was quiet. Always present. Always listening. But always speechless.

That was until one day when Joy taught a lesson on heaven. She talked about seeing God. She talked about tearless eyes, and deathless lives. Barbara was fascinated and wouldn’t release Joy from her penetrating stare. She listened with a hunger that Joy had never seen before. Then she raised her 9-year old hand. “Ms. Joy?” Joy was stunned. Barbara had never asked a question. “Yes, Barbara?” “Is heaven for girls like me?”

A tiny prayer that had reached the throne of God. An earnest prayer that a good God in heaven would remember a forgotten soul on earth. A prayer that God’s grace would seep through the cracks and cover someone the church had let slip through. A prayer to take a life that no one else could use and use it like no one else could. Not a prayer from the pulpit, but one from a bed in a convalescent home. Not a prayer prayed confidently by a preacher, but one whispered fearfully by a recovering addict. A prayer to do what God does best – taking the common and making it spectacular.

Taking the rod and dividing the sea; taking a pebble and killing a Goliath; taking water and making sparkling wine; taking a peasant boy’s lunch and feeding a multitude; taking mud and restoring sight; taking three spikes and a wooden beam and making them the hope of humanity; taking a rejected woman and making her the first missionary.

There are two graves in the story. The first is the lonely one belonging to Grace Llewellyn Smith. She apparently didn’t know love. She probably didn’t know gratification. She likely knew only the pain of the chisel as it carved the epitaph of her life. The second is near a well with a water jug for a tombstone. It has no words, but has great significance – it’s the place where insignificance was unmasked.

Grace,

Randy

Gratitude

Gratitude
Gratitude - Audio/Visual

While Jesus and his followers were traveling, Jesus went into a town. A woman named Martha let Jesus stay at her house. Martha had a sister named Mary, who was sitting at Jesus' feet and listening to him teach. But Martha was busy with all the work to be done. She went in and said, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things. Only one thing is important. Mary has chosen the better thing, and it will never be taken away from her." (Luke 10:38-42)

I love milk. One of the saddest days of my life was when I learned that whole milk was actually unhealthy. So, with great reluctance I’ve adapted to the watered-down version. But in my years of milk appreciation I’ve also learned that a high price is paid for leaving milk out of the refrigerator. That happened a while ago when I spit the spoiled stuff all over the kitchen floor. I’ve learned that sweet milk turns sour from being left too warm for too long. And, it occurred to me, sweet dispositions can turn sour for the same reason. Let aggravation stew without a period of cooling down, and the result? A bad, bitter, clabberish attitude. Kind of like buttermilk – I’m not really a fan of a drink with lumps in it.

The tenth chapter of Luke describes the step-by-step process of the sweet becoming sour. It's the story of Martha. A dear soul with a talent for hospitality and organization. More frugal than frivolous; more practical than pensive, her household is a tight ship and she’s a stern captain. Ask her to choose between a book and a broom, she'll take the broom. Mary, on the other hand, will take the book. Mary is Martha's sister. Same parents, but different priorities. Martha has things to do. Mary has thoughts to think. The dishes can wait. Let Martha go to the market; Mary will go to the library.

Two sisters. Two personalities. And as long as they understand each other, life’s fine. But when the one resents the other, it’s like flint against stone. And the picture I get from Luke is that Martha’s probably the one standing by the table, wearing the apron and commanding the kitchen. Stirring with one hand and cracking eggs with the other, she doesn’t spill a drop. She knows what she's doing, and there must be a big crowd coming because there’s a whole lot of food. And then she hears them laughing in the next room, and it sounds like they're having fun. Martha isn't having fun.

"Stupid sister,” you can almost hear her mumble. "Stupid Mary. Here I am alone in the kitchen while she's out there. And if I’d known that Jesus was going to bring his entire posse with him, I probably wouldn’t have invited him over in the first place. Those guys eat like horses. Yeah, that sweet little darling sister of mine . . . always ready to listen and never ready to work. I wouldn't mind sitting down myself. But all I do is cook and sew, cook and sew. Well, enough is enough!" And at this point, you get the sense that someone’s gonna get it. "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." (v. 40) Suddenly the room goes deathly quiet, except for the tap-tap-tapping of Martha's foot on the stone floor, and the slapping of a wooden spoon in her palm. She looms above the others with flour on her cheeks and fire in her eyes.

At this point, the disciples are probably staring wide-eyed at this fury that hell hath not known. And poor Mary, flushed red with embarrassment, sighs and sinks lower to the floor. Only Jesus speaks. Because only Jesus understands the problem. The problem is not the large crowd. The problem is not Mary's choice to listen. The problem is not Martha's choice to host. The problem is Martha’s heart – a heart soured with anxiety. "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things." (v.41)

The truth is that Martha wanted to do right, but her heart was wrong. Her heart, Jesus said, was worried. As a result, she turned from a happy servant into a beast of burden. She was worried: worried about cooking; worried about pleasing; worried about too much. I like what Erma Bombeck had to say about worrying: I've always worried a lot and frankly, I'm good at it. I worry about introducing people and going blank when I get to my mother. I worry about a shortage of ball bearings; a snake coming up through the kitchen drain. I worry about the world ending at midnight and getting stuck with three hours on a twenty-four hour cold capsule. I worry what the dog thinks when he sees me coming out of the shower; that one of my children will marry an Eskimo who will set me adrift on an iceberg when I can no longer feed myself. I worry about salesladies following me into the fitting room, oil slicks, and Carol Channing going bald. I worry about scientists discovering someday that lettuce has been fattening all along.

Apparently, Martha worried too much, too. So much so that she started bossing God around. A lack of gratitude will do that to you. It makes you forget who’s in charge. What makes this case interesting though is that Martha’s worried about doing something good: she’s having Jesus over for dinner. She’s literally serving God. Her aim was to please Jesus. But she made a common, but dangerous, mistake – as she began to work for him, her work became more important than her Lord. What began as a way to serve Jesus, slowly and subtly became a way to serve herself.

I’m guessing that the process went something like this. As she began to prepare the meal, she anticipated the compliments she’d get on the food. And as she set the table, she imagined the approval of her guests. She could just picture it. Jesus would enter the house and thank her for all her hard work. He would tell the disciples to give her a standing ovation. John would cite her as an example of hospitality and dedicate an entire chapter in the Bible to her. Then women would come from miles around to ask her how she learned to be such a kind and humble servant. And the rest of her days would be spent directing a school of servanthood – with Jesus as the director, and Martha as the professor.

But things didn't turn out quite like she'd planned. She didn't get the attention she sought. There were no standing ovations. No compliments. No adulation. No school. No one even noticed. And that irritated her. But Martha is long on anxiety and short on memory. She’s forgotten that the invitation was her idea in the first place. She’d forgotten that Mary has every right to be with Jesus. And most of all, she’d forgotten that the meal was to honor Jesus, not Martha.

It's easy to forget who’s the servant and who’s to be served. Satan knows that. This tool of distortion is one of Satan's slyest. You see, he didn't take Martha out of the kitchen; he took away her purpose in the kitchen. The adversary won't turn you against the church; he will turn you toward yourself in the church. He won’t take you away from your ministry; he'll disillusion you in your ministry.

And when the focus is on yourself, you do what Martha did — you worry. You become anxious about many things. You worry that your co-workers won't appreciate you; your leaders will overwork you; and your superintendent won't understand you. With time, your agenda becomes more important than God's because you’re more concerned with presenting self than pleasing him. And then you start doubting God's judgment: "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." (v. 40) I think Martha probably regretted saying that. I bet that after she cooled down a bit, she would have loved to have had those words back. She probably wished she'd heeded Solomon's counsel: "A rebel shouts in anger; a wise man holds his temper in and cools it." (Prov. 29:11)

There’s a principle here. To keep an attitude from souring, treat it like you would a cup of milk: cool it off. Martha’s life was cluttered. She needed a break. "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things," the Master explained to her. "Only one thing is important. Mary has chosen [it]." (Vv. 41-42) What had Mary chosen? She’d chosen to sit at the feet of Christ. And it seems to me that God is probably more pleased with the quiet attention of a sincere servant, than the noisy service of a sour one. By the way, this story could have easily been reversed.

Mary could have been the one to get angry and upset. The sister on the floor could have resented the sister at the sink. Mary could have grabbed Jesus by the arm, dragged him into the kitchen and said, "Jesus. Would you please tell Martha to quit being so productive and to get a bit more reflective. Why do I have to do all the thinking and praying around here, anyway?"

What matters more than the type of service is the heart behind the service – a grateful heart. A bad attitude spoils the gift we leave on the altar for God. It reminds me of a story about a guy who prayed with a bad attitude. "Why," he asked God, "has my brother been blessed with wealth and me with nothing at all? All my life I’ve never missed a single day without offering morning and evening prayers to you. My church attendance has been spotless – it’s perfect! I’ve always loved my neighbor, and given them my money and my help. Yet now, as I have more life behind than ahead of me, I can hardly afford to pay my rent. My brother, on the other hand, drinks and gambles and plays all the time. Yet he has more money than he can count. I’m not asking you to punish him, but tell me, please God, why has he been given so much and I’ve got squat?" "Because," God replied, "you're such a self-righteous pain in the neck."

So guard your attitude. God has gifted you with talents. He has done the same to your neighbor. If you concern yourself with your neighbor's talents, you’ll neglect your own. But if you concern yourself with your own, you could inspire both.

Gratitude – it’s a choice.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Randy

Troubles

Troubles

Troubles - Audio/Visual

“This will happen just as I have described it, for God has revealed to Pharaoh in advance what he is about to do. The next seven years will be a period of great prosperity throughout the land of Egypt. But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Genesis 41:28-32)

About 20 years ago, a German Shepherd/Wolf mix attacked my youngest son who was walking to school one day with a friend. The crazed animal, completely unprovoked, climbed out of his dog run and onto the sidewalk and nearly killed William. The dog left my son with dozens of cuts and gashes, all of which required stitches whose number are far too many to remember. The dog even came back for “seconds.” Fortunately, thanks to some courageous passersby, a second attack was averted. The cur’s name was Cujo, of all things, and this wasn’t his first victim. As you can imagine, William didn’t leave my sight the rest of the day, and neither did my un-Christian thoughts about Cujo. Amidst the trauma, however, I was able to reflect on the goodness of God, since the day’s events could have had a very different outcome. But if things had turned out differently, would God still have been good?

Is God good only when the outcome is? When the cancer is in remission, we say "God is good." When the pay raise comes, we say, "God is good." When the university admits us, or the final score favors our team, "God is good." But would we, and do we say the same under different circumstances? In the cemetery as well as in the nursery? In the unemployment line as well as the grocery line? In days of recession as much as in days of provision? Is God always good?

Many of us have this kind of quasi-contract with God – the fact that God hasn't signed it doesn't deter us from still believing it. “I pledge to be a good, decent person, and in return God will … save my child; protect my job; heal my friend; or ______ (Fill in the blank). Only fair, right? Yet, when God fails to meet our bottom-line expectations, we’re left spinning in a tornado of questions. Is he good at all? Is God angry with me? Is he stumped? Overworked? Is his power limited? His authority restricted? Did the devil outwit him? When life isn't good, what are we to think of God? Where is he in all of this?

Joseph's words for Pharaoh offer some help in this area. Granted, we don't generally think of Joseph as being much of a theologian – not like Job, the sufferer, or Paul, the apostle. For one thing, we don't have many of Joseph's words. Yet the few we have reveal a man who wrestled with the nature of God. To the king he announced: “But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Gen. 41:30-32) Joseph saw both seasons, the one of plenty and the one of scarcity, beneath the umbrella of God's jurisdiction. Both were "decreed by God." But how could God do that?

Was the calamity God's idea? Of course not. God never creates or parlays evil. "God can never do wrong! It is impossible for the Almighty to do evil." (Job 34:10; See also James 1:17) He is the essence of good. So, how can God, who is good, invent anything bad? Furthermore, he’s sovereign. Scripture repeatedly attributes utter and absolute control to his hand. "The Most High God rules the kingdom of mankind and sets over it whom he will." (Dan. 5:21) So, in summary: God is good, and God is sovereign. Then how do you factor in the presence of calamities in God's world if he’s good and self-determining?

Here’s how the Bible explains it: God permits it. When the demons begged Jesus to send them into a herd of pigs, he "gave them permission." (Mark 5:12-13) Regarding the rebellious, God said, "I let them become defiled . . . that I might fill them with horror so they would know that I am the Lord." (Ezek. 20:26) The Old Law even speaks of the consequence of accidentally killing someone: "If [the man] does not do it intentionally, but God lets it happen, he is to flee to a place I will designate." (Ex. 21:13)

God, at times, permits calamities. He allows the ground to grow dry, and stalks to grow bare. He allows Satan to unleash mayhem, like that Allstate guy. But he doesn't allow Satan to triumph. Isn't that the promise of Romans 8:28? "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." The key is that God promises to render beauty out of "all things," not "each thing." Isolated events may be evil, but the ultimate culmination is good.

We see examples of this all the time. For instance, when you sip a Starbucks and say, "Now, that’s a good cup of coffee," what are you saying? That the bag that held the beans is good? That the beans are good? That hot water is good? That a coffee filter is good? No. “Good” happens when the ingredients work together: the bag is opened, the beans are ground into powder, and the water is heated to just the right temperature. It’s the collective cooperation of the elements that creates good.

Nothing in the Bible would cause us to call a famine good, or a heart attack good, or forest fires good. These are terrible calamities, born out of a fallen earth. Yet every message in the Bible, especially the story of Joseph, compels us to believe that God will mix them with other ingredients and bring good out of them. But we have to let God define “good.” Our definition includes health, comfort and recognition. His definition? In the case of his Son, Jesus Christ, the good life consisted of struggles, storms, and death. But God worked it all together for the greatest of good: his glory and our salvation.

Joni Eareckson Tada has spent most of her life attempting to reconcile the presence of suffering with the nature of God. She was just a teenager when a diving accident left her paralyzed from the neck down. After more than forty years in a wheelchair, Joni has reached this conclusion: “[Initially] I figured that if Satan and God were involved in my accident at all, then it must be that the devil had twisted God's arm for permission . . . I reasoned that once God granted permission to Satan, he then nervously had to run behind him with a repair kit, patching up what Satan had ruined, mumbling to himself, "Oh great, now how am I going to work this for good?" . . . But the truth is that God is infinitely more powerful than Satan . . . While the devil's motive in my disability was to shipwreck my faith by throwing a wheelchair in my way, I’m convinced that God's motive was to thwart the devil and use the wheelchair to change me and make me more like Christ through it all . . . [He can] bring ultimate good out of the devil's wickedness.”

This was the message of Jesus. When his followers spotted a blind man on the side of the road, they asked Jesus for an explanation. Was God angry? Were his parents to blame? Who sinned here? But Jesus' answer provided a higher option: the man was blind so that "the works of God should be revealed in him." (John 9:3) God turned blindness, a bad thing, into a billboard for Jesus' power to heal. Satan acted, God counteracted, and good won. It's a divine jujitsu of sorts. God redirects the energy of evil against its source. God uses evil to ultimately bring evil to nothingness. He is the master chess player, always checkmating the devil's every move.

Our choice really comes down to this: trust God or turn away. The truth is that God will breach that “contract” of ours; he’ll shatter our expectations. And we’ll be left to make a decision. Because at some point we all stand at the intersection of the question, “Is God good when the outcome is not?” During the famine as well as the feast? The definitive answer to that question comes in the person of Jesus Christ.

Jesus is the only picture of God that we have in our photo album. And do you want to know heaven's clearest answer to the question of suffering? Just look at Jesus. He pressed his fingers into the sore of the leper. He felt the tears of the sinful woman who wept. He inclined his ear to the cry of the hungry. He wept at the death of a friend. He stopped his work to tend to the needs of a grieving mother. He doesn't recoil, run or retreat at the sight of pain, or life’s tragedies. Just the opposite, actually. He didn't walk the earth in an insulated bubble, or preach from an isolated, germ-free, pain-free island. He took his own medicine. Trivial irritations of family life? Jesus felt them. Cruel accusations of jealous men? Jesus knew their sting. A seemingly senseless death? Just look at the cross.

He exacts nothing from us that he did not experience himself. Why? Because he is good. God owes us no more explanation than that. Besides, if he gave us one, what makes us think we would actually understand it? Maybe the problem is not so much God's plan, but with our limited perspective.

Suppose the wife of George Frideric Handel came upon a page of her husband's famous work, “The Messiah.” The entire symphony was more than two hundred pages long. But imagine that she discovered a single page lying on the kitchen table one morning. On it her husband had written only one measure in a melancholic, minor key; one that didn't work standing on its own. But suppose Mrs. Handel, armed with this fragment of dissonance, marched into his studio and said, "What are you thinking, George? This music doesn’t make any sense at all. You aren’t a very good composer." What would he think? Maybe something similar to what God thinks when we do the same.

We point to our minor key – our sick child, joblessness, or famine – and say, "This doesn’t make any sense, God. I thought you were supposed to be good?" Yet out of all his creation, how much have we actually seen? And of all his work, how much do we understand? Not very much.

Is it possible then that some explanation for suffering exists of which we know nothing about? What if God's answer to the question of suffering requires more gigabytes than our puny minds can comprehend? And isn’t it possible that the wonder of heaven will make the most difficult life a great bargain? That was Paul's conclusion when he wrote, "Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all." (2 Cor. 4:17) And he saw heaven. (2 Cor. 12:2-4)

Suppose I invited you to experience the day of your dreams. Twenty-four hours on an island paradise with your favorite people, food and activities. There’s only one catch: you must experience a millisecond of discomfort. For reasons I choose not to explain, I tell you that you will need to begin the day with a millisecond of distress. Would you accept my offer? Probably. Because a split second is nothing compared to twenty-four hours, right? Similarly, we’re all in the middle of our milliseconds on God’s clock. So, compared to eternity, what’s seventy, eighty, even ninety years? It’s just a vapor. Just a finger snap compared to heaven. Your pain won't last forever, but you will. "Whatever we may have to go through now is less than nothing compared with the magnificent future God has in store for us." (Rom. 8:18) Less than nothing? What does that mean?

That’s the same puzzling question that Wilbur asked the lamb in Charlotte’s Web. “What do you mean less than nothing? I don't think there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of nothingness. It's the lowest you can go. It's the end of the line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would be something - even though it's just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it is.” The lamb’s response? “Oh, be quiet. Go play by yourself. I don’t play with pigs.” Wow, that’s pretty harsh.

None of us are exempt from suffering, loneliness, discouragement, or unjust criticism, because God is developing within us the character of Christ. And, in order to do this, he must take us through all of the circumstances in life through which he took Christ. Does this mean God causes tragedies? No. God is good, and he will not cause evil or do evil. But God can use the dark and stressful times of our life for good. He'll use them to teach us to trust him, to show us how to help others and to draw us closer to other believers.

Still think you’re alone? Some 2,000 years ago, Christians, just like you and me, felt the same way: “We were crushed and overwhelmed beyond our ability to endure, and we thought we would never live through it. In fact, we expected to die. But as a result, we stopped relying on ourselves and learned to rely only on God, who raises the dead.” (2 Cor. 4:8-9) We all go through difficult times. The difference for those who believe in Jesus is not the absence of shadows, but the presence of His Light.

What’s coming will make sense of what’s happening now. So, let God finish his work. Let the composer complete his symphony. The forecast is simple: Good days. Bad days. God is in all your days. He’s the Lord of the famine and the feast, and he uses both to accomplish his will.

Even in life’s troubles.

Grace,

Randy

Where's God?

Where’s God?
Where's God? - Audio/Visual

Immediately after this, Jesus insisted that his disciples get back into the boat and cross to the other side of the lake, while he sent the people home. After sending them home, he went up into the hills by himself to pray. Night fell while he was there alone.

Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land, for a strong wind had risen, and they were fighting heavy waves. About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!” But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. I am here!” (Matt. 14:22-27)

On a September morning in 2001, Frank laced up his boots, pulled on his hard hat and headed out the door of his New Jersey home. As a construction worker, he’d made a living building things. But as a volunteer at the World Trade Center wreckage, he was just trying to make sense of it all. He’d hoped to find a live body. He didn’t. He found forty-seven dead ones, instead. Amid the carnage, however, he stumbled upon a symbol – a twenty-foot-tall steel-beam cross. The collapse of Tower One onto Building Six had created a crude kind of chamber in the clutter.

It was in this chamber, through the dusty sunrise, that Frank spotted the cross. No winch had hoisted it; no cement was securing it. The iron beams stood independent of any human help at all. It was standing there alone. But, then again, not completely alone. Other crosses rested randomly at the base of the large one. Different sizes, different angles, but all crosses. Several days later engineers realized the beams of the large cross had actually come from two different buildings. When one crashed into another, the two girders bonded into one and were forged together forever by the ensuing fire. A symbol in the shards. A cross found in the crisis. "Where’s God in all this?" Frank pondered. We wondered then, too; perhaps we wonder even now. But the discovery dared us to hope that God was right there in the middle of it all. Can the same be said about our tragedies?

When the ambulance takes our child or the disease takes our friend, when the economy takes our retirement or the two-timer takes our heart – can we, like Frank, find Christ in the crisis? The presence of troubles doesn't surprise us, but the absence of God absolutely undoes us. We can deal with the ambulance – if God is in it. We can stomach the ICU – if God is in it. We can face the empty house – if God is in it. But is he? Is God in it? Well, Matthew would like to answer that question for you.

The walls falling around Matthew were made of water. No roof or building had collapsed, but it felt like the world was crashing in. A storm on the Sea of Galilee is like a sumo wrestler belly-flopping into a kiddy pool. The northern valley acts like a wind tunnel – compressing and then blasting squalls of terror onto the lake. Waves as tall as ten feet are common. And this is a lake, mind you, not the ocean. His account begins at nightfall. Jesus is on the mountain in prayer, and the disciples are in a boat in fear. They are "far away from land . . . fighting heavy waves." (Matt. 14:24) And when does Christ come to them? At three o'clock in the morning. (v. 25)

Now, if “evening” began at six o’clock and Christ came at three in the morning, the disciples had been alone in the storm for nine hours. Nine tempestuous hours. Long enough for more than one of the disciples to wonder, “Where’s Jesus? He knows we’re in the boat for heaven’s sake – it was his idea to begin with! Is God anywhere near?” And from within the storm comes an unmistakable voice: “I am.” Wet robe and soaked hair. Waves slapping his waist, and rain stinging his face. Jesus speaks to them at once. “Courage. I am. Don’t be afraid!” (vs. 27)

That wording sounds a little odd, I know. Because if you’ve read the story, you’re accustomed to a different shout from Christ. Something like, “Take courage! It is I” (NIV), or “Don’t be afraid … I am here” (NLT), or “Courage. It’s me.” (MSG) However, a literal translation of his announcement results in, “Courage! I am. Don’t be afraid.” But translators like to tinker with words for obvious reasons because “I am” sounds a bit truncated. “I am here,” or “It is I” feels more complete. But what Jesus shouted in the storm was simply the magisterial, “I am.” And those words should ring like the cymbals clashing in the 1812 Overture because we’ve heard them before.

Speaking from the burning bush to a knee-knocking Moses, God announced, “I AM WHO I AM.” (Exod. 3:14) Double-dog daring his enemies to prove him otherwise, Jesus declared, “Before Abraham was born, I am.” (John 8:58) Determined to say it often enough and loud enough to get our attention, Christ chorused: “I am the bread of life;” (John 6:48) “I am the Light of the world;” (John 8:12) "I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved." (John 10:9) "I am the good shepherd;" (John 10:11) "I am God's Son;" (John 10:36) "I am the resurrection and the life;" (John 11:25) "I am the way, and the truth, and the life;" (John 14:6) "I am the true vine." (John 15:1)

The present-tense Christ. He never says, "I was." But we do, don’t we? We do because "we were." We were younger, faster, lighter, prettier, etc. Prone to be people of the past tense, we tend to reminisce. But not God. Unwavering in strength, he never has to say, "I was," because heaven has no rearview mirrors or crystal balls because our "I am" God never sighs, "Someday I will be." But we do. Dream-fueled, we reach for horizons. "Someday I will . . . . (insert your dream)." But not God. Can water be wetter, or wind be windless? Can God be more God? No. He doesn’t change.

He is the "I am" God. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever." (Heb. 13:8) From the center of the storm, the unwavering Jesus shouts, "I am." He was tall in the Trade Tower wreckage. He was bold against the Galilean waves. And he’s bold in the ICU, or the battlefield, or the boardroom, or the prison cell, or the maternity ward – whatever your storm, "I am." Right there in the middle of it; right there in the middle of the storm. And the actual construction of this passage echoes that point.

Matthew’s narrative is actually made up of two acts, each six verses long. The first act, verses 22-27, centers on the power walk of Jesus. The second, verses 28-33, centers on the faith walk of Peter. In the first act, Christ comes alongside the waves and declares the words engraved on every wise heart: "Courage! I am! Don't be afraid!" And in the second, a desperate disciple takes a step of faith and – for a moment – does what Christ does; he walks on water. Then he takes his eyes off of Christ and does what we do. He sinks.

Two acts. Each with six verses. Each set of six verses contains 90 Greek words. And right in middle of the two acts, and the two sets of verses, and the 180 words is this two-word declaration: "I am." Matthew, a former tax collector who’s really good with numbers, reinforces his point. It comes layered like a terrific submarine sandwich: Graphically: Jesus – soaked but strong. Linguistically: Jesus – the "I am" God. Mathematically: whether in the number of words or the weathered world, Jesus – in the midst of it all. That’s because God gets into things. He gets into Red Seas, and big fish, and lions’ dens and furnaces. God gets into bankrupt businesses and jail cells; Judean wildernesses, weddings, funerals, fires, and Galilean tempests. Look and you'll find what everyone from Moses to Martha has discovered. God – right there in the middle of our storms. And that includes your storms, too.

A while ago, a young woman, recently married and the mother of an eighteen-month-old, tragically passed away. Her life abruptly cut short – abbreviated. And the shelves of help and hope are barren at those times. But at her funeral the officiate, who was a close friend of hers, shared a memory in his eulogy that gave those in attendance both the help and hope that the grieving attendees sought that day.

For several years prior to her death the young woman had lived and worked in New York City. Due to their long-standing friendship, the priest had stayed in frequent contact with her via e-mail, and late one night he received a message indicative of God's persistent presence in her young life. It seems that his friend had missed her station while on the subway. And by the time she realized her mistake, she didn't know what to do. She prayed for safety and some sign of God's presence because this was neither the hour nor the place for a young, attractive woman to be passing through a rough New York neighborhood, especially alone.

At that moment the doors opened, and a homeless, disheveled man came on board and plopped right down next to her. Terrific. “God? Are you near?” she prayed. The answer came in a song. The man pulled out a harmonica and played, "Be Thou My Vision" – her mother's favorite hymn. The song convinced her - Christ was there, in the midst of it all.

Frank saw him in the rubble. Matthew saw him in the waves. The young woman saw him in a stranger. And you? Look closer. He's there. Right in the middle of it all.

Grace,

Randy

Envy

Envy
Envy - Audio/Visual

Do you want to be counted wise, to build a reputation for wisdom Here’s what you do: Live well, live wisely, live humbly. It’s the way you live, not the way you talk, that counts. Mean-spirited ambition isn’t wisdom. Boasting that you are wise isn’t wisdom. Twisting the truth to make yourselves sound wise isn’t wisdom. It’s the furthest thing from wisdom – it’s animal cunning, devilish conniving. Whenever you’re trying to look better than others or get the better of others, things fall apart and everyone ends up at the others’ throats. (James 3:14-16)

This time of year reminds me of my grandmother’s pomegranate jam. Few delicacies in life compared with her jam. Each spoonful was a celestial experience. The only problem with her gift was that it didn't last. The bottom of my jar was in sight long ago, but I remember dreading the moment. I remember sticking my finger in the jam jar to scoop out the last remaining taste, and stain, of that blissful elixir.

If I had been my grandpa, however, I wouldn't have had such a problem. He got all the pomegranate jam he ever wanted. Did the clinking of the spoon at the bottom of the jar trigger tears for Papa? Hardly. He had an unlimited supply. Maybe even more than he deserved. So why did he have so much and I had so little? Why was his pantry full and all I got was a jar? Who gave him the key to the jam-and-jelly castle? Who crowned Papa the prince of pomegranates? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. In fact, the more I think about it, even now, . . . .

Which is exactly what I shouldn't do. I shouldn't think about it. For resting at the end of this trail of thought is the deadly briefcase of envy. If you haven't seen one in real life, you've probably seen one in the spy movies. The assassin carries it up the back stairs into the vacant room at the top of the building. When he’s sure no one can see him, he opens the case. The disassembled rifle sits in cushioned slots. The scope, the barrel, the stock – all of it awaits the hand of the marksman. The marksman awaits the arrival of his victim. And who’s his victim? Anyone who has more than he has. More karats, more horsepower, more office space, more money. Envy sets its cross hairs on the one who has more. "You want something you don't have, and you will do anything to get it. You will even kill." (James 4:2)

That’s awfully strong language coming from James. And although we wouldn’t kill with a rifle like the assassin, can’t we do the same with our tongue? With our glare? Our gossip? "Jealousy," informs Proverbs 6:34, "enrages a man." Are your sights set on someone? If so, be careful – “jealousy will rot your bones." (Prov. 14:30) So do you need a deterrent for envy? An antidote for jealousy? Rather than bemoan the pomegranate jam you don't have, rejoice in the abundant cup that you do. "My cup overflows with blessings." (Ps. 23:5)

Is an overflowing cup full? Absolutely. The wine reaches the rim and then tumbles over the edge. The goblet is not large enough to contain the quantity. According to David, our hearts are not large enough to contain the blessings that God wants to give. He pours and pours until they literally flow over the edge and down on the table. F. B. Meyer put it this way: “Whatever the blessing is in our cup, it is sure to run over. With him the calf is always the fatted calf; the robe is always the best robe; the joy is unspeakable; the peace passes all understanding. . . . There is no grudging in God's benevolence; He does not measure out his goodness as an apothecary counts his drops and measures his drams, slowly and exactly, drop by drop. God's way is always characterized by multitudinous and overflowing bounty.”

The last thing we need to worry about is not having enough. Our cup overflows with blessings. So, if focusing on our diminishing items leads to envy, what would happen if we focused on the unending items? If awareness of what we don't have creates jealousy and envy, is it possible that an awareness of our abundance would lead to contentment? Here are a couple of blessings that, according to the Bible, overflow in our lives.

Abounding grace. "The more we see our sinfulness, the more we see God's abounding grace forgiving us." (Rom. 5:20) To abound is to have a surplus, an abundance, an extravagant portion. Should the fish in the Pacific worry that they’ll run out of ocean? No. Why? The ocean abounds with water. Does the hawk have to be anxious about finding room in the sky to fly? No. The sky abounds with space. Should the Christian worry that the cup of mercy will run empty? He may; he may not be aware of God's abounding grace. So are you? Are you aware that the cup God gives you is a cup that overflows with his mercy? Or are you afraid your cup will run dry, or your warranty will expire? Are you afraid your mistakes are too great for God's grace? We can't help but wonder if the apostle Paul had the same fear.

Before he was Paul the apostle, he was Saul the murderer. Before he encouraged Christians, he murdered them. What would it be like to live with that kind of past? Did he ever meet children whom he had made orphans? Did their faces haunt his sleep? Did Paul ever ask, "Can God forgive a man like me?" The answer to his and, perhaps, our questions is found in a letter he wrote to Timothy: "The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus." (1 Tim. 1:14) God is not a miser with his grace. Your cup may be low on cash or even on clout, but it’s overflowing with mercy. You may not have the prime parking place, but you have sufficient pardon. "He will abundantly pardon." (Isa. 55:7) Your cup overflows with grace.

And how about hope? Because your cup overflows with grace, your cup also overflows with hope. "God will help you overflow with hope in him through the Holy Spirit's power within you." (Rom. 15:13) Heaven's hope does for your world what the sunlight did for my grandmother's cellar. I owe my love of pomegranate jam to Nana. She canned her own and stored the jars in an underground cellar. It was a deep hole with wooden steps, plywood walls, and a musty smell. As a youngster I used to climb in, close the door, and see how long I could last in the darkness. Not even a slit of light entered that underground hole. I would sit silently and listen to my breath and heartbeats until I couldn't take it anymore. Then, I would race up the stairs and throw open the door. Light would avalanche into the cellar. What a change. Moments before I couldn't see anything – all of a sudden I could see everything.

Just as light poured into the cellar, God's hope pours into your world. Upon the sick, he shines the ray of healing. To the bereaved, he gives the promise of reunion. For the dying, he lit the flame of resurrection. To the confused, he offers the light of Scripture. God gives hope. So what if someone was born thinner or stronger, lighter or darker than you? Why count diplomas or compare résumés? What does it matter if they have a place at the head table? You have a place at God's table. And he’s filling your cup to overflowing.

Hosts in the ancient East used the overflowing cup to send a message to the guest. As long as the cup was kept full, the guest knew he was welcome. But when the cup sat empty, the host was hinting that the hour was late. On those occasions, however, when the host really enjoyed the company of the person, he filled the cup to overflowing. He didn't stop when the wine reached the rim; he kept pouring until the liquid ran over the edge of the cup and down on the table. Have you noticed how wet your table is? God wants you to stay. Your cup overflows with joy. Overflows with grace. So, shouldn't your heart overflow with gratitude? The heart of the boy did. At least eventually. But not at first.

According to the fable, he lived with his father in a valley at the base of a large dam. Every day the father would go to work on the mountain behind their house and return home with a wheelbarrow full of dirt. "Pour the dirt into the sacks, son," the father would say. "And stack them in front of the house." And though the boy would obey, he also complained. He was tired of dirt. He was weary of bags. Why didn't his father give him what other fathers gave their sons? They had toys and games; he had dirt. When he saw what the others had, he grew mad at them. "It's not fair," he said to himself. And when he saw his father, he objected. "They have fun. I have dirt." The father would smile and place his arm on the boy's shoulders and say, "Trust me, son. I'm doing what is best."

But it was so hard for the boy to trust. Every day the father would bring the load. Every day the boy would fill bags. "Stack them as high as you can," the father would say as he went for more. And so the boy filled the bags and piled them high. So high he couldn't see over them. "Work hard, son," the father said one day. "We're running out of time." As the father spoke, he looked at the darkening sky. The boy stared at the clouds and turned to ask about them, but just then the thunder cracked and the sky opened. The rain poured so hard he could scarcely see his father through the water. "Keep stacking, son!" And as he did, the boy heard a mighty crash. The water of the river poured through the dam and toward the little village. In a moment the tide swept away everything in its path, but the dike of dirt gave the boy and the father the time they needed. "Hurry, son. Follow me."

They ran to the side of the mountain behind their house and into a tunnel. In a matter of moments they exited the other side and scampered up the hill and came upon a new cottage. “We'll be safe here," the father said to the boy. Only then did the son realize what the father had done. He had burrowed an exit. Rather than give him what he wanted, the father gave his boy what he needed. He gave him a safe passage, and a safe place.

Hasn't God done the same? A strong wall of grace to protect us? A sure exit to deliver us? Of whom can we be envious? Who has more than we do? Rather than want what others have, shouldn't we wonder if they have what we do? Instead of being jealous of them, how about zealous for them? There’s enough to go around, and one thing is certain: when the final storm comes and you’re safe in your Father's house, you won't regret what he didn't give you. You'll be stunned at what he did.

Grace,

Randy