Self

Self

They traded the glory of God who lives forever for the worship of idols made to look like earthly people, birds, animals, and snakes....They worshiped and served what had been created instead of the God who created these things. (Rom. 1:23-25)

"Once there were five sons who lived in a mountain castle with their father. The eldest was an obedient son, but his four younger brothers were rebellious. Their father had warned them of the river, but they had not listened. He had begged them to stay clear of the bank lest they be swept downstream, but the river’s lure was too strong.”

"Each day the four rebellious brothers ventured closer and closer until one son dared to reach in and feel the waters. “Hold my hand so I won’t fall in," he said, and his brothers did. But when he touched the water, the current yanked him and the other three into the rapids and rolled them down the river." (Excerpted from In The Grip of Grace by Max Lucado)

In this story, four brothers are swept down the river, away from their father's home and into a strange land where savages live. At first they tried to return to their dad’s house by walking and climbing. That proved to be an impossibility. So, in an effort to keep the memory of their dad alive until he could come after them, they met each night around a campfire and told stories to each other about home.

Finally, one of the brothers leaves the campfire meetings, builds a hut in the valley of the savages and decides to simply forget about his father. Soon, a second brother deserts the camp and takes up a vantage point near his brother’s hut to keep track of his brother’s misdeeds among the savages. In other words, he became his brother's judge. Seeing the other brothers gone, the third brother leaves the fire and goes back to the river to stack rocks in the river to build a pathway back home to his father through his own efforts. The remaining brother waits, alone, by the fire.

Finally, the oldest brother shows up, sent by the father, to bring them all home. But the hut-building brother refused to go with him, insisting he didn't even remember his dad. The judging brother said he couldn't go because he had to stay and record the misdeeds of his hut-building brother. And the rock stacker refused to go, insisting he had to make up for his sin by building his own road home. Only the youngest brother was willing to allow his older brother to take him home – and he did.

You know, when you think about this story just a little bit, all four brothers who’d been swept down the river had the very same problem – a distance too great for them to cover had separated them from their father. And all four brothers had heard the same invitation – each had an opportunity to be carried home by their older brother. Yet, each of their responses was different and, in three cases, tragic.

The first said “No,” choosing to forget about his dad and to make a life on his own. The second said “No,” preferring to keep track of his ne’er-do-well brother rather than admitting his own need to come home. The third said “No,” determined to earn his father's forgiveness by his own hard work. The fourth said “Yes,” choosing his father's grace instead.

Do any of these brothers describe you? Maybe not. But if so, have you, like the fourth brother, recognized your helplessness to make the journey home by yourself? Will you allow the older brother, Jesus, to carry you home to your Heavenly Father? Or, are you like one of the other three sons? (It could just as well be daughters, too)

For instance, do you relate to the hut-builder? He traded his passion for the mountain castle for a love of the lowlands. Rather than aching for home, he settled for a cheap hut. The aim of his life, apparently, was pleasure. That’s the definition of hedonism, and that was the practice of this particular son.

You see, the hedonist navigates his life as if there is no father in his past, or his present, or his future. Oh, there may have been, somewhere in the remote past, a once-upon-a-time father. But as far as the here and now? The son chooses to live without him. Now, granted, there may be, in the far-away future, a father who comes to claim him. But as for today? Nope. The son will forge his life on his own. In other words, rather than seizing the future, he's perfectly content to seize the day.

I kind of think that Paul had this person in mind when he said, "They traded the glory of God who lives forever for the worship of idols made to look like earthly people, birds, animals, and snakes .... They worshiped and served what had been created instead of the God who created these things." (Rom. 1:23-25)

In short, hedonists make poor swaps; they trade mansions for huts, and their brother for a stranger. They exchange their father's house for a hillside ghetto and then send the son away. In Paul's day that was the majority of the Gentile world, and it’s not too hard for us today to understand why they don't usually make it back home.

The approach of the second brother was simple: "Why deal with my mistakes when I can focus on the mistakes of others?" He’s a “judgmentalist.” I may be bad, but I’m not as bad as THAT guy! This guy fuels his goodness with the failures of others. He is the self-appointed teacher's pet in elementary school. He tattles on the sloppy work of others, oblivious to the “F” he got on his own work. He's the neighborhood watchdog, passing out citations for people to clean up their act while never once noticing the garbage piling up in his own front yard.

"Come on God, let me show you the evil deeds of my neighbor," the moralist invites. But God won't follow him into that valley. And Paul, once again, makes that clear: "If you think you can judge others, you are wrong. When you judge them, you are really judging yourself guilty, because you do the same things they do." (Rom. 2:1) It's a shallow ploy, and God’s not gonna fall for it.

And then there’s the brother in the river. Ahhh, now here’s a guy we can respect, right? Hard-working; industrious; zealous; intense. He’s the fellow who sees his sin and sets out to resolve it by himself. Surely his efforts are worthy of our applause. Surely he’s worthy of our emulation. And, most definitely, he’s worthy of the father's mercy. Won't the father throw open the castle doors when he sees how hard this guy has worked to get home? With no help from the father, the legalist is tackling the odds and fording the river of failure. Surely the father will be happy to see him – if he ever does.

You see, the problem with this guy is not the affection of the father, but the strength of the river. What sucked the son away from the father's house in the first place was no gentle stream, but a roaring torrent. So the question is whether the son is strong enough to build an up-river path to the father's house? Doubtful. We certainly can't since, "(t)here is no one who always does what is right, not even one." (Rom. 3:10) But we try, don’t we? But rather than stacking rocks in the river (because that would be silly), we do good deeds instead. We think: If I do this then God will accept me. If I teach this class...and we pick up a rock. If I go to church...and we put the rock in the stream. If I give this money...another rock. If I read my Bible, have the right opinion on the right doctrine, join this movement ... rock upon rock upon rock.

The problem with this approach? You may take five steps, but you have five zillion to go. The river is just too long, and the current is much too swift to overcome. What separates us from God is not some shallow stream, but a tumbling, cascading, overwhelming river of sin – think Niagara Fall. We stack and stack and stack, only to find that we can barely keep our footing, much less make any progress. We can be a bunch of rock heads sometimes.

The impact on the rock-stackers, of course, is remarkably predictable: either despair or arrogance. They either give up, or they become stuck-up. They think they'll never make it, or they think they’re the only ones who'll ever make it. Strange, how two people can look at the same bunch of rocks and one hangs his head and the other puffs out his chest. Call the condition a religious godlessness. It's the theme behind Paul's brazen pronouncement, "We're sinners, every one of us, in the same sinking boat with everyone else." (Rom. 3:19)

Now, don’t get me wrong. Works are a natural outgrowth of our relationship with Jesus Christ – like fruit from a healthy tree. But it’s not because of what I’ve done, but because of who God is. And it’s not because of who I am, but because of what He’s done. God rewards those who seek him, not those who seek a doctrine, or a system, or works to justify themselves. It’s Christ’s death that provided our justification, not our works. (Rom 5:9)

Quite a trio, don't you think? The first is on a barstool; the second is in the judge's chair; and the third is sitting in a church pew. Though they may appear to be different, they’re very much alike. All are separated from God, and not one of them is asking for help. The first indulges his passions, the second monitors his neighbor like a Gladys Kravitz, and the third measures his merits like a Boy Scout. "They never give God the time of day." (Rom. 3:18)

Paul's word for this is godlessness. (Rom. 1:18) And the word pretty much defines itself: a life minus God. Worse than a disdain for God, it’s a complete disregard for God. Disdain at least acknowledges God’s presence. Godlessness doesn't. And where disdain will lead people to act irreverently, disregard causes them to act as if God were irrelevant.

And how does God respond to godless living? Not well. "The wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all godlessness and wickedness." (Rom. 1:18) Paul's main point is not a light one. God is justly angered over the actions of his children – whether they be godless or wicked.

Frankly, the first few chapters of Romans are not exactly what you’d call “upbeat.” Paul gives us the bad news before he gives us the good news. He will eventually tell us that we are all equal candidates for grace, but not before he proves that we are all desperately sinful. We have to see the mess we’re in before we can appreciate the God we have. It’s not a popular view these days, but before presenting the grace of God, we must understand and appreciate his wrath that will bring about our destruction without Jesus Christ.

So, which of these brothers best describes you? Maybe none of them. On the other hand, maybe you’ve recognized your helplessness to make the journey home by yourself. Or, are you like the other three who indulge their passions, scrutinize their neighbors or measure their merits? Self-satisfaction; Self-justification; self-sufficiency. Do you see a pattern here? Yep, they all have one word in common: self.

So, if you find you’re like one of these three musketeers, try God instead. He’s the savior, and he can save you in spite of your self.

Grace,

Randy

Invisible

Invisible

So we don't look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever. (2 Cor. 4:18)

Moms, I'll bet you could use just a little bit of rest right now. Because by the time you've got the house humming and the kids running, by the time the bills are paid, meals are made, and life begins to look orderly, it starts all over again. Sometimes you need a break, don't you? And you're not alone. In fact, read the consequences of this burden and then guess its cause:

It afflicts 70 million Americans and is faulted for 38,000 deaths each year. The condition annually costs the U.S. $70 billion worth of productivity. Teenagers suffer from it, and studies show that 64% of teens blame it for poor school performance. Middle-agers face it, too. Researchers say the most severe cases occur between ages 30 and 40. Even senior citizens are afflicted by it: one study suggests that the condition impacts 50% of the 65 and over population. Treatments for the condition include everything from mouth guards to herbal teas to medication.

Any idea what's being described? Chemical abuse? Divorce? Long lessons like this one? None of those answers are correct, although the last one was a pretty good guess. The answer may surprise you. It’s insomnia. America just can't seem to get to sleep.

For most of my life I secretly laughed at the thought of sleep difficulties. My problem was not in going to sleep; my problem was trying to stay awake. But a few years ago I went to bed one night, closed my eyes, and nothing. Nada. I couldn't fall asleep. Rather than slowing to a halt, my mind kicked into high gear. A thousand and one obligations rushed in at me. Midnight passed and I was still awake. So, I drank some milk and returned to bed. Still awake. So, I woke up my wife using that blue ribbon of dumb questions, "Are you awake?" She told me to quit thinking about stuff and get some sleep. So I did. I mean, I quit thinking about stuff and started thinking about people. But as I thought of people, I thought of what those people were doing. Right. They were sleeping. And that made me mad and kept me awake even longer. Finally, somewhere in the early hours of the morning, and now an initiate into the fraternity of 70 million sleepless Americans, I dozed off.

I don't laugh at the thought of sleep difficulties anymore. Nor do I question the inclusion of the verse about rest contained in the 23^rd Psalm – “He makes me to lie down in green pastures.” (Ps. 23:2) People with too much work and too little sleep step over to the baggage claim of life and grab the duffel bag of exhaustion. And it’s not like the kind of duffel bag you can carry. You can’t even hoist it onto your shoulders and stroll down the street. You drag it around like a lazy Lab. Weariness wearies.

Why are we so tired? Well, have you read the news lately? We long for the life of Huck and Tom on the Mississippi. But look at us: we’re riding the white waters of the Rio Grande where there are forks in the river and rocks in the water. Heart attacks, betrayal, credit card debt, and custody battles. Huck and Tom didn't have to face those kinds of things. But we do, however, and they keep us awake.

And since we can't sleep, we have a second problem. Our bodies are tired. Think about it. If 70 million Americans aren't sleeping enough, what does that mean? It means that one-third of our country is dozing off at work, napping through class, or sleeping at the wheel. Some even snooze while reading messages like this one. Truth is, thirty tons of aspirin, sleeping pills, and tranquilizers are consumed every day to treat the condition.

It’s as if the gas gauge on the dashboard of our lives says empty. And were we to invite someone to solve our problem, they’d probably make a very simple suggestion – get more sleep. But we'd laugh because, clearly, he or she doesn't understand the way we work. Literally. We work hard. There’s money to be made. Degrees to be earned. Ladders to be climbed. In our way of thinking, busyness is next to godliness. We idolize someone like Thomas Edison, who claimed to live on 15-minute naps. But somehow we forget to mention someone like Albert Einstein who averaged 11 hours of sleep a night. Back in 1910, Americans slept nine hours a night; today we sleep seven and we’re proud of it. But pride has its price. Our minds are tired. Our bodies are tired. And more importantly, our souls are tired.

We are eternal creatures, and we ask eternal questions: Where did I come from? Where am I going? What is the meaning of life? What is right? What is wrong? Is there life after death? These are the primal questions of the soul. And left unanswered, these questions steal our rest. Only one other living creature has as much trouble resting as we do, and it’s not dogs because they doze. It’s not bears either – they hibernate. Cats invented the catnap, and the sloth slumbers 20 hours a day. Most animals know how to rest. There is one exception, however. These creatures are woolly, simpleminded and slow. (No, not husbands) They’re sheep, and sheep can't sleep.

For sheep to sleep, everything has to be just right. No predators. No tension in the flock. No bugs in the air. No hunger in the stomach. Everything has to be just so. Unfortunately, sheep can’t find safe pasture, nor can they spray insecticide, deal with the frictions or even find food for themselves. They need help. They need a shepherd to lead them and help them to "lie down in green pastures." Without a shepherd, they just can't rest. And without a shepherd, neither can we.

In the second verse of the 23^rd Psalm, David the poet becomes David the artist. His quill becomes a brush, his parchment a canvas, and his words paint a picture: a flock of sheep on folded legs, encircling a shepherd. Bellies nestled deep in the long, green grass. A still pond on one side, the watching shepherd on the other. "He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters."

Note the two pronouns preceding the two verbs: He makes me ..., He leads me .... So, who’s the active one here? Who’s in charge? It’s the shepherd. The shepherd selects the trail and prepares the pasture. The sheep's job (that’s us) is to watch the shepherd. And with our eyes on our Shepherd, we'll be able to get some sleep. "You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You." (Isa. 26:3)

In fact, of the 10 declarations carved into the tablets, which one occupies the most space? Murder? Adultery? Stealing? You'd think so. Certainly each is worthy of ample coverage. But curiously, these commands are tributes to brevity. God needed only 5 English words to condemn adultery and 4 to denounce thievery and murder. But when he came to the topic of rest, one sentence wouldn’t suffice.

“Remember to observe the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. You have six days each week for your ordinary work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath day of rest dedicated to the LORD your God. On that day no on in your household may do any work. This includes you, your sons and daughters, your male and female servants, your livestock, and any foreigners living among you. For in six days the LORD made the heavens, the earth, the sea, and everything in them; but on the seventh day he rested. That is why the LORD blessed the Sabbath day and set it apart as holy.” (Exodus 20:8-11)

God knows us so well. He can see the store owner reading this verse and musing, "Somebody needs to work that day. If I can't, my son will." So God says, no, not your son. "Then my daughter will." No, not your daughter, either. "Then maybe an employee." Nope, not them. "OK, then I guess I'll have to send my cow to run the store, or maybe I'll find some stranger to help me.” Seriously? One day of the week you will say no to work and yes to worship. You will slow down, sit down, lie down and rest. Still we object. "But ... but ... but ... who is going to run the store?" "What about my grades?" "I've got my sales quota to make." We offer up one reason after another, but God silences them all with a poignant reminder: "In six days the LORD made the heavens, the earth, the sea, and everything in them; but on the seventh day he rested." God's message is plain: "If creation didn't crash when I rested, it won't crash when you do."

But then again, maybe we work so hard and rest so little because we think we’re invisible. You know, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while we’re on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. And inside we’re thinking, “Can't you see that I'm on the phone?” Obviously not; no one can see if you’re on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on your head in the corner for that matter, because no one can see you at all. It’s as if you’re invisible.

The invisible Mom. Some days you’re only a pair of hands and nothing more. Can you fix this? Can you tie that? Can you open this? On other days, you’re a clock to ask, “What time is it?” Or, a TV Guide to answer, “What number is the Disney Channel?” Or, you’re a taxi to hail, “Right around 5:30, please.” Some days you’re even a crystal ball – “Where's my other sock?” “Where's my phone?” And my particular favorite, “What's for dinner?” Over time, you’ve concluded that the hands that once held books and the eyes that once studied history, music and literature are a thing of the past. Now? Now, they’ve disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. And there you are. There’s Mom. She's going, going, gone.

In the book, Great Cathedrals, by Bernhard Schutz, a professor of architectural history at the University of Munich, he describes, in exquisite detail, the great cathedrals of Europe. From Chartres to the cathedral of Florence, his hardcover book covers the major Romanesque and Gothic cathedrals in France, England, Germany, Italy and Spain. In it, there are over 300 color photographs showing the cathedrals both inside and out, including close-up architectural and sculptural details that, when combined with the author’s text, give you a virtual tour of these magnificent buildings. And although you may not have the time, or the interest, to read through this 8 lb., 472 page behemoth, even a modest reading reveals the cathedral’s beauty in the simplicity of what they represent.

You see, no one can say who actually built the great cathedrals because there’s no record of the general contractor who was responsible. Nevertheless, the builder gave his or her whole life for a work they would never see finished, and made unbelievable sacrifices without ever expecting to receive the credit. The passion of their construction was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A story of legend in this book tells of a rich man who came to visit a cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny, little bird on the inside of a beam. The rich man was puzzled and asked the artist, “Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it!” Looking down from his scaffold, and with the utmost faith and sincerity, the workman humbly replied, “Because God sees.”

God sees. And God sees you, Mom. He sees the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've ever baked, no Girl Scout meeting, no last minute errand is too small for God not to notice and to smile about. You are building a great cathedral – you just can’t see right now what it will eventually become.

Rather than being invisible, exhausting yourself in an attempt to be seen, you are, instead, a great builder. You’re the one who shows up at the job you’ll never see finished to work on something that your name will never be on. Imagine being a 14^th century bricklayer. You work your entire life adding a few more feet in a wall of a building that you’ll never see completed. “What does it matter?” you say. Well, if you’ve ever seen the Cathedral of Notre Dame (which took nearly 200 years to finish), you know why it matters. The truth is that cathedrals could never have been built in a single person’s lifetime largely because there were so few people willing to sacrifice to the same degree as the builder.

And when you think about it, do you really want your son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, “My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for 3 hours, and then presses all the linens for the table”? That would be building a monument to yourself, wouldn’t it? Instead, don’t you just want him to come home? And then, if there’s anything more to say to his friend, wouldn’t you rather just hear him say, “You're gonna love it here....” Yeah, probably so.

As mothers, you’re building great cathedrals. The thing is that you can’t always be seen doing it, especially if you’re doing it right. But one day, the world may marvel at not only at what you’ve built with God’s help, but at the beauty that’s been added to the world because of the sacrifices of invisible Moms … just like you. And even if you’re not the 8^th wonder of the modern world, God knows. God cares. And God knows that “… the things we see now will soon be gone, but the invisible will last forever.”

Happy Mother’s Day.

Grace,

Randy

Pride

Pride

Pride precedes destruction; an arrogant spirit before a fall. (Prov. 16:18)

As Brazilian jail cells go this one wasn’t too bad. There’s a fan on the table, and the twin beds each have a thin mattress and a pillow. There’s a toilet and a sink, and Hector’s there to stay. The tattooed anchor on his forearm symbolizes his personality — cast-iron. His broad chest stretches his shirt, and the slightest movement of his arm bulges his biceps. His face is as leathery in texture as it is in color. His glare could laser through an enemy. His smile’s an explosion of white teeth. But today, the glare’s gone and the smile’s forced. Hector isn’t on the street where he’s the boss; he’s in a jail where he’s a prisoner.

He’d killed a man, a “neighborhood punk” as Hector told it, a restless teenager who sold marijuana to kids on the street and made a nuisance of himself with his mouth. One night the drug dealer had used his mouth one time too many, and Hector had decided to silence it. He’d left the crowded bar where the two of them had been arguing, gone home, took a pistol out of a drawer, and walked back to the bar. Hector re-entered the bar and called the punk’s name. The drug dealer turned around – just in time to take a bullet in the chest.

Hector’s guilty. Period. His only hope is that the judge might agree that he’d done society a favor by getting rid of a neighborhood problem. He’d be sentenced within the month. So, it’s no surprise that he was at least open to the idea of becoming a Christ-follower, and the eyes of the murderer softened slightly at the thought that the one who knows him best loves him most. His heart appeared touched as he listened about heaven, a hope that no executioner could take away from him.

But as the conversation turned to conversion, Hector’s face began to harden. The head that had leaned forward with interest was now erect with caution. Hector didn’t like the statement that the first step in coming to God was an admission of guilt. He was uneasy with words like, “I’ve been wrong,” and “Forgive me.” Saying “I’m sorry” was out of character for him. He’d never backed down to anyone, and he wasn’t about to start now — even if the man was God.

“Don’t you want to go to heaven?” “Sure,” he grunted. “Well then, are you ready?” Earlier he might have boasted yes, but now he’d heard too many verses from the Bible. He knew better. He stared at the concrete floor for a long time, meditating on the question. Maybe his stony heart would crack. And, for a second, it seemed like burly Hector would, for the first time, admit his failures. But the eyes weren’t tear-filled; they were angry, instead. They weren’t the eyes of a repentant prodigal; they were the eyes of an angry prisoner.

“All right,” he shrugged. “I’ll become one of your Christians. But don’t expect me to change the way I live.” “But you don’t get to draw up the rules, Hector.” “It’s not a contract you negotiate before you sign. It’s a gift — an undeserved gift. But to receive it, you have to admit that you need it.” “OK, but don’t expect to see me at church on Sundays.” Hmmm.

How many shots to the head does a guy need before he’ll ask for help? And Hector’s prison is not just bricks and mortar, but pride. The fact is, he’s twice imprisoned: once because of murder, and the other because of stubbornness; once by his country, and once by himself.

The prison of pride. For most of us it isn’t as blatant as Hector’s, but the characteristics are the same. The upper lip is just as stiff. The chin is jutted upward, and the heart’s just as hard. The prison of pride is filled with self-made men and women determined to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, even if they land on their bum. It doesn’t matter what they did, or to whom they did it, or even where they’ll end up; it only matters that, like Frank Sinatra crooned, “I did it my way.”

And we’ve seen the prisoners, haven’t we? The addict who won’t admit his drug problem. The woman who refuses to talk to anyone about her fears. The businessman who adamantly rejects help, even when his dreams are falling apart. The truth is, maybe all we have to do to see the prisoner is simply look in the mirror.

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9) You know, the biggest word in Scripture just might be that two-letter one: “If.” Because confessing sins (admitting failure) is exactly what prisoners of pride refuse to do. You know the lingo, don’t you? Something like, “Well, I may not be perfect, but I’m better than Hitler and certainly nicer than Mussolini!” Or, “Me a sinner? Oh, sure, I get a little carried away every once in a while, but I’m a pretty good person.” And, “Listen, I’m just as good as the next guy. I pay my taxes. I coach the Little League team. I even make donations to the Red Cross. Why, God’s probably proud to have somebody like me on his team.”

Justification. Rationalization. Comparison. These are the tools of the jailbird. They sound good. They sound familiar. They even sound American. But in the kingdom, they sound hollow.

“Blessed are those who mourn….” (Matthew 5:4) To mourn for our sins is the natural outflow of a poverty of spirit, and that’s why the second beatitude about mourning should follow the first, i.e., “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” (Matthew 5:3) But that’s not always the case. Many of us deny our weaknesses. Many of us know we’re wrong, yet pretend we’re right. As a result, we never taste the exquisite sorrow of repentance. Perhaps of all the paths to joy, this one has got to be the strangest: true blessedness, Jesus says, begins with deep sadness.

In Frederick Bruner’s commentary on Matthew, he says “God helps those who cannot help themselves and he helps those who try to help others, but he does not in any beatitude help those who think they can help themselves — an often ungodly and antisocial conception.” p. 152

Joy through mourning? Freedom through surrender? Liberty through confession? Looking for an example? OK, here’s one. He was nitroglycerin in a bottle; if you bumped him the wrong way, he blew up. He made a living with his hands, and got into trouble with his mouth. In some ways, he had a lot in common with Hector. And if he’d had a tattoo, it would have been a big, black anchor on his forearm, too. If they’d had bumper stickers back then, his would have read, “I don’t get mad; I get even.” He was a man among men on the Galilean sea. His family called him Simon, but his master called him “Rocky.” You know him as Peter.

And though he might not have known everything about self-control, he knew one thing about being a fisherman: he knew better than to get caught in a storm. And this night, Peter knows he’s in trouble. The winds have roared down onto the Sea of Galilee like a hawk on a field mouse. Lightning zigzags across the pitch-black sky. The clouds reverberate with thunder. The rain taps, then pops, then slaps against the deck of the boat until everyone aboard is soaked and shaking. Ten-foot waves pick them up and slam them down again with bone-jarring force. These drenched men don’t look like a team of apostles who’re only a decade away from changing the world. They don’t look like an army that will march to the ends of the earth and re-route history. They don’t look like a band of pioneers who’ll soon turn the world upside down. No, they look more like a handful of shivering sailors who’re wondering if the next wave will be their last.

And you can be sure of one thing. The one with the widest eyes is the one with the biggest biceps — Peter. He’s seen these storms before. He’s seen the wreckage and bloated bodies float to shore. He knows what the fury of both wind and wave can do. And he knows that times like these are not times to make a name for yourself; they’re times to get some help. That’s why, when he sees Jesus walking on the water toward the boat, he’s the first to say, “Lord, if it’s you . . . tell me to come to you on the water.” (Matt. 14:28)

Now, some say this statement was simply a request for verification. Peter, they suggest, wants to prove that the one they see is really Jesus and not just anyone who might be on a stroll across a storm-tossed sea in the middle of the night, like a ghost. (I guess you can’t be too careful, you know) So, Peter consults his notes, removes his glasses, clears his throat, and asks a question any good lawyer would ask: “Ahem, Jesus, if you would kindly demonstrate your power and prove your divinity by calling me out on the water with you, I would be most appreciative.”

But I don’t buy that. I don’t think Peter is seeking clarification; I think he’s trying to save his neck because he’s aware of two facts: he’s going down, and Jesus is staying up. And it doesn’t take him too long to decide where he would rather be. Perhaps a better interpretation of his request would be, “Jeeeeeeeesus. If that’s you, then get me out of here!”

“Come on,” is the invitation. And Peter doesn’t have to be invited twice, because it’s not every day that you can walk on water through waves that are taller than you are. But when faced with the alternative of sure death or possible life, Peter knows which one he wants. And the first few steps go pretty well. But a few strides out onto the water, and he forgets to look to the One who got him there in the first place, and down he plunges.

And at this point we see the major difference between Hector and Peter — the difference between a man who hides his problems and the one who admits them. Hector’s more concerned about his image than about his neck. He would prefer to go under rather than let his friends hear him ask for help. He would rather go down “his way” than get out “God’s way.” Peter, on the other hand, knows better than to count the teeth in the mouth of a gift horse. He knows better than to bite the hand that can save him. His response may lack class but it gets him out of some deep water: “Help me!” And since Peter would rather swallow pride than water, a hand reaches down through the rain and the water and pulls him up.

I think the message is pretty clear. As long as Jesus is one of many options, he’s no option. As long as we can carry our burdens alone, we don’t need a burden-bearer. As long as our situation brings us no grief, we’ll receive no comfort. And as long as we can take him or leave him, well, we might as well leave him because he won’t be taken halfheartedly.

But when we mourn, when we get to the point of sorrowing for our sins, when we admit that we have no other option but to cast all of our cares on him, and when there’s truly no other name that we can call, then cast all your cares on him, for he’s waiting in the midst of the storm. I think that’s what Peter meant when, through inspiration of the Spirit, he later wrote, “Cast all your cares on him, because He cares for you.” (1 Peter 5:7)

Grace,

Randy