Stairway from Heaven

Stairway From Heaven

Then Jesus directed them to have all the people sit down in groups on the green grass. So they sat down in groups of hundreds and fifties. Taking the five loaves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke the loaves. Then he gave them to his disciples to distribute to the people. He also divided the two fish among them all. They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces of bread and fish. The number of the men who had eaten was five thousand.

Immediately Jesus made his disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to Bethsaida, while he dismissed the crowd. After leaving them, he went up on a mountainside to pray. (Mark 6:39-46)

New Mexico is called the “Land of Enchantment.” And in this land of enchantment, there’s a chapel of wonder.

On the corner of Water Street and Old Santa Fe Trail, you’ll find Loretto Chapel. And if you were to step through its iron gate, you’d enter more than just a chapel courtyard. You’d enter another era. The chapel was completed in 1878, during a time when settlers stomped through muddy streets, donkeys brayed and wagon wheels groaned – the early morning sun spotlighting this gothic chapel as it sits against the backdrop of the desert hills of Santa Fe.

Loretto Chapel took five years to complete. Modeled after the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, its delicate sanctuary contains an altar, a rose window, and a choir loft. The choir loft is the reason for its wonder. Because if you were to have stood in that newly-built chapel in 1878, you might have seen the Sisters of Loretto looking forlornly at the balcony. Everything had been completed: the doors had been hung, the pews had been placed and the floor had been laid. Everything was finished. Even the choir loft. Except for one thing. There were no stairs leading up to the loft.

The architect had died suddenly during the chapel’s construction, and it was only after much of the chapel had already been completed that the builders realized – too late – that it was lacking any type of stairway to the loft. Unfortunately, the chapel was too small to accommodate a conventional stairway. The best builders and designers in the region had been summoned and simply shook their heads when consulted. “Impossible,” they murmured. There simply wasn’t enough room. A ladder would serve the purpose, but mar the ambiance. A ladder also presented a trip-and-fall hazard to the nuns who would be forced to scale it with their long habits.

The Sisters of Loretto, whose determination had led them from Kentucky to Santa Fe, now faced a challenge greater than their journey: a stairway that couldn’t be built. What they had dreamed of and what they could do were separated by twenty impossible feet.

So what did they do? Well, they did the only thing they could do. They ascended the mountain. Not the mountains near Santa Fe. They climbed an even higher mountain. They climbed the same mountain that Jesus climbed 1,800 years earlier in Bethsaida. They climbed the mountain of prayer.

“He went up on a mountainside by himself to pray.” (Mark 6:46)

Jesus faced an impossible task that day. More than five thousand people were ready to fight a battle he had not come to fight. How could he show them that he didn’t come to be a king, but to be a sacrifice? How could he take their eyes off an earthly kingdom so that they would see the spiritual one? How could they see the eternal when they only had eyes for the temporal? What Jesus dreamed of doing, and what he seemed able to do, were separated by an impossible gulf. So, Jesus prayed.

The Bible doesn’t tell us what he prayed about. Maybe he prayed that the eyes that had been blinded by power could see God’s truth; or that disciples, dizzied by success, could endure failure; or that leaders longing for power would follow him to a cross; or that the people desiring bread for the body would hunger for the bread of the soul. He prayed for the impossible to happen.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe he didn’t ask for anything. Maybe he just stood quietly in the presence of the Presence and basked in the Majesty. Perhaps he placed his war-weary self before the throne and simply rested. Maybe he lifted his head out of the confusion of earth long enough to hear the solution of heaven. Perhaps he was reminded that hard hearts don’t faze the Father; that problem people don’t perturb the Eternal One. We don’t know what he did, or what he said. But we do know the result. The hill from which he prayed that evening became a steppingstone, and the ensuing storm that night became a path that allowed the disciples to see Jesus as they had never seen him before.

And during the storm that followed, Jesus prayed again. The sky darkened. The winds howled. Yet he prayed. The people grumbled. The disciples doubted. Yet he prayed. When forced to choose between the muscles of men and the mountain of prayer, he prayed. Jesus didn’t try to do it by himself. So why should we?

There are crevasses in our life that we cannot cross alone. There are hearts in our world that we cannot change without help. There are mountains that we cannot climb until we climb His mountain. So, climb it. You’ll be amazed. The Sisters of Loretto were.

As the story goes, the nuns prayed for nine days. On the last day of the novena, a Mexican carpenter with a beard, a donkey and a toolbox appeared at the chapel looking for work. He explained that he’d heard they needed a stairway to a chapel loft, and he thought he could help. At this point, the mother superior had nothing to lose, so she gave him permission.

He went to work with crude tools, painstaking patience, a couple of tubs of water and uncanny skill. For eight months he worked – alone. Only working when the chapel was not in use; only working when no one could see; working only when the eyes who’d see were the eyes of the One who sees everything.

One morning the Sisters of Loretto entered the chapel to find their prayers had been answered. A masterpiece of carpentry spiraled from the floor to the loft. Two complete three-hundred-sixty-degree turns. Thirty-three steps held together with wooden pegs and no central support. The wood is said to be a variety of hard fir, one that is non-existent in New Mexico.

When the sisters turned to thank the craftsman, he was gone. He was never seen again. The nuns even ran ads in the newspaper trying to find him, but no trace of the man could be found. He never asked for money. He never asked for praise. He was a simple carpenter who did what no one else could do so singers could gain access to a choir loft that no one could reach, and sing.

So, if you’re ever in Santa Fe, step into this chapel of amazement and witness the fruit of prayer. Or, if you prefer, talk to the Master Carpenter yourself, right where you are. He’s already performed one impossible feat in your world. He, like the Santa Fe carpenter, built a stairway no one else could build. He, like the nameless craftsman, used material from another place. He, like the visitor to Loretto, came to span the gap between where you are and where you long to be.

Each year of his life is a step. Thirty-three paces, all equally spaced. Each step of the stair is an answered prayer. He built it so you can climb it.

And sing.

Grace,

Randy

Dads

Dads

The Lord made an agreement with Jacob and gave the teachings to Israel, which he commanded our ancestors to teach to their children. Then their children would know them, even their children not yet born. And they would tell their children. So they would all trust God and would not forget what he had done but would obey his commands. (Psalm 78:5-7)

Here’s a letter from one of those children:

Dear God,

Thanks for giving me a daddy. You knew just what I’d need! In case you need to make daddies for other kids, I thought you might like to know what I like best about the one you sent me:

A good dad …(1) knows everything (like how to tie shoes and drive a car); (2) is really smart (he even knows where the wind goes after it blows through the trees); (3) has a forgiving heart (for when I mess up); (4) is loaded with patience, patience, patience (he probably won’t need it, but just in case…); (5) has a comfy lap and a big laugh (you understand about that, don’t you?); and (6) tells me all about you and your son.

Your friend,

Israel

P.S. I almost left out the best part! A good dad has real strong arms (to catch me when I fall. He says you’re just like that, too).

It seems to me that fathers and mothers enter the child-rearing business at two different times. Mothers decide to be mothers long before dads do. A mother carries a baby for nine months, giving her an opportunity to grow content with her decision to parent the new family member.

Dad, on the other hand, goes about his daily routine, pretty much unaffected by what’s going on inside the womb. Oh, he’s supportive and excited, but compared to Mom? He’s an observer. Until delivery time. Then Dad’s world takes on an entirely new meaning. He looks into the face of that new life and is faced with the realization: “I’m the father of this child.” You might call it a “delivery room discovery.”

At this point a good dad makes a big decision. He has to decide to become a father. And that decision sets up dominoes of decisions he will make for the rest of his life. It’s a rational choice to alter his life, schedule, direction and priorities in order to be a good dad to the tiny life in his arms.

Fathering a child, for most, is not difficult. Being a father is. It’s the first and most important decision of fathers: to make a conscientious choice to be a father. The decision to be a father is not just a delivery room decision, though. It’s a daily decision. A century ago, dads were on-site parents, working the farm or running the family store. Children spent a great deal of their time alongside their parents, working together. But in our modern culture, employment distances most dads from their kids.

Some dads leave home before the children are awake. Others arrive home long after the kids are home from school. As a result, it’s possible, even common, for a father to forget about fathering — to emotionally disconnect himself from his kids. Throughout the day, every day, dads need to renew their “dad” decision. “Will I attend this convention?” “Is this meeting essential?” “Can I rearrange these appointments to get home earlier?” On the way home from work, dads have to decide to take off the work hat and put on the “dad” hat. It’s a decision to manage his time, carefully reconciling work with the priority of family.

Being a good dad means making tough, sacrificial decisions. Decisions that tell our children what’s important to us. In his book, Achieving Success Without Failing Your Family, Paul Faulkner describes the decisions of a particular insurance executive. Speaking at a businessmen’s convention, the man stressed the importance of being a father first. The man’s daughter was seated in the audience.

…(i)n the middle of his talk he had turned to her and asked, “Sweetheart, do you remember the time I won the million-dollar roundtable three years in a row?” And she said, “No, Dad, I don’t guess I do.” And then he asked, “Well, do you remember when we used to have those Dairy Queen dates?” And she said, “Oh, yes!” And then he turned to the audience to make the point that daughters don‘t remember when you sell a million dollars’ worth of insurance, but they do remember your special dates.

Not only must dads decide to be involved with their kids, available and interested in what interests them, but dads must decide what kind of role models they’ll be. What an incredible privilege: the task of molding and shaping little children. Kids have a unique set of antennae — not only are they able to see much and hear more, they replay the behavior they see in their parents.

Paul Harvey tells a story that’s a good example of this point. Our “For What It’s Worth Department” knows that when Grey Baker goes golfing in Jackson, Mississippi — he has taken his three-year-old grandson Trevor along as a companion… The boy has been learning the game by watching. Last week Grandpa Baker brought the lad a set of play golf clubs of his own. This past weekend — during a family cookout in the backyard — the little lad who’d learned golf by observing Grandpa announced, “Watch me!” And he said a no-no word and threw his golf club up into the pear tree.

Of all the fathers in the Bible, one stands out in particular for his decision to be a godly father. He intentionally decided to be an adoptive father to his orphaned cousin, Esther. He could be called the father of courage, because he instilled this trait in his daughter. Do you remember the story?

The small book of Esther reveals the story of the beautiful Jewish girl whose clever courage saved her people. Mordecai raised his daughter to take a stand at the right time, and to do the right thing.

Because of her beauty, Esther becomes Queen of Persia. Mordecai wisely advises her to conceal her heritage from King Xerxes. When Mordecai refuses to bow down to the king’s officer, Haman, he placed himself in jeopardy because of his convictions – he would bow before no one other than Jehovah. As a result, Haman conspires to destroy not only Mordecai, but all the Jews as well. Mordecai urges Esther to appeal to the king on behalf of their people. “(Y)ou may have been chosen queen for such a time as this.” (Esther 4:14) Esther must have trusted Mordecai a great deal because she determined to stand before the king for her people, “(a)nd if I die, I die.” (Esther 4:16)

Words of faith, words of courage. Words that a daughter could say because she was raised by a father who made the right decisions. Remember this: a crisis does not develop character; a crisis reveals character. The character Esther revealed must have been learned from observing her father’s character. And as the plot twists and turns, Mordecai and the Jewish nation are saved and Haman is executed.

Usually, when we study the story of Esther, we see her strength and devotion to her people. But God used someone else in this story to accomplish his purpose. God used a faithful father — a father who impressed a young daughter to have courage in her convictions. At the right time, Esther did the right thing, because she had been raised by a godly father. A father who knew that the decisions he would make as his daughter grew up would help her learn to make godly decisions later in life.

 

Remember that time when you dropped your child off for their first day of kindergarten? You knew it was time. You knew it was right. And you knew he or she would be just fine. But you never knew it would be so hard to say, “You’ll be all right. Come on, I’ll walk you to class.” But one step into the classroom, the cat of curiosity pounced on your kindergartner. And you walked away. You gave her up. Not much, but you gave him up as much as you could that day.

It’s events like that which take us from black-and-white theology to Technicolor reality. “What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all — how will he not also, along with him graciously give us all things?” (Romans 8:31-32)

So, is that how God felt, too? Is what we felt that first-day-of-school morning anything like what God felt when He gave up His son? If so, it may explain a lot. It explains the proclamation of the angels to the shepherds outside Bethlehem. (A father announcing the birth of his son) It explains the voice at Jesus’ baptism: “This is my son in whom I’m very pleased ….” (A proud father acknowledging his son) It explains the transfiguration of Moses and Elijah on the mountaintop. (A father sending encouragement to his son) And it explains how God’s heart must have ached as he heard the cracking voice of his son, “Father, take this cup away.”

On that first day of school, we released our children into a safe environment with a compassionate teacher who stood ready to wipe away any tears. God, on the other hand, released Jesus into a hostile arena with cruel soldiers who turned the back of his son into raw meat. We said good-bye to our kids knowing that they would make friends, laugh and draw pictures. God said good-bye to Jesus knowing he would be spat upon, laughed at and killed.

We gave up our kids fully aware that, were they to need us, we would be at their side in a heartbeat. But God said goodbye to his son fully aware that when he would need him the most, when his cry of despair would roar through the heavens, God would sit in silence. The angels, though positioned, would hear no command from God. Jesus, though in anguish, would feel no comfort from God’s hand. “He gave his best,” Paul reasons, “why should we doubt his love?”

Perhaps we should sit in silence, not like we did after we watched our child walk into that classroom on the first day of school, but before our Father. This time not sad over what we had to give, but grateful for what we’ve already received — living proof that God cares.

Grace,

Randy

Beastly

Beastly

Jesus was beaten with whips and handed over to the soldiers to be crucified. The governor’s soldiers took Jesus into the governor’s palace, and they all gathered around him. They took off his clothes and put a red robe on him. Using thorny branches, they made a crown, put it on his head, and put a stick in his right hand. Then the soldiers bowed before Jesus and made fun of him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” They spat on Jesus. Then they took his stick and began to beat him on the head. After they finished, the soldiers took off the robe and put his own clothes on him again. Then they led him away to be crucified. (Matt. 27:26–31)

What would have happened to the Beast if the Beauty hadn’t appeared? You know the story, don’t you? There was a time when his face was handsome and his palace was pleasant. But that was before the curse, before the shadows fell on the castle of the prince, and before the shadows fell on the heart of the prince. And when the darkness fell, he hid. Secluded in his castle, he was left with a glistening snout, curly tusks and a bad mood.

But all that changed when the girl came. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened to the Beast if the Beauty hadn’t appeared? Better yet, what would have happened if she hadn’t cared? And who’d have blamed her if she hadn’t? He was a beast. Hairy. Drooling. Roaring. Defying. And she was such a beauty. Stunningly gorgeous. Contagiously kind. If ever two people lived up to their names, these two did it in spades. Who would’ve blamed her if she hadn’t cared? But she did. And because the Beauty loved the Beast, the Beast became more beautiful himself.

The story’s familiar to most, but not just because it’s a fairy tale. It’s familiar because it reminds us of ourselves – there’s a beast in each of us. Oh, it wasn’t always that way. There was a time when humanity’s face was beautiful, and the palace was pleasant. But that was before the curse, before the shadow fell across the garden of Eden, before the darkness fell across the heart of Adam. And ever since the curse, we’ve been different. Beastly. Ugly. Defiant. Angry. We do things we know we shouldn’t do and then we wonder why we did them.

The ugly part of me showed its beastly face one night when I was in college. I was driving on a two-lane road that was about to become a single lane. A woman in a car beside me was in the lane that continued. I was in the lane that stopped. I needed to be ahead of her. My schedule was, no doubt, more important than hers. So, I floored it. Guess what? She did, too. And when my lane ended, she was a fender ahead of me. I growled and slowed and let her go ahead. Over her shoulder she gave me a sweet little bye-bye wave. But then the sinister part of me said, “Hey, wait a minute. She can’t do that! Maybe you should shed a little light on the situation.” So, I put a little high beam in her rearview mirror. She retaliated by slowing down. To a crawl. This woman was mean.

She couldn’t have cared less if the whole city was late; she wasn’t going to go beyond fifteen miles per hour. And I wasn’t going to take my lights out of her rearview mirror. Like two stubborn mules, she kept it slow and I kept it bright. But then, after a few more unkind thoughts, the road widened and I started to make my pass. Wouldn’t you know it? A red light left the two of us side by side at the intersection. What happened next was both good and bad. The good news is that she waved at me; the bad is that she waved with just one finger.

Then conviction surfaced. “Why did I do that?” I’m usually a pretty calm guy, but for fifteen minutes I was a beast. And only two facts comforted me: I didn’t have a fish symbol on my truck, and the apostle Paul had similar struggles: “I do not do what I want to do, and I do the things I hate.” (Rom. 7:15) Ever felt like saying those words? If so, you’re in good company because Paul isn’t the only person in the Bible who wrestled the beast within. In fact, it’s hard to find a page in Scripture where the animal doesn’t bare his teeth.

King Saul chasing young David with a spear. Shechem raping Dinah. Dinah’s brothers (the sons of Jacob) murdering Shechem and his friends. Lot selling out to Sodom and then getting out of Sodom. Herod murdering Bethlehem toddlers. Another Herod murdering Jesus’ cousin. If the Bible is called the Good Book, it’s not because its people are. Blood runs as freely through the stories as the ink on the pages. But the evil of the beast was never so raw as on the day Christ died.

The disciples were first fast asleep, then fast afoot. Herod wanted a show. Pilate wanted out. And the soldiers? They wanted blood. So they scourged Jesus. The legionnaire’s whip consisted of leather straps with lead balls on each end. His goal was singular: beat the accused within an inch of his death and then stop. Thirty-nine lashes were allowed but seldom needed. A centurion monitored the prisoner’s status. No doubt Jesus was near death when his hands were untied and he slumped to the ground.

The whipping was the first deed of the soldiers. The crucifixion was the third. (We’ll get to the second in a moment) Though his back was ribboned with wounds, the soldiers loaded the crossbeam on Jesus’ shoulders and marched him to the Place of the Skull and executed him. And we really don’t fault the soldiers for these two actions. After all, they were just following orders. But what’s hard to understand is what they did in between. Here’s Matthew’s description:

Jesus was beaten with whips and handed over to the soldiers to be crucified. The governor’s soldiers took Jesus into the governor’s palace, and they all gathered around him. They took off his clothes and put a red robe on him. Using thorny branches, they made a crown, put it on his head, and put a stick in his right hand. Then the soldiers bowed before Jesus and made fun of him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” They spat on Jesus. Then they took his stick and began to beat him on the head. After they finished, the soldiers took off the robe and put his own clothes on him again. Then they led him away to be crucified. (Matt. 27:26–31)

The soldiers’ assignment was simple: take the Nazarene to the hill and kill him. But they had another idea. They wanted to have some fun first. So, these strong, rested, armed soldiers encircled an exhausted, nearly dead, Galilean carpenter and beat up on him. The scourging was commanded. The crucifixion was ordered. But who would draw pleasure out of spitting on a half-dead man? Spitting isn’t intended to hurt the body — it can’t. Spitting is intended to degrade the soul, and it does. So what were the soldiers doing? Weren’t they elevating themselves at the expense of another? In other words, they felt big by making Christ look small.

Ever done that? Oh, maybe you’ve never spit on anyone, but have you ever gossiped? Slandered? Have you ever raised your hand in anger, or rolled your eyes in arrogance? Have you ever blasted your high beams in someone’s rearview mirror? Ever made someone feel bad so you would feel good? That’s what the soldiers did to Jesus. And when you and I do the same, we do it to Jesus, too. “I assure you, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me.” (Matt. 25:40) In other words, how we treat others is how we treat Jesus. Ugh.

That’s tough to hear, but we’ve got to face the fact that there’s something beastly within each and every one of us. Something beastly that makes us do things that surprise even us. Haven’t you surprised yourself? Haven’t you reflected on an act and wondered, “What got into me?” The Bible has a three-letter answer for that question: S-I-N. There is something bad — beastly — within each of us. As the Apostle Paul so plainly put, we are “by nature children of wrath.” (Eph. 2:3)

It’s not that we can’t do good. We do. It’s just that we can’t keep from doing bad. In theological terms, we’re “totally depraved.” Though made in God’s image, we’ve fallen. We’re corrupt at the core. The very center of our being is selfish and perverse. David said, “I was born a sinner — yes, from the moment my mother conceived me.” (Ps. 51:5) Could any of us say any less? Each one of us was born with a tendency to sin.

And this depravity is a universal condition. Scripture says it plainly: All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned, every one, to his own way. (Isa. 53:6) The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it? (Jer. 17:9) There is none righteous, no, not one .… All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. (Rom. 3:10, 23)

Some would disagree. They look around and say, “You know, compared to everyone else, I’m a pretty decent person.” But, a pig might say something similar. He might look at his trough partners and announce, “I’m just as clean as everyone else.” Compared to humans, of course, that pig needs help. But compared to God, we humans need the same. The standard for sinlessness isn’t found at the pig trough, but at the throne of heaven. God, himself, is the standard.

Our deeds are ugly. Our actions are harsh. We don’t do what we want to do; we don’t like what we do. And what’s worse — yes, there’s something worse — we can’t change.

We try. Oh, how we try. But “(c)an a leopard change his spots? In the same way, Jerusalem, you cannot change and do good, because you are accustomed to doing evil.” (Jer. 13:23) The apostle agreed with the prophet: “The mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law — indeed it cannot.” (Rom. 8:7)

Still disagree? Still think the assessment is too harsh? If so, try this. For the next twenty-four hours lead a sinless life. Not a perfect decade, or year, or even a perfect month. Just one perfect day. Can you do it? Can you live without sin for one day? No? Well then, how ‘bout an hour? Could you promise that for the next sixty minutes you’ll have only pure thoughts and actions? Still too hard? Then how about the next five minutes? Five minutes of worry-free, anger-free, unselfish living — can you do it? No? Neither can I.

Then we have a problem: we are sinners, and “the wages of sin is death.” (Rom. 6:23) We have a problem: we are not holy, and “anyone whose life is not holy will never see the Lord.” (Heb. 12:14) We have a problem: we are evil, and “evil people are paid with punishment.” (Prov. 10:16) Then with all those problems, what can we do?

Allow the spit of the soldiers to symbolize the filth in our hearts. And then observe what Jesus does with that filth. He carries it to the cross. Through the prophet he said, “I did not hide my face from mocking and spitting.” (Isa. 50:6) Mingled with his blood and sweat was the essence of our sin. God could have deemed otherwise. In God’s plan, Jesus was offered wine for his throat, so why not a towel for his face? Simon carried the cross of Jesus, but he didn’t mop the cheek of Jesus. And legions of angels were only a prayer away. Couldn’t they have taken the spittle away?

They could have, but Jesus never commanded them to. For some reason, Jesus chose the saliva. Along with the spear and the sponge, he bore the spit of man. Why? Could it be that he saw the beauty within the beast? But that’s where the correlation with Beauty and the Beast ends. Because in the fable, the beauty kisses the beast. In the Bible, the Beauty does much more. He becomes the beast so the beast can become the beauty. Jesus changes places with us. We, like Adam, were under a curse, but Jesus “changed places with us and put himself under that curse.” (Gal. 3:13)

What if the Beauty had not come? What if the Beauty had not cared? Then we would have remained a beast. But the Beauty did come, and the Beauty did care. The sinless one took on the face of a sinner so that we sinners could take on the face of a saint.

Grace,

Randy