Preserved

Preserved

Jesus replied, “Now the time has come for the Son of Man to enter into his glory. I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat is planted in the soil and dies, it remains alone. But its death will produce many new kernels — a plentiful harvest of new lives. Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who care nothing for their life in this world will keep it for eternity. Anyone who wants to serve me must follow me, because my servants must be where I am. And the Father will honor anyone who serves me. (John 12:23-26)

Doesn’t it bug you when someone has to remind you about your age? Like the barber, "Getting a little thin on top here, Randy." Or the stylist, "Next time you come in, Sue, we'll do something about those gray streaks." Maybe the invitation, "You’re invited to your 30^th high school reunion." Even your kids get into the act. "Tell me again, who were the Rolling Stones?" And then there’s the doctor, "Nothing to worry about, Joe. Your condition is common for folks getting older like you." The dawning of old age – where you have more life behind than ahead of you. The first pages of the closing chapters, and face to wrinkled face with the fact that you’re getting older. And although we may joke about it, not everyone laughs. Especially those who’ve been taught to treasure youth. And weren't we all?

For decades we worried about everything except getting old. Out of all the things we couldn't count on, there was one thing we could, and that was our youth. We could eat like a horse and not look like one. All the schoolteachers were older than us. Professional athletes were about the same age as your older brother. Life was an open highway, and death was a millennium away. But then they came, the subtle messages of mortality: you buy your first life insurance policy and it includes burial and funeral expenses. Your carpool friends ask you why you squint when you read road signs. The kid helping you out with the groceries calls you "Ma'am."

At first it's just raindrop reminders splashing on our watercolor convictions of perpetual youth. With time, however, the raindrops become steady and stronger. Everything hurts when you wake up. And what doesn't hurt, doesn't work. Your parents begin acting like your children. The smile lines don't go away when you stop smiling. And then the rain becomes a torrent. The gentle taps become thunder. Cardiac arrest. Empty nest. Fifty candles. BOOM! And now there’s no denying the fact that Ponce de Leon didn't find the fountain of youth, and neither will you. Oh, we try, mind you. Barbells get pumped. Black hair gone gray goes black again, or maybe even blond. The face gets stretched. The chin gets tucked. Breasts get a lift.

But try as we might, the pages of the calendar still turn. The clock still ticks. And the body still grows older. And with every new pill we take we’re reminded that growing old is a pill that has to be swallowed. But why does the pill go down so slowly? And why is it so hard to swallow? What is it about birthdays and the beginning of new years that causes us to quiver? Certainly part of the problem is the mirror, or at least the reflection in it. What was tight now sags. What once swung now bounces. Time, as they say, is a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.

         

        For others, it’s failure. What you set out to do, you didn't. You set out to avoid the trap of suburbia and now you're making mortgage payments. You swore you'd never be a corporate puppet, but now your closet’s full of gray flannel suits. You determined to leave a legacy, but all you've left so far is a trail of diapers, check stubs and bills.

But the real pain is deeper. For some it is the hollowness of success. Life at the top of the ladder can be lonely. Mahogany desks grow cold. Sales awards tarnish. Diplomas fade. Sometimes a dream-come-true world has come true and it's less than you'd hoped. Regret becomes a major pastime. The plumber wishes he'd gone to law school and the lawyer wishes he’d become a plumber. The woman who works regrets the time she didn't spend with her kids, and the stay-at-home mom wishes she had a career.

        

        But it can get even worse. Regret can lead to rebellion. Rebellion against the demands. Rebellion against the mundane. Rebellion against the ho-hum. Rebellion against whatever ties you down: your job, your government, your station wagon, your God. Growing old can be dangerous. The trail is treacherous and the pitfalls are many. One would be wise to be prepared because you know it's coming. It's not like God kept the process a secret. It's not like you’re blazing a trail as you grow older. It's not as if no one has ever done it before. Look around you. You have plenty of opportunity to prepare, and ample case studies to consider.

If growing older catches you by surprise, don't blame God. He gave you plenty of warning. He also gave you plenty of advice. Consider John 12:25: “Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who care nothing for their life in this world will keep it for eternity.” In other words, "There are two ways to view life," Jesus is saying, "those who protect it or those who pursue it. The wisest are not the ones with the most years in their lives, but the most life in their years."

           

           There is rawness and a wonder to life. So, pursue it. Hunt for it. Sell out to get it. Don't listen to the whining of those who have settled for a second-rate life and want you to do the same so they won't feel guilty. Your goal is not to live long; it's to live. Jesus says the options are clear.

On one side there is the voice of safety. You can build a fire in the hearth, stay inside, and stay warm and dry and safe. You can't get hurt if you never go out, right? You can't be criticized for what you don't try, right? You can't fall if you don't take a stand, right? You can't lose your balance if you never climb, right? So, don't try it. Take the safe route. Or you can hear the voice of adventure – God’s adventure. Instead of building a fire in your hearth, build a fire in your heart. Follow God's impulses. Adopt the child. Move overseas. Teach the class. Change careers. Run for office. Make a difference. Sure it isn't safe, but what is?

You think staying inside out of the cold is safe? Jesus disagrees. "Whoever tries to keep his life safe will lose it." (Luke 17:33) I like the words of General Douglas MacArthur when he was seventy-eight: "Nobody grows old by merely living a number of years. People grow old by deserting their ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up interest wrinkles the soul."

           

           Charles Lindbergh, the first pilot to fly across the Atlantic, had this to say about living safely: “I decided that if I could fly for ten years before I was killed in a crash, it would be a worthwhile trade for an ordinary lifetime. . . . Who valued life more highly, the aviators who spent it on the art they loved, or the misers who doled it out like pennies through their antlike days?” Once again, read Jesus' admonition. "Whoever tries to preserve his life safe will lose it, and the man who is prepared to lose his life will preserve it."

Reclaim the curiosity of your childhood. Just because you're near the top of the hill doesn't mean you've passed your peak. Your last chapters can be your best. Your final song can be your greatest. It could be that your entire life has prepared you for a grand exit. God's oldest have always been among his choicest. It was his octogenarian activities that got Moses into the Bible. Old and mellow Abraham was much wiser than young and brash Abram. Caleb still claimed his mountain when he was eighty-five. Anna was a 105 year-old widow who had enough strength to pray for the Messiah, and enough vision to recognize him when he came.

And look at John, the aged apostle John. The last of the apostles. The dear friend of Jesus. Surely his final years would be quiet and restful. Surely John had done what he came to do. Nope. Don't tell that to John. And don't tell that to God. For neither of them were finished. John had one more chapter to write. What was intended to be an island of isolation became a place of inspiration, and in his final years John wrote the final book of the Bible. Could it be that all of John's life had led to that very moment?

           

           Such is the ring of Robert Browning's well-known words: “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!” Or, ask Winston Churchill who could have rested after World War II, but he didn't. Instead he took up a pen and won the Nobel Prize in literature at the age of seventy-nine.

         

        Some get old and go fishing. Others get old and go hunting – they go hunting for what they always wanted to do. And they do it. A friend of the late American jurist Oliver Wendell Holmes asked him why he had taken up the study of Greek at the age of ninety-four. Holmes replied, "Well, my good sir, it's now or never." When J. C. Penney was ninety-five years old, he affirmed, "My eyesight may be getting weaker, but my vision is increasing."

      

        As we get older, our vision should improve. Not our vision of earth but our vision of heaven. Those who have spent their life looking for heaven gain a skip in their step as the city comes into view. After Michelangelo died, someone found in his studio a piece of paper on which he had written a note to his apprentice. In the handwriting of his old age the great artist wrote: "Draw, Antonio, draw, and do not waste time." Time slips by. Days pass. Years fade. And life ends. And what we came to do must be done while there is time.

  

          We would think it bizarre for a traveler not to be prepared for the end of the journey. We would pity the poor passenger who never read his itinerary. We'd be bewildered by someone who thought the purpose of the trip was the trip. And for that person some of the saddest words in Scripture were penned. "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved!" (Jer. 8:20) Others, however, are anticipating the destination. I hope you are. And I hope you'll be ready when you get home. For you, age is no enemy. Age is a mile-marker – a gentle reminder that home has never been so near.

Tell that to your barber.

Grace,

Randy

In A Moment

In A Moment

That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior — yes, the Messiah, the Lord — has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David! And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:8-12)

There were no tapestries covering the windows in this throne room; no velvet garments on the servants of the king. And instead of a golden scepter, the king held a crudely whittled olivewood rattle while cows munched, hooves crunched and a mother hummed as she nursed her newborn. It could have begun anywhere, this story of the King. But, curiously, it began in a manger.

Outside, the noise and the bustle began earlier than usual in the small village. As night gave way to dawn, people were already on the streets and vendors were jockeying for position on the corners of the busiest avenues. Store owners were unlocking the doors to their shops. Children were awakened by the excited barking of dogs on the street and the complaints of donkeys pulling their carts. The owner of the local inn had awakened earlier than most in the town. After all, the inn was full – all the beds were taken. Every available mat or blanket had been put to use. Soon, all the guests would be stirring and there’d be a lot of work to do.

And as the innkeeper sat with his family around the breakfast table, did anyone mention the arrival of the young couple the night before? Did anyone comment on the very pregnant girl on the donkey? Maybe. Maybe someone raised the subject, but it was probably never discussed because there was nothing novel about those two. They were one of several families that may have been turned away the night before. Besides, who had time to talk about them when there was so much excitement in the air? Augustus had done the Bethlehem economy a huge favor by decreeing that a census should be taken. Who could remember when this kind of commerce had ever hit the village?

No, it’s doubtful that anyone mentioned the couple’s arrival, or even wondered aloud about the condition of the girl. They were too busy. The day was upon them. The day’s bread had to be made. The morning’s chores had to be done. There was too much to do to imagine that the impossible had occurred – that God had entered the world as a baby. Yet, if someone from the village had come to the sheep stable on the outskirts of Bethlehem that morning, they’d have seen a pretty unusual sight.

The stable stunk like all stables do. The stench of urine, dung and sheep was pungent. The ground was hard, the hay scarce and cobwebs clung to the ceiling while a mouse scurried across the dirt floor. A more lowly place of birth couldn’t exist. And off to one side sat a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, maybe perplexed, perhaps in awe, but no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. That’s because God goes to those who have time to hear Him, and so He went to some simple shepherds to give them the news.

Near the young mother sits the weary father. If anyone is dozing, he is. He can’t remember the last time he sat down. And now that the excitement has subsided, now that Mary and the baby are comfortable, he leans against the wall of the stable and feels his eyes grow heavy. He still hasn’t figured it all out. The mystery of the event still puzzles him. But he just doesn’t have the energy to wrestle with the questions right now. What’s important is that the baby’s fine and Mary’s safe. And as sleep comes, he remembers the name the angel told him to use. “We’ll call him Jesus,” he mumbles as he drifts off to sleep.

Mary, on the other hand, is wide awake. Her young head rests on the soft leather of Joseph’s saddle, and the pain of childbirth is now eclipsed by His wonder. She looks into the face of the baby. Her son. Her Lord. His Majesty. And at this point in history, the human being who best understands who God is and what he’s doing is a teenage girl in a smelly stable. She can’t take her eyes off him. Somehow Mary knows she’s holding God. “So, this is him,” she ponders and considers the words of the angel, “His kingdom will never end.”

Funny, he looks nothing like a king. His face is all prunish and red. His cry, though strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry of a newborn. And he’s absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being. Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager in the presence of a carpenter.

This baby had created the universe. These rags keeping him warm were the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned in favor of a dirty sheep stall. And worshiping angels had been replaced with kind but bewildered shepherds. Meanwhile, the city’s humming. The merchants are unaware that God has visited their planet. The innkeeper would never have believed that he’d just sent God out into the cold. And the people would scoff at anyone who would have told them that the Messiah lay in the arms of a teenager on the outskirts of their village. They were all too busy to consider the possibility.

Those who missed His Majesty’s arrival that night didn’t miss it because of evil acts or malice. They missed it because they simply weren’t looking. And little has changed in the last two thousand years. Because it all happened in a moment, a most remarkable moment.

And as moments go, that one probably appeared no different than any other. If you could somehow pick it up off the timeline and examine it, it would look exactly like the ones that had already passed. It came and it went. It was preceded and succeeded by others just like it. It was one of the countless moments that have marked time since eternity became measurable. But in reality, that particular moment was like none other. For through that segment of time a spectacular thing occurred. God became a man. While the creatures of earth walked unaware, Divinity had arrived. Heaven opened itself and placed its most precious gift in a human womb.

In one instant, the Omnipotent had made himself breakable. The One who had been spirit became pierceable. He who was larger than the universe became an embryo. And the One who sustains the world with a word chose to be dependent upon the nourishment of a teenage girl. God as a fetus. Holiness sleeping in a womb. The creator of life being created. God was given eyebrows, elbows, two kidneys, and a spleen. He stretched against the walls and floated in the amniotic fluids of his mother. God had come near.

He didn’t come as a flash of light or as an unapproachable conqueror, but as one whose first cries were heard by a peasant girl and a sleepy carpenter. The hands that first held him were unmanicured, calloused and dirty. No silk. No ivory. No hype. No party. No hoopla. In fact, were it not for the shepherds, there’d have been no reception at all. And were it not for a group of stargazers, there’d have been no gifts later. Angels watched as Mary changed God’s diaper. The universe watched with wonder as the Almighty learned to walk.

Children played in the street with him. And had the synagogue leader in Nazareth known who was listening to his sermons, he might have changed his delivery. Maybe he had pimples. Perhaps a girl down the street had a crush on him, or vice versa. Maybe he had bony knees. One thing’s for sure, though – he was, while completely divine, completely human.

So, what was it like watching him pray? How’d Jesus respond when he saw other kids giggling during services at the local synagogue? And when he saw a rainbow, did he ever mention a flood? Did Mary ever feel awkward teaching him how he created the world? Did he ever come home with a black eye? How’d he act when he got his first haircut? Did he have any friends named Judas? Did he do well in school? Did he ever have to ask a question about Scripture?

Did the thought ever occur to Mary that the God to whom she was praying was asleep under her own roof? And what do you think Jesus thought when he saw a prostitute offering to the highest bidder the body that he had made? Did he ever get angry when someone was dishonest with him? Did he ever wake up afraid? Who was his best friend?

When someone referred to Satan, how’d Jesus act? Did Mary ever accidentally call him Father? What did he and his cousin John talk about as kids? Did his other brothers and sisters understand what was going on and who he was? Did Mary ever think, “That’s God eating my soup?”

For thirty-three years he would feel everything you and I have ever felt. He felt weak. He grew weary. He was afraid of failure. He was susceptible to wooing women. He got colds, he burped and had body odor. His feelings got hurt, his feet got tired and his head ached. And to think of Jesus in that light is … well … it seems almost irreverent. It’s not something we like to do because it’s uncomfortable. It’s much easier to keep the humanity out of the incarnation. Clean the manure from around the manger. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Pretend he never snored or blew his nose or hit his thumb with a hammer.

He’s easier to take that way. There’s something about keeping him divine that keeps him distant, packaged and predictable. But don’t do that this Christmas. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the muck and the mire of your world because he can’t pull us out until we let him in. Listen to him.

“Love your neighbor” – spoken by a man whose neighbors tried to kill him. The challenge to leave family for the gospel was issued by the very one who kissed his mother goodbye in the doorway. “Pray for those who persecute you,” came from the lips that would soon be begging God to forgive his murderers. “I am with you always” – the words of a God who in one instant did the impossible to make it all possible for you and me. It all happened in a moment. In one moment. A most remarkable moment. The Word became flesh.

And there will be another. The world will see another instantaneous transformation. You see, in becoming man, God made it possible for man to see God. When Jesus went home he left the back door open. As a result, “we will all be changed — in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.”

The first moment of transformation went unnoticed by the world. The second one won’t. So, the next time you use the phrase “just a moment,” remember that’s all the time it will take to change your world. Instead, take a moment this Christmas and change it now.

Merry Christmas,

Randy

Hunches

Hunches

Jesus went with him, and all the people followed, crowding around him. A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse. She had heard about Jesus, so she came up behind him through the crowd and touched his robe. For she thought to herself, “If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.” Immediately the bleeding stopped, and she could feel in her body that she had been healed of her terrible condition. . . . Then the frightened woman, trembling at the realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:24-29; 33-34)

A clock for Christmas is really not the kind of gift that thrills an eight-year-old boy, but I said thank you and took it to my bedroom anyway. I put it on the nightstand and plugged it in. It was one of those rectangular-faced G.E. types. It didn't have moving numbers – it had rotating hands, instead. It didn't play music either, but over the years it did develop a slight, soothing hum that you could hear when the room was quiet.

Today, of course, you can buy clocks that sound like rain when it's time to sleep, or like your mother when it's time to wake up. But no, not this one. The alarm would’ve made the dogs howl. And forget a snooze button – you just picked it up and chucked it across the room. It probably wouldn't net 50¢ at a garage sale in today’s age of digital clocks and musical alarms. But still, over time, I kind of grew attached to it. Granted, people don't usually get sentimental about cheap, electric clocks, but for some strange reason I did about this one. Not because of its accuracy, because it ran a little slow. Not even the hum, which I didn't particularly mind. I liked it because of the light.

You see, this clock’s hands glowed in the dark. All day, every day it soaked up the light; it sponged up the sun. The hands were little sticks of ticks-and-time and sunshine. And when the night came, the clock was ready. When you flicked off the light to sleep, the little clock flicked on its light and shined. Not much light, mind you. But when your world is dark, just a little light seems like a lot. Kind of like the light a woman got when she met Jesus.

We don't know her name, but we know about her situation. Her world was midnight black – grope-in-the-dark-and-hope-for-help black. Read the following two verses and you’ll see what I mean: “A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse.” (Mark 5:24-26)

Can you imagine? "Bleeding for twelve years;" "suffered very much;" "spent all the money she had," and "getting worse." A chronic, perpetual menstrual disorder. That kind of condition would be horrible for any woman of any era. But for a Jewess? Well, nothing could be worse, because no part of her life was left unaffected. Sexually, she couldn’t touch her husband. Maternally, she couldn’t bear children. Domestically, anything she touched was considered unclean – no washing dishes; no sweeping floors. And spiritually, she couldn’t even go to church.

She was physically exhausted and socially ostracized. Granted, she had sought help "under the care of many doctors." But the only thing those doctors had managed to do was to leave her worse-off and her wallet lighter. Maybe she even went outside conventional medicine. For instance, the Talmud gives no fewer than eleven cures for her condition, and she had probably tried them all. Some were probably legitimate treatments. Others, such as carrying the ashes of an ostrich egg in a linen cloth, were just empty superstitions.

She "had spent all she had." To dump financial strain on top of physical strain is adding insult to injury. A client battling cancer once told me that the pressure of creditors hounding him for payment in connection with his ongoing medical care was just as devastating as the pain that came with the disease itself. Making matters worse for this particular woman, "instead of getting better she grew worse." In other words, she may have been hounded by creditors for medical treatments that proved completely worthless. She woke up every day in a body that no one wanted. And by the time we get to her story, she’s down to her last prayer. And on the particular day that we encounter her, she's about to pray it.

However, by the time she gets to Jesus, he’s surrounded by people. He's on his way to help the daughter of Jairus, the most important man in her community. So, what are the odds that he will interrupt an urgent mission with a high-ranking official to help the likes of her? Pretty long. But what are the odds that she’ll survive if she doesn't take a chance? Longer still. So she takes a chance: "If I can just touch his clothes," she thinks, "I will be healed." (v. 28)

Risky decision. To touch him, she would have to touch the other people that were surrounding him. And if one of them were to recognize her? It’d be “hello rebuke,” and “good-bye cure.” But what choice did she have? At this point she has no money, no clout, no friends and no solutions. All she has is a crazy hunch that Jesus can help, and a hope that he will.

And truth be told, maybe that's all you have, too: just a crazy hunch and a high hope. You have nothing to give. But you’re hurting. And all you have to offer Jesus is your hurt. Maybe that’s kept you from coming to God. Oh, you've taken a step or two in his direction. But then you saw the other people around him. They seemed so clean, so neat, so trim and fit in their faith. And when you saw them, they blocked your view of God. So you stepped back.

If that describes you, then take heart because note carefully that only one person was commended that day for having faith and it wasn't a wealthy giver. It wasn't a loyal follower, or even an acclaimed teacher. It was a shame-struck, penniless outcast who clutched onto her hunch that he could help, and her hope that he would. That, by the way, isn’t a bad definition of faith: a conviction that he can, and a hope that he will. Sounds similar to the definition of faith given by the Bible: "Without faith no one can please God. Anyone who comes to God must believe that he is real and that he rewards those who truly want to find him." (Heb. 11:6)

That’s not too complicated, is it? Faith is the belief that God is real and that God is good. Faith is not some mystical, out-of-body experience, or a midnight vision, or a voice in the forest. It’s a choice to believe that the one who made it all hasn't left it all, and that he still sends light into the shadows and responds to even the simplest gestures of faith. There was no guarantee, of course. She hoped Jesus would respond . . . she longed for it . . . but she didn't know if he would. All she knew was that he was there and that he was good. That's faith.

Faith is not the belief that God will do what you want. Faith is the belief that God will do what is right. "Blessed are the dirt-poor, nothing-to-give, trapped-in-a-corner, destitute, and diseased," Jesus said, "for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." (Matt. 5:6 – my translation) God's economy is upside down to our way of thinking because God says that the more hopeless your circumstance, the more likely your salvation. The greater your cares, the more genuine your prayers. The darker the room, the greater the need for light.

Which takes me back to my clock. When it was daylight, I never appreciated my little clock’s capacity to glow in the dark. But as the shadows grew, so did my gratitude. Similarly, a healthy woman would never have appreciated the power of a touch of the hem of his robe. But this woman was sick, and when her dilemma met his dedication, a miracle occurred. Note, too, that her part in the healing was pretty small – all she did was extend her arm through the crowd: "If only I can touch him," she thought.

But what's important to remember here is that it’s not the form or type of effort, but that the effort was made in the first place. The fact is, she did something. She refused to settle for sickness another day and resolved to make a move. Healing begins when we do something. Healing begins when we reach out. Healing starts when we take a step. God's help is near and always available, but it’s only given to those who seek it. Nothing results from apathy.

The great work in this story is the healing that occurred. But the great truth is that the healing began with her touch. And with that small, courageous gesture, she experienced Jesus' tender power. Compared to God's part, our part is minuscule but necessary. We don't have to do much, but we do have to do something like asking for forgiveness, confessing a sin, calling Mom, visiting a doctor, being baptized, feeding a hungry person, praying, teaching, going.

Do something that demonstrates faith, because faith with no effort is no faith at all. Have faith that God will respond. He has never rejected a genuine gesture of faith. Never. God honors radical, risk-taking faith. When arks are built, lives are saved. When soldiers march, Jericho’s tumble. When staffs are raised, seas still open. When a lunch is shared, thousands are fed. And when a garment is touched, whether by the hand of an anemic woman in Galilee, or by the prayers of a beggar in Bangladesh, Jesus stops. He stops and responds.

Mark tells you that because when this woman touched Christ, two things happened that happen nowhere else in the Bible. And Mark recorded them both. First, Jesus heals before he knows it. The power left automatically and instantaneously. It's as if the Father short-circuited the system and the divinity of Christ was a step ahead of the humanity of Christ. Her need summoned his help. No neon lights or loud shouts. No razzle-dazzle. No fanfare. No hoopla. No splash. Just help. Just like my dark room brought the light out of my clock, our dark world brings out the light of God.

Second, he calls her “daughter” – “Daughter, your faith has made you well." (v. 34) It's the only time Jesus calls any woman – anywhere – “daughter.” God’s daughter. Just imagine how that made her feel. Because who could remember the last time she’d received any term of affection, or knew the last time kind eyes had met hers? It’d probably been a decade or more

Leo Tolstoy, the great Russian writer, tells of the time he was walking down the street and passed a beggar. Tolstoy reached into his pocket to give the beggar some money, but his pocket was empty. Tolstoy turned to the man and said, "I'm sorry, my brother, but I have nothing to give." The beggar brightened and said, "You have given me more than I asked for – you have called me brother." You see, to the loved, a word of affection is just a morsel, but to the love-starved, a word of affection can be a feast. And Jesus gave this woman a banquet.

Tradition holds that she never forgot what Jesus did. Legend states that she stayed with Jesus and followed him as he carried his cross up Calvary. Some believe she was Veronica, the woman who, according to Catholic tradition, walked the road to the cross with him. And when the sweat and blood were stinging his eyes, she wiped his forehead. She, at an hour of great need, received his touch – and he, at his hour of pain, received hers. We don't know if the legend or traditions are true, but we know they could be. And I don't know if the same has happened to you, but I know it can.

Grace,

Randy