If Only

If Only

I have learned how to be content with whatever I have. I know how to live on almost nothing or with everything. I have learned the secret of living in every situation, whether it is with a full stomach or empty, with plenty or little. For I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength. (Phil. 4:11-13)

The widest river in the world is not the Mississippi, the Amazon, or even the Nile. The widest river on earth is a body of water called If Only. Throngs of people stand on its banks and cast longing eyes over its waters. They want to cross, but can't seem to find the ferry. They’re convinced that the If Only river separates them from the good life. If only I were thinner, I'd have the good life. If only I were richer, I'd have the good life. If only the kids would come. If only the kids were gone. If only I could leave home, move home, get married, get divorced. If only my skin were clear of pimples, my calendar free of people, my profession free from layoffs, then I would have the good life. The If Only cry me a river.

Does it seem like the good life is always one if only away? One purchase away? One promotion away? One election or one romance away? If so, then you’ve traced your anxiety to one of its sources. You're in a hurry to cross the river, but worried that you never will. As a result, you work long hours, borrow more money, take on new projects, and pile on more responsibilities. Stress. Debt. Short nights. Long days. All part of the cost of the ticket to the land of the good life, right? Not exactly, opined the apostle Paul. The good life begins, not when circumstances change, but when our attitude toward them does. Look again at his antidote for anxiety: "Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." (Phil. 4:6-7)

Paul embedded in these two verses two essential words that deserve special attention: with thanksgiving. Sprinkled among your phrases of "Help me . . . ," or "Please give me . . . ," or maybe "Won't you show me . . .," should be two wonderful words: Thank you. Gratitude is a mindful awareness of the benefits of life. It is the greatest of virtues. Studies have linked the emotion with a variety of positive effects. Grateful people tend to be more empathetic and forgiving of others. People who keep a gratitude journal are more likely to have a positive outlook on life. Grateful individuals demonstrate less envy, materialism and self-centeredness. Gratitude improves self-esteem, and enhances relationships, quality of sleep and longevity. If it came in a pill form, gratitude would be deemed the miracle cure. It's no wonder, then, that God's anxiety therapy includes a large, delightful dollop of gratitude.

Gratitude leads us off the riverbank of If Only, and escorts us to the fertile delta of Already. The anxious heart says, “Lord, if only I had this, that or the other thing, I’d be okay.” The grateful heart says, “Oh, look! You’ve already given me this, that or the other thing. Thank you, God.” My friend, John, has taught me the value of gratitude. He’s eighty-three years old and regularly shoots his age on the golf course. I’d have to live to a hundred to do as well. His dear wife, Marilyn, battles a number of diseases. What should have been a wonderful season of retirement has been marred by hospital stays, medication and struggles. Many days Marilyn can’t keep her balance. John has to be at her side. Yet he never complains. He always has a smile and a joke. And he relentlessly beats me at golf.

I asked John his secret. He said, “Every morning Marilyn and I sit together and sing a hymn. I ask her what she wants to sing. She always says, ‘Count Your Blessings.’ So we sing it. And we count our blessings.” Take a moment and follow John’s example. Look at your blessings. Do you see any friends? Family? Do you see any grace from God? The love of God? Do you see any gifts? Abilities? Talents? Skills? And as you look at your blessings, take note of what happens. Anxiety grabs its bags and slips out the back door. Worry refuses to share a heart filled with gratitude. One heartfelt thank-you will suck the oxygen out of worry’s world. So say it often. Focus more on what you have, and less on what you don’t.

The apostle Paul modeled this outlook. “I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” (Phil 4:11-13) The circumstances of Paul’s life in jail were miserable. Under constant surveillance. No reason to hope for release. Yet with shackles dangling from his wrists, the apostle announced, “I have learned the secret to being content.”

Paul’s use of the term secret is curious. He doesn’t say, “I have learned the principle.” Or, “I have learned the concept.” Instead, “I have learned the secret of being content.” A secret, by definition, is a bit of knowledge not commonly known. It’s as if the apostle beckons us to lean forward to hear him whisper, “Can I share a secret with you about happiness?” “I have learned the secret of being content – whether well fed or hungry, whether in abundance or in need.” (v. 12)

Does happiness depend on what you drive? Wear? Deposit? Even spray on? If so, you’ve entered the rat race called materialism. You can’t win that race. There will always be a newer car to buy, or a nicer dress to purchase. And since the rat race is unwinnable, you’re setting yourself up for certain failure which then leads to more anxiety. Define yourself by your stuff, and you’ll feel good when you have a lot, and you’ll feel bad when you don’t. If I get the new job . . . If I can retire . . . . In each case joy comes, then fades. By the time you reach old age, you’ve ridden a thousand roller coasters of hope and disappointment, hope and disappointment. Life has repeatedly lifted you up, and then let you down, and you’re suspicious that, given your past experiences, it’s likely to let you down again.

Contingent contentment turns us into wounded, worried people. Paul advances a healthier strategy. He learned to be content with what he had, which is pretty remarkable since he had so little. He had a jail cell instead of a house. He had four walls instead of a mission field. He had chains instead of jewelry, a guard instead of a wife. How could he be content? Simple. He focused on a different list. He had eternal life. He had the love of God. He had forgiveness of sins. He had the surety of salvation. He had Christ, and, for Paul, Christ was enough. What he had in Christ was significantly greater than what he didn't have in life.

Here’s a little detail about Paul’s letter to the Philippians that actually says quite a lot about the author. Within its 104 verses Paul mentions Jesus forty times. In other words, Paul talked about Christ, on average, every 2½ verses. "To me the only important thing about living is Christ, and dying would be profit for me." (Phil. 1:21) His only aim was to know Jesus. Riches didn’t attract him. Applause didn’t matter to him. The grave didn’t intimidate him. All he wanted was more Jesus. As a result, he was content. In Jesus, Paul found all the satisfaction his heart desired, and you and I can learn the same.

Christ-based contentment turns us into strong people. Since no one can take our Jesus, no one can take our joy. Can death take our joy? No, Jesus is greater than death. Can failure take our joy? No, Jesus is greater than our sin. Can betrayal take our joy? No, Jesus will never leave us. Can sickness take our joy? No, God has promised, whether on this side of the grave or the other, to heal us. Can disappointment take our joy? No, because even though our plans may not work out, we know God's plan will. Death, failure, betrayal, sickness, disappointment – they cannot take our joy, because they can’t take our Jesus.

What you have in Christ is greater than anything you don't have in life. You have God, who is crazy about you, and the forces of heaven to monitor and protect you. You have the living presence of Jesus within you. In Christ you have everything. He can give you a happiness that can never be taken, a grace that will never expire, and a wisdom that will ever increase. He’s a fountain of living hope that will never be exhausted. I have a friend who lives next to a river, into which his boat dock extends from the edge of his property. The level of the river may rise and fall with the seasons or circumstances. His boat may even rock back and forth with the river traffic. But though the level may change and his boat may rock, it’s never drifted away. Why? Because his boat is securely anchored to the dock. What about you?

Anchor your heart to the character of God. Your boat will rock. Moods will come and go. Situations will fluctuate. But you won’t be left adrift on the river of despair because you’ve found a contentment that endures the circumstances. So, no more "if only" – it’s the Petri dish for anxiety. Focus on a different list – not a list of things to do, or a list of things you want, but a list of the things you already have. Replace your "if only" with "already." Exchange each anxious thought with a grateful one, and then the peace of God will replace your anxiety with contentment. That’s the secret to a thankful life.

Grace,

Randy

If Only - Audio/Visual

Prayer Not Despair

Prayer Not Despair

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. (Phil. 4:6)

The judge owned a gated mansion in the Hamptons. He smoked Cuban cigars, wore Armani suits, and drove a Bentley with a personalized license plate that bore the words, My Way. He was on the payroll of every Mafia boss and drug dealer on the eastern seaboard. They kept him in office; he kept them out of jail. They gave him votes; he gave them a free pass. He was a crook. His mother knew it. His priest knew it. His kids knew it. God knew it. The judge couldn't care less. He never gave God a second thought, or an honest person a second chance. According to Jesus the judge was a scoundrel.

He certainly didn't care about the widow. "In that same town there was a widow who kept coming to this judge, saying, 'Give me my rights against my enemy.'" (Luke 18:3) Let’s call her Ethel. She had a simple look to her: hair tied in a bun, plaid dress, old jogging shoes that appeared to have been rescued from a yard sale. If the judge was a Cadillac, Ethel was a clunker. But for an old clunker she had a lot of horsepower. She was determined to escape a certain adversary. A bill collector? An angry landlord? An oppressive neighbor? We don’t know, but someone had turned against her. Someone had resolved to take her to the cleaners. She pleaded her case and begged for justice. No luck. She exhausted every possible solution. Finally, in a burst of chutzpah, she sought the assistance of the judge.

Every morning when he stepped out of his limo, there Ethel stood on the courthouse sidewalk. "Can I have a minute, Your Honor?" When he exited his chambers, Ethel was waiting in the hallway. "Judge, I need your help." At Giovanni's, where the judge ate lunch, she approached his table. "Just a few minutes of your time." How she got past the maitre d', the judge didn’t know. But there she was. Ethel even sat in the front row of the courtroom during trials, holding up a cardboard sign that read "Can you help me?" During his Saturday-morning golf game, she walked out of the bushes near the fourth green. Ethel also annoyed the judge's wife. She hounded the judge's secretary. "Do something about Ethel," they demanded. "She's a pest!" "For a while the judge refused to help her." (v. 4)

One day, when the coast was clear, the judge dashed from his office to his limo and jumped in the backseat, only to be confronted by you-know-who. Ethel was in the car. He was stuck. He took one look at her and sighed, "Lady, you don't get it, do you? I don't like people. I don't believe in God. There’s nothing good in me. Yet you keep asking me to help you." "Just a small favor," Ethel asked, holding her thumb a quarter inch from her forefinger. He growled through clenched teeth, "Anything to be rid of you. What do you want?" She spilled out a story that included the words widow, broke and the phrase eviction notice. The judge stared out the car window as she pleaded for his intervention. "He thought to himself, 'Even though I don't respect God or care about people, I will see that she gets her rights. Otherwise she will continue to bother me until I am worn out.'" (vv. 4-5)

When she finally paused to take a breath, he waved her silent. "Okay, okay. I'll give you a break." "You will?" "Yes, on one condition." "Anything." "You get out of my life!" "Yes, I promise." Ethel beamed. "Can I give you a hug?" He told her “No,” but she did anyway. She jumped out of the car and danced a jig on the sidewalk. The dishonest judge rode away, grumbling. And we, the readers, look up from Luke's gospel and wonder, What’s this story doing in the Bible?

A corrupt official. A persistent gadfly. Reluctant benevolence. No compassion or concern. Is there a message in this account? Is God a reluctant judge? Are we the marginalized widow? Is prayer a matter of pestering God until he breaks down and gives us what we want? No, this is a parable of contrast, not comparison. The judge groused, complained and murmured. Yet "even he rendered a just decision in the end. So don't you think God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night? . . . I tell you, he will grant justice to them quickly!" (Luke 18:7-8)

God is not the reluctant judge in this story, and we are not the widow. The widow in the story was at the bottom of the pecking order. She had nowhere to turn. But as a child of the King, you’re at the front of the line. You, at any moment, can turn to God. God doesn't delay. He never places you on hold, or tells you to call again later. God loves the sound of your voice. He doesn't hide when you call. He hears your prayers. And for that reason we can "be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God." (Phil. 4:6) With this verse the apostle calls us to take action against anxiety. Until this point he has been assuring us of God's character: his sovereignty, mercy, and presence. Now it’s our turn to act on this belief. We choose prayer over despair. Peace happens when people pray, and God calls us to pray about everything.

The terms prayer, supplication, and requests in Philippians 4:6 are similar but not identical. Prayer is a general devotion; the word includes worship and adoration. Supplication suggests humility. We are the supplicants in the sense that we make no demands; we simply offer humble requests. A request is exactly that – a specific petition. We tell God exactly what we want. We pray the particulars of our problem. What Jesus said to the blind man, he says to us: "What do you want me to do for you?" (Luke 18:41) One would think that the answer would have been obvious. When a sightless man requests Jesus' help, isn't it apparent what he needs? Yet Jesus wanted to hear the man articulate his specific requests. He wants the same from us. "Let your requests be made known to God."

When the wedding ran low on wine, Mary wasn't content to say, "Help us, Jesus." She was specific: "They have no more wine." (John 2:3) The needy man in Jesus' parable said, "Friend, lend me three loaves." (Luke 11:5) Not just, "Can you help me out?" He made a specific request. Even Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane prayed specifically. "Take this cup from me." (Luke 22:42) Why does this matter? First, a specific prayer is a serious prayer. If I say to you, "Do you mind if I come by your house sometime?" you may not take me seriously. But suppose I say, "Can I come over this Friday night? I have a problem at work and I really need your advice. I can be there at seven, and I promise I’ll leave in an hour." Then you know my petition is sincere. When we offer specific requests, God knows the same.

Second, specific prayer is an opportunity for us to see God at work. When we see him respond in specific ways to specific requests, our faith grows. The book of Genesis relates the wonderful prayer of Abraham's servant. He was sent to Mesopotamia, Abraham's homeland, to find a wife for Abraham's son. Now, just how does a servant select a wife for someone else in a foreign country? This servant prayed about it. "Please give me success today, and show unfailing love to my master, Abraham. See, I am standing here beside this spring, and the young women of the town are coming out to draw water. This is my request. I will ask one of them, 'Please give me a drink from your jug.' If she says, 'Yes, have a drink, and I will water your camels, too!' – let her be the one you have selected as Isaac's wife. This is how I will know that you have shown unfailing love to my master." (Gen. 24:12-14)

Could the servant have been more detailed? He asked for success in his endeavor. He envisioned an exact dialogue, and then he stepped forth in faith. Scripture says, "Before he had finished speaking, Rebekah appeared." (Gen. 24:15) She said the words. The servant had an answered prayer. He saw God at work.

Third, specific prayer creates a lighter load. Many of our anxieties are threatening because they are ill-defined and vague. If we can distill the challenge into a phrase, we bring it down to size. It’s one thing to pray, Lord, please bless my meeting tomorrow. It’s another thing altogether to pray, Lord, I have a conference with my supervisor at 2:00 p.m., tomorrow. She intimidates me. Would you please grant me a spirit of peace so I can sleep well tonight? Grant me wisdom so I can enter the meeting prepared. And would you soften her heart toward me and give her a generous spirit? Help us have a gracious conversation in which both of us benefit and your name is honored. There. You have reduced the problem into a prayer-sized challenge. This isn’t an endorsement of a demanding, conditional prayer that presumes to tell God what to do, and when. Nor am I suggesting that the power of prayer resides in chanting the right formula, or quoting some secret code. Don’t think for a moment that the power of prayer resides in the way we present it. God isn’t manipulated or impressed by our formulas or eloquence.

But he is moved by a sincere request. After all, isn’t he our Father? As his children we honor him when we tell him exactly what we need. "Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you." (1 Peter 5:7) Casting is an intentional act for purposes of relocating an object. When the disciples prepared Jesus to ride into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, they "cast their garments upon the colt." (Luke 19:35) The crowd removed the garments off their backs and spread them in the path of Christ. Let this kind of "throwing" action be your first response to bad news. As you sense anxiety welling up inside you, cast it in the direction of Jesus. Do so specifically and immediately. Take your problem to Christ and tell him, "You said you would help me. Would you?"

The Old Testament prophet Isaiah said, "Put the Lord in remembrance [of His promises], keep not silence." (Isa. 62:6) God told Isaiah, "Put Me in remembrance; let us contend together." (Isa. 43:26) God invites you, no, commands you to remind him of his promises. Populate your prayer with "God, you said …." "You said you would walk me through the waters." (Isa. 43:2) "You said you would lead me through the valley." (Ps. 23:4) "You said that you would never leave or forsake me." (Heb. 13:5) Find a promise that fits your problem and build your prayer around it. These prayers of faith touch the heart of God and activate the angels of heaven. Miracles are set into motion. Your answer may not come overnight, but it will come. And you will overcome. "Prayer is essential in this ongoing warfare. Pray hard and long. Pray for your brothers and sisters." (Eph. 6:18) The path to peace is paved with prayer. Less consternation, more supplication; fewer anxious thoughts, more prayer-filled thoughts. As you pray, the peace of God will guard your heart and mind. And, in the end, what could be any better?

Grace,

Randy

Prayer Not Despair - Audio/Visual

Calm

Calm

Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything. (Phil. 4:5-6)

Disaster was as close as pushing a red button. Four Russian submarines patrolled the Florida coast. US warships had dropped depth charges. The Russian captain was stressed, trigger-happy and ready to destroy a few American cities. Each sub was armed with a nuclear warhead. Each warhead had the potential to repeat a Hiroshima-level calamity. Had it not been for the contagious calm of a clear-thinking officer, World War III might have begun in 1962. His name was Vasili Arkhipov. He was the thirty-six-year-old chief of staff for a clandestine fleet of Russian submarines. The crew members assumed that they were being sent on a training mission off the Siberian coast. They came to learn that they had been commissioned to travel five thousand miles to the southwest to set up a spearhead for a base near Havana, Cuba. The subs went south, and so did their mission.

In order to move quickly, the submarines traveled on the surface of the water, where they ran head-on into Hurricane Daisy. The fifty-foot waves left the men nauseated and the operating systems compromised. Then came the warm waters. Soviet subs were designed for the polar waters, not the tropical Atlantic. Temperatures inside the vessels exceeded 120 degrees Fahrenheit. The crew battled the heat and claustrophobia for much of the three-week journey. By the time they were near the coast of Cuba, the men were exhausted, on edge and anxious. The situation worsened when the subs received cryptic instructions from Moscow to turn northward and patrol the coastline of Florida. Soon after they entered American waters, their radar picked up the signal of a dozen ships and aircraft. The Russians were being followed by the Americans. The US ships set off depth charges. The Russians assumed they were under attack. The captain lost his cool. He summoned his staff to his command post and pounded the table with his fists. "We're going to blast them now! We will die, but we will sink them all – we will not disgrace our navy!" But then Vasili Arkhipov asked for a moment with his captain. The two men stepped to the side where he urged his superior to reconsider.

He suggested they talk to the Americans before reacting. The captain listened. His anger cooled. He gave the order for the vessels to surface. The Americans encircled the Russians and kept them under surveillance. What they intended to do is unclear because in a couple of days the Soviets dove, eluded the Americans, and made it back home safely. This incredible brush with death was kept secret for decades. Arkhipov deserved a medal, yet he lived the rest of his life with no recognition. It was not until 2002 that the public learned of the barely-avoided catastrophe. As the director of the National Security Archive stated, "The lesson from this [event] is that a guy named Vasili Arkhipov saved the world."

Why does this story matter? You won’t spend three weeks in a sweltering Russian sub. But you may spend a semester carrying a heavy class load, or you may fight the headwinds of a recession. You may spend night after night at the bedside of an afflicted child or an aging parent. You may fight to keep a family together, or a business afloat. You’ll be tempted to press the button, releasing not nuclear warheads, but angry outbursts, a rash of accusations, a fiery retaliation of hurtful words. How many people have been wounded as a result of unbridled stress? And how many disasters have been averted because one person refused to buckle under the strain?

It’s this kind of composure that Paul is summoning in the first of a trio of proclamations. "Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything." (Phil. 4:5-6) The Greek word translated here as “gentleness,” epieikes, describes a temperament that is seasoned and mature. It envisions an attitude that is fitting to the occasion, levelheaded and tempered. The gentle reaction is one of steadiness, even-handedness and fairness. Its opposite would be an overreaction or a sense of panic. And this kind of gentleness will be "evident to all." Family members will take note. Your friends will sense a difference. Co-workers will benefit from it. Others may freak out or run out, but the gentle person is sober-minded and clear thinking. A contagious calm.

The contagiously calm person is the one who reminds others, "God is in control." It’s the executive who tells the company, "Let's all do our part; we'll be okay." It’s the leader who sees the challenge, acknowledges it, and then observes, "These are tough times, but we'll get through them." But this “gentleness” of which Paul speaks – where do we quarry that particular gem? How can you and I keep our finger off the trigger? How can we keep our heads when everyone else is losing theirs? The answer lies in plumbing the depths of the second phrase. "Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything." (Phil. 4:5-6)

“The Lord is near.” In other words, you’re not alone. You may feel alone. You may even think you’re alone. But there’s never a moment in which you face life without help. God is near. God repeatedly pledges his proverbial presence to his people. To Abram, God said, "Do not be afraid. . . . I am your shield, your exceedingly great reward." (Gen. 15:1) To Hagar, the angel announced, "Do not be afraid; God has heard." (Gen. 21:17) When Isaac was expelled from his land by the Philistines and forced to move from place to place, God appeared to him and reminded him, "Do not be afraid, for I am with you." (Gen. 26:24) After Moses' death God told Joshua, "Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go." (Josh. 1:9) God was with David, in spite of his adultery; with Jacob, in spite of his conniving; and with Elijah, in spite of his lack of faith.

Then, in the ultimate declaration of communion, God called himself Immanuel, which means "God with us." He became flesh. He became sin. He defeated the grave. He is still with us. In the form of his Spirit, he comforts, teaches and convicts. Don’t assume that God is watching from a distance. Avoid the quicksand that bears the marker, "God has left you!" Don’t indulge that lie. If you do, your problem will be amplified by a sense of loneliness. It's one thing to face a challenge, but to face it all alone? Isolation creates a downward cycle of fret. Choose, instead, to be the person who clutches to God’s presence with both hands. "The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?" (Ps. 118:6) Because the Lord is near, we can be anxious for nothing. And that’s Paul's point.

Remember, Paul was writing a letter. He didn’t write to the Philippian church using chapter and verse numbers. That system was created by scholars in the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries. The structure helps us, but it can also hinder us. The apostle intended the words of verses 5 and 6 to be read in one fell swoop. "The Lord is near, so don’t be anxious about anything." We can calmly take our concerns to God because he’s as near as our next breath. This was the reassuring lesson from the miracle of the bread and fish. In an event crafted to speak to the anxious heart, Jesus told his disciples to do the impossible: feed five thousand people. "Jesus lifted up His eyes, and seeing a great multitude coming toward Him, He said to Philip, 'Where shall we buy bread, that these may eat?' But this He said to test him, for He Himself knew what He would do." (John 6:5-6)

When John described this gathering as a "great multitude," he wasn’t kidding. There were five thousand men, plus women and children. (Matt. 14:21) Imagine a capacity crowd at a sports arena, and you've got the picture. Jesus was willing to feed the entire crowd. The disciples, on the other hand, wanted to get rid of everyone. "Send the multitudes away, that they may go into the villages and buy themselves food." (Matt. 14:15) It has a tone of anxiety, aggravation, or maybe frustration. They don't call Jesus "Master." They don't come to him with a suggestion. They march as a group to Christ and tell him what to do. The disciples see a valley full of people. Growling stomachs will soon become scowling faces, and the disciples could have a riot on their hands. They had every reason to feel unsettled.

But then again, didn’t they have equal reason to feel at peace? By this point in their experience with Jesus they had seen him heal leprosy (Matt. 8:3), heal the centurion's servant without even going to the servant's bedside (Matt. 8:13), heal Peter's mother-in-law (Matt. 8:15), calm a violent sea (Matt. 8:26), heal a woman who’d been sick for twelve years (Matt. 9:22), raise a girl from the dead (Matt. 9:25), heal a demon-possessed man in a cemetery (Mark 5:15), change water into wine (John 2:9), and heal a man who’d been an invalid for thirty-eight years. (John 5:9) Did any of the disciples pause long enough to think, Well, hmmm. Jesus healed the sick people, raised the dead girl, and calmed the angry waves. I wonder, does he have a solution we haven’t seen? After all, he is standing right here in front of us. Let's ask him. Did it occur to anyone to ask Jesus for help? The stunning answer is no. They acted as if Jesus wasn’t even there. Rather than count on Christ, they had the audacity to tell the Creator of the universe that nothing could be done because there wasn't enough money. I wonder how Jesus kept his composure. How did he keep from looking at the disciples and say, "Really?"

Finally, a boy offered his lunch basket to Andrew, who tentatively mentioned the offer to Jesus. Jesus said, “’Have the people sit down.’ There was plenty of grass in that place, and they sat down (about five thousand men were there). Jesus then took the loaves, gave thanks, and distributed to those who were seated as much as they wanted. He did the same with the fish. When they had all had enough to eat, he said to his disciples, ‘Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.’ So they gathered them and filled twelve baskets with the pieces of the five barley loaves left over by those who had eaten.” (John 6:10-13) Not one red cent was spent. They started the day with two hundred coins. They ended the day with two hundred coins. In addition, they filled twelve baskets with leftovers. Maybe a souvenir for each apostle? The people were fed, the bank account was intact, and we have a lesson to learn: anxiety is needless because Jesus is near.

You aren't facing five thousand hungry bellies, but you’re facing a deadline in two days . . . a loved one in need of a cure . . . a child who is being bullied at school. Typically, you'd get anxious. You'd tell God to send the problem packing: "You've given me too much to handle, Jesus!" Next time, instead of starting with what you have, start with Jesus. Start with his wealth, his resources and his strength. Before you open the ledger, open your heart. Before you count coins or count heads, count the number of times Jesus has helped you face the impossible. Before you lash out in fear, look up in faith and experience the contagious calm that comes to those who turn to him.

Grace,

Randy

Calm - Audio/Visual

Easter Gifts

Easter Gifts - Audio/Visual

Easter Gifts

And God has reserved for his children the priceless gift of eternal life; it is kept in heaven for you, pure and undefiled, beyond the reach of change and decay. And God, in his mighty power, will make sure that you get there safely to receive it, because you are trusting him. It will be yours in that coming last day for all to see. (1 Peter 1:4, 5)

The poor guy deserves your compassion. When you see him, don’t laugh, and please don’t mock him. Don’t turn away; don’t shake your head. Just gently lead him to the nearest bench and help him sit down. Have pity on him. He’s fearful and wide-eyed. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights, or Tarzan walking through the urban jungle. He’s stuck, wondering how he got there and how he’ll ever get out. Okay, so who is this guy? Who’s this poor soul that we’re talking about? Well, he’s a man in the women’s department of a big box store looking for a gift. The season may be Easter, or the occasion may be her birthday; it might even be for their anniversary. Whatever the motive, he’s come out of hiding. Leaving behind his familiar habitat of sporting goods stores, food courts and the big-screen television in the appliance department, he ventures into the unknown world of women’s wear.

It’s not hard to spot him. He’s the motionless one in the aisle. And were it not for the rings of perspiration under his arms, you’d think he was a mannequin. But he isn’t. He’s a man in a woman’s world, and he’s never seen so much underwear. At the Wal-Mart, where he goes to get his own, it’s six pairs wrapped in a single package sitting on a shelf. But here he is in a forest of lace. His father warned him about places like this. And though the sign says lingerie, he knows he shouldn’t linger. So, he moves on, but he doesn’t really know where to go because not every man is prepared for moments like this.

My friend’s dad, on the other hand, saw the challenge of shopping for women as a rite of passage – right there along with the birds and the bees, and tying neckties. He taught his son how to survive when they shopped. In fact, my friend told me about the day his dad sat him down and taught him two little words. “You see,” his dad said, “to get around in a foreign country, you need to know the language.” So, my friend’s dad taught him the language of the ladies’ department. “There will come a time in your life,” he said solemnly, “when a salesperson will offer to help you. And when they do, take a deep breath and say, ‘Estee Lauder.’” And, on every gift-giving occasion for years thereafter, my friend’s mom received two gifts from the two men in her life: Estee Lauder and … Estee Lauder.

I didn’t use to have any particular fear of the women’s department. But then I met my wife, Sandy. She’s not particularly fond of Estee Lauder. Though I could have told her that it would make her smell mysterious, or womanly, or motherly and all, she hasn’t changed her mind, and I’ve been in a bind ever since. For instance, last year for Christmas, I opted to buy her a dress. When the salesperson asked me Sandy’s size, I said I didn’t know. I honestly didn’t at the time, and I still don’t. I know I can wrap my arms around her, and that her hand fits perfectly in mine. But her dress size? I never inquired because there’s certain questions that a man just doesn’t ask. But the saleswoman tried to be helpful. “Well, how does she compare to me?” Now, I was taught from an early age to be polite to women, but I couldn’t be polite and answer that question because there was only one answer: “She’s much thinner than you.”

So, I just stared at my feet instead, trying to think of a polite reply. After all, I’m a lawyer – surely I could think of the right words to say. For instance, I considered being direct: “She’s less of you.” Even complimentary: “You’re more of a woman than she is.” Perhaps a hint would suffice? “I hear the store is downsizing.” Finally, I swallowed and said the only thing I knew to say, Estee Lauder, at which point the saleslady pointed me in the direction of the perfume department. But I knew better than to go there.

So, I thought I would try the purses. I thought it would be easy. I mean what could be so hard about selecting a simple carrying device for credit cards and money? I’ve used the same wallet for years. What could be so difficult about buying a purse? If you tell an attendant in the men’s department that you want a wallet, you’re taken to a small counter next to the cash register. And once there, your only decision is black or brown. However, tell an attendant in the ladies’ department that you want a purse, and you’re escorted to an entire room. A room full of shelves. Shelves full of purses. Purses with price tags. Price tags so potent that it should obviate the need for getting a purse altogether. I was pondering this thought when the salesperson asked me some questions. Questions for which I had no answer. “What kind of purse would your wife like?” My blank look told her that I had no idea, so she began listing my options: “Handbag? Shoulder bag? Glove bag? Backpack? Shoulder pack? Change purse?” Dizzied by the options, I had to sit down before I fainted. But that didn’t stop her. She was persistent. Leaning over me, she continued, “Moneybag? Tote bag? Pocketbook? Satchel?”

“Satchel?” I perked up at the sound of the first familiar word I’d heard. Satchel Paige pitched in the major leagues. This must be an answer. So, I straightened my shoulders and said proudly, “Satchel.” But apparently she didn’t like my answer because she started cursing at me in another language. I didn’t understand all she said, but I do know she called me a “Burberry,” and threatened to “Gucci” me with a “Spade” that belonged to someone named Kate. And then she got really crazy invoking some saint named “Laurent,” while picking on my favorite musician, “Louie.” I guess she thought she knew me because she called me “Michael Kors,” but Michael isn’t even my name. It could’ve been Marc Jacobs for that matter. But when she said it was “Armani,” I put my hand over my wallet and said, “No, it’s my money.” And that was it. I got out of there as fast as I could. But as I left the room, I gave her a bit of her own medicine. “Estee Lauder,” I shouted, and ran as fast as I could. It wasn’t very Christian-like, I know.

The things we do to give gifts to those we love. But we don’t mind, do we? We’d do it all over again. The fact is, we do do it all over again, but every so often we find ourselves in foreign territory – grownups in toy stores; dads in teen stores; wives in the parts department; husbands in the purse department. And not only do we enter unusual places, we do unusual things. We hide Easter eggs on the lawn and in the bushes. We assemble bicycles at midnight. I heard about one fellow who rented a movie theater so that he and his wife could see their wedding pictures on the big screen on their anniversary. We are at our best when we give. In fact, we are most like God when we are giving.

Have you ever wondered why God gives so much? If we give gifts to show our love, how much more does he? If we, imperfect though we are, love to give gifts, how much more does a perfect God enjoy giving gifts to us? Jesus asked, “If you hardhearted, sinful men know how to give good gifts to your children, won’t your Father in heaven even more certainly give good gifts to those who ask him for them?” (Matt. 7:11)

God’s gifts shed light on God’s heart; God’s good and generous heart. Jesus’ half-brother, James, tells us: “Every desirable and beneficial gift comes out of heaven. The gifts are rivers of light cascading down from the Father of Light.” (James 1:17) Every gift reveals God’s love. But no gift reveals his love more than the gifts of the cross. They came, not packaged in a plastic Easter egg, but wrapped in a passion. Not placed in the grass, but nailed on a cross. Not glistening in pastel colors, but sprinkled in blood red. The gifts of the cross. A lot’s been written about the gift of the cross itself, but what about the other gifts? What about the nails, and the crown of thorns? The garments taken by the soldiers? The garments given for Jesus’ burial? Have you taken the time to open these gifts, too? He didn’t have to give them, you know. The only act, the only required act for our salvation was the shedding of his innocent blood. Yet, he did so much more. Search the scene of the cross, and what do you find? A wine-soaked sponge. A sign. Two crosses beside Christ. Divine gifts intended to stir that moment, that split second when your face brightens, your eyes widen and God hears you whisper, “You did this? For me?”

Have you ever thought about why there were two crosses next to Christ? I mean, why not six, or ten, or a dozen or more? And if you’ve thought about that, have you ever wondered why Jesus was in the center? Why not on the far right, or far left, instead? Could the crosses on either side of the savior symbolize God’s gift of choice? Perhaps, because the two thieves on either side had a lot in common. They were convicted by the same system; they were condemned to the same death; they were surrounded by the same crowd; and they were equally close to Jesus. In fact, they even began with the same insults: “The two criminals also said cruel things to Jesus.” (Matt. 27:44) But then one of the thieves had a change of heart.

A lot has been said about that penitent thief, but what about the other guy? Wouldn’t a personal invitation have been appropriate? Wouldn’t a word of persuasion have been timely, especially given the circumstances? I mean, doesn’t the shepherd leave the ninety-nine and pursue the one, lost sheep? And doesn’t the housewife sweep the house until the lost coin is found? Yes, the shepherd pursues and the housewife sweeps. But the father of the prodigal? – the last “lost” parable in the trilogy contained in Luke 15:1-32. The father does nothing. Why? Maybe it’s because the sheep was lost innocently, and the coin was lost irresponsibly. But the prodigal son? He left intentionally. The father had given the prodigal son the choice, and Jesus gave the criminals the same.

There are times in our lives when God sends nothing but silence as he honors us with the freedom to choose where we spend eternity. And what an honor, don’t you think? I mean, in so many areas of life we don’t really have a choice, do we? For instance, we didn’t choose our gender, our family, our race or even our place of birth. And, let’s face it, sometimes that lack of choice really angers us. “It’s not fair,” we complain. “It’s not fair that I was born in poverty, or that I sing poorly, or that I run so slowly.” All that changed, however, in the Garden of Eden. Man made a choice, and it wasn’t for God. And man is suffering the consequences of that choice. It’s called sin. Granted, it would’ve been nice if God had let us order life like ordering a meal at a smorgasbord. “I’ll take some good health and a high IQ, please. No, I think I’ll pass on the music skills, but please give me a big helping of that fast metabolism!” That would’ve been nice, but that’s not what happened. When it came to life on earth, you weren’t given a voice; you weren’t even given a vote. But when it comes to life after death, you’ve got a choice.

Have we been given any greater privilege than that of choice? Not only does this privilege offset any injustice, but the gift of free will can offset any mistakes. Think about the thief who repented. We don’t know a lot about him, but we do know this: he made some pretty bad choices in life. He chose the wrong crowd, the wrong morals, and the wrong behavior. But would you consider his life a waste? Is he spending eternity reaping the fruit of all the bad choices he made? No, just the opposite, actually. He’s enjoying the fruit of the one good choice he made. In the end, all of his bad choices were redeemed by one good choice.

We’ve all made bad choices in life. We’ve chosen the wrong friends, the wrong car, the wrong way, or maybe even the wrong career. We look back over the years of our life and say, “If only ….”  “If only I could make up for all those bad choices.” The good news is that you can. One good choice for eternity offsets a million bad ones made here on earth – and the choice is yours to make. Because when one thief prayed, Jesus loved him enough to save him. And when the other thief mocked him, Jesus loved him enough to let him.

Could it be that the hill of the cross and the empty tomb are actually rich with God’s gifts? Examine them. Unwrap these gifts of grace as if for the first time. And as you touch them — as you feel the timber of the cross, trace the braid of the crown, finger the point of the spike and ponder a vacant grave — pause and listen. Maybe you’ll hear him whisper, “Yes. I did it just for you.”

Happy Easter,

Randy

Always

Always

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. (Phil. 4:4-5)

Place a finger on each of your temples. Now offer this prayer: “Thank you, Lord, for my amygdala. Thank you, Lord, for the two almond-shaped neural clusters that reside inside my brain. I wouldn't be alive without them.” And that’s the truth. Thanks to your amygdalae, you stepped back on the curb when the car honked, and you ducked your head when the baseball screamed in your direction. Your amygdalae operate like an alarm system. For instance, if an intruder breaks a window or pries open a lock to your house, your home security system warns you. Bells, alarms, horns, lights. Get up, get out and get safe. The system alerts you before you have time to think about it. Your amygdalae do the same.

We don't consciously think, A car is coming. I'm in its way. The car is big; I am small. The car is fast; I am slow. I better move. Amygdalae prompt a reaction before we know one is needed. And when the amygdalae command, the rest of the body reacts. Our pupils dilate, improving our vision. We breathe faster, pumping more oxygen to the lungs. Our pulse rate increases, infusing more blood into the system. Adrenaline turns us into Hercules. We’re ready for fight or flight; suddenly faster, stronger and more alert. We like our amygdalae. But we don't like supersensitive ones.

We don't want a home security system that goes off at the gust of a breeze, or the bark of a dog. We don't want that in our homes, nor do we want that in our heads. Perpetual anxiety is amygdalae with an itchy trigger finger. They see a mole on the skin and think cancer. They see a dip in the economy and think recession. Perpetual anxiety is the mental alarm system that never quite turns off. Limited anxiety is helpful. We need to be alerted to danger. What we don't need is to live in a state of high alert. And here’s why: God created our brains to replenish themselves with natural mood elevators and tranquilizers like dopamine and serotonin. These restore joy and peace. But if the amygdalae never stop, the natural tranquilizers never have an opportunity to do their work. The brain never resets. We become edgy and unsettled. That’s the bad news. The good news is this: God can calm our amygdalae.

Paul urges us to "rejoice in the Lord always." (Phil. 4:4) Not just on paydays, Fridays, good days, or birthdays, but to rejoice in the Lord always. You aren't the first to read the word always and arch an eyebrow. Always? "Yeah, right," mumbles the patient from the hospital bed. "How?" sighs the unemployed dad. "Really?" questions the mother of the baby born with a disability. It’s one thing to rejoice in the Lord when life is good, but when the odds are against you? Joseph knew this challenge.

Joseph's story is one of abandonment. His brothers had disliked his dreams and swagger and decided to kill him and throw him into a pit. Had their greed not been a feather heavier than their thirst for blood, he would’ve died. When they had a chance to sell him to traveling merchants, they did. And his father was completely uninvolved. You'd hope to read of the sudden appearance of Jacob, who searched for his son, rescued him, and took him home. But we don't, because Jacob didn't. He was MIA. Joseph was carted off to Egypt and raffled off like a farm animal. The great-grandson of Abraham was sold to the highest bidder. Even so, he landed on his feet.

He worked his way to the top of Potiphar's household. But then the mistress of the house put the hanky-panky on him. The lady went shady, and Joseph got out, leaving her holding his coat. When she accused him of attempted rape, her husband took her side and tossed Joseph in prison. Joseph landed in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Still, he didn't give up. He became a model prisoner. He made his bed, made friends, and made a good impression on the warden, who recognized him as inmate of the month and promoted Joseph to convict-in-charge. Joseph met the butler and asked for his help. The butler agreed but quickly forgot, and cruelty tipped the scales. Joseph languished in prison for two years with no word and no solution. Two years. Plenty of time to give up. Plenty of time for the world to turn gray, for gargoyles of dread to appear. Plenty of time to wonder, Is this how God treats his children? Is this God's reward for good behavior? Do your best, and this is what you get? A jail cell and a hard bed? If Joseph asked those questions, we don't know. But if you do, you’re not alone.

You weren't thrown in jail, like Joseph, but then again, maybe you were. Or you ended up in AA or a women's shelter or an unemployment line. And you wonder, I believe in God. Is he aware? Does he even care? Deism says no. God created the universe and then abandoned it. Pantheism says no. Creation has no story or purpose unto itself; it’s only a part of God. Atheism says no. Not surprisingly, the philosophy that dismisses the existence of a god will, in turn, dismiss the possibility of a divine plan. Christianity, on the other hand, says, "Yes, there is a God. Yes, this God is personally and powerfully involved in his creation." "The Son is the radiance of God's glory and the exact representation of his being, sustaining all things by his powerful word." (Heb. 1:3)

God is the one in charge of everything, even the details of our lives. He isn't making up this plan as he goes along. He didn't wind up the clock and walk away. "The Most High God rules the kingdom of men, and sets over it whom he will." (Dan. 5:21) He "executes judgment, putting down one and lifting up another." (Ps. 75:7) "The fierce anger of the LORD will not turn back until he has executed and accomplished the intents of his mind." (Jer. 30:24) Pretty starchy verbs: God "rules," "sets," "executes," "accomplished." These terms attest to the existence of a heavenly Architect and blueprint, and his blueprint includes you. "In him we were also chosen, . . . according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of his will." (Eph. 1:11) So if God is in charge, why was Joseph in prison? Or why is your friend's marriage in disarray? Why does God permit challenges to come our way? Wouldn't an almighty God prevent them? Not if they serve his higher purpose.

Remember the rest of Joseph's story? When Pharaoh was troubled by his dreams, the butler remembered Joseph's request. He mentioned Joseph to Pharaoh, and as fast as you can say providence, Joseph went from prison to palace. Joseph interpreted the dream, which was a forecast of a famine. Pharaoh promoted him to prime minister, and Joseph successfully navigated the crisis and saved not only the Egyptians, but Jacob’s family as well. Years later Joseph would tell his brothers, "You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. So then, don't be afraid. I will provide for you and your children." (Gen. 50:20-21) Two words at the heart of this passage reveal the heart of providential hope: but God. "You intended to harm me, but God . . . ." What was intended as harm became good. Why? Because Joseph kept God in the middle of his circumstances. Joseph viewed the sufferings of his life through the lens of divine providence. We should all do the same. Because if you don't, anxiety will stalk you every day of your life.

I have no words to counter the stress of the atheist or the agnostic. What alleviates their anxiety? Yoga? Deep-breathing exercises? Stress-relief candles? God's sovereignty, on the other hand, bids us to fight the onslaught of fret with the sword that is etched with the words but God. The company is downsizing, but God is still sovereign. The cancer is back, but God still occupies the throne. I was a jerk during the first years of my marriage, but God showed me how to lead a family. I was an anxious, troubled soul, but God has been giving me courage. The brothers had every intention to harm Joseph. But God, in his providence, used their intended evil for ultimate good. He never robbed the brothers of their free will. He never imposed his nature upon them. But neither did he allow their sin and their sin nature to rule the day. He rerouted evil into good. God uses all things to bring about his purpose. He will not be deterred in his plan to sustain and carry creation to its intended glory.

The ultimate proof of providence is the death of Christ on the cross. No deed was more evil. No other day was so dark. Yet God not only knew of the crucifixion; he ordained it. As Peter told the murderers, "This man was handed over to you by God's deliberate plan and foreknowledge; and you, with the help of wicked men, put him to death by nailing him to the cross. But God raised him from the dead, freeing him from the agony of death, because it was impossible for death to keep its hold on him." (Acts 2:23-24) Everyone thought the life of Jesus was over – but God. His Son was dead and buried, but God raised him from the dead. God took the crucifixion of Friday and turned it into the celebration of Sunday. And he can do the same for you.

I'm sorry for the pain that life has given you. I'm sorry if your parents neglected you. I'm sorry if your teacher ignored you. I'm sorry if a heartbreaker said "I do" on your wedding day but "I don't" every day thereafter. I'm sorry if you were inappropriately touched, intentionally mocked, or unfairly dismissed. I'm sorry if you ended up in Egypt. But if the story of Joseph teaches us anything, it’s this: we have a choice. We can wear our hurt, or we can wear our hope. We can outfit ourselves in our misfortune, or we can clothe ourselves in God's providence. We can cave in to the pandemonium of life, or we can lean into the perfect plan of God. And we can believe this promise: "In all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." (Rom. 8:28)

Horatio Spafford was a prosperous lawyer and Presbyterian Church elder. In 1871 he and his wife, Anna, suffered tragic financial losses in the Chicago fire. So, in November of 1873, Anna and their children set sail for Europe with a group of friends to enjoy some time away. Horatio stayed home to take care of some business, but planned to join his family later. On December 2 he received a telegram from his wife that began "Saved alone. What shall I do?" He soon learned that the steamer his family was on had collided with a British vessel and had sunk. Their four daughters drowned, and Anna survived. He left for England to bring Anna back home. En route, while sailing on the ship, he wrote the lyrics to a song that would become an anthem to the providence of God; words written by a grief-stricken man on a storm-tossed sea whose first verse begins, When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul. May we so trust in the providence of God that we can say the same. Always.

Grace,

Randy

Always - Audio/Visual

Mercy

Mercy

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. (Phil 4:6)

There’s a guilt that sits in the soul like a lead balloon. There’s a guilt that says, “I did bad,” and then there’s a guilt that concludes, “I am bad.” Have you ever had that deep, dark guilt? Ever come face-to-face with a version of you that you’ve never known before? If so, what sucked you under? A one-night stand? Take what wasn't yours? Or, maybe, not so much a moment in life but a season of it. You failed as a parent. You blew your career. You misspent your youth. You squandered your money. The result? Guilt. And the consequence of that guilt? Anxiety. Surprised? Lists of anxiety triggers typically include busy schedules, unrealistic demands, or rush-hour traffic. But behind the frantic expressions on the faces of people you see every day is unresolved regret. Maybe that face is you. Interestingly, humanity's first occasion for anxiety can be attributed to guilt. "That evening [Adam and Eve] heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden; and they hid themselves among the trees." (Gen. 3:8)

What happened to the first family? Until Genesis 3:8 there was no indication that they ever felt any fear or trepidation. They’d certainly never hidden from God before. That’s because they had nothing to hide. "The man and his wife were both naked, but they felt no shame." (Gen. 2:25) But then came the serpent and the forbidden fruit. The first couple said “Yes” to the serpent's temptation, and “No” to God. And when they did, their world collapsed like a house of cards. They scurried into the bushes and went into hiding, feeling a mixture of both shame and dread. Covered in crumbs from the cookie jar they’d been told to avoid, they engaged in a flurry of cover-ups. Note the sequence. Guilt quickly followed by anxiety. Adam and Eve didn't know how to process their failure, and neither do we.

Granted, we don't duck into the bushes – we have more sophisticated ways to deal with our guilt. We numb it, for instance. With a bottle of Smirnoff. With a little Internet pornography. With drugs. With a rendezvous at the motel. And then we deny it. Pretend we never stumbled. Concoct a plan to cover up the bad choice. One lie leads to another, then another. We adjust the second story to align with the first. And before long our knee-jerk reaction to any question is, “How can I keep up the charade?” Or, we minimize it. We didn't really sin. We just lost our way, or got caught up in the moment, or took the wrong path, or had a lapse in judgment. Others decide to bury it. Suppress the guilt beneath a mound of work and a calendar of appointments. The busier we stay, the less time we spend with the people we’ve come to dislike the most: ourselves.

Of course, we can always punish it. Cut ourselves. Hurt ourselves. Beat ourselves up. Flog ourselves. And if it’s not with whips, then it’s with rules. More rules. Long lists of things to do and observances to keep. A painful penance. Pray more. Study more. Give more. Show up earlier. Stay up later. And then there’s always avoiding even the mention of it. Just don't bring it up. Don't tell the family, the friends, the buddies. Keep everything on the surface and hope the Loch Ness monster of guilt keeps lingering in the deep. Or, we simply redirect it. Lash out at the kids. Take it out on the spouse. Yell at the employees, or the driver in the next lane.

Some choose to offset it. Determine never to make another mistake. Build the perfect family. Create the perfect career. Score perfect grades. Be the perfect Christian. Everything has to be perfect – hair, car, tone of voice. Always in control, and absolutely maniacal when it comes to slip-ups or foul-ups, by ourselves or others. Finally, some just throw in the towel and embrace it. We didn't get drunk – we are drunks. We didn't screw up – we are screw-ups. We didn't just do bad – we are bad. Bad to the bone bad. We might even take pride in our “badness” because it's only a matter of time until we do something bad . . . again. Adam and Eve hid behind fig leaves, bushes and lies. Not much has changed.

So what kind of person does unresolved guilt create? An anxious one. Forever hiding, running, denying, pretending. Unresolved guilt will turn you into a miserable, weary, angry, stressed-out, fretful, anxious hot mess. In a psalm David probably wrote after his affair with Bathsheba, the king said: When I refused to confess my sin, my body wasted away, and I groaned all day long. Day and night your hand of discipline was heavy on me. My strength evaporated like water in the summer heat. (Ps. 32:3-4) Interpretation? Guilt sucks the life out of our souls. But grace and mercy restores them, and the apostle Paul clung on to both.

To the same degree that he believed in God's sovereignty, he also relied on God's mercy. No one had more reason to feel the burden of guilt than Paul. He’d orchestrated the deaths of Christians. He was the first century version of a terrorist, taking believers into custody and then spilling their blood. "Paul was like a wild man, going everywhere to devastate the believers, even entering private homes and dragging out men and women alike and jailing them." (Acts 8:3) And he was a legalist to the core. Before he knew Christ, Paul had spent a lifetime trying to save himself. His salvation depended on his perfection and on his performance. You can read Paul’s resume in Philippians 3:4-6. It’s very impressive. So impressive that Paul had blood on his hands and religious diplomas on his wall. But then came the Damascus Road experience when Jesus appeared. So much for the resume.

Once Paul saw Jesus, he literally couldn't see anymore – at least for a time. But there were other things he couldn’t see. He couldn't see the value in his resume anymore. He couldn't see the merit in his merits, or the worth in his good works anymore. He couldn't see reasons to boast about anything he’d done anymore. And he couldn't see any option except to spend the rest of his life talking less about himself and more about Jesus. As a result, he became the great poet of grace. "But all these things that I once thought very worthwhile – now I've thrown them all away so that I can put my trust and hope in Christ alone." (Phil. 3:7) In exchange for self-salvation, God gave Paul righteousness. "Now I am right with God, not because I followed the law, but because I believed in Christ." (Phil. 3:9)

Paul gave his guilt to Jesus. He didn't numb it, deny it, minimize it, bury it, punish it, avoid it, redirect it, or embody it. He surrendered it. As a result, he would write, "I am still not all I should be, but I am bringing all my energies to bear on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I strain to reach the end of the race and receive the prize for which God is calling us up to heaven because of what Christ Jesus did for us." (Phil. 3:13-14) So what would the apostle say to a guilt-laden adult or teenager? Maybe something like, "Rejoice in the Lord's mercy. Trust in his ability to forgive. Abandon your attempts at self-salvation or justification. No more hiding behind fig leaves. Throw yourself upon the mercy and grace of Christ, and Christ alone."

A happy saint is one who is, simultaneously, aware of the severity of sin and the immensity of God’s grace. It’s not a cheap grace, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer would describe in his book, The Cost of Discipleship. Sin is not diminished, nor is God's ability to forgive it. The saint simply dwells in grace, not in guilt. This is the tranquil soul. God's grace is the fertile soil out of which courage sprouts as Paul would later tell Titus, "God's readiness to give and forgive is now public. Salvation's available for everyone! . . . Tell them all this. Build up their courage." (Titus 2:11, 15) The benefit of being a great sinner is dependence upon a great grace – a forgiveness that is too deep to be plumbed, and too high to be summited. You have never been more or less saved than the moment you were first saved. Not one bad deed can deduct from your salvation any more than one good deed can enhance it. Our salvation has nothing to do with our work, and everything to do with the finished work of Christ on the cross.

Do you know this kind of grace? If not, then maybe that’s the source of your anxiety. Perhaps you thought the problem was your calendar, your marriage, or your job. Maybe it’s unresolved guilt. So don't indulge it. Don't drown in the bilge of your own condemnation. There’s a reason why a car’s windshield is bigger than the rearview mirror – your future matters considerably more than your past. God's grace is greater than your sin. What you did was not good, but your God is good. And he will forgive you. He’s ready to write a new chapter in your life.

In one of Henri Nouwen's books, he wrote about the lesson of trust he learned from a family of trapeze artists known as the Flying Rodleighs. He visited with them for a time after watching them fly through the air with such elegant poise. When he asked one of the flyers the secret of trapeze artists, the acrobat gave this reply: “The secret is that the flyer does nothing and the catcher does everything. When I fly to Joe [my catcher], I have simply to stretch out my arms and hands and wait for him to catch me and pull me safely over the apron. . . . The worst thing the flyer can do is to try to catch the catcher. I am not supposed to catch Joe. It's Joe's task to catch me. If I grabbed Joe's wrists, I might break them, or he might break mine, and that would be the end for both of us. A flyer must fly, and a catcher must catch, and the flyer must trust, with outstretched arms, that his catcher will be there for him.”

In the great trapeze act of salvation, God is the catcher and we’re the flyers. We trust. Period. We rely solely upon God's ability to catch us. And as we do, a wonderful thing happens: we fly. Your Father has never dropped anyone, and he’s not going to start with you. His grip is sturdy and his hands are open. As the apostle proclaimed, "And I know the Lord will continue to rescue me from every trip, trap, snare, and pitfall of evil and carry me safely to His heavenly kingdom. May He be glorified throughout eternity. Amen." (2 Tim. 4:18)

Place yourself entirely in his care. And as you do, you’ll find that it’s possible – yes, possible – to be anxious for nothing.

Grace,

Randy

Mercy - Audio/Visual

Rejoice!

Rejoice

Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I will say, rejoice! (Phil. 4:4)

If anyone ever had a reason to be anxious, it would have been Paul. He’s about sixty years old, thirty years a Christian, and there’s hardly a seaport on the Mediterranean that he doesn't know, or hasn’t seen. His back is all angles and curves due to the miles he’s traveled, and the beatings he’s suffered. He received thirty-nine lashes on five different occasions; he was beaten with rods on three others. Scars spider web across his skin like bulging veins. He was once left for dead. He has been imprisoned, deserted by friends and co-workers, and has endured shipwrecks, storms and starvation. He's likely half-blind, squinting just to read. (Gal. 4:15) What's more, he’s awaiting trial before the Roman emperor, Nero, who has learned to curry favor with Roman citizens by killing believers, of which Paul is the best known. And as if the oppression from the empire weren't enough, Paul also bears the weight of newborn churches whose members are bickering, and whose false teachers are preaching out of pride and envy. (Phil. 1:15-17) His future was as gloomy as his jail cell.

Yet to read his words, you'd think he'd just arrived at Sandals in Jamaica. His letter to the Philippians bears not one word of fear or complaint. He never shakes a fist at God. Instead, he lifts his thanks to God and calls on his readers to do the same. "Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I will say, rejoice!" (Phil. 4:4) Paul's prescription for anxiety begins with a call to rejoice, and Paul used every tool in the box on this particular verse in the hope of getting our attention. First, he employed a present imperative tense so that his readers would have understood him to say to continually, habitually rejoice! And if the verb tense weren’t enough, he removed the expiration date: "Rejoice in the Lord always." And if the verb tense and the word always were inadequate, he repeated the command: "Again I will say, rejoice!"

But how can a person really obey that command? To rejoice . . . always? Is it possible for any person to maintain an uninterrupted spirit of gladness? No, but that’s not Paul's challenge here. We’re urged to "Rejoice in the Lord." This verse is a call, not to a feeling, but to a decision; a deeply rooted confidence that God exists, that he’s in control, and that he is good. The apostle held firm to this belief. Let Nero rage. Let preachers self-promote. Let storms blow. As a tent maker himself, Paul's tent of faith would never collapse because he’d stabilized it with a sturdy belief system. How sturdy is your own?

Flip back the flaps of your soul, and you'll see a series of beliefs that serve like poles to stabilize your tent – your life. Your belief system is your answer to the fundamental questions of life: Is anyone in control of the universe? Does life have a purpose? Do I have value? Is this life all there is? Your belief system has nothing to do with your skin color, appearance, talents or your age. Your belief system is not concerned with the exterior of the tent, but with its interior. It is the set of convictions – all of them unseen – upon which your faith depends. If your belief system is strong, you’ll stand. If it’s weak, the storms will prevail. Belief always precedes behavior. That’s why the apostle Paul, in each of his epistles, addressed convictions before he ever addressed actions. To change the way a person responds to life, change what a person believes about life. The most important thing about you is your belief system.

Paul's belief system was Gibraltar-strong. Take a close look at the poles in the tent of the apostle Paul and you will see one with this inscription: the sovereignty of God. Sovereignty is the term the Bible uses to describe God's perfect control and management of the universe. He preserves and governs every element. He’s continually involved with all created things, directing them to act in a way that fulfills his divine purpose. In the treatment of anxiety, a proper understanding of God’s sovereignty is absolutely essential. Anxiety is often the consequence of perceived chaos. If we sense that we’re victims of unseen, turbulent, random forces, we worry and get anxious.

Psychologists verified this fact when they studied the impact of combat on soldiers in World War II. They determined that after sixty days of continuous combat, ground troops became "emotionally dead." That’s understandable – soldiers endured the constant threat of bombs, machine guns and enemy snipers. The anxiety of ground troops in the study was, therefore, no surprise. But the comparative calm of fighter pilots? That came as a shock to the researchers. The pilot’s mortality rate was among the highest in combat – 50% of them were killed in action. Yet, fliers loved their work. An amazing 93% of them claimed to be happy in their assignments, even though the odds of survival were the same as a coin toss. So what made the difference? Simply stated, the pilots had their hands on the stick. They sat in the cockpit. They felt that their fate was theirs to determine. Infantrymen, by contrast, could just as easily be killed standing still or even running away; they felt forlorn and helpless. A formula was thus confirmed: perceived control creates calm; a lack of control gives rise to fear and anxiety.

But you don't need a world war to prove this formula. Road congestion will do the trick. A team of German researchers found that a traffic jam triples your chances of a heart attack. Makes sense, I guess, since gridlock is the ultimate loss of control. We may know how to drive, but the guy in the next lane certainly doesn't. We could be a NASCAR champion, but the texting teenager could very well be the end of us. There’s no predictability, just stress. Anxiety increases as perceived control diminishes. So what do we do? Control everything? Never board a plane without a parachute? Never enter a restaurant without bringing your own silverware? Never leave the house without a gas mask? Never give away your heart for fear of a broken one? Never step on a crack lest you break your mother's back? Face anxiety by taking control? If only we could.

The problem is that certainty, or control, is a cruel impostor. A person can accumulate a fortune and still lose it in a recession. A health fanatic may have an exclusive diet of fruits and nuts and still battle cancer. A hermit can avoid human contact altogether and still struggle with insomnia. We want certainty, but the only certainty we have is that certainty isn’t certain. That's why the most stressed-out people in the world are control freaks. They fail at the very thing they pursue the most. The more they try to control the world, the more they realize they can’t. Life becomes a cycle of anxiety, failure; anxiety, failure. We can't take control, because control is not ours to take. The Bible has a better idea.

Rather than seeking total control, relinquish it. You can't run the world, but you can entrust it to the God who does. This is the message behind Paul's admonition to "rejoice in the Lord." Peace is within reach, not for a lack of problems, but because of the presence of a sovereign Lord. To read Paul is to read the words of a man who, in the innermost part of his being, believed in the steady hand of a good God.

Suppose your dad’s the world's foremost orthopedic surgeon. People travel from all over the world to see him. He routinely exchanges damaged joints for healthy ones. With the same confidence that a mechanic changes a spark plug, your dad removes and replaces hips, knees and shoulders. At ten years of age you’re a bit young to comprehend the accomplishments of a renowned surgeon, but you're not too young to stumble down the stairs and twist your ankle. You roll and writhe on the floor and scream for help. You’re weeks away from your first school dance. This is no time for crutches. You need a healthy ankle, and yours is anything but. Then into the room walks your dad, still wearing his surgical scrubs. He removes your shoe, peels back your sock and examines the injury. You groan at the sight of the tennis ball-sized bump. Adolescent anxiety kicks in. "Dad, I'll never walk again!" "Yes, you will." "No one can help me!" "I can." "No one knows what to do!" "I do." "No, you don't!" Your dad lifts his head and asks you a question. "Do you know what I do for a living?" Actually you don't.

You know he goes to the hospital every day. You know that people call him "doctor." Your mom thinks he’s pretty smart. But you really don't know what your father does. "So," he says as he places a bag of ice on your ankle, "it's time for you to learn." The next day he’s waiting for you in the school parking lot after class. "Hop in. I want you to see what I do," he says. He drives you to his hospital office and shows you the constellation of diplomas on his wall. Adjacent to them is a collection of awards that include words like distinguished and honorable. He hands you a manual of orthopedic surgery that bears his name. "You wrote this?" "I did," he says. His cell phone rings. After the call he announces, "We're off to surgery." You scrub up and follow him into the operating room on your crutches. During the next few minutes you have a ringside seat for a procedure in which he reconstructs an ankle. He’s the commandant of the operating room. He never hesitates or seeks advice. Like Nike, he just does it. One of the nurses whispers, "Your dad’s the best." As the two of you ride home that evening, you look at your father. You see him in a different light. If he can perform orthopedic surgery, he can likely treat a swollen ankle. So you ask, "You think I'll be okay for the dance?" "Yes, you'll be fine, son." And this time you believe him. Your anxiety decreases as your understanding of your father increases.

Our biggest fears are sprained ankles to God, and a lot of people live with unnecessary anxiety over temporary limps. The next time you fear the future, rejoice in the Lord's sovereignty. Rejoice in what he has accomplished. Rejoice that he is able to do what you cannot. Fill your mind with thoughts of God. "[He is] the Creator, who is blessed forever." (Rom. 1:25) "[He] is the same yesterday, today, and forever." (Heb. 13:8) "[His] years will never end." (Ps. 102:27) He is king, supreme ruler, absolute monarch, and overlord of all history. An arch of his eyebrow and a million angels will pivot and salute. Every throne is a footstool to his. Every crown is papier-mâché next to his. He consults no advisers. He needs no congress. He reports to no one. He’s in charge, and we can rejoice in his Sovereignty.

Sovereignty gives the saint the inside track to peace. Because while others see the problems of the world and wring their hands in anxiety, we see the problems of the world and bend our knees.

Grace,

Randy

Rejoice! - Audio/Visual