Second Chance Savior

Second Chance Savior
Second Chance Savior - Audio/Visual

Early next morning he returned to the Temple and the entire crowd came to him. So he sat down and began to teach them. But the scribes and Pharisees brought in to him a woman who had been caught in adultery. They made her stand in front, and then said to him, “Now, master, this woman has been caught in adultery, in the very act. According to the Law, Moses commanded us to stone such women to death. Now, what do you say about her?” They said this to test him, so that they might have some good grounds for an accusation. 

But Jesus stooped down and began to write with his finger in the dust on the ground. But as they persisted in their questioning, he straightened himself up and said to them, “Let the one among you who has never sinned throw the first stone at her.” Then he stooped down again and continued writing with his finger on the ground. 

And when they heard what he said, they were convicted by their own consciences and went out, one by one, beginning with the eldest until they had all gone. Jesus was left alone, with the woman still standing where they had put her. So he stood up and said to her, “Where are they all—did no one condemn you?” And she said, “No one, sir.” “Neither do I condemn you,” said Jesus to her. “Go home and do not sin again.” (John 8:2-11)

One hundred thirty feet tall, including its pedestal. 1,145 tons of reinforced Brazilian tile, concrete and soapstone. Positioned on a mountain half a mile above sea level, it’s the famous Christ the Redeemer statue that overlooks the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Few tourists who go to Rio can resist snaking up Corcovado Mountain to see this looming monument. The head alone is twelve feet tall, and the arm span – from fingertip to fingertip — ninety-eight feet. As beautiful as it is, however, there are two ironies about the statue. 

The first is its blind eyes. Now, I know – all statues have blind eyes. But it’s as if the sculptor of this statue intended that the eyes be blind. There are no circles to suggest sight. There are only Little Orphan Annie openings. What kind of redeemer is that? Blind? Eyes fixated on the horizon, but refusing to see the mass of people at its feet? 

But the second irony can be found by following the features downward: past the strong nose, past the prominent chin, past the neck to the cloak of the statue. On the outside of the cloak there’s a heart. A Valentine’s heart. A simple heart. A stone heart. Again, what kind of redeemer is that? A heart made of stone? Held together, not with passion and love, but by concrete and mortar. What kind of redeemer is that? Blind eyes and a stony heart? Unfortunately, it’s the kind of redeemer most people have.

Oh, most people wouldn’t admit to having a blind redeemer with a stone heart. But for some, Jesus is like a good luck charm. Call him the “Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer.” You know. Pocket-sized. Handy. Easily packaged. Easily understood. Easily diagramed. You can put his picture on your wall, or you can stick it in your wallet as insurance. You can frame him, dangle him from your rear view mirror or glue him to your dashboard. His specialty? Getting you out of a jam. Need a parking place? Rub the redeemer. Need help on a quiz? Pull out the rabbit’s foot. No need to have a relationship with him. No need to love him. Just keep him in your pocket next to your four-leaf clover. 

For others, he’s an “Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer.” New jobs. Pink Cadillac’s. New and improved spouses. Your wish is his command. And what’s more, he conveniently re-enters the lamp when you don’t want him around.

And then, for some, Jesus is a “Monty Hall Redeemer.” “All right, Jesus, let’s make a deal. For fifty-two Sundays a year, I’ll put on a costume — coat and tie, hat and hose — and I’ll endure any sermon you throw at me. In exchange, you give me the grace behind pearly gate number three.” 

The Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer. The Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer. The Monty Hall Redeemer. Few demands, no challenges. No need for sacrifice. No need for commitment. Sightless and heartless redeemers. Redeemers without power. But that’s not the Redeemer of the New Testament. Compare the Cristo Redentor to the one seen by a frightened woman early one morning in Jerusalem.

It’s dawn. The early morning sun stretches a golden blanket across the streets of the city. A cat stretches as it awakens. The noises are scattered. A rooster crows his early morning recital. A dog barks to welcome the day. A peddler shuffles down the street, his wares on his back. And a young carpenter speaks in the temple courtyard. 

Jesus sits surrounded by a horseshoe of listeners. Some nod their heads in agreement and open their hearts in obedience. They’ve accepted the Teacher as their teacher and are learning to accept him as their Lord. Others are curious, wanting to believe, yet wary of this one whose claims stretch the boundaries of belief. Whether cautious or convinced, they listened keenly. They arose early. There was something about his words that was more comforting than sleep. And we don’t know his topic that morning. Prayer, perhaps. Or maybe kindness, or anxiety.

But whatever it was, it was soon interrupted when a mob bursts into the courtyard. Determined, they erupt out of a narrow street and thunder toward Jesus. The listeners scramble to get out of the way. The mob is made up of religious leaders: the elders and deacons of their day. Respected and important men. And struggling to keep her balance on the crest of this angry wave is a scantily clad woman. Only moments before she’d been in bed with a man who was not her husband. Was this how she made her living? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe her husband was gone, her heart was lonely, the stranger’s touch was warm, and before she knew it … she had done it. We don’t know. But we do know that a door was jerked open and she was yanked from bed. She barely had time to cover her body before she was dragged into the street by men who were probably her father’s age.

Curious neighbors stuck heads through open windows. Sleepy dogs yelped at the ruckus. And now, with holy strides, the mob storms toward the teacher. They throw the woman in his direction. She nearly falls. “We found this woman in bed with a man!” cries the leader. “The law says to stone her. What do you say?” Cocky with borrowed courage, they smirk as they watch the proverbial mouse go for the cheese.

Meanwhile, the woman searches the faces, hungry for a compassionate glance. She finds none. Instead, she sees accusation. Squinty eyes. Tight lips. Gritted teeth. Stares that sentence without seeing. Cold, stony hearts that condemn without feeling. She looks down and sees the rocks in their hands — the rocks of righteousness intended to stone the lust, and life, right out of her. The men squeeze the rocks so tightly that their fingertips are white. They squeeze them as if the rocks were the throat of the preacher they hate. In her despair she looks at the Teacher. But his eyes don’t glare. “Don’t worry,” the eyes whisper, “it’s okay.” And for the first time that morning she sees kindness. (John 8:1-5)

When Jesus saw her, what did he see? Did he see her as a father sees his grown daughter as she walks down the wedding aisle? The father’s mind racing back through time watching his girl grow up again — from diapers to dolls. From classrooms to boyfriends. From the prom date to the wedding day. The father sees it all as he looks at his daughter. And as Jesus looked at this daughter, did his mind race back? Did he relive the act of forming this child in heaven? Did he see her as he had originally made her? 

“Knitted together” is how the psalmist described the process of God making man. (Psalm 139:13) Not manufactured or mass-produced, but knitted. Each thread of personality tenderly intertwined. Each string of temperament deliberately selected. God as creator. Pensive. Excited. Inventive. An artist – brush on pallet, seeking the perfect shade. A composer – fingers on keyboard, listening for the exact chord. A poet – pen poised on paper, awaiting the precise word. The Creator, the master weaver, threading together the soul. Each one different. No two alike. None identical.

On earth, Jesus was an artist in a gallery of his own paintings. He was a composer listening as the orchestra interpreted his music. He was a poet hearing his own poetry. Yet his works of art had been defaced. Creation after battered creation. He had created people for splendor; they had settled for mediocrity. He had formed them with love; they had scarred each other with hate. When he saw businessmen using God-given intelligence to feed Satan-given greed …. When he saw tongues that had been designed to encourage used as daggers to cut …. When he saw hands that had been given for holding used as weapons for hurting …. When he saw eyes into which he’d sprinkled joy now burning with hatred …. I wonder. Did it weary him to see hearts that were stained, even discarded?

Jesus saw such a heart as he looked at this woman. Her feet were probably bare, maybe muddy. Her arms may have hid her chest and her hands perhaps clutching at each other under her chin. And her heart was ragged; torn as much by her own guilt as by the mob’s anger. So, with the tenderness only a father can have, he set out to untie the knots and repair the holes. So, he begins by diverting the crowd’s attention. He draws on the ground. 

Everybody looks down. The woman feels relief as the eyes of the men look away from her. The accusers are persistent. “Tell us, Teacher! What do you want us to do with her?” Now, he could have asked why they didn’t bring the man. The Law indicted him as well. He could have asked why they were suddenly blowing the dust off an old command that had sat on the shelves for centuries. But he didn’t. He just raised his head and offered an invitation, “I guess if you’ve never made a mistake, then you have the right to stone this woman.” He looked back down and began to draw again. (John 8:6-8)

Someone cleared his throat as if to speak, but no one spoke. Feet shuffled. Eyes dropped. Then thud … thud … thud … rocks fell to the ground. And they all walked away. Beginning with the grayest beard and ending with the blackest, they turned and left. They came as one, but they left one by one. And then Jesus told the woman to look up. “Is there no one to condemn you?” He smiled as she raised her head. She saw no one, only rocks — each one a miniature tombstone to mark the burial place of a man’s arrogance. 

“Is there no one to condemn you?” he asked. There is still one who can, she thinks. And she turns to look at him. What does he want? What will he do? Maybe she expected him to scold her. Perhaps she expected him to walk away from her. I’m not sure, but I do know this: what she got, she never expected. She got a promise and a commission. The promise: “Then neither do I condemn you.” The commission: “Go and sin no more.” (John 8:9-11)

The woman then turns and walks into anonymity. As far as we know, she’s never seen or heard from again. But we can be confident of one thing: on that morning in Jerusalem, she saw Jesus and Jesus saw her. And could we somehow transport her to Rio de Janeiro and let her stand at the base of the Cristo Redentor, I think I know what her response would be. “That’s not the Jesus I saw,” she would say. And she’d be right. Because the Jesus she saw didn’t have a hard heart. 

And the Jesus that saw her didn’t have blind eyes. However, if we could then, somehow, transport her to Calvary and let her stand at the base of the cross you know what she’d say: “That’s him,” she’d whisper. “That’s him.” She would recognize his hands. The only hands that held no stones that day were his. And on this day they still hold no stones. She’d recognize his voice: “Father, forgive them…” And she’d recognize his eyes. How could she ever forget those eyes? Clear and tear-filled. Eyes that saw her not as she was, but as she was intended to be.

You know, it’s not every day that you get a second chance. Most of the time we’re just glad to get a first one. “Get it to me by 3 p.m. or you’re fired!” “I’m sorry, but your grades aren’t good enough to admit you into the program.” “I don’t love you anymore.” The fact is, we all fail. We do things we regret. We say things we deplore. And we hurt people we love. But we’re not alone in this. 

Even the Apostle Paul was no stranger to failure. Have you been there? Have you shared Paul’s frustration? If you have, then listen as he shows us the way out of our despair: It is an agonizing situation, and who on earth can set me free from the clutches of my sinful nature? I thank God there is a way out through Jesus Christ our Lord. No condemnation now hangs over the head of those who are “in” Jesus Christ. (Romans 7:24 – 8:1) If I’d been Paul, I would have put a “Hallelujah!” at the end of that paragraph. What an incredible statement. What an awesome reality.

Need a second chance? Come to Jesus. He’s no statue, and second chances are his specialty.

Grace,

Randy

Rise

Rise
Rise - Audio/Visual

          After this there was a Festival of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. Now there is in Jerusalem near the Sheep Gate a pool, called in Hebrew 'Bethesda.’ It has five arcades. In these there used to lie a great number of sick persons, and of people who were blind or lame or paralyzed. And there was one man there who had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. Jesus saw him lying there, and knowing that he had been a long time in that condition, He asked him, "Do you wish to have health and strength?" "Sir," replied the sufferer, "I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is moved; but while I am coming someone else steps down before me." "Rise," said Jesus, "take up your mat and walk." Instantly the man was restored to perfect health, and he took up his mat and began to walk. (John 5:1-9)

     This story didn't make a lot of sense to me at first. It's about a man who barely has enough faith to stand, but Jesus treats him like he’s an Abraham who put his son on a sacrificial altar for God. Maybe martyrs and apostles deserve that kind of honor, but not some poor pauper who doesn't even know Jesus when he sees him. Or, at least that’s what I thought. I thought the story was too good to be true. Then I realized that the story isn't just about some invalid in Jerusalem. It’s actually a story about me, and maybe you, too. Because that man isn't some nameless disabled person. He has a name – it’s mine. He has a face – maybe it’s yours. And he has a problem – just like us.

     Jesus encounters the man near a large pool north of the temple in Jerusalem. It was 360 feet long, 130 feet wide, and 75 feet deep. A colonnade with five porches overlooked this body of water. It was a monument to wealth and prosperity, but its occupants were the sick and the diseased. They called it Bethesda, but it could have been called “Balboa Park,” or “Metropolitan Hospital,” or “Joe's Bar & Grill,” for that matter. It could be the homeless huddled beneath a freeway overpass. It could be any collection of hurting people. An underwater spring caused the pool to bubble occasionally, and the hurt and hopeless believed that the bubbles were caused by the dipping of angels’ wings. They also believed that the first person to touch the water after the angel did would be healed. Did healing actually occur? I don’t know. But I know that crowds of invalids came to give it a try because … what’d they have to lose?

     Picture a battleground strewn with wounded bodies, and you see Bethesda. Imagine a nursing home overcrowded and under-staffed, and you see the pool. Picture the orphans in Bangladesh, or the abandoned in New Delhi and you’ll see what people saw when they passed Bethesda. And as they passed, what’d they hear? Probably an endless wave of groans. And what did they witness? A football-sized field of faceless need. So what’d they do? Most walked past, ignoring the suffering. But not Jesus.

     Jesus is in Jerusalem for a feast. He’s alone this time. He's not there to teach the disciples, or to draw a crowd. The people need him – so he’s there. Picture that. Jesus walking among the suffering. And what’s he thinking? When an infected hand touches his ankle, what does he do? When a blind child stumbles into Jesus' path, does he reach down to catch him or her? When a wrinkled hand extends for alms, how does Jesus respond? And whether the watering hole is Bethesda or Joe’s Bar & Grill, how does God feel when people hurt? Well, just watch him walk.

     It’s worth re-telling this story just to know that he even came. He didn't have to. Surely there were more sanitary crowds in Jerusalem. Certainly there were more enjoyable activities that Jesus could have done while he was in town. After all, this is the Passover feast. It's an exciting time to be in Jerusalem. People have come hundreds of miles to meet God at the temple. Little did they know that God was wandering through a hospital ward. Little did they know that God was walking slowly, stepping carefully between the lame and the blind and the infirmed. Little did they know that the strong young carpenter who surveyed this ragged landscape of pain was God in the flesh. "When they suffered, he suffered also," Isaiah wrote. (Isa. 63:9) And on this day, Jesus must have suffered a lot.

      On this particular day Jesus must have sighed heavily as he walked along the poolside of Bethesda. And he sighs when he comes to me and you because there we are, filling the whitespace between the letters of verse 5: "A man was lying there who had been sick for thirty-eight years." Now, maybe you don't like being described that way. Maybe you'd rather see yourself with the courage of a David, or the devotion of a Mary. We all would. But before you and I can be like them, we’ve got to come to grips with the fact that we’re like the paralytic – invalids out of options. Can't walk. Can’t work. Can't care for ourselves. Can't even roll down the bank to the pool to cash in on the angel water. We’re powerless. We’re flat on our backs, and we’ve been this way for longer than we can remember.

     Granted, maybe you walk bolt upright, have 20/20 vision and can't imagine what you and this forty-something invalid have in common. How could he be you? What do we possibly have in common with that guy? Simple. Our predicament. The predicament? It’s described in Hebrews 12:14: "Anyone whose life is not holy will never see the Lord." That's our predicament – only the holy will see God. Holiness is a prerequisite to heaven. Perfection is a requirement for eternity. I wish it weren't so, and most of the time we act like it isn't. We act like those who are "decent" will see God. We suggest that those who try hard enough will see God. We act as if we're good if we never do anything too bad, and that “goodness” is enough to qualify us for heaven. Sounds right to us, but it doesn't sound right to God.

     God sets the standard. And the standard’s pretty high. "You must be perfect, just as your Father in heaven is perfect." (Matt. 5:48) You see, in God's plan, God is the standard for perfection. We don’t get to compare ourselves to others; they’re just as messed up as we are. The goal is to be like Him; anything less is inadequate. That’s why we’re like the invalid. We’re paralyzed. We’re trapped. We’re stuck and we have no solution for our predicament. That’s you and me lying on the ground. That's us – wounded and weary. When it comes to healing our spiritual condition, we don't have a chance. We might as well be told to pole-vault the Grand Canyon. We don’t have what it takes to heal ourselves. Our only hope is that God will do for us what he did for the man at Bethesda – that he will step out of the temple and step into our hospital ward of hurt and helplessness. Which is exactly what he’s done.

     Read Paul's description of what God has done for me and you: "When you were spiritually dead because of your sins and because you were not free from the power of your sinful self, God made you alive with Christ, and he forgave all our sins. He canceled the debt, which listed all the rules we failed to follow. He took away that record with its rules and nailed it to the cross. God stripped the spiritual rulers and powers of their authority. With the cross, he won the victory and showed the world that they were powerless." (Col. 2:13-15)

     And as you look at what God’s done, who’s doing the work here? You, or God? Who’s active? You, or God? Who’s doing the saving? You, or God? Who’s the one with strength? And who is the one paralyzed? Just look at our condition: "When you were spiritually dead … and … you were not free." The invalid was better off than we are. At least he was alive. Paul says that if you and I are outside of Christ then we’re dead. Spiritually dead. Corpses. Lifeless. Dead. And what can a dead person do? Not much.

     But look at what God can do with the spiritually dead. "God made you alive." "God forgave." "He canceled the debt." "He took away that record." "God stripped the spiritual rulers." "He won the victory." "[He] showed the world." Again, the question is: Who’s active in this imagery? You and I – or God? Who’s trapped and who comes to the rescue? God’s thrown life jackets to every generation.

     So, go back to Bethesda with me for a moment. Before Jesus heals the man, he asks him a question: "Do you want to have health and strength?" In other words, “Do you want to be well?” It seems like a silly question – of course he’d want to be healed. But maybe the man had grown accustomed to his disability, preferring the pain he knew to the terror of what he hadn’t known for almost 40 years. But that’s faith – it’s confidence in the things we hope for, and the conviction that what we don’t see really exists. (Heb. 11:1) "Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is moved; but while I am coming someone else steps down before me." (v. 7) Is this guy complaining? Is he feeling sorry for himself? Or is he just stating the facts? Who knows. But before we think about it too much, look what happens next: "Rise,” said Jesus, “take up your mat and walk.” Instantly the man was restored to perfect health, and he took up his mat and began to walk.

     I wish we would do that; I wish we would take Jesus at his word. I wish that we would learn that when he says something, it happens. What is this paralysis that so confines us? What’s this stubborn unwillingness to be healed? When Jesus tells us to stand, let's stand. When he says we're forgiven, let's unload the guilt. When he says we're valuable, let's believe him. When he says we're eternal, let's bury our fear. When he says we're provided for, let's stop worrying. When he says, "Rise," let's rise.

     It reminds me of the story of the Private who ran after, and then caught the runaway horse of Napoleon. When he brought the animal back to the emperor, Napoleon thanked him by saying, "Thank you, Captain." With one word the Private had been promoted. When the emperor said it, the Private believed it. He went to the quartermaster, selected a new uniform, and put it on. He went to the officers' quarters and selected a bunk. He went to the officers' mess and had a meal. Because the emperor said it, he believed it. Would that we would do the same.

     Is Bethesda your story? Maybe so. All the elements are the same. A gentle stranger has stepped into your hurting world and offered you a hand. Take it. Rise up, and be healed.

Grace,

Randy

Keep Rowing

Keep Rowing
Keep Rowing - Audio/Visual

It was dark now, and Jesus had not yet come to them. (John 6:17)

Here are some thoughts from a young missionary, excerpted from his journal during his first month on the mission field. On the flight to the field he writes: “The next time this plane touches down, I will be a missionary. To God be the glory.” The second day he reflects: “I keep reminding myself that the homesickness is temporary — it comes with the weariness and adjustments. I must remember the reason I’m here. Not for my own joy or gain, but for the growth of God’s kingdom.” By day three his spirits are up: “God, it’s a grand blessing to serve you.” But on the fourth day, his spirits sag: “It’s difficult for us to think about home. We cried this morning.” On the fifth day he doesn’t rebound: “Today is not so clear. The clouds have buried the mountains. The sky is gray.”

By day six, the storm is coming in: “Yesterday was the toughest day thus far. The newness is gone. I’m tired of this language. We could hardly think of our family and friends without weeping.” On the eighth day, the waves have crested and the winds are blowing: “This hotel room which has been our home is cold and impersonal. I held my wife as she wept, and we both confessed the ugliness of the thought of spending the rest of our lives in this foreign country. We’re so far from home.” By the tenth day the gales are at full force: “Doggone it, I know God is guiding us, I know He has a plan for us, but it’s so hard. How will we learn this language? Lord, forgive my sorry attitude.” And just when you’d think it couldn’t get any darker: “I wish I could say I’m thrilled to be here. I’m not. I’m only willing to be here. My commitment to be a missionary feels like a prison sentence.”

Perhaps the disciples had the same expectation. They only did what they were told. They didn’t question the order; they simply obeyed it. They could have objected. After all, it was evening and darkness was only minutes away. But Jesus told them to get into the boat, so they did. And what was the result of their obedience? John’s crisp description tells you: “That evening Jesus’ followers went down to Lake Galilee. It was dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The followers got into a boat and started across the lake to Capernaum. By now a strong wind was blowing, and the waves on the lake were getting bigger.” (John 6:16-18)

What a chilling phrase, “Jesus had not yet come to them.” They were caught in the storm of the “not yet.” They did exactly what Jesus said, and look what it got them – a night on a storm-tossed sea with their Master somewhere on the shore. It’s one thing to suffer for doing wrong, but it’s an entirely different matter to suffer for doing what’s right. But it happens. And when the storm bursts, it washes away the naive assumption that if I do right, I will never suffer. Just ask the faithful couple whose crib is empty and whose womb is barren. Just ask the businessman whose hard and honest work was rewarded with financial ruin and bankruptcy. Or the student who took a stand for the truth and got mocked, and the coed who took a chance on love and was raped. And so the winds blow. And so the boat bounces. And so the disciples wonder, “Why the storm, and where’s Jesus?”

It’s bad enough to be in the storm, but to be in the storm alone? The disciples had been on the sea for about nine hours, and John tells us they had been rowing for four miles. (John 6:19) That’s a long night, and how many times had they searched the darkness for their Master? How many times did they call out his name? Why did he take so long? Better yet, why does he take so long?

It reminds me of my children taking piano lessons. Many years ago we purchased a piano, and fearing that it would become just an expensive piece of furniture I told my kids that they were to take piano lessons for one year; after that, they were on their own. Even now I can hear my children playing the piano. And by the time they had begun their last six months, their teacher had upped the ante. No more rinky-dink songs; no more nursery rhymes. It was time to move on. The rhythm varied, the notes sharpened, and the key changed. I remember thinking that it would be pleasant to the ear … someday.

But the notes came slowly and the fingers dragged, and the kids would have quit if I’d given them the chance. So, was I a cruel father for urging them to continue? Was I unfair in prodding them to practice? I wasn’t oblivious to their struggles; I could hear them. And I wasn’t blind to their tears; I could see them. I knew they’d be much happier swimming, or reading, or watching television. So why then did I let them suffer? Because I loved them then, and love them still. And I knew their struggles then would result in music tomorrow.

Mark tells us that during the storm Jesus “saw his followers struggling.” (Mark 6:48) Through the night he saw them. Through the storm he saw them. And like a loving father he waited. He waited until the right time – until the right moment. He waited until he knew it was time to come, and then he came. So what made it the right time? I don’t know. Why was the ninth hour better than the fourth or fifth? I can’t answer that one either. Why does God wait until the money’s gone, or the sickness has lingered? Why does he choose to wait until the other side of the grave to answer the prayers for healing? Again, I don’t know. I only know that his timing is always right. All I can say is that God will do what’s best. “God will always give what is right to his people who cry to him night and day, and he will not be slow to answer them.” (Luke 18:7)

Though you hear nothing, he’s speaking. Though you see nothing, he’s acting. With God there are no accidents. Every incident is intended to bring us closer to him. It’s like the story of the two maestros who attended a concert to hear a promising young soprano. One commented on the purity of her voice. The other responded, “Yes, but she’ll sing better once her heart is broken.” There are certain passions learned only by the pain. And there are times when God, knowing that, allows us to endure the pain for the sake of the song.

So what does God do then while we’re enduring the pain? What does he do while we’re in the storm? You’ll love this. He prays for us. Remember, Jesus wasn’t in the boat with the disciples because he had gone to the hills to pray. (Mark 6:46) Jesus was praying for them. That’s remarkable. It’s even more remarkable that Jesus didn’t stop praying when his disciples were struggling. When he heard their cries, he remained in prayer. Why? Two possible answers.

Either Jesus didn’t care, or he believed in prayer. I think you know the correct choice. And you know what? Jesus hasn’t changed. He still prays for his disciples. “Because Jesus lives forever, he will never stop serving as priest. So he is able always to save those who come to God through him because he always lives, asking God to help them.” (Heb. 7:24-25) But if that’s true, where does that leave us? While Jesus is praying and we’re in the storm, what are we to do? Simple. We do what the disciples did. We keep rowing. The disciples rowed most of the night. Mark says that they were “struggling hard” to row the boat. (Mark 6:48) The word “struggle” is elsewhere translated as the word “tormented.” In other words, it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t glamorous.

Much of life is spent rowing. Getting out of bed. Fixing lunches. Turning in assignments. Changing diapers. Paying bills. Routine. Regular. More struggle than strut. More wrestling than resting. You thought marriage was going to be a lifelong date. You thought having kids was going to be like babysitting. You thought the company who hired you wanted to hear all about the great ideas you had in college. Then you learned otherwise. The honeymoon ended. The IRS called, and the boss wanted you to spend the week in Screamer, Alabama. Sure, there are moments of glamour, and days of celebration. We have our share of feasts, but we also have our share of baloney. And to have the first we must endure the second.

At the right time, God comes. In the right way, he appears. So don’t bail out. Don’t give up. Don’t lay down the oars. He’s too wise to forget you, and too loving to hurt you. When you can’t see him, trust him. He’s praying a prayer that he himself will answer. So stay in the boat with Jesus and keep rowing; without him, you’ll just be rowing in circles.

Happy New Year!

Randy

Wise Eyes

Wise Eyes
Wise Eyes - Audio/Visual

Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the reign of King Herod. About that time some wise men from eastern lands arrived in Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the newborn king of the Jews? We saw his star as it rose, and we have come to worship him.” ¶King Herod was deeply disturbed when he heard this, as was everyone in Jerusalem. He called a meeting of the leading priests and teachers of religious law and asked, “Where is the Messiah supposed to be born?”

“In Bethlehem in Judea,” they said, “for this is what the prophet wrote: ‘And you, O Bethlehem in the land of Judah, are not least among the ruling cities of Judah, for a ruler will come from you who will be the shepherd for my people Israel.’”

After this the wise men went their way. And the star they had seen in the east guided them to Bethlehem. It went ahead of them and stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were filled with joy! They entered the house and saw the child with his mother, Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasure chests and gave him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. (Matt. 2:1-6; 9-11)

Holiday time, for many, is highway time. Ever since the magi packed their bags for Bethlehem, the birth of Jesus has caused people to hit the road. And those Christmas trips have a lot in common with the one of the wise men. We don’t camp with camels, of course, but we’ve been known to bump into a knobby-kneed in-law on the way to the dining room. We don’t keep an eye out for star lights, but flashing lights of the highway patrol? We watch for them at every curve. And we don’t ride in a spice-road caravan, but six hours in a minivan with kids might have made the wise men thankful for animals.

It’s not always ho ho ho on the high, highway. Extended time in the car reveals human frailties. For instance, dads simply refuse to stop. They apparently hearken back to the examples of their forefathers. Did the pioneers spend the night at a Holiday Inn? Did Lewis and Clark ask for directions? Did Joseph allow Mary to stroll through a souvenir shop on the road to Bethlehem? Of course not. Men drive as if they have a biblical mandate to travel far and fast, stopping only for gasoline.

And children? Road trips do to kids what a full moon does to the wolf man. If one child says, “I like that song,” you’d like to hear the other one say, “That’s nice.” But that won’t happen. Instead, the other child replies, “That song stinks, and so do your feet.” And then there’s the issue of bathroom stops. A child can go weeks without going to the bathroom at home. But once on the road, the kid starts leaking like secrets in Washington, D.C.

The best advice for traveling with young children is to be thankful they aren’t teenagers. Teens are embarrassed by what their parents say, think, wear, eat and sing. So for their sakes, and if you ever want to see your future grandchildren, don’t smile at the wait staff, don’t breathe, and don’t sing with the window either up or down. Frankly, it’s probably wiser to just simply postpone traveling with children until they’re a more reasonable age — like thirty something.

Christmas and travel. The first has a way of prompting the second, and it’s been that way since the delegation from the distant land came searching for Jesus. “Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the reign of King Herod. About that time some wise men from eastern lands arrived in Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the newborn king of the Jews?’” (Matt. 2:1-2)

Matthew loved the magi. He gave their story more square inches of text than he gave the narrative of Jesus’ birth. He never mentions the shepherds or the manger, but he didn’t want us to miss the star and the seekers. It’s easy to see why. Because their story is our story. We’re all travelers; all sojourners. And in order to find Jesus, every one of us needs direction. And God gives it. The story of the wise men shows us how. “We have seen His star in the East and have come to worship Him.” (Matt. 2:2) God uses the natural world to get our attention. The heavens declare the glory of God. (Psalm 19:1)

God led the wise men to Jerusalem with a star. But to lead them to Jesus, He used something else: “King Herod was deeply disturbed when he heard this, as was everyone in Jerusalem. He called a meeting of the leading priests and teachers of religious law and asked, ‘Where is the Messiah supposed to be born?’ ‘In Bethlehem in Judea,’ they said, ‘for this is what the prophet wrote: “And you, O Bethlehem in the land of Judah, are not least among the ruling cities of Judah, for a ruler will come from you who will be the shepherd for my people Israel.” (Matt. 2:3-6) The star sign was enough to lead the magi to Jerusalem, but it took Scripture to lead them to Jesus.

People see signs of God every day. Sunsets that steal the breath. Newborns that bring tears. But not everyone who sees the signs draws near to God. Many are content to just simply see the signs. They don’t realize that the riches of God are intended to turn us toward Him. “Perhaps you do not understand that God is kind to you so you will change your hearts and lives.” (Romans 2:4) The wise men, however, understood the purpose of the sign. They followed it to Jerusalem, where they heard about the scripture. The prophecy told them where to find Christ. It’s interesting to note that the star reappeared after they learned about the prophecy. The star “came and stood shining right over the place where the Child was.” (Matt. 2:9) It’s as if the sign and word worked together to bring the wise men to Jesus. That’s because the ultimate aim of all of God’s messages is to shed the light of Heaven on His Son.

“They came to the house where the Child was and saw Him with His mother, Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped Him. They opened their gifts and gave Him treasures of gold, frankincense and myrrh.” (Matt. 2:11) A simple dwelling became a cathedral, and the seekers of the Christ-child found Him and knelt in His presence. They gave Him gifts: gold for a king, frankincense for a priest, and myrrh for his burial. They found the Christ because they heeded the sign and believed the scripture.

Noticeably absent at the manger were the scholars of the Torah; the religious know-it-alls. They reported to Herod that the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem. So didn’t they read the prophecy? Yes, but they didn’t respond to it. You’d think at a minimum they would have accompanied the magi to Bethlehem. The village wasn’t far away, and the risks were small. At worst they’d have been out a little effort, but at best they’d have seen the fulfillment of prophecy. But the priests showed no interest whatsoever. The wise men, on the other hand, earned their moniker because they did.

Their hearts were open to God’s gift, and the men were never the same. After worshiping the Christ child, “they departed for their own country another way.” (Matthew 2:12) Matthew uses the word “way” in other places in his gospel to suggest a direction in life. He speaks of the narrow “way” (Matt. 7:13-14), and “the way of righteousness.” (Matt.21:32) Maybe he’s telling us that the wise men went home as different men. Called by a sign. Instructed by Scripture. And directed home by God. It’s as if all the forces of heaven cooperated to guide the wise men. And God uses every possible means to communicate with you and me. The wonders of nature call to you. The promises and prophecies of Scripture speak to you. God Himself reaches out to you. He wants to help you find your way home.

Many years ago I watched the television adaptation of the drama The Miracle Worker, the compelling story of two females with great resolve: Helen Keller and Anne Sullivan. Helen was born in 1880. She wasn’t yet two when she contracted an illness that left her blind, deaf and mute. When Helen was seven years old, Annie, a young, partially blind teacher, came to the Kellers’ Alabama home to serve as Helen’s teacher. Helen’s brother James tried to convince Annie to quit, but the teacher wouldn’t consider it. She was committed to helping Helen function in a world of sight and sound; and Helen was as stubborn as her teacher.

Locked in a frightening, lonely world, Helen misinterpreted Annie’s attempts. The result was a battle of wills. Over and over again Annie pressed sign language into Helen’s palm, but Helen would pull back. Annie persisted. Helen resisted. Finally, in a moment of high drama, a breakthrough. During a fevered exchange near the water pump, Annie placed one of Helen’s hands under the spout of flowing water. Into the other hand she spelled out w-a-t-e-r. Over and over, w-a-t-e-r. Helen pulled back. Annie kept signing. W-a-t-e-r. All of a sudden Helen stopped. She placed her hand on her teacher’s and repeated the letters w-a-t-e-r. Annie beamed. She lifted Helen’s hand onto her own cheek and nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, yes! W-a-t-e-r.” Helen spelled it again: w-a-t-e-r. Helen pulled Annie around the yard, spelling out the words. G-r-o-u-n-d. P-o-r-c-h. P-u-m-p. It was a victory parade of sorts.

Christmas celebrates a similar moment for us — God breaking through our world, and in a feeding stall of all places. He will not leave us in the dark. He is the pursuer, the teacher. He won’t sit back while we miss out. So He entered our world. He sends signals and messages: H-o-p-e. L-i-f-e. He cracks the shell of our world and invites us to peek into His. And every so often a seeking soul looks up.

May you be one of them. When God sends signs, be faithful. Let them lead you to Scripture. And as Scripture directs, be humble. Let it lead you to worship. And as you worship the Son, be grateful. He will lead you home.  This Christmas, may God give you eyes wise to see, and a heart humbled by the babe in the manger. This Christmas, may you be changed by the Christ who gave his life so that you may find yours – forever.

Merry Christmas!

Randy

Pursued

Pursued
Pursued - Audio/Visual

As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man who had been blind from birth. “Rabbi,” his disciples asked him, “why was this man born blind? Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sins?” “It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered. “This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.” Then he spit on the ground, made mud with the saliva, and spread the mud over the blind man’s eyes. He told him, “Go wash yourself in the pool of Siloam.” So the man went and washed and came back seeing! His neighbors and others who knew him as a blind beggar asked each other, “Isn’t this the man who used to sit and beg?” Some said he was, and others said, “No, he just looks like him!” But the beggar kept saying, “Yes, I am the same one!” They asked, “Who healed you? What happened?” He told them, “The man they call Jesus made mud and spread it over my eyes and told me, ‘Go to the pool of Siloam and wash yourself.’ So I went and washed, and now I can see!”

The Jewish leaders still refused to believe the man had been blind and could now see, so they called in his parents. They asked them, “Is this your son? Was he born blind? If so, how can he now see?” His parents replied, “We know this is our son and that he was born blind, but we don’t know how he can see or who healed him. Ask him. He is old enough to speak for himself.” His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jewish leaders, who had announced that anyone saying Jesus was the Messiah would be expelled from the synagogue…. And they threw him out of the synagogue.

When Jesus heard what had happened, he found the man and asked, “Do you believe in the Son of Man”? The man answered, “Who is he, sir? I want to believe in him.” “You have seen him,” Jesus said, “and he is speaking to you!” “Yes, Lord, I believe!” the man said. And he worshiped Jesus. (John 9:1-2;
6-11; 18-23; 34-39)

The old guy at the corner hasn't seen him, and the woman selling figs hasn't either. Jesus describes him to the scribes at the gate, and to the kids in the courtyard: "He's about this tall; his clothes are a little ragged." But no one has a clue. For the better part of a day Jesus has been searching up and down the streets of Jerusalem. He didn't stop for lunch; he didn’t even pause to catch his breath. The only time his feet weren’t moving was when he was asking, "Pardon me, but have you seen the blind fellow who used to beg on the corner?"

He searched the horse stable; he even checked out an old shed. Now Jesus is going door-to-door. "He has a homeless look about him," Jesus tells people. "Unkempt. Dirty. Muddy eyelids." Finally a boy gives him a lead. Jesus takes a back street toward the temple and spots the man sitting on a stump between two donkeys. Christ approaches from behind and places a hand on his shoulder. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you." The fellow turns and, for the first time, sees the one who let him see. And what the man does next, you may find hard to believe. But first, a little review is in order.

John introduces him to us with these words: "As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man who had been blind from birth." (John 9:1) This man has never seen a sunrise. Can't tell purple from pink. The disciples fault the family tree. "Rabbi, why was this man born blind? Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sin?” (v. 2) “Neither,” Jesus replies. Trace this condition back to heaven. The reason the man was born sightless? So that "the power of God could be seen in him." (v. 3)

Talk about a thankless role. This guy’s been selected to suffer. Some sing to God’s glory, and others teach to God's glory. But who wants to be blind for God's glory? And what’s tougher? The condition, or discovering it was God's idea? But the cure proves to be as surprising as the cause. "[Jesus] spat on the ground, made mud with the saliva, and spread the mud over the blind man’s eyes.” (v. 6) You know, the world is filled with various paintings of Jesus: in the arms of Mary, in the Garden of Gethsemane, in the darkened tomb. But I've never seen a painting of Jesus spitting. But there he is – Jesus smacking his lips, gathering a mouth full of saliva, and letting the blob drop to the dirt. And then he squats, stirs up a puddle of . . . what would you call it? Holy putty? Saliva solution? Whatever the name, Jesus places a fingerful in his palm, and then, like Rembrandt, streaks the mud-miracle onto the blind man's eyes. "Go, wash in the pool of Siloam," Jesus says. (v. 7)

So, the beggar feels his way to the pool, splashes water on his mud-streaked face, and rubs away the clay. The result is the first chapter of Genesis, just for him. Light where there was darkness. Virgin eyes focus. Fuzzy figures become human beings. And John receives the Understatement of the Bible Award when he writes: "He . . . came back seeing." (v. 7) Come on, John. Running a little short on verbs there? How about "He raced back seeing"? Or, "He danced back seeing"? Maybe, "He roared back whooping and hollering and kissing everyone he could find, for the first time, seeing"? The guy had to be thrilled. And we’d love to leave him that way. But if this man's life were a cafeteria, he just stepped away from the sirloin to jump into the line for the Brussels sprouts.

For instance, look at the reaction of the neighbors: "’Isn’t this the man who used to sit and beg?’ Some said he was, and others said, ‘No, he just looks like him!’ But the beggar kept saying, ‘Yes, I am the one!’” (vv. 8-9) Did you notice that? These folks aren’t celebrating; they’re debating. They’ve watched this man grope and trip since he was a kid. (v. 20) So, you'd think they’d be rejoicing. But they aren’t. Instead, they march him down to the church to have him kosher tested.

Upon arrival, the Pharisees ask for an explanation, and the once-blind beggar says, "He applied clay to my eyes, and I washed, and I see." (v. 15) Again we pause for the applause. Still nothing. No recognition. No celebration. Apparently, Jesus had failed to consult the healing handbook – “Now it was a Sabbath on the day when Jesus made the clay and opened his eyes. . . . The Pharisees were saying, 'This man is not from God, because He does not keep the Sabbath.'" (vv. 14, 16) Pause. Did you hear that? Did you hear that noise? That’s the beeping of the absurdity Geiger counter. The religious leaders' verdict bounces the needle off the chart. Let me give you an example of what I’m talking about.

Suppose the swimming pool where you swim has a sign on the fence that reads, “Rescues Performed by Certified Lifeguards Only.” Of course, you never give the sign a thought until one day you bang your head on the bottom of the pool. You black out, eight feet under. Next thing you know you're belly-down on the side of the pool, coughing up water. Someone rescued you. And when the lifeguards appear, the fellow who pulled you out of the pool has since disappeared. But as you come to your senses, you tell the lifeguards your story. However, rather than rejoice, the lifeguards and the bystanders shout, "Doesn't count! Doesn't count!" They’re acting like referees waving off a basketball that cleared the net after the clock had expired. "It wasn't official. Wasn't legal. Since the rescuer wasn't certified, consider yourself drowned." Absurd, right? So, won’t anyone rejoice with this man?

The neighbors didn't. The preachers didn't. Oh, but wait. Whew. Finally. Here come the parents. But the reaction of the formerly blind man's parents is even worse. “‘Is this your son? Was he born blind? If so, how can he now see?’ His parents replied, ‘We know this is our son and that he was born blind, but we don’t know how he can see or who healed him. Ask him. He is old enough to speak for himself.’ His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jewish leaders, who had announced that anyone saying Jesus was the Messiah would be expelled from the synagogue.” (vv. 18-22)

How could the parents do that? Granted, to be put out of the synagogue was a big deal. But isn't refusing to help your child even worse? And who was really blind that day, anyway? The neighbors didn't see the man – they saw a novelty. The church leaders didn't see the man – they saw a technicality. The parents didn't see their son – they saw a social difficulty. In the end, no one saw him. So, “they threw him out of the synagogue." (v. 34) And now, here he is on the back streets of Jerusalem. The guy has got to be just a little bewildered. Born blind only to be healed. Healed only to be kicked out of church. Kicked out only to be left alone. From Mt. Whitney to the Mojave Desert, all in one Sabbath. Now he can't even beg anymore. How would that feel? Maybe you know how that feels. Do some people seem to be dealt more than their share of bad hands? If so, Jesus knows. He knows how they feel, and he knows where they are. "Jesus heard that they had thrown him out, and went and found him." (v. 35)

If three decades of earth walking and miracle working aren’t sufficient, or if there’s any doubt in your mind about God's full-bore devotion, he goes and does something like this. He goes Columbo and tracks down a troubled pauper. And when he arrives, the beggar lifts his eyes to look into the face of the one who’d started it all. Is he going to criticize Christ? Complain to Jesus? You couldn't blame him for doing both, frankly. After all, he didn't volunteer for the disease, or the deliverance. But he does neither. "He worshiped Jesus," instead. (v. 38) And don't you think he probably knelt? And wouldn’t you think he probably wept? And if so, how could he keep from wrapping his arms around the waist of the one who gave him sight? And so he worshiped him. And when you see Jesus, you will too.

Some of your legs may be wheel-chaired, and some of your hearts may be hope-starved. But "these hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us." (2 Cor. 4:17 MSG) The day you see your Savior you will experience a million times over what Joni Eareckson Tada experienced on her wedding day. You see, a diving accident had left Joni paralyzed at the age of seventeen. All of her nearly fifty years since have been spent in a wheelchair. Her handicap doesn't keep her from writing or painting or speaking about her Savior. Nor did her handicap keep her from marrying Ken. But it almost kept her from the joy of the wedding.

She'd done her best, mind you. Her gown was draped over a thin wire mesh covering the wheels of her wheelchair. With flowers in her lap and a sparkle in her eye, she felt a "little like a float in the Rose Parade." A ramp had been constructed, connecting the foyer to the altar. Unfortunately, while waiting her turn to motorize over it, Joni made a discovery. Across her dress was a big, black grease mark courtesy of the chair. And the chair, though "spiffed up . . . was still the big, clunky thing it always was." Then the bouquet of daisies on her lap slid off center, and her paralyzed hands were unable to rearrange them. She felt anything but the picture-perfect bride in Bride's Magazine. Nevertheless, she inched her chair forward and looked down the aisle. And that's when she saw her groom.

“I spotted him way down front, standing at attention and looking tall and elegant in his formal attire. My face grew hot. My heart began to pound. Our eyes met and, amazingly, from that point everything changed. How I looked no longer mattered. I forgot all about my wheelchair. Grease stains? Flowers out of place? Who cares? No longer did I feel ugly or unworthy; the love in Ken's eyes washed it all away. I was the pure and perfect bride. That's what he saw, and that's what changed me. It took great restraint not to jam my ‘power stick’ into high gear and race down the aisle to be with my groom.”

When she saw her groom, she forgot about herself. And when you see Jesus, you will too. I'm sorry about that greasy gown. And your flowers? They tend to slide, don't they? Who has an answer for the diseases, drudgeries and darkness of this life? I don't. But we do know this: everything changes when you look at the groom. And yours is coming.

Just as he came for the blind man, Jesus is coming for you. The hand that touched the blind man's shoulder will touch your cheeks. The face that changed his life will change yours as well. And when you see Jesus, you’ll worship him, too.

Grace,

Randy

Conundrum

Conundrum
Conundrum - Audio/Visual

About eight days later Jesus took Peter, John, and James up on a mountain to pray. And as he was praying, the appearance of his face was transformed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly, two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared and began talking with Jesus. They were glorious to see. And they were speaking about his exodus from this world, which was about to be fulfilled in Jerusalem. ¶Peter and the others had fallen asleep. When they woke up, they saw Jesus’ glory and the two men standing with him. As Moses and Elijah were starting to leave, Peter, not even knowing what he was saying, blurted out, “Master, it’s wonderful for us to be here! Let’s make three shelters as memorials — one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” But even as he was saying this, a cloud overshadowed them, and terror gripped them as the cloud covered them. Then a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, my Chosen One. Listen to him.”(Luke 9:28-35)

Summer, 1966. The Pomona Fair. A big place and a bigger day for a wide-eyed 8 year-old whose week generally peaked out at the local Dairy Queen on Saturday. The sights and sounds of the midway left me like Dorothy – “Toto, I don’t think we're in Kansas anymore." The carnival rumbled with excitement. Roller coasters. Ferris wheels. Candied apples. Cotton candy. And, the voices. "Step right up and try your luck, sonny!" "This way, young man. Three shots for a dollar." "Come on, little fella’. Win Mom a teddy bear." And there I stood – one bewildered little boy. Do I listen to the skinny lady with the pointy objects in the dart booth, or answer the call of the carny and heave a ball at the milk bottles? The guy in top hat and tails dares me to explore the haunted house: "Come on in. What's wrong? Afraid?"

A gauntlet of barkers – each taking their turn. Dad had warned me about them. He knew all about the midway. I can't recall his exact instruction, but I remember its impact. So, I stuck next to him, my hand lost in his. And every time I heard the voices, I looked at dad’s face. He gave either protection or permission. Dad rolling his eyes meant, "Move on," because he smelled a huckster. A smile and a nod said, "Go on – no harm here." My father helped me handle the conundrum. Could you use the same?

Because when it comes to your faith, do you ever feel as if you’re walking through a religious midway? The Torah sends you to Moses. The Koran sends you to Muhammad. Buddhists invite you to meditate; spiritists, to levitate. A palm reader wants your hand. The TV evangelist wants your money. The agnostic believes no one can know. The hedonist doesn't care to know. And atheists believe there’s nothing to know. "Step right up. Try my witchcraft." Or, "Psssst! Over here. Interested in some New Age crystals?" Or, "Hey, you! Ever tried Scientology?" What do you do? Where's a person to go? Mecca? Salt Lake City? Rome? Therapy? Aromatherapy? All those voices. They can’t all be right, can they?

If that's your conundrum, then Luke 9 is your chapter – the day God isolated the authoritative voice of history and declared, "Listen to him." It's the first scene of the final act in the earthly life of Christ. Jesus has taken three of his followers on a prayer retreat. "Jesus took Peter, John, and James up on a mountain to pray. And as he was praying, the appearance of his face was transformed, and his clothes became dazzling white." (Luke 9:28-29)

Wow, to have heard that prayer. What words so lifted Christ that his face was changed? Did he see his home? Was home calling? Maybe Jesus needed some comfort. Maybe knowing that his road home would pass through Calvary, he put in a call. And God was quick to answer. "Suddenly, two men, Moses and Elijah, appeared and began talking with Jesus." (v. 30) The perfect comfort givers – Moses understood tough journeys, and Elijah could relate to an unusual exit. So Jesus and Moses and Elijah discuss "his exodus from this world, which was about to be fulfilled in Jerusalem." (v. 31) Peter, James, and John, meanwhile, are taking a good nap. But suddenly, they woke up and saw how glorious Jesus appeared. They also saw the two men who were with him. And just when Moses and Elijah were about to leave, Peter says to Jesus, "Master, it’s wonderful for us to be here! Let’s make three shelters as memorials — one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” (vv. 32-33)

What would we do without Peter? The guy has no idea what he’s saying, but that doesn't keep him from talking. He has no clue what he’s doing but offers to do it anyway. And this is his bright idea: build three monuments for the three heroes he sees. Great plan? Maybe for Peter, but not in God's book. Even as Peter is speaking, God starts clearing his throat: “Even as (Peter) was saying this, a cloud overshadowed them, and terror gripped them as the cloud covered them. Then a voice from the cloud said, ‘This is my Son, my Chosen One. Listen to him.’”(vv. 34-35) Peter's error is not that he spoke, but that he spoke heresy. Because three monuments would equate Moses and Elijah with Jesus. But no one shares the platform with Christ. God comes with the suddenness of an earthquake and leaves Peter shaking. "This is My Son." Not "a son," as if he was clumped in with the rest of us. Not "the best son," as if he was valedictorian of the human race. Jesus is, according to God, "My Son, My Chosen One." Absolutely unique and unlike anyone else. "Listen to Him."

In the synoptic Gospels, God speaks only twice – at Jesus’ baptism and then here at the Transfiguration. In both cases he begins with, "This is My beloved Son." At the river he concludes with affirmation: "in whom I am well pleased." (Matt. 3:17) But on the hill he concludes with clarification: "Listen to Him." He does not command, "Listen to them." Sure, he could have because has there ever been a more austere group assembled? Moses, the lawgiver. Elijah, the prophet. Peter, the eventual Pentecost preacher. James, the apostle. John, the eventual gospel writer and revelator. The Bible's first and final authors all in one place. So, God could have said, "These are my priceless servants; listen to them." But that’s not what God said.

Whereas Moses and Elijah comfort Christ, God crowns Christ. "Listen to Him . . . ." The definitive voice in the universe belongs to Jesus. He’s not one among many voices; he’s the One Voice over all voices. But you cross a line when you make that kind of claim and lots of people have recoiled at the distinction. They say, “Call Jesus godly, godlike, or even God-inspired. Call him ‘a voice’ but not ‘the voice;’ a good man but not God-man.” But a good man is precisely the terminology we can’t use because a good man wouldn’t say what Jesus said, or claim what he claimed. A liar would. Or God would. But call him anything in between and you have a real dilemma; a conundrum. The truth is that no one believed that Jesus was equal with God more than Jesus. His followers worshiped him, and he didn't tell them to stop. Peter and Thomas and Martha called him the Son of God, and he didn't tell them they were wrong. At his own death trial, his accusers asked, "'Are You the Son of God, then?' And He said to them, 'Yes, I am.'" (Luke 22:70)

His purpose, in his words, was to "give his life as a ransom for many." (Matt. 20:28) And, according to Jesus, no one could kill him because when speaking of his life, he said, "I lay it down on My own initiative. I have authority to lay it down, and I have authority to take it up again." (John 10:18) And could he speak with more confidence than he did in John 14:9? "He who has seen Me has seen the Father." Or, could his words have been more blasphemous than John 8:58? "Before Abraham was, I AM." The claim infuriated the Jews and "they picked up stones to throw at Him." (v. 59) Why? Because only God is the great I AM. And in calling himself I AM, Christ was equating himself with God. "I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me." (John 14:6)

Make no mistake, Jesus saw himself as God. And in doing so, he leaves us with two options. Accept him as God, or reject him as a megalomaniac. There is no third alternative. Here’s what I mean. Suppose you saw me standing on the side of the road. I can go either north or south. You ask me which way I'm going, and I say, "I'm going sorth." Thinking you didn't hear me correctly, you ask me to repeat the answer. "I'm going sorth. I can't choose between north and south, so I'm kind of going both ways. I'm going sorth." "You can't do that," you reply. "You have to choose." "Okay," I concede, "then I'll head nouth." "Nouth is not an option, either!" you insist. "It's either north or south. When it comes to this particular road, you’ve got to pick; it’s one way or the other." And when it comes to Christ, we’ve got to do the same.

Call Jesus crazy, or crown him as king. Dismiss him as a fraud, or declare him to be God. Walk away from him, or bow before him. But don't play games with him. Don't call him a great man. Don't list him among decent folk. Don't clump him in with Moses, Elijah, Buddha, Joseph Smith, Muhammad, or Confucius. He didn't leave us that option. He is either God or godless. Heaven-sent or hell-born. All hope or all hype. But nothing in between.

C. S. Lewis summarized it classically when he wrote: “A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic – on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg – or else he would be the Devil of Hell. . . . You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

Jesus won't be diminished. And besides, do you want him to be? Don't you need a distinctive voice in your noisy world? We all do. So, don't walk the midway alone. Keep your hand in his and your eyes on him. And when he speaks, "Listen to him." He knows all about the midway, and the hucksters whose voices create a conundrum and try to steal your soul.

Grace,

Randy