Discouragement

Discouragement
Discouragement - Audio/Visual

They stopped, their faces drawn with misery, and the one called Cleopas replied, “You must be the only stranger in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard all the things that have happened there recently!” “What things?” asked Jesus. “Oh, all about Jesus, from Nazareth. There was a man — a prophet strong in what he did and what he said, in God’s eyes as well as the people’s. Haven’t you heard how our chief priests and rulers handed him over for execution, and had him crucified? But we were hoping he was the one who was to come and set Israel free…. (Luke 24:18-21)

Phineas was up before the sun. He'd hardly slept the night before, and long before a sound was heard in the house he was racing downstairs with his bag packed, ready to climb into the wagon. It was the summer of 1820, and Phineas was about to see an island. His island. The island promised to him by his grandfather and presented to him – by Gift Deed – on his second birthday. It was a sizable portion of Connecticut land called Ivy Island. And today, for the first time, Phineas was going to see it.

Of course, not every boy is born a land baron, and Phineas' parents were always quick to remind their son of that fact. They urged him not to forget them when he came of age. But Phineas was different from his playmates. While they dreamed of dragons and knights, his fantasies were of Ivy Island. Someday he would be lord of his own territory. He'd build a house. Start a farm. Raise cattle. Rule his own domain. Because when you own an island you feel important. When you own an island, you want to see it. And Phineas had yet to see his, so he pleaded with his father to take him to the island.

Three sleepless nights preceded the expedition. Then, early that eventful morning, Phineas, his father and a hired hand climbed into the buggy and began the long-anticipated journey. Finally, Phineas would get to see his island. He could barely sit still. At the top of each hill he’d ask, "Are we there yet? Can I see it from here?” His father would encourage him to be patient, and assured him that they were getting close. Finally, his dad pointed north beyond a meadow to a row of tall trees stretching into the sky. "There," he said. "There’s Ivy Island." Phineas was overcome with emotion. He jumped out of the wagon and sprinted through the meadow leaving his father and companion far behind. He raced to the row of trees into an opening from which Ivy Island was visible.

When he saw the land, however, he stopped. His heart sank. Ivy Island was five acres of snake-infested marshland. His grandfather had called it the most valuable land in Connecticut. But it was worthless. His father had told him it was a generous gift. But it wasn't. It was a joke; a cruel joke. And as a stunned Phineas stared, the father and the hired hand roared with laughter. Phineas was not the fortunate beneficiary of his immediate family; he was the laughingstock of his entire family. Grandfather Taylor had played a joke on his heir. But Phineas wasn’t laughing. And he never forgot. That disappointment shaped his life. He made a lifestyle out of deception. The little boy fooled made a career out of fooling others. You probably don't know him as Phineas. You know him as P.T. You don't know him as a landowner; you know him as a promoter. You know him as the one who coined the phrase, "There's a sucker born every minute." He spent his life proving it. Such was the life of P.T. Barnum.

And such is the life of many others who’ve been told they'd be taken to the “Promised Land,” only to find themselves taken to a swamp. The businessman who, a decade ago, had an income ten times what he has today. But that was before his industry slumped. That was before he went bankrupt. Or, the husband who cares more about his golf game than he cares about his wife. Maybe even the cute couple who had to file suit against their contractor who never finished the house of their dreams.

Is there anything wrong with these people? No, their desires are healthy. One wants a strong business; another a husband who'll honor his promise; or a family who wants a builder who'll keep his word. Who can fault them for their expectations? Who’d blame them for dreaming? Who’d have thought their dreams would be crushed? They certainly didn't. But now they’re faced with a decision. What do they do with their disillusionment? What do they do with their broken hearts? And we're not talking mere inconveniences or hassles. We're not talking about long lines, or red lights, or a bad game of golf. We're talking heart-break. We're talking about what two friends of Jesus were feeling a couple of days after his death. Their world had caved in on them. It's obvious by the way they walk. Their feet shuffle, their heads hang, their shoulders droop. The seven miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus must have felt like seventy. And as they walk, they talk "about everything that had happened." (John 24:14)

It's not hard to imagine their words. "Why did the people turn against him?" "He could have come down from the cross. Why didn't he?" "He just let Pilate push him around." "What do we do now?" And as they walk, a stranger comes up behind them. It’s Jesus, but they don't recognize him. Discouragement will do that to you. It will blind you to the very presence of God. Discouragement turns our eyes inward. God could be walking right next to us, but despair clouds our vision.

Despair does something else. It hardens our hearts. We get cynical. We get calloused. And when good news comes, we don’t accept it for fear of being disappointed again. That's what happened to these two disciples. Later on they say these words: “Yes, and as if that weren’t enough, it’s been three days since all this happened; and some of the women from our group have really disturbed us. They said they went to the tomb at dawn, and then when they couldn’t find his body they said that they had a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of our people ran out to see, and sure enough, his body was gone, just as the women had said!” (Luke 24:22-24)

When reading Scripture we can't always tell in what tone the words were actually spoken. Sometimes we don't know if the speaker meant to be happy or sad or peaceful. This time, however, there’s no question about what they're thinking: “As if it's not bad enough that Jesus was killed, now some grave robber has taken the body and duped our friends.” These two followers aren't about to believe the women. Cleopas and his friend are putting their hearts in a shell. They won't take another risk. They won't be hurt again.

Ever been hurt by love? Then don't love. Had your heart broken? Then don't give it away. Do like P. T. Barnum – settle the score by blaming the world and hardening your heart. However, there’s a fine line which, once crossed, can be fatal. It's the line between discouragement and anger. Between hurt and hate, between bitterness and blame. And if that line’s near, step back for a moment and ask yourself: “How long am I going to pay for my discouragement? How long am I going to nurse my hurt?”

At some point we have to move on. At some point we have to heal. At some point we have to let Jesus do for us what he did for these men. First, he came to them. He didn’t sit back and cross his arms and say, “Why can’t these two guys get with the program?” He didn’t complain to the angel and say, “Why won’t they believe the empty tomb? Why are they so hard to please?" Instead, he met them at their point of pain. Though death had been destroyed and sin annulled, Jesus hadn’t retired. The resurrected Lord had once again wrapped himself in flesh, put on human clothes and searched out hurting hearts.

See if you can find their hurt. “Jesus said to them, ‘What are you talking about?’ They said, ‘About Jesus of Nazareth. He was a prophet who said and did many powerful things before God and all the people. Our leaders and the leading priests handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him. But we were hoping that he would free Israel.’" (Luke 24:19-21) There it is. "But we were hoping . . . ." The disciples had hoped Jesus would free Israel. They had hoped he'd kick out the Romans. They'd hoped Pilate would be out and Jesus would be in. But Pilate was still in, and Jesus was dead.

Unfulfilled expectations. God didn't do what they wanted him to. They knew what they expected of Jesus. They knew what he was supposed to do. They didn't have to ask him. If Jesus is the Messiah, he won't sleep in my storm. He’ll never die. He won't defy tradition. He'll do what he’s supposed to do. But that's not what he did. And aren't we glad the prayer of Cleopas and his friend went unanswered? Aren't we glad God didn't adjust his agenda to fulfill the requests of these two disciples? They were good disciples. With good hearts. And sincere prayers. They just had the wrong expectations.

God knows more about life than we do. People wanted him to redeem Israel, but he knew better. He would rather his people be temporarily oppressed than eternally lost. When forced to choose between battling Pilate and battling Satan, he chose the battle we couldn't win. He said “No” to what they wanted and “Yes” to what they needed. He said “No” to a liberated Israel and “Yes” to a liberated humanity. And once again, aren't we glad he did? And aren't we glad he does? But let’s be honest. Are we glad he says “No” to what we want and “Yes” to what we need? Not always. If we ask for healing, and he says learn through the pain, we aren't happy. If we ask for more money, and he says treasure the unseen, we’re probably not doing any cartwheels.

When God doesn't do what we want, it's not easy. But faith is the conviction that God knows more than we do about this life and he will get us through it. Remember, discouragement is caused by unmet expectations. But discouragement can be cured by revising our expectations. It’s like the story about a guy who went to the pet store in search of a singing parakeet. The store owner had just the bird for him, so the man bought it. The next day he came home from work to a house full of music. He went to the cage to feed the bird and noticed for the first time that the parakeet had only one leg. He felt cheated that he'd been sold a one-legged bird, so he called to complain. "What do you want," the store owner responded, "a bird who can sing or a bird who can dance?"

Good question for times of discouragement. What do we want? That's what Jesus asks the disciples. What do you want? Do you want temporary freedom, or eternal freedom? Jesus sets about the task of restructuring their expectations, and he did it by telling them a story. But not just any story.

He told them the story of God and God's plan for his people. "Then starting with what Moses and all the prophets had said about him, Jesus began to explain everything that had been written about himself in the Scriptures." (v. 27) Interesting. Jesus' cure for the discouraged and broken-hearted was the story of God – beginning with Moses, and finishing with himself.

Why’d he do that? Why did he give them a history lesson? Why did he go all the way back two thousand years to the story of Moses? Maybe it’s because what they heard is what we all need to hear when we’re discouraged: we need to hear that God is still in control. We need to hear that it's not over until he says so. We need to hear that life's mishaps and tragedies are not a reason to bail out. They’re simply a reason to sit tight.

Corrie ten Boom used to say, "When the train goes through a tunnel and the world gets dark, do you jump out? Of course not. You sit still and trust the engineer to get you through." Why did Jesus tell the story? So we'd know that the engineer still controls the train. So how do we deal with discouragement? And what’s the cure for disappointment? Go back to the story. Read it again and remember that their story is yours.

For instance, is the challenge too great? Read the story because that's you crossing the Red Sea with Moses. Too many worries? Well, that's you receiving heavenly food with the Israelites. Are your wounds too deep? Read the story because that's you, Joseph, forgiving your brothers for betraying you. Your enemies too mighty? Picture yourself marching with Jehoshaphat into a battle you’ve already won. Is your discouragement too great? Read the story of the Emmaus-bound disciples. The Savior they thought was dead now walked right there beside them. He entered their house and sat at their table and ate with them. And something happened in their hearts. "It felt like a fire burning in us when Jesus talked to us on the road and explained the Scriptures to us." (v. 31)

So, the next time you're discouraged, don't panic. Don't jump out. Don't give up. Just be patient and let God remind you that he's still in control. Or as Yogi Berra would say, “It ain't over till it's over.”

Grace,

Randy

Prayers

^Prayers

So they brought the boy. But when the evil spirit saw Jesus, it threw the child into a violent convulsion, and he fell to the ground, writhing and foaming at the mouth. “How long has this been happening?” Jesus asked the boy’s father. He replied, “Since he was a little boy. The spirit often throws him into the fire or into water, trying to kill him. Have mercy on us and help us, if you can.” “What do you mean, ‘If I can’?” Jesus asked. “Anything is possible if a person believes.” The father instantly cried out, “I do believe, but help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:20-24)

Some people pray like a jet fighter – their words are smooth, sleek, high and mighty. Their prayers seem to reverberate in the clouds, sending sonic booms throughout the heavens. Others, like me, are more like a crop duster. We’re not flashy, we fly low, we cover the same ground over and over and, frankly, sometimes it’s a challenge just to crank up the engine. I think many of us are like that, and that most of our prayer lives could probably use a tune-up. For instance, some prayer lives lack consistency. They're either a desert or an oasis. Long, arid, dry spells interrupted by brief plunges into the waters of communion with God. We go for days or weeks without consistent prayer, but then something happens – we hear a sermon, read a book, experience a tragedy – something leads us to pray, so we dive in. We submerge ourselves in prayer and leave refreshed and renewed. But as the journey resumes, our prayers don't seem to travel so well.

Others need some sincerity. Their prayers are a little hollow, memorized and rigid. More liturgy than life. More form over substance. And though they’re daily, they’re dull. Still others lack, well...… honesty. We honestly wonder if prayer makes a difference because why on earth would God in heaven want to talk to me? I mean, if God knows everything, who am I to tell him anything? And if God’s in control, who am I to do anything?

If you, like me, struggle with your prayer life, I've got just the guy for you. You’ll like him. He's not a saint, or some knobby-kneed apostle. He’s not a prophet whose middle name is “Meditation,” or a too-holy-to-be-you reminder of how far you need to go in your prayer life. He's just the opposite, actually. He’s a fellow crop duster. He’s a parent with a sick son in desperate need of a miracle. And this guy’s prayer isn't much of a prayer, but the answer certainly is. And the result reminds us that the power is not in the prayer; it's in the one who hears it.

This dad prayed out of desperation. His son, his only son (Luke 9:38), was demon-possessed. Not only was he a deaf mute and an epileptic, he was also possessed by an evil spirit. And ever since the boy was young, the demon had thrown him in fires and water of any source. Imagine the pain of that father. Other dads watched their children grow and mature; he could only watch his child suffer. While others were teaching their sons an occupation, he was just trying to keep his son alive. What a challenge. And he couldn't leave his son alone for a minute because who knew when the next attack would come? The dad had to remain on call, on alert twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He was desperate and tired, and his prayer reflected both:"If you can do anything for him, please have pity on us and help us."

Listen to that prayer. Does that sound courageous to you? Confident? Strong? Hardly. One word would have made a lot of difference. Instead of “if,” what if he'd said “since”? "Since you can do anything for him, please have pity on us and help us." But that's not what he said. He said “If.” The Greek is even more emphatic. The Greek tense implies doubt. It's as if the man was saying, “This one's probably above your pay grade, Jesus, but if you can . . . ." A classic crop-duster approach. More meek than mighty. More timid than towering. More like a crippled lamb coming to a shepherd, than a proud lion roaring in the jungle. And if his prayer sounds like yours, then don't be discouraged because that's where prayer starts. It begins as a yearning. An honest appeal. Ordinary people staring at their personal Mount Everest. No pretense. No boasting. No posturing. Just prayer. Feeble prayer, but prayer nevertheless.

Sometimes we’re tempted to wait to pray until we know how to pray. Even the disciples asked Jesus how to pray. But we’ve heard the prayers of the spiritually mature, and we know we don’t measure up. Not by a long-shot. We've read of the rigors of the religiously disciplined, and we’re absolutely convinced that we've got a long way to go. And since we'd rather not pray than pray poorly, we just don't pray. Or, we pray infrequently. So, we just wait until we learn how to pray. Good thing this man didn't make that same mistake. He wasn't much of a prayer, mind you, and his prayer wasn't much of a prayer at all. The guy even admits it: "I do believe," he quickly responded, just "help me to believe more." (Mark 9:24) That kind of prayer certainly isn't destined for a worship manual. No Psalm will ever be written about that one. His was a simple prayer. In a word? “Help.” No incantation. No chant. No flowery language. Fewer than ten words. But Jesus responded. And he didn’t respond because of the eloquence of the man, but to his pain, instead. Now mind you, Jesus had a bunch of reasons why he could have simply ignored this man's feeble request.

For one thing, Jesus was just returning from the mountain, the Mount of Transfiguration. While there his face had changed and his clothes had become as bright as a flash of lightning. (Luke 9:29) A roaring radiance had poured out from him. The burdens of earth were replaced with the splendors of heaven. Moses and Elijah came, and angels encouraged the gathered. He was transfigured. And while the journey up that mountain was exhilarating, the journey down was downright disheartening.

For instance, look at the chaos that greets him as he returns. The disciples and the religious leaders are arguing. A crowd of bystanders is gawking. A boy, who has suffered his entire life, is on public display. And a father who'd come for help is despondent and confused as to why no one can do anything about it. No wonder Jesus says, "You people have no faith. How long must I stay with you? How long must I put up with you?" (v. 19) Never has the difference between heaven and earth been so stark. Never has the arena of prayer been so poor. Because where’s the faith in this picture? The disciples have failed, the scribes are amused, the demon is victorious, and the father is desperate. You'd be hard-pressed to find a needle of belief in that haystack. And maybe that’s true for you, too. Maybe you’re hard-pressed to find the needle in your own haystack of a life. Your world seems a long way from heaven: a noisy house with screaming kids instead of singing angels; problems so overwhelming that you can't even begin to remember the last time when you didn't wake up to those particular demons. And yet out of the din of doubt comes your timid voice, "If you can do anything for me . . . ."

But does that kind of prayer really make a difference? Well, let Mark answer that question. “When Jesus saw that a crowd was quickly gathering, he ordered the evil spirit, saying, ‘You spirit that makes people unable to hear or speak, I command you to come out of this boy and never enter him again.‘ The evil spirit screamed and caused the boy to fall on the ground again. Then the spirit came out. The boy looked as if he was dead, and many people said, ‘He is dead!’ But Jesus took hold of the boy’s hand and helped him to stand up.” (Mark 9:25-27) This troubled the disciples, because as soon as they got away from the crowds they asked Jesus, “Why couldn't we force that evil spirit out?" And Jesus’ answer? "That kind of spirit can only be forced out by prayer." But what prayer? What’s Jesus talking about? Whose prayer made the difference?

Was it the prayer of the apostles? No, they didn't pray. Jesus had just confirmed that. Well, maybe it was the prayers of the religious know-it-alls. Maybe they went to the temple and interceded for the boy. No. The scribes didn't pray either. Who has time to pray when you’re busy interpreting and enforcing God’s law? Well, then, it must have been the crowd. Perhaps they held a prayer vigil for the child. Nope. The people didn't pray, either. They never bent a knee. They were too busy gawking at the freak show. Then what prayer could possibly have led Jesus to deliver the demon? Well, there’s only one prayer in the story, right? It's the honest prayer of a hurting man. And since God is moved by our hurt rather than our eloquence, he responded. That's what fathers do.

That's exactly what Jim Redmond did. His son Derek, a twenty-six-year-old Briton, was favored to win the 400 meter race in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. With 120 meters to go in his semifinal heat, a fiery pain suddenly seared through Derek’s right leg. He crumpled to the track with a torn hamstring. As the medical attendants were approaching, Derek fought to his feet. He set out hopping and pushing away the coaches in a desperate attempt to finish the race. When he reached the final turn, a big man pushed through the crowd. He was wearing a t-shirt that read "Have you hugged your foot today?" and a hat that challenged anyone who cared to "Just Do It." The man was Jim Redmond, Derek’s father.

"You don't have to do this," he told his weeping son. "Yes, I do," Derek declared. "Well, then," Jim said, "we're going to finish this race together." And they did. Jim wrapped Derek's arm around his shoulder and helped him hobble to the finish line. Fighting off security men, and with his son’s head, at times, buried in his father's shoulder, they stayed in Derek’s lane to the very end. The crowd clapped, then stood, then cheered, and then wept as the father and son finished the race – together. So, what in the world made Jim do that? What made a dad leave the stands, race past security like a mad man, fend off coaches and then medical attendants just so that he could meet his son on the track in a race he had already lost? Was it the strength of his child? No, it was the pain of his child. His son was hurt and fighting just to finish the race. So the father came to help him finish. And God does the same.

Your prayers may be awkward. Your attempts may be feeble. Your words may be few. They may lack confidence, much less courage. But since the power of prayer is in the one who hears it and not in the one who says it, your prayers – my prayers – do make a difference.

Grace,

Randy

Prayers - Audio/Visual

Vengeance

Vengeance

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord. (Romans 12:17-19)

In 1882, a New York City businessman named Joseph Richardson owned a narrow strip of land on Lexington Avenue. It was 5 feet wide and 104 feet long. Another businessman, Hyman Sarner, owned the normal-sized lot adjacent to Richardson's little, skinny one, and wanted to build apartments that fronted Lexington Avenue. So, he offered Richardson $1,000.00 for his lot. Richardson was deeply offended by the amount and demanded $5,000.00. Sarner refused. Richardson then called Sarner a “tightwad,” and slammed the door in his face. Sarner assumed Richardson’s land would remain vacant, so he told his architect to design the apartment building so that the windows would overlook Lexington.

When Richardson saw the finished building, however, he was determined to block its view – no one was going to enjoy a “free” view over his lot. So, at age 70, Richardson built a house on his lot; it was 5’ wide, 104’ long and 4 stories high, with two suites on each floor. He also took advantage of a clause in the building code that allowed him to build bay window extensions on the building, which allowed him to extend its maximum width 2' 3" beyond the boundary of his lot. The bedrooms of the house were in these bay window extensions. Upon completion, he and his wife moved into one of the “suites.” Of course, only one person at a time could ascend the stairs, or pass through the hallway. The largest dining table in any suite was only 18” wide. The stoves were the very smallest made. A robust newspaper reporter once got stuck in the stairwell, and after two tenants were unsuccessful in pushing him free, he extricated himself by stripping down to his underwear. The building was dubbed the "Spite House," and Richardson spent the last fourteen years of his life in the narrow residence that seemed to fit his very narrow state of mind. It was eventually torn down in 1915.

Spite builds a very lonely house: space enough for only one person. The lives of its tenants are reduced to one goal: making someone miserable. And they do – themselves. No wonder God insists that we "keep a sharp eye out for weeds of bitter discontent. A thistle or two gone to seed can ruin a whole garden in no time." (Heb. 12:15) God’s healing, on the other hand, moves us out of the spite house – away from the cramped world of grudges – toward his spacious ways of grace and forgiveness. He moves us forward by healing our past. But can he really do that with you, or me? With my mess? This history of sexual abuse? This raw anger at the father who left my mother? This seething disgust I feel every time I think of the person who treated me like yesterday's garbage? Can God really heal this ancient hurt in my heart? The Old Testament character of Joseph asked those very same questions.

Truth is you never outlive the memory of ten brothers giving you the heave-ho. They walked away and never came back. So Joseph gave them a taste of their own medicine. When he saw them in the breadline, he snapped at them, accused them of being spies and threw them in jail. Ah, revenge. And isn't it just a little comforting to know that Joseph was actually human? The guy was so good it hurt. Joseph endured slavery, succeeded in a foreign land, mastered a new language, and resisted sexual seductions. He was the model prisoner and the perfect counselor to the king. We expect him to levitate, or when he saw his brothers say, "Father, forgive them, for they knew not what they did." (Luke 23:34) But he didn't. He didn't because forgiving jerks is hard to do. We’ll feed the poor and counsel the king. We'll even memorize the book of Numbers if God says to. But . . . "Don't let the sun go down while you are still angry" (Eph. 4:26)? "Let all bitterness, wrath, anger, clamor, and evil speaking be put away from you, with all malice." (Eph. 4:31)? "As Christ forgave you, so you also must do." (Col. 3:13)? Really?

The truth is that God cares about justice even more than we do. Paul admonished the church in Rome to "Never pay back evil for evil . . . never avenge yourselves. Leave that to God, for he has said that he will repay those who deserve it." (Rom. 12:17; 19) Our problem is that we fear the evildoer will slip into the night, unknown and unpunished. But don’t worry. Scripture says, "God will repay," not "might repay." God will execute justice on behalf of truth and fairness. Case in point? Consider the most surprising turnaround in the Joseph story.

After three days Joseph released all but one brother from jail. They returned to Canaan to report to Jacob, their father, who was then but a shadow of himself. The brothers told him how Simeon was kept in Egypt as assurance that they would return with Benjamin, their youngest brother. Jacob had nothing to say except, “You’ve taken my children from me. Joseph’s gone. Simeon’s gone. And now you are taking Benjamin. All this can’t really be happening to me!” (Gen. 42:36) Such a louse. Jacob played favorites, refused to discipline, had multiple wives, and upon hearing of the imprisonment of his son, had a pity party. What a prima donna. No wonder the family was screwed up. But as we read further, a light breaks through. Judah, who once wanted to get rid of Joseph, steps forward: "Send the boy with me, and we will be on our way. Otherwise we will all die of starvation — and not only we, but you and our little ones. I personally guarantee his safety. You may hold me responsible if I don’t bring him back to you. Then let me bear the blame forever. If we hadn’t wasted all this time, we could have gone and returned twice by now." (43:8-9) Is this the same Judah? The same man who said, "Let’s sell him to the Ishmaelites" (37:27)? The same brother who helped negotiate the slave trade? Well, yes . . . and no.

Judah, as it turns out, had had his own descent into the pit. After Joseph's abduction, Judah went on to have three sons. He arranged for the eldest to marry a girl named Tamar. But the son died. So, following the proper protocol of his day, Judah arranged for his second son to marry Tamar. But the son didn't manage the situation well and he died, too. Judah, by now, assumed that Tamar was somehow jinxed, and afraid that his third son would meet the same fate as his older brothers, put the marital matter on hold, leaving Tamar with no husband. Sometime later, Judah's wife died, too.

One day, Tamar heard that Judah was coming into town. Apparently, she hadn't been able to get Judah to reply to her texts, so she got creative. She disguised herself as a prostitute and made him an offer. Judah took the bait, and exchanged his ring and walking stick for sex, totally unaware that he was sleeping with his daughter-in-law. As “luck” would have it, she conceived, and three months later she reappeared in Judah's life as Tamar – pregnant Tamar. Judah went all high and mighty on her and demanded that she be burned. That’s when she produced Judah’s ring and walking stick, and Judah realized the child was his. He was caught in his own sin, disgraced in front of his own family.

Things had come full circle. Judah, who had deceived Jacob, was deceived. Judah, who had trapped Joseph, was trapped. Judah, who had helped humiliate Joseph, was humiliated. God gave Judah his comeuppance, and Judah came to his senses. “She has been more righteous than I,” he later declared. (Gen. 38:26)

For years I wondered why Judah’s exploits were included in the Joseph narrative because they interrupt everything. We just get started in chapter 37 with the dreams and drama of Joseph, when the narrator dedicates chapter 38 to the story of Judah, the hustler, and Tamar, the escort. Two dead husbands. One clever widow. An odd, poorly placed story, I thought. But now I see how it fits. Because for anything good to happen to Jacob’s family, someone in the clan had to grow up. And if it wasn’t going to be their dad, then one of the boys had to mature to the point where he took responsibility for his actions. God activated that change in Judah. He gave the guy a taste of his own medicine, and the medicine worked. Judah championed the family cause. He spoke sense into his father's head. He was willing to take responsibility for Benjamin's safety and bear the blame if he failed. Judah got his wake-up call, and Joseph didn't have to lift a finger or swing a fist.

Vengeance is God's. He will repay – whether ultimately on the Day of Judgment, or intermediately in this life. The point of the story is that God handles all the Judah’s of the world. He can discipline your abusive boss, or soften your angry parent. He can bring your ex to his knees or her senses. Forgiveness doesn't diminish justice; it just entrusts it to God. He guarantees the right retribution. We give too much, or too little. But the God of justice has the precise prescription. Unlike us, God never gives up on a person. Never. Long after we’ve moved on, God is still there, probing the conscience, stirring conviction, always orchestrating redemption. Fix your enemies? That's God's job. Forgive your enemies? Ah, that's where you and I come in. We forgive. "Do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity." (Eph. 4:26-27)

The word translated “opportunity” is the Greek word topos, the same term from which we get the English noun, “topography.” It means territory or ground. Interesting. Anger gives ground to the devil. Bitterness invites him to occupy a space in your heart, like renting a room. And he will. Gossip, slander, temper – anytime you see these things, Satan’s claimed a bunk. So what do we do? Evict him. Don't give him the time of day. Begin the process of forgiveness. Keep no list of wrongs. Pray for your antagonists rather than plot against them. Hate the wrong without hating wrongdoers. Turn your attention away from what they did to you, and concentrate on what Jesus did for you. Outrageous as it may seem, Jesus died for them, too. And if he thinks they’re worth forgiving, they are.

Does that make forgiveness easy? No. Quick? Seldom. Painless? Hardly. And it wasn't for Joseph, either. The brothers returned to Egypt from Canaan, Benjamin in tow. Joseph invited them to a dinner. He asked about Jacob, spotted Benjamin, and all but came undone. "God be gracious to you, my son," he blurted out before he hurried from the room to ball his eyes out. (Gen. 43:29) Eventually, he returned to eat and drink and share pleasantries with the brothers. Joseph even sat them according to birth order, oldest to youngest. He singled out Benjamin for special treatment – every time the brothers got one helping, Benjamin got five. The brothers noticed this, but said nothing. Later, Joseph loaded their sacks with food and hid his personal cup in the sack of Benjamin.

The brothers were barely down the road when Joseph's steward stopped their caravan, searched their sacks, and found the cup. The brothers tore their clothes (the ancient equivalent of tearing their hair out) and soon found themselves back in front of Joseph, fearing for their lives. Why did Joseph do that? Well, apparently, Joseph couldn't make up his mind. He welcomed them, wept over them, ate with them, and then pranked them. He was at war with himself. These brothers had peeled the scab off his oldest and deepest wound, and he wasn’t about to let them do it again. On the other hand, these were his brothers, and he wasn’t going to lose them again, either.

Forgiveness vacillates like that. It has fits and starts; good days and bad. Anger intermingled with love. Call it irregular mercy. We make progress only to make a wrong turn. Step forward and then fall back. But that’s okay. When it comes to forgiveness, all of us are amateurs. No one owns a secret formula. And as long as you are trying to forgive, you are forgiving. It's when you no longer try that bitterness sets in and Satan takes up shop. So, try spending less time in the spite house and more time in the grace house. Having walked the hallways of both, I can tell you that the space of grace is preferred over getting stuck in your underwear in a narrow hallway called “vengeance.”

Grace,

Randy

Vengeance - Audio/Visual

Crazy

Crazy
Crazy - Audio/Visual

Jesus and his followers went to the other side of the lake to the area of the Gerasene people. When Jesus got out of the boat, instantly a man with an evil spirit came to him from the burial caves. This man lived in the caves, and no one could tie him up, not even with a chain. Many times people had used chains to tie the man's hands and feet, but he always broke them off. No one was strong enough to control him. Day and night he would wander around the burial caves and on the hills, screaming and cutting himself with stones. (Mark 5:1-5)

Here’s a trivia question: Who was the first missionary Jesus ever sent? Someone well trained, perhaps? You know, someone who had an intimate relationship with Christ; a devoted follower; a close disciple; a thorough knowledge of Scripture and sacrifice. Right? Wrong. Here’s a hint: to find this guy, you don't have to go to the Great Commission. He’s not even on the short list of apostles, or one of the seventy-two disciples sent out by Jesus. The epistles, then? No. Long before Paul picked up a pen, this preacher was already at work. Okay, so where did Jesus go to find his first missionary? A cemetery. And who was the first ambassador he commissioned? A raging lunatic. The man Jesus sent out was a madman turned missionary.

“When Jesus got out of the boat, instantly a man with an evil spirit came to him from the burial caves. This man lived in the caves, and no one could tie him up, not even with a chain. Many times people had used chains to tie the man's hands and feet, but he always broke them off. No one was strong enough to control him. Day and night he would wander around the burial caves and on the hills, screaming and cutting himself with stones.” (Mark 5:2-5)

He's the man your mother told you to avoid. He's the guy police put away on a §5150 hold. He's the deranged lunatic who stalks neighborhoods and murders families. His fearsome face and behavior fills television screens nationwide during the nightly news. And this guy is the first missionary of the church. Terrific. Palestine didn't know what to do with him. They tried to restrain him, but he broke the chains. He ripped off his clothes. He lived in caves. He cut himself with rocks. He was a rabid dog on the loose, a menace to society. He was absolutely no good to anyone. No one had a place for him. Well, no one except Jesus, that is.

By today’s standards, the best that modern medicine could offer a guy like that would be a ton of psychotropic meds, and years of psychotherapy. And maybe, with time, thousands of dollars and a legion of professionals, his destructive behaviors could be kept in check. But that would take years, and there’d be no guarantee of success. With Jesus, it took seconds and the man was permanently healed.

The encounter at the lakeshore was probably pretty explosive. The disciples' boat had just beached by a graveyard and a nearby herd of pigs. The disciples are exhausted from the previous nights’ events – when they’d almost lost their lives until Jesus calmed the storm on the Sea of Galilee. Now, they’re in Gentile country where graveyards and pigs are ritually and culturally unclean for Jews.

So you can imagine their astonishment when they’re met by a crazy man sprinting toward them from the graveyard. Wild hair; bloody wrists; arms flailing and voice screaming; naked bedlam. The apostles gawk, then they gulp, and then they put one foot back into the boat. They’re horrified. But Jesus isn't. And the next few verses provide a glimpse into unseen warfare where, for just a moment, the invisible conflict becomes visible, and we, along with the disciples, are offered a position overlooking the battlefield.

Jesus speaks first: "You evil spirit, come out of the man." (v. 8) The spirit panics: "What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?" (v. 7) Jesus wants the man back, of course. And the demons muster absolutely no challenge whatsoever. They don’t even offer a threat. They've heard this voice before, and when God demands, the demons have only one response: they plead. So, they "begged Jesus again and again not to send them out of that area." (v. 10) Jesus' mere appearance humbled the demons. Though they had dominated this man, they cower before God. Though they had laced an entire region with fear, they now beg for mercy. Jesus’ words reduce them to sniveling, groveling weaklings. So, feeling safer in a herd of pigs than in the presence of God, the demons ask to be sent into the swine. Jesus consents and two thousand demon-possessed pigs hurl themselves into the sea and drown. All the while the disciples do absolutely nothing. While Jesus fights, the followers stare because they don't know what else to do. Can you relate? Do you watch a world out of control and don't know what to do? If so, do what the disciples did: when the fighting gets fierce, stand back and let the Father fight. Here’s what I mean.

In 1963, my father and I were in the back of an ambulance racing the two of us, including my unconscious mother, to the hospital. We’d just been involved in a head-on collision with a VW Bug driven by a woman who’d crossed over a double-yellow line as she turned to hand her kids some McDonald’s hamburgers over the back seat. We were driving in my parents brand new car: a sea-foam green, Ford Falcon. One minute I was coloring Lassie with a silver crayon; the next I was slammed into the back of the front seat so hard that it broke my arm. Mom and Dad weren’t quite as lucky. Mom was unconscious with a broken jaw, and Dad, among other injuries, had a huge gash in his shin.

Aside from a 5 year-old’s excitement riding in the back of an ambulance racing through red lights, I kept asking my Dad if Mom was alright. But as the seconds passed into minutes, the excitement of going through red lights with sirens blaring was wearing off. It was beginning to dawn on me that Mom was more than just asleep, and that Dad was struggling to remain calm while wrestling with his pain and the safety of his wife and kindergartner. I was beginning to wonder if we were going to make it.

So there’s my Dad – one hand on his wife and the other clutching his leg which had blown up to gargantuan proportions. I was in front looking back. Toward him. Tears are starting to fall. The race against time seems to worsen as the sirens scream. I’m headed to a location I’ve never been, experiencing a degree of pain I’d never felt, talking with my Dad whose voice doesn’t sound the same, and a mother who’s not talking at all. I grab both sides of the railing and hang on. For dear life. Where’s that hospital? It's buried by a blur of traffic. So, I look for my coloring book . . . . Oh, it’s still in the smoldering Falcon. I look for something familiar and all I see is paramedic stuff. Everything I see frightens me. There’s only one reassuring sight – the face of my father.

Pain-wrecked and grimacing, he looks ahead with a steely stare. His shirt is stuck to his skin, and his hands are stuck to his wife. And right then I made a decision. I quit looking at the stop lights, the traffic, the medical supplies, my mother’s unconscious face, and just watched my father. It just made sense. Watching everything around me brought fear; watching my father brought calm. So I focused on Dad. So intent was my gaze that almost six decades later I can still see him and hear him say, “It’ll be alright, Tiger; Mom’s going to be okay.”

God wants us to do the same. He wants us to focus our eyes on him. What good does it do to focus on the storm? Why study the enemy? We won't defeat him. Only God will. The disciples can't destroy Satan; only God can. And that's what Jesus did. As the stunned disciples look on, Jesus goes into action and God delivers a lunatic. Pigs are embodied by demons. And a disciple is made in a cemetery.

Crazy story? Hardly. You haven’t heard the half of it yet. Because if you think the reaction of the demons is bizarre, just look at the response of the people who’d come to see the train wreck in the graveyard: “The herdsmen ran away and went to the town and to the countryside, telling everyone about this. So people went out to see what had happened. They came to Jesus and saw the man who used to have the many evil spirits, sitting, clothed, and in his right mind. And they were frightened. The people who saw this told the others what had happened to the man who had the demons living in him, and they told about the pigs. Then the people began to beg Jesus to leave their area.” (Mark 5:15-17)

They did what? “The people began to beg Jesus to leave the area.” You mean the people asked Jesus to leave? Correct. Rather than thank him, they dismissed him. What would cause the people to do that? Good question. What would cause people to prefer pigs and lunatics over the presence of God? Better yet, what would cause an addict to prefer stupor over sobriety? What would cause a church to prefer slumber over revival? What would cause a nation to prefer slavery over freedom? What would cause people to prefer yesterday's traditions over today's living God? The answer? Fear. Fear of change.

Change is hard work. It's easier to follow the same old path than to move out into uncharted territory. And here it appears that the herdsmen didn’t know what had happened to the lunatic; they only knew that their pigs tried to sprout wings and fly into a lake. All 2,000 of them. Frightened, they go into town and tell others who then, in turn, rush to the scene and see the crazy man they’d heard about now seated, clothed and perfectly sane. They’re confused. So, they share their story with the shepherds and, collectively, the townspeople conclude that what’s just happened is sheer madness. Insanity. As a result, the people beg Jesus to leave because, apparently, he’s the crazy one. And since Jesus never goes where he isn't invited, he steps back into the boat. But then watch what happens.

“As Jesus was getting back into the boat, the man who was freed from the demons begged to go with him. But Jesus would not let him.” (Mark 5:18) Kind of a strange way to treat a new believer, don't you think? Why wouldn't Jesus take him along? Simple. He had greater plans for him. "Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you and how he has had mercy on you." (v. 19) And there it is. The commissioning of the first missionary. One minute insane, the next in Christ. No training. No teaching. No nothing. All he knew was that Jesus could scare the hell out of hell and apparently that was enough.

But even more surprising than the man who was sent is the fact that anyone was sent at all. I mean, I wouldn't have sent a missionary to a bunch of people who’d just given me the bum’s rush out of town. Would you? A plague maybe, but not a missionary. But Jesus did, and the instructions to that first missionary were pretty simple: “Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you and how he has had mercy on you.”

Jesus still sends the message to the unworthy. And he still uses the unworthy as messengers. So, be a missionary. Tell your story to people you know. It’s not that crazy.

Grace,

Randy

Judgment Day

Judgment Day
Judgment Day - Audio/Visual

Dear friends, since God loved us that much, we surely ought to love each other. No one has ever seen God. But if we love each other, God lives in us, and his love is brought to full expression in us. ¶ And God has given us his Spirit as proof that we live in him and he in us. Furthermore, we have seen with our own eyes and now testify that the Father sent his Son to be the Savior of the world. All who declare that Jesus is the Son of God have God living in them, and they live in God. We know how much God loves us, and we have put our trust in his love. ¶ God is love, and all who live in love live in God, and God lives in them. And as we live in God, our love grows more perfect. So we will not be afraid on the day of judgment, but we can face him with confidence because we live like Jesus here in this world. ¶ Such love has no fear, because perfect love expels all fear. If we are afraid, it is for fear of punishment, and this shows that we have not fully experienced his perfect love. We love each other because he loved us first. (1 Jn. 4:11-19)

Your mouth is dry. Your palms are sweaty. Your pulse races like the Indy 500. Your eyes dart over your shoulder, and your heart’s in your throat. You probably know the feeling. You’ve probably experienced the moment because, if you’re like me, you know exactly what it feels like to see the flashing lights of the highway patrol cruiser in your rearview mirror.

Your prayer life immediately spikes: "Oh, Lord," or "God, help me," or "Jesus, have mercy on me a sinner." Highway patrolmen have probably stirred more prayers than a thousand sermons. And at that time, our requests are unanimous, predictable and selfish. "Please, God, let there be a little fender-bender down the road where nobody’s hurt." Or, "See the kid driving that red corvette, God? Send the officer after him." But he doesn't. Your back window fills with red, white and blue strobes and you’re not feeling very patriotic at the moment. And as you pull to the side of the road, upward prayers become backward thoughts: “What did I do?” or, “How fast was I going?” or, “How could I have been so stupid?”

Then, Arnold Schwarzenegger fills your side mirror, and you don’t dare open your door because the second you do, the officer’s hand will Marshal Dillon its way to his holster and he'll say, "Keep your hands where I can see them, please." Your best option at this point is to return to prayer because only God can help you now. We dread those moments, don’t we? Remember when the teacher took you outside the classroom, or when your dad heard you climbing in the bedroom window past midnight?

We have a phrase for such moments: Judgment Day. The evidence is in, the truth is out, and the patrolman’s at your door. No one likes the thought of judgment, and the Ephesian Christians didn't, either. They feared the judgment – not the highway patrolman, but God. Because knowing that God sees all sin, and knowing he hates all sin, and knowing he must hate what he sees – which is not a very comforting thought – they were afraid. So John comforted them. He dipped the quill of his pen into the inkwell of God's love and wrote, “As we live in God, our love grows more perfect. So we will not be afraid on the day of judgment, but we can face him with confidence because we are like Christ here in this world. Such love has no fear because perfect love expels all fear. If we are afraid, it is for fear of judgment, and this shows that his love has not been perfected in us.” (1 John 4:17-18, emphasis mine)

"Perfect love expels all fear." Couldn't you use some fear expulsion? We can all probably relate to a story about Louis Armstrong. The famous trumpeter, and singer of What a Wonderful World, grew up in rural Louisiana in the early 1900’s. When he was a young boy, his Aunt Haddie often sent him to the creek for water. On one occasion, as he leaned over to fill his bucket, an alligator scared little Louie so badly that he dropped the pail and ran back to the house. His aunt told him to go back and get the water, anyway. "That alligator," she assured her nephew, "is just as scared of you as you are of it." "If that's the case," Louie answered, "then that creek water ain't fit to drink."

Alligators lurk in our creeks, too. And when we see them, we react. We fear rejection, so we follow the crowd. We fear not fitting in, so we take the drugs. For fear of standing out, we wear what everyone else wears. And for fear of blending in, we wear what no one else wears. For fear of sleeping alone, we sleep with anyone. For fear of not being loved, we search for love in all the wrong places. But God flushes those fears. Those saturated in God's love don't sell out to win the love of others. They don't even sell out to win the love of God. But do you think you need to? You know, win God’s love?

For instance, do you think, “If I cuss less, pray more, drink less, study more . . . if I try harder, God will love me more?”If so then sniff and smell Satan's stench behind those words. We all need improvement, but we don't need to woo God's love. We change because we already have God's love. God's “perfect” love. Perfect love is just that – perfect. A perfect knowledge of the past and a perfect vision of the future. In other words, you cannot shock God with your actions. There will never come a day when you cause him to say, "Wow, I didn’t see that coming." Never will he turn to his angels and complain, "Had I known Randy was going to do that, I wouldn't have saved his soul." God knows your entire story, from your first word to your final breath, and with clear assessment declares, "You are mine."

What you do may stun you, but not God. With perfect knowledge of your imperfect life, God signed on. Some time ago, I read about a woman who had tasted a form of that kind of love. Brain surgery had left her without the use of a facial nerve. As a result, she faced the world with a crooked smile. Then, after the operation, she met the love of her life. Here's how she described him: "He sees nothing strange or ugly about me and has never, even in anger, made a joke about my appearance. He has never seen me any other way. When I look in the mirror, I see deformity, but my husband sees beauty."

See what perfect love does? It drives out the fear of judgment. In fact, it purges the fear of the day of judgment. As John wrote, "So we will not be afraid on the day of judgment, but we can face him with confidence because we are like Christ here in this world." (v. 17) And on that topic, John makes no apology and pulls no punches. The day of judgment is not a phrase in a fiction novel, but a day circled on heaven's calendar. Of the twenty-seven New Testament books, only the postcard-sized epistles of Philemon and Third John fail to reference our divine court appearance. While the details of the day are unrevealed to us and debated by many, we know this: the day is coming. On that day, earthly wealth will not matter. Physical beauty won't be a factor. Fame will be forgotten. You might be positioned next to Napoleon or Julius Caesar, but you won't be asking any questions about Waterloo or Brutus. All eyes will be on Jesus Christ.

And those who ignored him have a legitimate reason to fear. "Then He will also say to those on His left, 'Depart from Me, accursed ones, into the eternal fire which has been prepared for the devil and his angels.'" (Matt. 25:41) But those who’ve accepted him have nothing to fear whatsoever. "We can face him with confidence because we are like Christ here in this world." (1 John 4:17)

Think about that statement. God views Christians the way he views Christ: sinless and perfect. Hence, Christians can view judgment the way Christ does: with confidence and hope. Does Jesus fear the judgment? No. A sinless soul needn't. Does Jesus fear death? No. The giver of life wouldn't. Should the Christian fear judgment or death? Not at all. "Our standing in the world is identical with Christ's." (v. 17) The Son of God stands next to you doing what the son of Robert Pape, Sr. did for me.

Robert Pape, Sr. was a square-jawed, rawboned man with a neck by Rawlings. In Bellflower, where I grew up, everyone knew him. Mr. Pape’s son, Rob, and I were best friends in high school, and we played football together. One Friday night after an out-of-town game, Rob invited me to stay at his house. By the time we reached his home, the hour was way past midnight, and Rob hadn't told his dad he was bringing anyone home. Mr. Pape didn't know me or my vehicle, so when I stepped out of the car in front of his house, he turned on a floodlight and aimed it right at my face.

Through the glare I saw this block of a man, and I heard his deep voice say, "Who are you?" I gulped. My mind moved at the speed of cold honey. I started to say my name but I couldn’t. My only hope was that Rob would speak up. And a glacier could have melted before he did, but Rob finally interceded. "It's okay, Dad. That's my friend, Randy. He's with me." The light went off, and Mr. Pape threw open the door. "Come on in, boys. Mom’s got food for you in the kitchen." Now, what changed? What made Mr. Pape turn the floodlight off? One fact. I had aligned myself with his son. My sudden safety had nothing to do with my accomplishments or offerings. I knew his son. Period.

For the same reason, you need never fear God's judgment. Not today. Not on Judgment Day. Jesus, in the light of God's glory, is speaking on your behalf. "That's my friend," he says. And when he does, the door of heaven flies open to a banquet that’s been prepared for your arrival. So, trust God's love. His perfect love. Don't fear he’ll discover your past. He already has. And don't fear disappointing him in the future because he can show you the book, chapter and verse where you will. With perfect knowledge of the past, and perfect vision of the future, he loves you perfectly – in spite of both.

Perfect love can handle your fear of judgment – and driving the speed limit can probably handle your fear of the highway patrol.

Grace,

Randy

Untouchable

Untouchable
Untouchable - Audio/Visual

A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse. She had heard about Jesus, so she came up behind him through the crowd and touched his robe. For she thought to herself, “If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed.” Immediately the bleeding stopped, and she could feel in her body that she had been healed of her terrible condition.

Jesus realized at once that healing power had gone out from him, so he turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my robe?”

His disciples said to him, “Look at this crowd pressing around you. How can you ask, ‘Who touched me?’”

But he kept on looking around to see who had done it. Then the frightened woman, trembling at the realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:25-34)

To see her hand you need to look down. Way down. Down low. That's where she lives. Low to the ground. Low on the priority list. Low on the pecking order. She's low. Very low. Can you see it? Her hand? It’s gnarled. Thin. Diseased. Dirt blackens the nails and stains her skin. Look carefully among the knees and the feet of the crowd. They’re scampering after Christ. He walks. She crawls. People bump her, but that doesn’t stop her. Others complain. She doesn’t care. The woman is desperate. Blood won't stay in her body. “A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding.” (Mark 5:25) Twelve years of clinics. Treatments. Herbs. Prayer meetings. Incantations. You name it, she’d tried it.

“She had suffered a great deal from many doctors.” (v. 26) Do you smell quackery in those words? Maybe. This is Mark’s account, not Luke’s – and Luke’s the doctor. Luke simply states that the woman “…could find no cure.” (Luke 8:43) Apparently “suffering” and “many doctors” didn’t suit Luke’s notion of the Hippocratic oath, or maybe he was just helping his colleagues avoid a malpractice lawsuit. According to Mark, however, doctors had done nothing to heal the disease, but had taken great pains to remove her wallet in the process. She "had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse.” (v. 26)

No health. No money. No family. “Unclean,” according to the Law of Moses. The Law protected women from aggressive, insensitive men during those times of the month. But in this woman's case, the application of the Law had left her not just untouched, but untouchable; ceremonially unclean. The hand you see in the crowd? The one reaching for the robe? No one will touch it.

That wasn't always the case, was it? Surely a husband once took it in marriage. The hand looked different in those days: clean, soft-skinned, and perfumed. A husband once loved this hand. And a family once relied on this hand. To cook and sew. To wipe tears from cheeks, and tuck blankets under chins. Are the hands of a mother ever still? Only if she’s diseased.

Maybe the husband tried to stay with her, taking her to doctors and treatment centers. Or maybe he simply gave up, overwhelmed by her naps, nausea and anemia. So he put her out. A change of clothes and a handful of change – that’s it. Simply closed the door.

She has nothing. No money. No home. No health. Dilapidated dreams. Deflated faith. Unwelcome in the synagogue. Unwanted by her community. For twelve years she’s suffered. She has nothing, and her health is getting worse.

Maybe that's what did it. She “had gotten worse.” (v. 26) Maybe this morning she could scarcely stand. Perhaps she had splashed water on her face and was horrified by the skeletal image she saw in the pool’s reflection. What you and I see in Auschwitz photos, she likely saw in her reflection – gaunt cheeks, tired and taut skin, and two full-moon eyes. She’s desperate for a miracle. And her desperation births an idea.

"She had heard about Jesus." (v. 27) Every society has a grapevine, even the society of the sick. Word among the lepers and the left out was that Jesus could heal. And Jesus was coming. By invitation of the synagogue ruler, Jesus was coming to Capernaum. Odd to find the ruler of the synagogue and the woman in the same story. He’s powerful. She’s pitiful. He’s in demand. She’s insignificant. He’s high. She’s low. But his daughter is dying. She’s twelve – the same number of years with which the woman in this story has been untouchable. Tragedy has a way of leveling the social topography. So the woman and the synagogue ruler find themselves on the same path in the village, and on the same page in the Bible.

As the crowd comes, she thinks, "If I can just touch his robe, I will be healed." (v. 28) Then, at just the right time, she crab-scurries through the crowd. Knees bump her ribs. "Move out of the way," someone shouts. She doesn't care; she’s not going to stop. Twelve years on the streets have toughened her. Jesus' robe is in sight. Four tassels dangle from blue threads. Ornaments of holiness worn by Jewish men. How long has it been since she’s touched anything holy? She extends her hand toward a tassel. Her sick hand. Her tired hand. The hand the husband no longer wants, and the family no longer needs. She touches the robe of Jesus, and "immediately the bleeding stopped, and she could feel in her body that she had been healed of her terrible condition." (v. 29)

Life rushes in. Pale cheeks turn pink. Shallow breaths become full. There are cracks in the Hoover Dam of her fragile health, and a river floods her soul. The woman feels power enter. And Jesus? Jesus feels power exit. "Jesus realized at once that healing power had gone out from him, so he turned around in the crowd and asked, 'Who touched my robe?'" (v. 30)

Did Jesus surprise even Jesus? Has Christ the divine moved faster than Jesus the human? The Savior out-stepped the neighbor? "Who touched my robe?" You can’t steal a miracle from God.

His disciples are incredulous. "'Look at this crowd pressing around you. How can you ask, "Who touched me?"' But he kept on looking around to see who had done it." (vv. 31-32)

Can we fault this woman's timidity? She doesn't know what to expect. Jesus could berate her, or embarrass her. Besides, he was her last choice. She sought the help of a dozen others before she sought his. And the people – what will they do? What will the ruler of the synagogue do? He’s upright. She’s untouchable. And here she is, lunging at the town guest. No wonder she’s afraid.

But she has one reason to have courage. She’s healed. "The woman, knowing what had happened, knowing she was the one, stepped up in fear and trembling, knelt before him, and gave him the whole story." (v. 33 MSG)

"The whole story." How long had it been since someone put the gear of life in Park, turned off the engine, and listened to her story? But when this woman reaches out to Jesus, that’s exactly what he does. With the town bishop waiting, a young girl dying, and a crowd pressing, he still makes time for a woman from the fringe. And using a term he gives to no one else, he says, "Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over." (v. 34) And then Christ moves on. But not before acknowledging the results of the woman’s faith.

And she moves on, too. But not before acknowledging the object of her faith. Maybe the Hebrew writer had her in mind when he wrote that “Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see.” (Heb. 11:1)

But sometimes we can't. We can’t move on. We can't because we've been there. Are there. We’ve been her. Are her. Desperate. Dirty. Drained. Untouchable.

Illness took her strength. And what’s taken yours? Red ink? Hard drink? Late nights in the wrong arms? Long days in the wrong job? Pregnant too soon? Too often? Is her hand your hand? If so, take heart. Your family may shun it. Society may avoid it. But Jesus? He wants to touch it. When your hand reaches through the masses, he knows.

You’re not untouchable; yours is the hand he made. And yours is the hand he loves to hold.

Grace,

Randy

Don't Leave

Don’t Leave
Don't Leave - Audio/Visual

Then the eleven disciples left for Galilee, going to the mountain where Jesus had told them to go. When they saw him, they worshiped him — but some of them still doubted. (Matt. 28:16-17)

Apparently, three years of miracles weren't enough. Neither were forty days at the Resurrection Retreat Center. They'd seen him empty tombs and dictate weather patterns, but some of them still doubted. Really? Who knew him better than they did? Just ask them a Christ question. Did he hum as he walked? Did he pray before he ate? Did he talk to storms in his sleep? And, if he did, did the storms listen? They knew. They knew the person of Christ. And they knew the passion of their Master.

John probably winced as the hammer clanged. Mary wept as her son groaned. Close enough to be splattered by his blood, they knew his passion. When it came time to prepare the body for burial, they did. And when it came time to see the empty tomb, they did that, too. Peter ran a finger down the stone slab. Thomas studied Christ's pierced hands like a palm reader. And for forty days Jesus taught them. Can you imagine a six-week seminar with the mind behind the universe? Hand trained by Christ. Witnesses to the most critical moments in history. These folks were ready, weren’t they? Apparently not. Why? Because "some of them still doubted."

Questions surrounding the disciples kept buzzing like the summer flies in Ramona. Even after a thousand campfire conversations and a scrapbook full of jaw-dropping moments, some disciples resisted. “I'm still not sure.” So, what’s Jesus to do? What will he do with the doubters? We'd like to know, wouldn't we? We'd really like to know the answer to that question because that word, “still,” stalks our sentences, too. "I still worry." "I still gossip." "Permafrost still chills my marriage." "I'm still torn between the AA meeting and the corner bar." "I still clench my teeth every time I get a text from that ex-boyfriend of mine." The truth is that we find odd comfort in the lingering doubts of the disciples. That’s probably because we still have our own. And so we wonder, “Does Christ have a word for those of us who are at a standstill of doubt?” Yes, he does, and Jesus’ instruction might surprise you.

What he told them then, Jesus tells us today. “And when they came together, he gave them this order: ‘Do not leave Jerusalem, but wait for the gift I told you about, the gift my Father promised.” (Acts 1:4) Jesus’ word to the doubting disciples? "Don’t leave." Before you go out, stand still. Prior to stepping out, sit down. "Don’t leave the city until the Holy Spirit comes and fills you with power from heaven." (Luke 24:49) So they do. "They went to the upstairs room of the house where they were staying . . . . They all met together continually for prayer, along with Mary the mother of Jesus, several other women, and the brothers of Jesus." (Acts 1:13-14)

They have their reasons to leave, of course. Someone has a business to run, another has a field to farm. Besides, the same soldiers who killed Christ are still walking Jerusalem's streets. The disciples have ample reason to leave . . . but they don't. They stay. They don’t leave and they stay together. "They all met together continually." As many as 120 souls huddle in the same house. So, just imagine how many potential conflicts existed in that group. Talk about a powder keg.

Nathanael might glare at Peter for denying Christ at the fire. Then again, at least Peter stood near the fire. He could resent the others for running. But so could the women. Faithful females who stood near the cross share the room with cowardly males who fled the scene. The room is ripe for conflict. Mary could demand special treatment. Jesus' blood brothers are in the room. They once even tried to lock Jesus up. Who's to say they won't lock up his followers? And isn't this a men's meeting? Who let the women in? The room is a tinder box for bitterness, arrogance and distrust. But no one strikes a match. They stay together – and pray together. "They all met together continually for prayer."

Mark uses the same Greek word here translated "continually" to describe a boat floating in the water, waiting on Jesus. The Master, speaking on the beach of Galilee, told the disciples to have a boat ready and waiting. (Mark 3:9) The boat was "continually" in the presence of Christ. So are the Upper Room disciples. One day passes. Then two. Then a week. For all they know, a hundred more will come and go. But they aren't leaving. They persist. Then, ten days later, On the day of Pentecost, seven weeks after Jesus' resurrection, the believers were meeting together in one place. Suddenly, there was a sound from heaven like the roaring of a mighty windstorm in the skies above them, and it filled the house where they were meeting. Then, what looked like flames or tongues of fire appeared and settled on each of them. And everyone present was filled with the Holy Spirit. (Acts 2:1-4) Doubters became prophets. Peter preached, people came, and God opened the floodgates to the greatest movement in history. It began because the followers didn’t leave. They waited in the right place for power.

We're so reluctant to do what they did. Who has time to wait? We groan at the thought. But waiting doesn't mean inactivity. Waiting means watching for him. If you’re waiting on a bus, you’re watching for the bus. If you’re waiting on God, you’re watching for God, searching for God, hoping in God. Great promises come to those who do. "But those who wait on the Lord will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint." (Isa. 40:31) To those who still struggle, God says, "Wait on me." But be sure to wait in the right place.

Jesus doesn't tell us to stay in Jerusalem, but he does tell us to stay honest, stay faithful, and stay true. "If you rebel against the Lord’s commands and refuse to listen to him, then his hand will be as heavy upon you as it was upon your ancestors." (1 Sam. 12:15) Are you illegally padding your pocket? Are you giving your body to someone who doesn't share your name and wear your ring? Is your mouth a Colorado River of gossip? If you intentionally hang out at the bus stop of disobedience, you need to know something – God’s bus doesn't stop there. Go to the place of obedience, instead. "The Holy Spirit . . .  is God's gift to those who obey him." (Acts 5:32)

And while you're waiting in the right place, get along with the people with whom you’re waiting. Would the Holy Spirit have anointed contentious disciples? I don’t know. But according to Peter, disharmony hinders prayers. He tells husbands, "Live with your wives in an understanding way. . . . Do this so that nothing will stop your prayers." (1 Pet. 3:7) Waiting on God means working through conflicts, forgiving offenses and resolving disputes. "Always keep yourselves united in the Holy Spirit, and bind yourselves together with peace." (Eph. 4:3) Jesus promised, "When two or three of you are together because of me, you can be sure that I'll be there." (Matt. 18:20) So if you want power for your life, it will come as you "do your part to live in peace with everyone, as much as possible." (Rom. 12:18)

It will also come as you pray. For ten days the disciples prayed. Ten days of prayer plus a few minutes of preaching led to three thousand saved souls on one day. Too often, however, we invert the numbers. We're prone to pray for a few minutes and preach for ten days. Not the apostles. Like the boat waiting for Christ, they lingered in his presence. They never left the place of prayer. Biblical writers spoke often of this place. Early Christians were urged to "pray without ceasing" (1 Thess. 5:17); to "always be prayerful" (Rom. 12:12); and to "pray at all times and on every occasion." (Eph. 6:18)

Remember the adverb “continually” that described the Upper Room prayer of the apostles? It's used to describe our prayers as well: "Continue earnestly in prayer, being vigilant in it with thanksgiving." (Col. 4:2) Sound burdensome? For instance, are you wondering, “My business needs attention, my children need dinner, my bills need paying. How can I stay in a place of prayer?” Unceasing prayer may sound complicated, if not impossible, but it doesn’t have to be that way. Do this – change your definition of prayer.

Think of prayer less as an activity for God, and more as an awareness of God. Seek to live in uninterrupted awareness. Acknowledge his presence everywhere you go. As you stand in line to register your car, think, “Thank you, Lord, for being here.” In the grocery store as you shop, “Your presence, my King, I welcome.” As you wash the dishes, worship your Maker. Brother Lawrence did. This well-known saint called himself the "lord of the pots and pans." In his book The Practice of the Presence of God, he wrote: “The time of business does not with me differ from the time of prayer; and in the noise and clatter of my kitchen, while several persons are at the same time calling for different things, I possess God in as great tranquility as if I were upon my knees at the blessed sacrament.”

Though only a rookie in the League of Unceasing Prayer, I’ve been enjoying the pursuit of late. I've discovered the strength of carrying on two conversations: one with a person, another with the Person. I’ve found that one can, at once, both listen and petition. As a person unfolds his or her problem, for instance, I'm often silently saying, “God, a little help here, please?” He always provides it. I've also discovered the delight of regular sips from his water cooler. Lately, throughout any given day, my thoughts are marked with phrases like, “Guide me, God,” or “Forgive that idea, please,” or “Please God, protect my wife and children today.”

One last thought. The Upper Room was occupied by 120 disciples. Since it’s been estimated that there were about 4,000,000 people in Palestine at the time, that means that less than 1 in 30,000 was a Christian. Yet look at the fruit of their work. Better said, look at the fruit of God's Spirit working within them. We can only wonder what would happen today if we, who still struggle, did what they did: wait on the Lord in the right place, and not leave. “Wait passionately for God, don’t leave the path. He’ll give you your place in the sun while you watch the wicked lose theirs.”

Grace,

Randy