Doubt?

Doubt
Doubt - Audio/Visual 

John the Baptist, who was in prison, heard about all the things the Messiah was doing. So he sent his disciples to ask Jesus, “Are you the Messiah we’ve been expecting, or should we keep looking for someone else?” Jesus told them, “Go back to John and tell him what you have heard and seen — the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the Good News is being preached to the poor. And tell him, ‘God blesses those who do not turn away because of me.’” (Matt. 11:2-6)

He was a child of the desert whose leathery face, tanned skin and animal-hide clothing made him unmistakable. Everything he owned fit neatly in his wallet. The walls of his home were the mountains, and his ceiling the stars. But not now. His frontier was now walled out, and his horizon hidden. The stars were but distant memories, and the fresh air of the open plains was gone. The stench of the dungeon reminded him that he was now a captive of the king, rather than a voice crying in the wilderness.

Frankly, John the Baptist deserved better treatment. After all, he was the forerunner of the Christ; the cousin of the Messiah. It was John who had braved the elements and the vitriol, calling upon an unsaved people to repentance. But now that voice, instead of opening the door of renewal, had slammed the door on a prison cell. And it all began when he called out the king.

You see, while on a business trip to Rome, King Herod fell in love with his brother’s wife, Herodias. Deciding that Herodias was better off married to him than to his brother, Herod divorced his wife and brought his sister-in-law home. The gossip columnists were fascinated, but John was infuriated and denounced Herod and the marriage for what it was — adultery. Funny thing is Herod might have let him get away with it because, well, he kind of liked the guy. But not Herodias. She wasn’t about to have her rising social status take a detour. So, she told Herod to have John pulled off the speaker’s tour and thrown into jail. Herod hemmed and hawed until she whispered and wooed. And that was it. Game. Set. Match.

But jail time wasn’t enough for Herodias. She needed a permanent solution to the problem. So, she had her daughter strut in front of the king and his generals at a stag party. Herod, who was as easily duped as he was aroused, promised to do anything for the pretty young thing in the G-string. “Anything?” she said. “You name it,” he drooled. She conferred with her mother, who was waiting in the wings, then returned with her request: “I want John the Baptist,” she said. “You want a date with the prophet?” “No. I want his head,” replied the dancer. And then, reassured by a nod from her mother, she added, “Oh, yeah, and while you’re at it, put his head on a silver platter, if you don’t mind.”

Herod stared at the faces around him. He knew it wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t right. But he also knew that everyone was looking at him because, after all, he had promised her “anything.” And though he had nothing personal against the country preacher, he valued the opinion polls more than he valued John’s life. After all, what’s more important — saving political face or saving the neck of a crazy prophet? The story reeks with unfairness: John dies because Herod lusts; the good is murdered, while the bad just smirks; a man of God is killed, while a man of passion is winking at his niece.

So, is this how God rewards his anointed? Is this how he honors his faithful? Is this how God crowns his chosen? With a dark dungeon and an execution? The inconsistency was more than John could take. But even before Herod reached his verdict, John was asking questions – his concerns outnumbered only by the number of times he paced his cell while asking them. So, when he had a chance to get a message to Jesus, his question was ripe with doubt.

But look at what motivated John’s question. It wasn’t just the dungeon, or even death, because he likely didn’t know what was coming. Instead, it was the problem of unmet expectations — the fact that John was in serious trouble and Jesus was conducting business as usual. So, is that what messiahs do when trouble comes? Is that what God does when his followers are in a bind? Jesus’ silence was deafening. “Are you the one? Or have I been following the wrong Lord?”

Now, had the Bible been written by a public relations agency, they probably would have eliminated that verse. It’s not good PR to admit that one of the cabinet members has doubts about the president. And you certainly don’t let stories like that get out if you’re trying to present a unified front. But the Scriptures weren’t written by PR people; they were inspired by an eternal God who knew that every disciple from then on would spend time in a similar dungeon of doubt. And though the circumstances have changed, the questions really haven’t.

They are asked anytime the faithful suffer the consequences of the faithless; anytime a person takes a step in the right direction, only to have his or her feet knocked out from under them; anytime someone does a good deed but suffers evil results; anytime a person takes a stand, only to end up flat on their face. And the questions fall like rain: “If God is so good, why am I hurting so badly?” “If God is really there, why am I here?” “What did I do to deserve this?” “Did God slip up this time?” “Why are the righteous persecuted?” So, does God just sit on his hands, choosing to do nothing in response to our circumstances? Or, does God simply opt for the silent treatment, even when we’re screaming our loudest?

Disappointment sometimes demands a change in command. When we don’t agree with the one who calls the shots, our reaction is often a lot like John’s: “Is he the right guy for the job?” Or, as John put it, “Are you the one? Or, should we look for another?” John couldn’t believe that anything less than his release would be in the best interests of all involved. In his opinion, it was time to exercise some justice and get some action. But the one who had the power was, apparently, just sitting on his hands.

We can’t believe that God would sit in silence while a pastor is awaiting execution in Iran, or a Christian loses a promotion because of his beliefs, or a faithful wife is abused by an unbelieving husband, or 300,798 people have died from a pandemic that some believe was an out-of-control science experiment. These are just a few of the thousands of things we have either heard or experienced. And our prayers for them? They seem to have gone unanswered. It seems like the clouds of doubt always form when the warm, moist air of our expectations rise to meet the cold air of God’s silence.

However, if we’ve heard the silence of God while in a dungeon of our own doubt, perhaps, as John did, we, too, will discover that the problem is not so much God’s silence but our ability to hear. “Go back and report to John what you hear and see: the blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the Good News is preached to the poor.” This was Jesus’ answer to John’s agonized query from his dungeon. But before looking at Jesus’ response, consider what he didn’t say.

First, Jesus didn’t get angry. He didn’t throw up his hands in disgust. He didn’t scream, “What in the world do I have to do for cousin John, anyway? I’ve already become flesh! I’ve been sinless for the past three decades. I even let him baptize me. What else does he want? Go and tell that ungrateful locust eater that I’m shocked at his disbelief.” He could have done that. Maybe we would’ve done that. But Jesus didn’t. God has never turned away the questions of a sincere searcher. Not Job’s; not Abraham’s; not Moses’; not John’s; not Thomas’. Not yours.

But Jesus didn’t save John, either. The one who walked on water could have easily walked on Herod’s head, but he didn’t. The one who cast out demons had the power to nuke the king’s castle, but he didn’t. No battle plan. No S.W.A.T. teams. No flashing swords. Just a message — a kingdom message: “Tell John that everything is going just as planned. The kingdom is being inaugurated.” And Jesus’ words are much more than a statement from Isaiah. (Isaiah 35:5; 61:1) They are the description of a heavenly kingdom being established. A unique kingdom. An invisible kingdom. A kingdom with no walls and three distinct traits.

First, it’s a kingdom where the rejected are received. “The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear ….” None were more shunned by their culture than the blind, the lame, the lepers and the deaf. They had no place. They had no name. They had no value. They were kind of like canker sores on their culture. You know, excess baggage on the side of the road. But those whom the culture called trash, Jesus called treasures. That must have been what the Psalmist had in mind when he wrote: “You knit me together in my mother’s womb.” (Psalm 139:13)

Think about that. We were knitted together. We aren’t an accident. We weren’t mass-produced. We aren’t an assembly-line product. We were deliberately planned, specifically gifted, and lovingly positioned on this earth by the Master Craftsman. “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” (Eph. 2:10)

In a society that has little room for second fiddles, that’s good news. In a culture where the door of opportunity opens only once and then slams shut, that’s a revelation. In a system that ranks the value of a human by the figures on his paycheck, or the shape of her body, that’s a reason for joy. Jesus told John that a new kingdom was coming — a kingdom where people have value not because of what they do, but because of whose they are.

The second characteristic of the kingdom is just as important: “The dead have life.” In other words, the grave has no power. Jesus looked into the eyes of John’s followers and gave them this message: “Report to John … the dead are raised.” Jesus wasn’t oblivious to John’s imprisonment. He wasn’t blind to John’s captivity. But he was dealing with a greater dungeon than Herod’s; he was dealing with the dungeon of death.

But Jesus wasn’t through. He passed along one other message to clear the cloud of doubt from John’s heart: “The Good News is preached to the poor.” And no other world religion offers such a message. All others demand the right performance, the right sacrifice, the right chant, the right ritual, the right séance or the right experience. Theirs is a kingdom of trade-offs and bartering. You do this, and God will give you that. The result? Either arrogance or fear: arrogance if you think you’ve achieved it; fear if you think you haven’t.

But Christ’s kingdom is just the opposite. It’s a kingdom for the poor. A kingdom where membership is granted, not purchased. You are placed into God’s kingdom. You are “adopted” into the family. And this occurs not when you do enough, but when you admit you can’t do enough. You don’t earn it; you simply accept it. As a result, you serve – not out of arrogance or fear, but out of gratitude.

That is the unique characteristic of the new kingdom. Its subjects don’t work in order to go to heaven; they work because they’re going to heaven. The late Steve Jobs said in a 2005 Stanford commencement address: “Remembering that you’re going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose.” What do you have to lose when you have an eternal life to gain? In the new kingdom, arrogance and fear are replaced with gratitude and joy. That’s the kingdom Jesus proclaimed: a kingdom of acceptance, eternal life and forgiveness.

Frankly, we don’t know how John received Jesus’ message, but we can imagine. I’d like to think that a slight smile came over him as he heard what his Master had said. “So that’s it. That’s what the kingdom will be. That’s what the King will do.” Now, he understood. It wasn’t that Jesus was silent; it was that John had been listening for the wrong answer. John had been listening for an answer to his earthly problems, while Jesus was busy resolving his heavenly ones. That’s worth remembering the next time you hear the silence of God.

If we’ve asked for a miracle, but are still waiting … if we’ve asked for healing, but are still hurting … don’t think God isn’t listening. He is. He’s even answering requests we’re not even making. The apostle Paul was honest enough to write, “We do not know what we ought to pray for.” (Rom. 8:26) The fact is, John wasn’t asking too much; he was asking too little. He was asking God to resolve the temporary, while Jesus was busy resolving the eternal. John was asking for an immediate favor, while Jesus was orchestrating an eternal solution.

Does that mean that Jesus has no regard for injustice? No. He cares about persecution. He cares about inequities, and hunger, and prejudice and pandemics. And he knows what it’s like to be punished for something he didn’t do. He knows the meaning of the phrase, “It’s not right.” Because it wasn’t right that people spit into the eyes of the very one who had wept for them. It wasn’t right that soldiers ripped chunks of flesh out of the back of God. It wasn’t right that spikes pierced the hands that formed the earth. And it wasn’t right that the Son of God was forced to hear the silence of God. It wasn’t right. But it happened.

And while Jesus was on the cross, God sat on his hands. He turned his back. He ignored the screams of the innocent. He sat in silence while the sins of an entire world were placed upon his son. And he did nothing when a cry a million times more horrible than John’s echoed in the pitch-black sky: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt. 27:46) Was it right? No. Was it fair? No. Was it love? Yes.

Any doubt?

Grace,

Randy

Two Moms

Two Moms
Two Moms - Audio/Visual 

About this time, a man and woman from the tribe of Levi got married. The woman became pregnant and gave birth to a son. She saw that he was a special baby and kept him hidden for three months. But when she could no longer hide him, she got a basket made of papyrus reeds and waterproofed it with tar and pitch. She put the baby in the basket and laid it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile River. The baby’s sister then stood at a distance, watching to see what would happen to him.

Soon Pharaoh’s daughter came down to bathe in the river, and her attendants walked along the riverbank. When the princess saw the basket among the reeds, she sent her maid to get it for her. When the princess opened it, she saw the baby. The little boy was crying, and she felt sorry for him. “This must be one of the Hebrew children,” she said. (Exodus 2:1-6)

Mother’s Day can be bittersweet. For some, there’s no one in the world like their mom. For others, motherhood was an accident, a biological impossibility, or their moms just weren’t that nice. Regardless, becoming a mother is a lot easier than being one because there are days when a mom would actually like to eat the entire candy bar, and drink a Coke without the floaties in it; or days when they’d like their kitchen utensils to stay in the kitchen and not end up in the sandbox. But then there’s days when asking, “Why me?” that moms get their answer from a little voice that says, “Because I love you best.” Some of the greatest people in history will tell you how important their mothers were. George Washington, for example, declared: “All I am I owe to my mother.” Moses could very well have said the same.

Moses became the kind of man he was because of the type of mother he had. In fact, who he was was very much determined by the type of mothers he had because God gave Moses two of them. Both of the women who fulfilled the maternal role in the life of Moses made certain choices that impacted the course of Moses’ life, and those choices made Moses the man he became. The old saying, “The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world,” was absolutely true in the life of Moses. And the choices made by Moses’ mothers teach us a lot about love, about life, and about the legacy we leave our children.

Moses was born into a culture of death. According to Pharaoh’s decree, Moses should have been drowned as soon as he was born. So, imagine Jochebed’s pregnancy. Imagine the waiting, the expectancy, the wondering whether the baby would be a girl or a boy. There were no ultrasounds then, so she and her husband, Amram, simply had to wait until Jochebed gave birth. And when she did, she delivered a baby boy. In his mother’s eyes, he was special, and she refused to kill him. She chose to disobey the command of Pharaoh and allow her son to live. (Heb. 11:23) But how do you hide a baby and spare the family’s life?

Neighbors knew that Jochebed was expecting. So, how would she explain the fact that she wasn’t pregnant anymore? How could she keep the existence of a growing, rambunctious baby boy from getting out? And although her faith in God would not allow her to murder her son, her faith in God was also so great that she was willing to trust God with his life. But even though she couldn’t kill her child, she knew she couldn’t secure his life, either. So, she purchased a little basket of reeds, applied some pitch for waterproofing, and put her baby boy into the basket, setting him adrift on the providence of God.

Meanwhile, the daughter of Pharaoh had come down to the river to bathe. Spotting the little ark, she sent her maid to investigate. When the maid brought the basket to her, she looked inside and found a crying baby boy. His circumcision branded him a Hebrew, and immediately the princess understood that his mother had chosen life over death for this child. And in that instant, the princess had a choice to make as well. She could obey her father’s decree and have the child killed. After all, it would’ve been easy. All she would have had to do was instruct one of her servants to tip the ark over and the child would have drowned. But she didn’t. This pagan princess, born into a culture of death, chose life for a child who should have been dead.

Tragically, our culture’s not very different. We live in a world where the most dangerous place for an unborn child is the very place where it should be the safest: a mother’s womb. We live in a world where not every pregnant woman wants to be a mother. We live in a culture that allows a woman to take away the life of their unborn child. Death may have been easier for Moses, but both of his moms chose to give him life.

As the story unfolds, we begin to understand that these moms loved Moses more than they loved themselves. His birth mother risked her life to save his life, and his adoptive, Egyptian mother risked the wrath of her father, the Pharaoh, to save his life again. Why? Because they loved Moses. Their love for this child motivated them to action. Jochebed loved Moses because he was her baby boy. Her body had given him life and had nourished him as he grew. And it was her love for Moses that allowed him to fulfill the greatest earthly destiny ever designed for any Hebrew since. She risked everything to save him, and 80 years later, by God’s grace, Moses saved his people from Egyptian slavery by destroying the most powerful nation on the planet without lifting a sword or shooting an arrow. Jochebed’s love allowed Moses to fulfill his God-given destiny to be the savior of his people.

The princess loved Moses, too. Because God had put it in her heart. Otherwise, what possible motivation could the pagan daughter of the Pharaoh have had to adopt the son of a Hebrew slave? Her heart was moved by the plight of a helpless child, and she claimed him as her own. She even named him Moses – a reference to being “drawn out” of the Nile River. And the name proved providential. Because one day Moses would draw his people out of the slavery of his adoptive nation. Ironic, too, that the Pharaoh would be paying for the raising of a child whom he had earlier ordered to be murdered, and who would – one day – be the ruination of the Pharaoh’s empire.

God put love for this child into the hearts of two very different women. God spared Moses from certain death because he had a plan for his life. And God loved Moses, too. He was “… a beautiful child in God’s eyes.” (Acts 7:20) And so God worked in the hearts and lives of others to cause them to love Moses.

Many years ago, a young mother was making her way across the hills of South Wales, carrying her tiny baby in her arms. On the journey, she and her baby were overtaken by a blinding blizzard. Tragically, the young mother never reached her destination. Days later, when the blizzard had subsided, a search and rescue team eventually found her slumped beneath a mound of snow. The rescuers also discovered that, before her death, the young mother had taken off all of her outer clothing and wrapped them around her baby. And when they unwrapped the child, much to their surprise, they discovered that the baby was alive and well. Years later that child, David Lloyd George, would become prime minister of Great Britain, and one of England’s greatest statesmen – all because of a mother’s sacrificial love.

As we read on, it’s easy to see that both of these mothers also invested themselves in Moses’ life. His Egyptian mother gave him the best that Egypt had to offer. (Acts 7:22) The ancient Jewish historian, Josephus, wrote that by virtue of being adopted into the Pharaoh’s family, Moses was in line to succeed to the throne. As a result, he was trained as a prince in Egypt, and he was trained for leadership. That training, of course, would serve him well in the future that God had in store for him.

But his birth mother gave him something his adoptive mother could not: an introduction to the God of Israel while she weaned Moses for the Pharaoh’s daughter – a period generally ranging from 18 months to 5 years. So it was during this time that Jochebed told her son about the true and living God. She warned him about the false gods and religions of Egypt. She told him the stories of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. She told him why God’s people were in bondage in Egypt. And she told him about the promises of God that, one day, His people would be delivered from their bondage. With time, these lessons took root.

“It was by faith that Moses, when he grew up, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter. He chose to share the oppression of God’s people instead of enjoying the fleeting pleasures of sin. He thought it was better to suffer for the sake of Christ than to own the treasures of Egypt, for he was looking ahead to his great reward. It was by faith that Moses left the land of Egypt, not fearing the king’s anger. He kept right on going because he kept his eyes on the one who is invisible.” (Heb. 11:24-27) And by the time Moses was 40, he understood that God would use him to deliver the people of Israel from slavery. “One day when Moses was forty years old, he decided to visit his relatives, the people of Israel. He saw an Egyptian mistreating an Israelite. So Moses came to the man’s defense and avenged him, killing the Egyptian. Moses assumed his fellow Israelites would realize that God had sent him to rescue them, but they didn’t.” (Acts 7:23-25)

In other words, the lessons Moses learned from his mother set the very course for his life. And the lessons your children learn from you will do the same. For instance, if your daughter leaves home without being able to balance her checkbook, but has a clear understanding of God and his Son, she’s way ahead of her smartest peers. Or, if your son leaves home and doesn’t know how to play baseball, conjugate a verb, solve long division problems, or multiply fractions, but knows that the Bible is God’s Word, that Jesus is the friend of sinners and that God loves him, he’s way better off than his peers who learned nothing about God from their parents.

As parents, we want our children, and their children, to have more than we did. We want them to have a better education, a better home, a better life. And that’s good. Solomon said as much: “Good people leave an inheritance for their children’s children.” (Prov. 13:22) But their inheritance should include the wealth that only a deep, personal and abiding relationship with God can bring. That begins with prayer, for and with them, and reading the Word and explaining it to them as they study for themselves. We should give them Jesus, and him crucified and resurrected – the hope of their, and the world’s salvation.

So moms, thinking back on it, why did you love your newborn? Because for months the baby was a pain, made you break out in pimples and waddle like a duck. You craved sardines and crackers, and you threw up in the morning. He punched you in the stomach. She occupied space that wasn’t hers, and ate food she didn’t fix. And then, no sooner out of the womb, he started crying – the room was too cold; the blanket too rough; the nurse too mean. And who did she want? Mom.

And in this process you had become a virtual barbarian – you screamed, you swore, you bit bullets and tore the sheets. Your back ached, your head pounded and you were drenched in sweat. You should have been angry, but you weren’t. Because on your face was that for-longer-than-forever love. She’d done nothing for you, yet all you could talk about were her good looks and bright future. He woke you up every night for the next six weeks, but that didn’t matter because you were about him. And you still are. But why?

Because the baby is you – your blood; your flesh; your sinew and spine; your hope; your legacy. So, it didn’t bother you that the baby gave you nothing in return because you knew that a newborn is helpless and weak. And you also knew that babies don’t ask to come into this world. And God knows we didn’t either. We are his idea. We are his – his face; his eyes; his hands; his touch. Look deeply into the face of a child and you’ll see his likeness. Granted, some may appear to be distant relatives, but they’re not. God has no cousins, only children. We are, incredibly, the body of Christ. And though we may not always act like our Father, there’s no greater truth than this: we are his – unalterably. He loves us - undyingly. There’s nothing that can separate us from the love of Christ. (Rom. 8:38-39) Nothing.

A teacher asked a student in her class one day, “Suppose your mother baked a pie and there were five of you – your parents and three children. What part of the pie would you get?” “A fourth,” replied the boy. “I'm afraid you don't know your fractions,” said the teacher. “Remember, there are five of you.” “Yes, teacher,” said the boy, “but you don't know my mother. Mother would say she didn't want any pie.”

That’s a mother’s love. And that’s God’s love, too. And to demonstrate his love, he gave his one and only Son so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life. (John 3:16) Maybe that’s why Jesus, in lamenting over Jerusalem’s abandonment of the faith, would use a mother’s imagery just days before his crucifixion when he cried, “Oh Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones God’s messengers. How often I have wanted to gather your children together as a hen protects her chicks beneath her wings, but you wouldn’t let me.” (Matt. 23:27)

Two moms; one love; and nothing separating us from Christ’s love. Zero.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Randy

Normal

Normal

Normal - Audio/Visual 

 

That same day two of them were walking to the village of Emmaus, about seven miles out of Jerusalem. They were deep in conversation, going over all these things that had happened. In the middle of their talk and questions, Jesus came up and walked along with them. But they were not able to recognize who he was. He asked, “What’s this you’re discussing so intently as you walk along?” They just stood there, long-faced, like they had lost their best friend. Then one of them, his name was Cleopas, said, “Are you the only one in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard what’s happened during the last few days?” He said, “What has happened?”

They said, “The things that happened to Jesus the Nazarene. He was a man of God, a prophet, dynamic in work and word, blessed by both God and all the people. Then our high priests and leaders betrayed him, got him sentenced to death, and crucified him. And we had our hopes up that he was the One, the One about to deliver Israel. And it is now the third day since it happened. But now some of our women have completely confused us. Early this morning they were at the tomb and couldn’t find his body. They came back with the story that they had seen a vision of angels who said he was alive. Some of our friends went off to the tomb to check and found it empty just as the women said, but they didn’t see Jesus.”

Then he said to them, “So thick-headed! So slow-hearted! Why can’t you simply believe all that the prophets said? Don’t you see that these things had to happen, that the Messiah had to suffer and only then enter into his glory?” Then he started at the beginning, with the Books of Moses, and went on through all the Prophets, pointing out everything in the Scriptures that referred to him.

They came to the edge of the village where they were headed. He acted as if he were going on but they pressed him: “Stay and have supper with us. It’s nearly evening; the day is done.” So he went in with them. And here is what happened: He sat down at the table with them. Taking the bread, he blessed and broke and gave it to them. At that moment, open-eyed, wide-eyed, they recognized him. And then he disappeared. Back and forth they talked. “Didn’t we feel on fire as he conversed with us on the road, as he opened up the Scriptures for us?” They didn’t waste a minute. They were up and on their way back to Jerusalem. (Luke 24:13-33)

Normal. When are things going to get back to normal? Will we ever return to normal, or is there going to be a new normal? Good questions. In Lord of the Rings, J. R. R. Tolkien takes the reader into the shire, where the hobbits live. The shire is peaceful and its habitants are content. It’s normal. And the shire is completely safe and secure until a key figure steps in to inform the hobbits that the shire is not as secure as they think. And from that point on, the hobbits’ world, their way of life, their peace, even their very lives are now made insecure. Having been forewarned, Frodo and Sam, the two main characters in the book, leave home. It’s a massive, 1,178 page novel, and for most of the book Frodo and Sam are not home; they’re walking. Walking through a world that is not their home.

The Emmaus story begins with Cleopas and his companion, maybe his wife, going home – a seven mile, three-hour walk from Jerusalem. It had been three days since Jesus’ crucifixion and they were grieving and confused. They had hoped that Jesus was their savior and redeemer, but that was then. Now it’s in ruins. Of course, they’re travelling in the wrong direction since they’re walking away from Jerusalem – the symbol of God’s presence. But for them Jerusalem is their place of pain, a place of failure, and they want to leave. So, they simply walk away, tired of not being home. They want to get back-to-work-normal; back-to-friends-normal; back-to-life-without-masks-normal.

But the security of normalcy is just an illusion. For Cleopas and his companion, their normal was insecure because the certainty of “normal” was a mirage. And for us, it’s equally vapid – it’s “I’ll be happy when this pandemic is over; when I can go back to work; when I don’t have to wear this stupid mask like a bank robber; when I don’t have to hear the phrase ‘social distancing’ anymore. I’ll be happy when things get back to normal.” In other words, I’ll be happy when I achieve a certain outcome. But that means we can only be happy if…. And when “if” is postponed, our joy, our happiness, and our peace remain insecure until the outcome is achieved. But what if “if” never happens? What happens then? Faith becomes fragile, and hope becomes destructible if “if” never happens when.

Normal for the Christian is not being home. In 1 Peter 1:17, the apostle wrote: “And remember that the heavenly Father to whom you pray has no favorites. He will judge or reward you according to what you do. So you must live in reverent fear of him during your time here as temporary residents.” The Greek word for “temporary residents” is paroikia which means a “sojourner,” or a person traveling in a strange land; an exile. It’s the Greek word for “not home.” In other words, as Christians, we are “not home.” This same word, paroikia, is used only one other time in Acts 13:17 when Paul says, “The God of this people of Israel chose our fathers, and exalted the people when they dwelt as strangers in the land of Egypt, and with mighty power brought he them out of it.” Strangers; exiles. Normal for Christians is living “not at home,” living “not normal,” but living as strangers in a strange land on our way home.

It’s interesting that Mr. and Mrs. Cleopas, at least at one time, had hope. “We had hoped he was the Messiah who had come to rescue Israel.” Past-tense hope. But they could have chosen differently. They could have hoped, and even explained to Jesus how that hope could have been validated. “Then some women from our group of his followers were at his tomb early this morning, and they came back with this amazing report.” (Luke 24:22) “They said his body was missing and they had seen angels who told them Jesus is alive!” (vs. 23) “Some of our men ran out to see, and sure enough, his body was gone, just as the women said.” (vs. 24) An amazing report; a missing body; angels confirming that Jesus was alive. That should have been enough to rekindle their hope. But it wasn’t. They wanted to go home; they wanted to get back to normal, not back to the future.

So, Jesus joined them on the road. He met them where they were, not where he thought they should be, or even where they ought to be since they were all walking away from Jerusalem. Grief-stricken, the pair are in so much turmoil that they don’t even recognize Jesus. But Jesus doesn’t judge them. Instead, he asks them to tell him their story. And it was in the normal of their lives that Jesus met them there. But we’re left thinking, “Hey, Cleo, how about a little optimism here?” But Christian’s aren’t optimists, as optimism is defined, because optimism is not hope – and optimism can kill you.

Commander James Stockdale was a naval aviator during the Vietnam War, and was shot down and held as a POW for almost eight (8) years at the infamous “Hanoi Hilton.” Stockdale was the most senior naval officer held captive, and was one of several thousand American servicemen who were captured and taken as prisoners of war. They were all held in tiny cells where they were tortured, beaten and starved. Some were kept in solitary confinement, including Stockdale, who spent more than half of his imprisonment in isolation. Stockdale was one of only 591 service members who came home.

In James C. Collins’ book, Good to Great, Collins writes about a conversation he had with Stockdale regarding his coping strategy during his imprisonment. When Collins asked who were the ones who didn't make it out of the “Hilton,” Stockdale replied: “Oh, that's easy, the optimists. They were the ones who said, 'We're going to be out by Christmas.' And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. Then they'd say, 'We're going to be out by Easter.' And Easter would come, and Easter would go. And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. They died of a broken heart.”

Optimism is not hope because hope is not based on an outcome. Hope is based on the resurrected Christ. David said in Psalm 16:8: “I keep my eyes always on the Lord. With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.” Hope is a present trust in Jesus extended into the future. Remember where he was – murdered on a cross – and remember where he is now – at the right hand of the Father. Alive. And because he’s risen, you never walk alone. You may not be home, but you’re never alone because hope is not lost; it’s found in Jesus who’s at your right hand.

In a scene from the Hobbit, Frodo is tired – tired of not being home – and says to Sam, “I can't do this, Sam.” Sam, having been with Frodo every step of the way, says to his friend, “I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo…. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you…. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.” “What are we holding on to, Sam?” Frodo asks. “That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo...and it's worth fighting for.”

J. R. R. Tolkien was a Christian, and he knew there was good in this world – Jesus. And because of Jesus, you never walk alone. He’s here now, and he will be in the end. Because there will come a time when hope is no longer an option; when hope will no longer be necessary. There will come a time when we don’t have hope, because we’ll have Jesus. And Jesus will have us. Then we can rest; then we can be secure; then we can be home. So when will we return to normal? As exiles, nothing is ever really normal. Normal is as normal does – it ties hope to an outcome. And when your outcome is anything other than knowing Jesus and him crucified, you’ll never truly be home. So maybe the question isn’t so much, “When will life return to normal?” but “When will our hope be revealed?” Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

Grace,

Randy