Coming Home

 

Coming Home

Coming Home - Audio/Visual 

              When Naomi saw that Ruth had her heart set on going with her, she gave in. And so, the two of them traveled on together (back) to Bethlehem. (Ruth 1:18-19)

It was a small house, simple but adequate: one large room on a dusty street. Its red-tiled roof was one of many in this extremely poor neighborhood on the outskirts of a Brazilian village. But it was a comfortable home. Maria and her daughter, Christina, had done what they could to add color to the gray walls and warmth to the hard dirt floor: an old calendar here, a faded photograph of a relative over there, a wooden crucifix. The furnishings were modest, too – a pallet on the other side of the room, a washbasin and a wood-burning stove. Maria’s husband had died when Christina was just a baby. The young mother, stubbornly refusing opportunities to remarry, got a job and set out to raise her young daughter by herself. And now, fifteen years later, the worst years were over, or so she thought. Though Maria’s salary as a maid afforded few luxuries, it was a reliable job and paid well enough to provide for their food and clothing. And now Christina was old enough to get a job so she could help out.

Some said Christina got her independence from her mother, but she bristled at the traditional idea of marrying young, like her mother, and raising a family. Not that she couldn’t have had her pick of husbands, mind you. Her olive brown skin and big, brown eyes kept a steady stream of potential suitors always at the door. And she had an infectious way of throwing her head back and filling the room with laughter. She also had that rare magic some women have that makes every man feel like a king just by being near them. But it was her high-spirited curiosity that made her keep all the men at arm’s length, at least for a time. Christina spoke often of going to the “Big City.” She dreamed of trading in her dusty, grimy neighborhood for the exciting avenues and bright lights of city life. Of course, the thought of this absolutely horrified her mother. Maria was always quick to remind Christina of the harshness and brutality of the big-city streets. “People don’t know you there. Jobs are scarce, and life is cruel. And besides, if you went there, what would you do for a living?”

Maria knew exactly what Christina would do, or – worse yet – would have to do for a living. That’s why her heart broke when she awoke one morning to find her daughter’s empty bed. Maria knew in an instant where her daughter had gone. She also knew what she had to do to find her. So, Maria quickly threw some clothes in a bag, gathered up all her money, and ran out of the house. On her way to the bus stop she entered a drugstore to get one last thing: pictures. Maria sat in the photograph booth, closed the curtain and spent all she could on pictures of herself. Then, with her purse full of small black-and-white photographs, she boarded the next bus to the “Big City” – Rio de Janeiro.

Maria knew Christina had no way of earning money. She also knew that her daughter was too stubborn to give up on her dreams of big-city life. Maria knew that when pride meets hunger, a human will do things that … well … were unthinkable before. Knowing this, Maria began her search. Bars, hotels, nightclubs, any place with a reputation for streetwalkers. She went to every last one of them. And at each place she left her picture. Pictures were taped on a bathroom mirror, or tacked to a hotel bulletin board, or even fastened to a corner phone booth. And on the back of each photo, she wrote a note.

It wasn’t long before both her money and the pictures ran out, and Maria had to go home. Weary and heartsick, Maria put her head in her hands and quietly wept as the bus began its long journey back to the small village. Meanwhile, it was only a few weeks later that young Christina descended the hotel stairs. Her face, once so young and full of life, was now tired and lifeless. Her brown eyes no longer danced with youth but spoke of pain and fear. Her laughter, which once filled a room, was broken and empty. Her dream of big-city life had become her worst nightmare, and her heart ached a thousand times over to trade those countless beds for her secure pallet. Yet her little village was, in so many ways, all but a distant a memory. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Christina’s eyes noticed a familiar face. She looked again, and there on the lobby mirror was a small black-and-white picture of her mother. Christina’s eyes burned and her throat tightened as she walked across the room and removed the small photo. And written on the back of the picture was her mother’s note: “Whatever you have done, whatever you have become, it doesn’t matter. Please come home.” And Christina did.

The story of Ruth is many things, but at its core it’s the story of a believer coming home. Naomi has been a long way from home, but even farther from God. Now we find Naomi coming home, coming back to God. In fact, you can almost hear Naomi saying, “What a waste of time! I followed my husband and my two sons to the desert on some wild goose-chase and look where it’s gotten me? They’re dead, and I’m alone. Terrific.” But then, like a shaft of light coming through a cloud-strewn dawn, she thinks, “But I can go home. There’s certainly nothing keeping me here anymore. The promises of food and success have vaporized, just like my joy. And the dream of a life that I thought I would share forever with a husband and my boys who loved me has died with them. Now I’m alone, but I can still go home. Yeah, I’ll just turn around and go home. Lord, I’m coming home.” In Naomi, we see a pretty stark example of failure. We see her bitter experiences of being far away from God. But we also see a wonderful example of forgiveness. We see in Naomi the blessings we can experience when we set our hearts for home.

Ten years have passed since Naomi left Bethlehem-Judah with her husband and two sons. (Ruth 1:4) Now, a decade later, she’s coming home. But it’s a bittersweet homecoming. The home and family she had in Bethlehem are all but a distant memory, and she ponders her return to a place where she has nowhere to live, no place to work and no one to come home to. Oh, she has Ruth all right, but it’s still not the same. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, Naomi knows that “There’s no place like home.” So, she turns her face for Bethlehem. And let’s face it, Naomi made a bad decision when she left Bethlehem. But she wasn’t stuck. Instead, Naomi used her experience and bad decisions as a prompt to make a good decision – to go back home to the Bethlehem and God that she once knew. Bethlehem was in the land of Judah, which means “praise,” and Bethlehem was the place where God was glorified and honored. It was the place where God was praised and exalted. Naomi was returning to that place where God’s presence was very real. Moab, she remembered, beckoned with promise, but it proved nothing more than a mirage when she arrived. Bethlehem, on the other hand, was a place where God’s presence was palpable. Not that the famine, which drove Naomi away from God in the first place, did anything to make her feel God in a more personal way. But now, in the desert, God’s absence was overwhelming; a darkness so thick that you could cut it with a knife. A suffocating darkness. A darkness that, with a little light, could be dispelled. Naomi had to get back to that place where she could be in God’s presence once again, and experience, first-hand, God’s loving-kindness.

When we’re away from God, our lives are barren of God’s blessings. It’s like that Mother Goose nursery rhyme, “Old Mother Hubbard.” Remember the story? She had plenty of cupboards, but they were all empty. She didn’t even have a bone for her dog. In other words, our “vacation” away from God is not the tourist destination it was cracked up to be. It’s barren; it’s empty; it’s alone. But it’s hard to come home, isn’t it? Oh, the coming home part is easy enough, but what will happen to me when I return? Worse yet, how angry is God going to be when he sees me? Just like a teenager, we’ve stayed out past curfew, broken the rules and thumbed our nose at authority. Now, Dad’s really going to get me.

Satan has that argument down pat; he uses it all the time. You know the one, “You’re a loser, you had your chance, you’ve really screwed up this time and you’ll never see God at work in your life, ever again.” Or “You’ve got one chance in this life and boy did you blow it!” The fact is that Satan’s a liar. He’s the father of lies. (John 8:44) So, why would you believe the father of lies? That would be like you believing that I had ocean front property in El Centro to sell you. The truth is that when we come home, we will find a forgiving God that will make himself known in our lives. He wants to be known, so why would he turn you away?

Naomi knew that Bethlehem was a place of God’s people. It was a place of kindred spirits and like-minded souls. In fact, you can probably think of someone that used to be in church and their seat was never empty; it was like they owned the pew. But now, that same person, or maybe family, is not only out of fellowship with God, but out of the fellowship of God. Prove it to yourself. Next Sunday, look around and see if you can’t spot an empty pew that was once filled by Mr. or Ms. Dependable. When Naomi got home, the people who knew her were shocked to see her. “Is this our Naomi,” they said? (Ruth 1:9) And then notice her answer: “Don’t call me Naomi; call me Bitter.” (v. 9) Naomi goes from “Mrs. Pleasant” to Mara, “Ms. Bitter.” In a word, Naomi testifies to the results and consequences of leaving God.

And isn’t it interesting that Naomi comes home during the spring? (v. 22) Coincidence, I guess. It was the time of the barley harvest, which is about the same time as Passover. A time of first fruits; a time for starting over; a time for forgiveness; a time when new life comes to bloom. And it can be springtime for you, too. You can come home, you know. You’ve seen the picture, haven’t you? You know, the colored photos of God you see plastered all over the place? And you’ve even read your Father’s message on the back, haven’t you? Yeah, that one. The one that says, “Whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ve become, it doesn’t matter. Please come home.”

Chinese philosopher, Lao-tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” So, go ahead. Turn your heart toward home. Take that first step because God still has your picture on his fridge.

Grace,

Randy

The Crazy Convert

 

The Crazy Convert

The Crazy Convert - 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, a person who had an intimate relationship with Christ. Or maybe it was a devoted follower, a close disciple or someone with a thorough knowledge of Scripture and sacrifice. Stumped? 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. Maybe 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? He went to the cemetery. And who was the first ambassador he commissioned? A raving lunatic. The man Jesus sent out was a madman turned missionary.

He's the man your mother told you to avoid. He's the guy police put 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 very 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 for Jesus. 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 drowned 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 a graveyard. Wild hair; bloody wrists; arms flailing and voice screaming; pure, naked bedlam. The apostles gawk, then they gulp, and then they put one foot back into the boat – maybe both. 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." (Mark 5:8) 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." (Mark 5:10) 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, and 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.

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 mom 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, and the next I was slammed into the back of the front seat so hard that I 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 beginning to wear 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 where 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, anyway? 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 and doctor 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 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. 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 a 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 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’s not 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.” (v. 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 you have it. 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? I’d send them the 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.” (Id.)

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

 

Legalism - The Search for Innocence

 

Legalism

The Search for Innocence

Legalism - The Search for Innocence - Audio/Visual 

 

Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born again, he cannot be in God's kingdom." Nicodemus said, "But if a person is already old, how can he be born again? He cannot enter his mother's body again. So how can a person be born a second time?" But Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born from water and the Spirit, he cannot enter God's kingdom. (John 3:3-5)

 Farmers know that even the most fertile ground will remain barren if they don’t sow some seed, weeds excepted. Apparently, Nicodemus didn't know that. He thought that soil could bear fruit without planting any seeds. He was big on the farmer's part of the equation, but a little short on the seed's part. He was a legalist. And that’s how a legalist thinks – a legalist prepares the soil but forgets the seed. Granted, Nicodemus came about his legalism honestly. He was a Pharisee, and Pharisees taught that faith was an outside job. What you wore, how you acted, the title you carried, the sound and length of your prayers, the size of your offering – all these were the Pharisees' measures of spirituality. Had they been farmers, let’s say, they would have had the most attractive acreage in the region – painted silos and sparkling equipment. The fences would have been whitewashed and clean. The soil turned over and watered. But no crop.

The Pharisees had a problem. For all their discussion about the right techniques, they grew very little fruit. In fact, one untrained Galilean had borne more fruit in a few short months than all the Pharisees had in an entire generation, combined. This made them jealous, angry and condescending. And they dealt with Jesus by ignoring his results and insulting his methods. Eventually, they just had him murdered. Nicodemus was an exception. He was curious about the way people listened to Jesus – they listened to Jesus as if he were the only one with the truth; as if he were a prophet. But Nicodemus had a problem. He was a member of the Jewish high court, the Sanhedrin, and couldn’t be seen with Jesus. As a result, he couldn’t approach Jesus in the day time, so Nicodemus went to meet him at night. He went in darkness. Appropriate, since legalism offers no light.

Nicodemus starts off the discussion with courtesies: "Teacher, we know you are a teacher sent from God, because no one can do the miracles you do unless God is with him." (John 3:2) Jesus disregards the niceties and responds, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born again, he cannot be in God's kingdom." (v. 3) No chitchat. No idle talk. Straight to the heart of the problem. Jesus knows the heart of the legalist is hard, and you can't crack it with a bunch of fluff. You need a chisel, instead. So Jesus hammers away: You can't help the blind by turning up the light. You can't help the deaf by turning up the music. You can't change the inside by decorating the outside. You can't grow fruit without seed. You must be born again. Whack! Whack! Whack!

The meeting between Jesus and Nicodemus was more than just an encounter between two religious figures. It was a collision between two philosophies; two opposing views on salvation. Nicodemus thought that the person does the work; Jesus says that God does the work. Nicodemus thought it was a trade-off. Jesus said it’s a gift. Nicodemus thought it was man's job to earn it. Jesus said that it was man's job to accept it.

Actually, these two views encompass all views. The world’s religions can be placed in one of two camps: legalism or grace. Humankind does it, or God does it. Salvation as a wage based on deeds done – or salvation as a gift based on Christ's death. A legalist believes the supreme force behind salvation is “you.” If you look right, speak right and belong to the right segment of the right group, you will be saved. Thus, the brunt of responsibility doesn't lie with God; it rests in you. The result? The outside sparkles. The talk is good. But look closely because something’s missing. Joy.

Because in the place of joy is fear that you won't do enough; arrogance that you have done enough; and failure wondering if you’ve made a mistake of eternal proportions. Legalism’s a dark world. But you wouldn’t know that looking at Nicodemus. He doesn’t appear to be hurting. He's got clout. He's got friends. He studies the Bible. But if you’ve known the crush of legalism, you know that it’s the slow and gradual suffocation of the Spirit. Legalism is just enough religion to keep you, but not enough to nourish you. So you gradually starve. And your teachers don't know where to go for food, so you starve together. Your diet is rules and standards. No vitamins. No taste. Just bland, predictable religion.

Reminds me of a friend of mine. When he was about eight years old he was part of a boys' choir. They met two nights a week for two hours. They wore blazers and sang at banquets. They even went on the road. Their instructor was an ex-drill sergeant, and before he ran a boys' choir he ran a boot camp. Apparently, some of the camp spilled over into the choir because every evening, during rehearsals, the choir took a marching break. Yeah, they’d go outside and march in formation. He gave the commands, and the choir did the turns. "Hut, two, three, four. Hut, two, three, four." At first, my friend didn't question the practice because he was frightened of the former drill sergeant. Finally, he summoned up enough courage to ask a choir buddy to explain the marching thing. "Why are we doing this?" "I don't know," was the response. "Well, where are we going?" "I don't know that either," was the reply. No one did. And for two years my friend marched two nights every week, but no one knew where they were going and no one even knew why. They just knew that if they wanted to sing in the choir they’d better stay in step. That's legalism.

It's rigid. It's uniform. It's mechanical – and it's not from God. The truth is that legalism doesn't need God. Legalism is the search for innocence — not forgiveness. It's a systematic process of defending self, explaining self, exalting self and justifying self. Legalists are obsessed with self – not God. Legalism turns my opinion into your burden – there’s only room for one opinion in this boat, so guess who’s wrong? It turns my opinion into your boundary – your opposing opinion makes me question not only your right to have fellowship with me, but your salvation, too. It turns my opinion into your obligation – Christians have got to toe the company line. Your job isn't to think, it's to march. So, if you want to be in the group, you’d better stay in step and don't ask any questions. Sound familiar?

Nicodemus certainly knew how to march since he was usually at the head of the parade. But Nicodemus really wanted to sing, instead. He knew there was something more, but he didn't know where to find it. So he went to Jesus, but he went at night because he feared the displeasure of his peers. Oh yeah, legalism does that, too: it puts the fear of man in you. It makes you approval-hungry. You become keenly aware of what others will say and think, and you do what it takes to please them. Conformity is not very fun, but it's safe. The uniform doesn't fit but it's approved, so you wear it.

You don't know why you’re marching or where you’re going – but who are you to ask any questions? So you stay in step and plod down the path of least resistance. And if you dare explore another trail, you’d better do it at night, just like Nicodemus. So, he snuck through the shadows and crept through the streets until he stood in the presence of Christ. And in the conversation, Nicodemus, the renowned teacher of the law, spoke only three times: once to compliment and twice to question. Because after a lifetime of weighing the jots and tittles of Scripture in his scale of logic, the scholar suddenly becomes silent as Jesus opens the gate, and the light of grace floods the catacombs of Nicodemus’ heart.

Jesus begins by revealing the source of spirituality: "Human life comes from human parents, but spiritual life comes from the Spirit." (John 3:6) Spiritual life is not a human endeavor; it’s rooted in, and orchestrated by the Holy Spirit. Every spiritual achievement is created and energized by God. Spirituality, Jesus says, doesn’t come from church attendance, or good deeds, or correct doctrine, but from heaven itself. Those words, alone, must have blown Nicodemus’ mind. But Jesus was just getting warmed up. "The wind blows where it wants to and you hear the sound of it, but you don't know where the wind comes from or where it is going. It is the same with every person who is born from the Spirit." (John 3:8)

Have you ever had a gust of wind come to you for help? Or, have you ever seen a wind-storm on the side of the road catching its breath? No, you haven't. The wind doesn't seek our aid. Wind doesn't even reveal its destiny. It's silent and invisible, and so is the Spirit. And by now Nicodemus is getting edgy, because that kind of light is too bright for his eyes. Religious teachers like to control and manage; they define and outline. Structure and clarity are the friend of the preacher. But they aren't always the protocol of God. Salvation is God's business. Grace is his idea, his work and his expense. He offers it to whom he desires, when he desires. Our job in the process is to inform the people, not screen them.

So the question must have been written all over Nicodemus' face. Why would God do this? What could possibly motivate him to offer such a gift? And what Jesus told Nicodemus he could have never imagined. The motive behind the gift of new birth? Love. "God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son so that whoever believes in him may not be lost, but have eternal life." (v. 16) Nicodemus had never heard those kinds of words before. Ever. He’d had lots of discussions about salvation, but this is the first time where no rules were given. No system was offered. No code or ritual. "Everyone who believes can have eternal life in him," Jesus told him. Could God really be that generous?

Even in the darkness of night, the amazement must have been noticeable on Nicodemus' face. Everyone who believes can have eternal life. Not "everyone who achieves." Not "everyone who succeeds." Not "everyone who agrees." But "everyone who believes." Note how God liberated this legalist. Like a master farmer, he shoveled away the crusty soil until a moist, fertile spot was found, and there he planted a seed, a seed of grace. And did it bear fruit? Well, read for yourself: Nicodemus, who earlier had come to Jesus at night, went with Joseph. He brought about seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. These two men took Jesus' body and wrapped it with the spices in pieces of linen cloth, which is how Jewish people bury the dead. In the place where Jesus was crucified, there was a garden. In the garden was a new tomb that had never been used before. The men laid Jesus in that tomb. (John 19:39-42)

Strange how a man like Nicodemus can go full circle in the kingdom. The one who'd come at night now appears in the day. The one who crept through the shadows to meet Jesus now comes to the cross to serve him. And the one who'd received the seed of grace now plants the greatest seed of all – the seed of eternal life that sprung from the tomb of the risen Savior.

I guess there’s help for legalists after all. Thank God.

Grace,

Randy

Superiority Complex

 

Superiority Complex

Superiority Complex - Audio/Visual 

As your spiritual teacher I give this piece of advice to each one of you. Don’t cherish exaggerated ideas of yourself or your importance, but try to have a sane estimate of your capabilities by the light of the faith that God has given to you all. (Romans 12:3)

Sometimes you can climb too high for your own good. It’s entirely possible to ascend too far, stand too tall and elevate too much. Linger too long at high altitudes and at least two of your senses will likely suffer from hypoxemia, i.e., insufficient oxygenation of the blood. First, your hearing dulls. It’s hard to hear people when you’re higher than they are. Voices grow distant and sentences seem muffled. And second, when you’re up there, your eyesight dims, too. It’s hard to focus on people when you’re so far above them. They appear so small, like little figures with no faces. You can hardly distinguish one from the other since they all look alike to you. In other words, you don’t hear them, and you don’t see them because you’re above them. Which was exactly David’s altitude at the zenith of his reign.

He’s never been higher. The wave of his success crests at age fifty. Israel’s expanding, and the country’s prospering. In two decades on the throne, he’s distinguished himself as a warrior, musician, statesman and king. His cabinet is strong, and his boundaries stretch for 60,000 square miles. No defeats on the battlefield, and no blemishes on his administration. Loved by the people, served by the soldiers and followed by the crowds, David’s at an all-time high. Quite a contrast to how we first found him in the Valley of Elah – kneeling at the brook in search of five smooth stones. Then, everybody else stood. The soldiers stood. Goliath stood. His brothers stood. The others were high; David was low. Never lower, in fact. But then again, never stronger.

Three decades later his situation is reversed. Never higher, yet never weaker. David stands at the highest point of his life, in the highest position in the kingdom and at the highest place in the city — on the balcony of his castle overlooking Jerusalem. He should be with his men at battle. But he isn’t. He’s home. “In the spring, when the kings normally went out to war, David sent out his general, Joab, his servants, and all the Israelites. They destroyed the Ammonites and attacked the city of Rabbah. But David stayed in Jerusalem.” (2 Sam. 11:1)

It’s springtime in Israel. The nights are warm, and the air is sweet. David has time on his hands, love on his mind and people at his disposal. His eyes fall upon a woman as she bathes. Maybe Bathsheba was bathing in a place where she shouldn’t bathe, hoping David would look where he shouldn’t be looking. Then again, maybe she wasn’t. The truth is we’ll never know. But we know that he looks and likes what he sees. So he inquires about her. A servant returns with the following information: “That woman is Bathsheba daughter of Eliam. She is the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” (2 Sam. 11:3) The servant tactfully laces his information with a warning. He gives not only the woman’s name, but her marital status and the name of her husband. Why tell David she’s married if it wasn’t to caution him? And why give the husband’s name unless David wasn’t familiar with it? Odds are, David knew Uriah.

But even if he didn’t know Uriah, David knew Eliam’s dad, Ahithophel, because Ahithophel was David’s closet cabinet advisor – which, of course, would make Bathsheba his counselor’s granddaughter. See? The servant hopes to respectfully dissuade the king. But David misses the hint because he can’t hear, and the next verse describes his first step down a very slippery slope. “So David sent messengers to bring Bathsheba to him. When she came to him, he had sex with her.” (2 Sam. 11:4)

Notice that David “sends” a lot in this story. He sends Joab to battle. (2 Sam. 11:1) He sends the servant to inquire about Bathsheba. (v. 3) He sends for Bathsheba to have her come to him. (v. 4) When David learns of her pregnancy, he sends word to Joab (v. 6) to send Uriah back to Jerusalem. David sends him to Bathsheba to “get busy,” so to speak, but Uriah is too noble; he’s on the clock. So, David opts to send Uriah back to a place in the battle where he is sure to be killed. Thinking his cover-up is complete, David sends for Bathsheba and marries her. (v. 27) That’s a lot of sending.

We don’t like this sending, demanding David. We prefer the pastoring David, caring for his father’s sheep. Or the clever and resourceful David, hiding from Saul. Maybe even the worshiping David, penning psalms. We aren’t prepared for the David who’s lost control of his self-control, who sins as he sends. What happened? Simple. Hypoxemia. Altitude sickness. Call it a superiority complex. He’s been too high too long. The thin air has messed with his senses. He can’t hear like he used to. He can’t hear the warnings of the servant, or the voice of his conscience, or even his Lord. The pinnacle has dulled his ears and blinded his eyes. Did David see Bathsheba? No. He saw Bathsheba bathing. He saw Bathsheba’s body and Bathsheba’s curves. He saw Bathsheba, the conquest. But did he see Bathsheba, the human being? The wife of Uriah? The daughter of Eliam? The creation of God? No. David had lost his vision.

Too long at the top will do that to you. Too many hours in the bright sun and thin air can leave you breathless and dizzy. Of course, who among us could ever ascend as high as David? Who among us is a finger snap away from a rendezvous with anyone we choose? Presidents and kings might send people to do their bidding, but we’re lucky just to be able to send out for pizza. We don’t have that kind of clout. We can understand David’s other struggles like his fear of Saul, and his long stretches of hiding in the wilderness. We’ve been there. But David the high and mighty? David’s balcony is one place we’ve never been. Or, then again, have we?

I wasn’t on a balcony, but I was in a restaurant. And I didn’t watch a woman bathe, but I did watch a waitress fumble. She couldn’t seem to do anything right. Order soda, and she’d bring juice. Ask for an appetizer, and she’d bring the entre – if she remembered to bring anything at all. And I started to grumble. Not out loud, mind you, but in my thoughts. “What’s the matter with her?” Unfortunately, I was feeling a little smug at the time – I’d just won at trial, and to celebrate the victory my client had invited me to lunch and then proceeded to tell me what a great lawyer I was. I don’t know which was crazier, i.e., the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that I believed it.

So I entered the restaurant that day feeling just a little cocky. I probably even had to tilt my head just to enter the doorway. Then I asked for the soda, the appetizer, etc., and she blew every assignment. So, I growled. Do you see what I was doing? I was placing myself higher than the waitress because, in the pecking order of a restaurant, she was below me. Her job was to serve, and my job was, of course, to be served.

Have you ever felt that way? Superior to someone? A parking lot attendant. The clerk at the grocery store. The peanut-vendor at the baseball game. The sanitation engineer, maybe? You’ve probably done what I did, and the truth is that we’ve all done what David did. We’ve lost our sight and our hearing. When I looked at the waitress, I didn’t see a human being; I saw a server. Which begs the question, how’s your hearing these days? Do you hear the servants whom God sends? Do you hear the conscience that God stirs? And secondly, what about your vision? Do you still see people? Or do you only see their functions? Do you see people who need you, or do you see people beneath you? To me, the story of David and Bathsheba is less a story of lust, and more a story about power. A story of a man who rose too high for his own good. A man who needed to hear, “Come down from there David before you fall.” David’s son, Solomon, whose mother was Bathsheba, would later pen these words: “First pride, then the crash — the bigger the ego, the harder the fall.” (Prov. 16:18)

That must be why God hates arrogance. He hates to see his children fall. He hates to see his David’s seduce, and his Bathsheba’s be victimized. God hates what pride does to his children. God doesn’t merely dislike arrogance, he hates it. Could he state it any more clearly than in Proverbs 8:13: “I hate pride and arrogance”? And then a few chapters later, in case you missed it the first time, “God can’t stomach arrogance or pretense; believe me, he’ll put those upstarts in their place.” (Prov. 16:5)

You don’t want God to do that, i.e., put you in your place. Just ask David. He never quite recovered from his bout with this particular giant. So don’t make his mistake. It’s better to descend the mountain than to fall from it. Pursue humility, instead. C.S. Lewis once said, “Humility doesn’t mean you think less of yourself, but that you think of yourself less.” (Mere Christianity) The apostle Paul said two thousand years earlier, “Don’t cherish exaggerated ideas of yourself or your importance, but try to have a sane estimate of your capabilities by the light of the faith that God has given to you.” (Rom. 12:3) Emphasis, perhaps, on the word sane since its antonym, insane, is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. (attrib. Albert Einstein)

Learn to embrace your poverty. We’re all equally broken and blessed. “People come into this world with nothing, and when they die they leave with nothing.” (Eccles. 5:15) Resist the place of celebrity. “Go sit in a seat that is not important. When the host comes to you, he may say, ‘Friend, move up here to a more important place.’ Then all the other guests will respect you.” (Luke 14:10) Wouldn’t you rather be invited up than put down? God has a cure for the high and mighty: come down from the mountain, or he’ll help you get over your superiority complex. And when you do, you’ll be amazed at what you can hear, and who you will see.

Oh, and you’ll breathe a whole lot easier, too.

Grace,

Randy