Seeing the Unseen

 

Seeing the Unseen

Seeing the Unseen - Audio/Visual (@28:28) 

When Jesus went in the boat back to the other side of the lake, a large crowd gathered around him there. A leader of the synagogue, named Jairus, came there, saw Jesus, and fell at his feet. He begged Jesus, saying again and again, “My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live.” So, Jesus went with him….

While Jesus was still speaking, some people came from the house of the synagogue leader. They said, “Your daughter is dead. There is no need to bother the teacher anymore.” But Jesus paid no attention to what they said. He told the synagogue leader, “Don’t be afraid; just believe.” When they came to the house of the synagogue leader, Jesus found many people there making lots of noise and crying loudly. Jesus entered the house and said to them, “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep.” But they laughed at him.

So, after throwing them out of the house, Jesus took the child’s father and mother and his three followers into the room where the child was. Taking hold of the girl’s hand, he said to her “Talitha, koum!” (This means, “Little girl, get up!”) At once the girl stood right up and began walking. (She was twelve years old) Everyone was completely amazed. (Mark 5:21-24, 35-43)

There I stood on one side of the living room while a friend of mine stood on the other. My job was to close my eyes and walk; his job was to be my eyes and talk me safely across the room. With phrases like, “Take two baby steps to the left,” and “Take four giant steps straight ahead,” my friend successfully navigated me through a treacherous maze of chairs, a vacuum cleaner and a dog. Did you ever do that when you were a kid? Better yet, do you do it now as an adult? We don’t like the dark, but we walk in it. We walk where we can’t see so we take timid steps, so we won’t fall. And we’ve good reason to be cautious because we’re blind. We can’t see the future. We have absolutely no vision beyond the present. It’s one limitation that we all share. The wealthy are just as blind as the poor. The educated are just as sightless as the unschooled. And the famous know as little about the future as the not-so-famous.

None of us know how our children will turn out. None of us know the day we’ll die. No one knows whom he or she will marry, or if marriage is even in the cards. We are universally, absolutely, unalterably blind. We’re groping through a dark room, listening for a familiar voice but with one difference: while my childhood surroundings were familiar and friendly, ours as adults can be hostile, even fatal. My worst fear then was stubbing my toe; our worst fear now is a lot more threatening like cancer, divorce, loneliness, even death. And try as we might to walk as straight as we can, chances are a toe is going to get stubbed and we’re going to get hurt. Just ask Jairus. He’s a man who had tried to walk as straight as he could, but whose path had taken a sudden turn toward a dark cave that he didn’t want to enter alone.

Jairus is the leader of the synagogue, and the synagogue was the center of religion, education, leadership and social activity. He was the senior religious leader, the mayor, and the best-known citizen all in one. He had it all – job security, a guaranteed welcome at the coffee shop, a pension plan and golf every Friday. Who could ask for more? Yet Jairus does. He has to ask for more. In fact, he would trade his entire package of perks and privileges for just one thing — to know that his daughter would live.

The Jairus we see in this story is not the clear-sighted, black-frocked, nicely groomed civic leader. He is, instead, a blind man begging for a gift. He fell at Jesus’ feet, “… saying again and again, ‘My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live.’” (Mk 5:23) He doesn’t barter, negotiate or make excuses; he just pleads. And, like Jairus, there are times in life when everything we have to offer is nothing compared to what we are asking to receive. Jairus was at that point because what could he offer in exchange for his child’s life? So, there were no games; no haggling; no masquerades. The situation was starkly simple: Jairus was blind to the future and Jesus knew what the future held. So Jairus asks for his help and Jesus, who loves an honest heart, gave it. And God, who knows what it’s like to lose a child, empowers his son to do so.

But before Jesus and Jairus get very far, they’re interrupted by emissaries from Jairus’ home. “Your daughter is dead.” (v. 35) How’s that for being blunt? Life can be that way at times but, in response, Jesus goes from being led to leading; from being convinced by Jairus to convincing Jairus; from being admired to being laughed at; from helping out the people to casting out the people. “Jesus paid no attention to what they said ….” (v. 36)

I love that line. It describes the critical principle for seeing the unseen: ignore what people say. Block them out. Turn them off. Close your ears. And, if you have to, walk away. Ignore the ones who say it’s too late to start over. Disregard those who say you’ll never amount to anything. Turn a deaf ear to those who say that you aren’t smart enough, fast enough, tall enough or big enough — ignore them. Faith sometimes begins by putting cotton in our ears.

Knowing Jairus’ broken heart, Jesus turns immediately to Jairus and says: “Don’t be afraid; just believe.” (v. 36) Jesus is asking Jairus to see the unseen. And when Jesus says, “Just believe …,” he’s imploring him. “Don’t limit your possibilities to only what you can see. Don’t listen only for the audible. Don’t be controlled by the logical. Believe there is more to life than meets the eye!” “Trust me,” Jesus is pleading. “Don’t be afraid; just trust.”

That kind of trust was found on a cellar wall in Cologne, Germany where Jews had hidden during World War II. “I believe in the sun, even though it doesn’t shine; I believe in love, even when it isn’t shown; I believe in God, even when he doesn’t speak.” What eyes could have seen the good in such horror? There’s only one answer: eyes that chose to see the unseen. Paul wrote: “We set our eyes not on what we see but on what we cannot see. What we see will last only a short time, but what we cannot see will last forever.” (2 Cor. 4:18) Jesus is asking Jairus to see the unseen; to make a choice. To either live by the facts, or to see by his faith. When tragedy strikes, we, too, are left to choose what we see. We can either see the hurt or see the Healer. The choice is ours.

At the house, Jesus and Jairus run into a group of mourners and Jesus asks them why they’re wailing. It bothers him that they’re so anxious over death. “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep.” (v. 39) And that’s not a rhetorical question. It’s an honest one. From Jesus’ perspective, the girl is not dead — she’s only asleep. From God’s viewpoint, death is not permanent – it’s a necessary step for passing from this world into the next. It’s not an end; it’s a beginning. “Flesh and blood cannot have a part in the kingdom of God …. This body that can be destroyed must clothe itself with something that can never be destroyed. And this body that dies must clothe itself with something that can never die.” (1 Cor. 15:50, 53)

From God’s viewpoint, death is not to be dreaded; it is to be welcomed. And when he sees people crying and mourning over death, he wants to know, “Why are you crying?” When we see death, we see disaster; when Jesus sees death, he sees deliverance. But that’s too much for the people to take so, “They laughed at him.” (Mk 5:40) And Jesus’ response? He threw them out of the house. He doesn’t just ask them to leave – he throws them out. Jesus’ response was decisive and strong. In fact, in the original text, the word used here is the same word used to describe what Jesus did to the moneychangers in the temple – I think a whip and tossing tables was involved. It’s the same verb used thirty-eight times to describe what Jesus did to the demons. But why such force? Why such intolerance?

The answer can be found by going back to my living room experience. After my friend had successfully guided me through the living room, another friend thought he’d be a comedian. So, on my last trip across the living room he snuck up from behind me and began whispering, “Don’t listen to him. Listen to me. I’ll take care of you.” Hearing him, I stopped, analyzed the situation and made my choice between the two voices. “Be quiet,” I said, and then continued on in my other friend’s direction. Undeterred, my diabolical friend then grabbed the lid of a pan, held it next to my ear and smacked it with a spoon. Startled, I jumped to a stop. Seeing that I was in shock, and maybe deaf, my friend from the other side of the room immediately ran in my direction, threw his arms around me and said, “Don’t worry. I’m right here.” He wasn’t about to let the noise distract me from the journey.

And God isn’t going to let the noise distract you from yours, either. He’s still busy casting out the critics and silencing the voices that could deter you. Some of his work you’ve probably seen; most of it you haven’t. Only when you get home will you know how many times he has protected you from luring voices. God knows that you and I are blind. He knows that living by faith and not by sight doesn’t come naturally. And I think that’s one reason he raised Jairus’ daughter from the dead – it wasn’t for her sake, but for Jairus’, and ours. To teach us that heaven sees when we trust, and that we can trust even when we cannot see.

Grace,

Randy

Breaking the Cycle

 

Breaking the Cycle

Breaking the Cycle - Audio/Visual (@24:35) 

Under the old covenant, the priest stands and ministers before the altar day after day, offering the same sacrifices again and again, which can never take away sins. But our High Priest offered himself to God as a single sacrifice for sins, good for all time. Then he sat down in the place of honor at God’s right hand. There he waits until his enemies are humbled and made a footstool under his feet. For by that one offering he forever made perfect those who are being made holy …. And when sins have been forgiven, there is no need to offer any more sacrifices. (Hebrews 10:11-14; 18)

The letter to the Hebrews can be a puzzling book. Even its author is a mystery. Some say it’s Paul, others say it’s Peter. Some even suggest it’s Dr. Luke’s transcript of one of Paul’s sermons. Regardless, Hebrews is the language of the temple, the priest, the altar and atoning blood – Old Testament terms that we thought we’d left behind in the New Testament. But the book of Hebrews also centers on a word with which we’re all familiar: sacrifice.

Barely a month before his death, Abraham Lincoln took to the rostrum on the steps of the Capitol and gave one of his greatest speeches – his Second Inaugural Address. The Great Emancipator ended his short speech with the following words: "With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan – to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations."

“Sacrifice” is a word people generally use when they find themselves indebted to someone, or to some group, for things that sustain life or, perhaps, for even saving life. For instance, we speak of our parents as having made sacrifices, and we honor people who speak the truth and suffered the consequences for it like Gandhi, Mandela or Martin Luther King. We describe the loss of life in war as a sacrifice made to defend a nation or given for a cause like freedom. The word “sacrifice” refers to something done for us without concern for the giver’s self. And when the sacrifice involves the shedding of blood, it conjures up a power that exceeds our ability to estimate in words. The word itself comes from two separate words, Sacer meaning “holy,” and facere meaning “to make.” Of course, that doesn’t really define the many ways in which the word “sacrifice” is used since there are many ways of “making holy” that are not a sacrifice, and there are other sacrifices that make nothing holy at all.

On September 12, 1861, a 25-year-old farmer from southern Lancaster County left his farm and family and marched off to war against the Confederacy with the 79th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry Regiment – the Lancaster Rifles. In late 1863, some two (2) years later, the entire regiment re-enlisted, earning the right to proudly display the word “Veteran” on their battle colors – the 79th Pennsylvania Veteran Volunteer Infantry Regiment.

Then, nearly four years after his enlistment, Sergeant William T. Clark returned to his farm, older – and made older – by his years spent soldiering and nursing the wounds of war that would eventually take his life. Sgt. Clark would later serve as the Judge of Elections in November 1864, when members of his regiment proudly voted for Abraham Lincoln’s re-election. But Sergeant Clark’s blank check offered in battle had cost him the partial use of one arm, intestinal issues due to multiple combat wounds, and a lifetime battling malaria from his time spent in the Deep South. During his nearly four years in the 79th Pennsylvania, Sgt. Clark and his regiment spent less than 60 nights under a roof, or about one night a month. Some would call that a “sacrifice.”

The book of Hebrews takes the Old Testament notion of sacrifice and castes it in New Testament terms. In the old system, the priests went daily to the temple, and the high priest went annually into the Holy of Holies on the Day of Atonement. Sacrifices were made as part of these rituals. In the “old” system of sacrifice, the people were rescued from sin by the life of a sacrificial animal. Their sins were symbolically placed on the animal as a substitute so that the people could begin their spiritual life anew.

But Hebrews points to an inherent flaw in that old system of sacrifice. Let’s say my car is not running properly. So, I take it to the mechanic to have the problem diagnosed and repaired. But what if I had to take my car back to the mechanic week after week to fix the same problem? Obviously, I’d need to change mechanics, or maybe get a new car, because the problem wasn’t fixed – ever. Like my car, the Jewish sacrifices that were being offered over and over again were indicative of the fact that the root problem for which the sacrifice was being made had not been repaired or fixed.

The book of Hebrews explains that the temple and its sacrifices had always been intended as only a temporary substitute for something brand new that was being worked out by God. The new sacrificial system spoken of in Hebrews was not the continual shedding of the blood of bulls and goats, but the shedding of the blood of the Messiah – once and for all. It’s the sacrifice of Jesus that reaches deep inside of us, transforming us at the core of our being. We’re not just washed clean (a temporary fix), we’re made brand new (a complete makeover). The priests went daily to perform their sacrificial duties, but Jesus didn’t have to. His sacrifice was once and for all. Complete – “ because … when sins have been forgiven, there is no need to offer sacrifices anymore.” (Heb. 10:18)

When Jesus submitted to those who killed him, rather than exercising violence against them, the temple veil was torn in half and something brand new happened that day. An event that first seemed to be so terrible and so final was transformed by Christ into a brand-new way of existence. We worship a God who chose to suffer violence rather than meet it in kind. God entered into humankind’s cycle of violence and broke that cycle – forever.

Jesus said, “…Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13)  In other words, Jesus defined sacrifice as an act of love. Not an act of hate, or an act of war, but an act of love. Any Veteran will tell you that the bond between those who serve together in theater creates a “band of brothers;" some prefer to call it a brotherhood. But no matter how characterized, it’s love; that’s what Jesus both taught and showed.

Christ laid down his life for all of us. He chose to allow others to lead him to the cross, knowing full well what was in store. And he did it without remorse, without so much as a second thought. And that love extends to each of us because he went in our stead. It’s love that causes men like William Clark to leave a verdant farm and loving family to march off to war, stand shoulder to shoulder with his friends, neighbors and fellow soldiers, and brave the heat and ferocity of battle even though wounded. Those blank checks are too often cashed in blood and breath; in tears and trauma. Nevertheless, the checks were written and then tendered with love.

So, how do we compare those kinds of sacrifices with the ultimate sacrifice made on our behalf by Jesus on the cross? Both are costly and precious; both are made in love. But only the sacrifice of Jesus shows us the way out of the cycle of violence in which we have been bound for millennia. Jesus lived a non-violent life, and through his life he teaches us, and encourages us to do the same.

Unfortunately, we are still locked into a cycle of violence that sends out substitutionary sacrifices (military men and women), because we are unable to live the way that Jesus taught in the Sermon on the Mount. We have not yet learned the new way of being that Jesus demonstrated for us in his sacrifice. In Christ, God created a new way of being; a new community of reconciliation by resisting and overcoming the power of the world with God’s saving power.

Jesus’ resistance to violence broke the cycle of bloodshed. “It is possible!” proclaims the cross. “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:34) With those words, Jesus inaugurated a new age. We have only to embrace this wondrous love, and then show and demonstrate it in our own lives and actions to help usher in the same toward others. That’s breaking the cycle, and heaven knows we need to break the cycle. He made perfect those who are being made holy. Will your sacrifice help others to do the same? Breaking the cycle. Now that’s a sacrifice. Or love.

Grace,

Randy

Grace Unmasked

 

Grace Unmasked

Grace Unmasked - Audio/Visual (@23:30)

Jesus, tired from the long walk, sat wearily beside the well about noontime. Soon a Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Please give me a drink.” The woman was surprised, for Jews refuse to have anything to do with Samaritans. She said to Jesus, “You are a Jew, and I am a Samaritan woman. Why are you asking me for a drink?” Jesus replied, “If you only knew the gift God has for you and who you are speaking to, you would ask me, and I would give you living water….”

“I know the Messiah is coming – the one who is called Christ. When he comes, he will explain everything to us.” Then Jesus told her, “I Am the Messiah!” … The woman left her water jar beside the well and ran back to the village, telling everyone, “Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?” (John 4:6-7; 8-10; 25-26; 28-29)

The property is like a lot of others holding its own against a river of progress and tract homes. It’s a cemetery, where hundreds of tombstones stand and one of them announcing the location of Grace Llewellyn Smith. No date of birth is listed. No date of death is given. Just the names of her two husbands and this epitaph: Sleeps, but rests not. Loved, but was loved not. Tried to please, but pleased not. Died as she lived – alone. It makes you wonder about Grace’s life. Did she write the words, or did she live them? Was she bitter? Was she beaten? Was she plain? Was she beautiful? Why are some lives so fruitful, while others so futile? For Grace it probably meant long nights, empty beds and the sound of silence. No response to her countless messages and letters; no love returned in exchange for a love she’d given. She tried to please and utterly failed.

How many people will die in loneliness? Maybe it’s the homeless person, or the happy hour hopper; maybe the bag lady at the local grocery store. It could be anyone who doubts whether the world needs them. It’s anyone who’s convinced that nobody really cares. Someone who’s been given a ring, but not a heart; criticism, instead of a chance; a bed, but no rest. These are the victims of futility. And unless someone intervenes, unless something happens, Grace’s epitaph will be theirs, too. That’s why John’s story is so significant. It’s the story of another epitaph of a sort. But this time the tombstone doesn’t mark the death of a person – it marks her birth. It’s about Grace - unmasked.

Her eyes squint against the noonday sun. Her shoulders stoop under the weight of a water jug. She keeps her eyes down so she can dodge the stares of others. She’s a Samaritan and knows the sting of racism; she’s a woman who’s bumped her head on the ceiling of sexism. She’s been married to five men, and her current partner won’t even give her his name, just a place to sleep. On that particular day, she came to the well at noon, perhaps to avoid the other women in town. For her, a walk in the hot sun was a small price to pay to escape their sharp tongues. “Shhhhhh, here she comes. They say she’ll sleep with anyone.” She expected silence. She expected solitude. Instead, she found someone who knew her better than she knew herself. But he was obviously Jewish, so what was he doing here? Then their eyes met, hers quickly ducking in embarrassment and focused on what she came for. She tried to ignore him.

Sensing her discomfort, Jesus asked her for water. But she was too streetwise to think that was all he wanted. And her intuition was correct – sort of. He was interested in more than water, alright. He was interested in her heart. And so they talked. Who could remember the last time a man had spoken to her with respect? He told her about a spring of water that would quench her soul, not her throat, and that kind of water intrigued her. “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming back here to draw water.” Jesus responded, “Go, call your husband and come back.” (John 4:15-16) Her heart must have sunk. Here was a Jew who didn’t care if she was a Samaritan. Here was a man who didn’t look down on her as a woman. Here was the closest thing to gentleness she’d ever seen and now he was asking her about that. Anything but that. Maybe she thought about lying. “My husband? He’s at the office.” Or, maybe she wanted to change the subject. Or then again maybe she just wanted to turn and run away. But she didn’t. She stayed and told the truth: “I have no husband.”

Aren’t there times when we want to take our masks off? Don’t we sometimes want to stop pretending? Don’t we occasionally wonder what God would do if we opened up and revealed who we really are, even though he knows already? This woman did, but she probably wondered what Jesus would do when he heard. She must have wondered if the kindness would cease when the truth came out. And Jesus’ response? “You’re right. You’ve had five husbands and the man you’re with now won’t even give you his name.” What? No criticism? No anger? No what-kind-of-a-mess-have-you-made-of-your-life lecture? No, none of that because it wasn’t perfection that Jesus was seeking. It was honesty. The woman was amazed and said, “I can see that you’re a prophet.” Translation? “There’s something different about you. Do you mind if I ask you something?” And then she asked the question that revealed the gaping hole in her heart: “Where’s God? My people say he’s on the mountain. Your people say he’s in Jerusalem. I’m confused. I don’t know where he is.” (vs. 20)

Of all the places to find a hungry heart – Samaria. Of all the Samaritans to be searching for God – a woman. Of all the women to have an insatiable appetite for God – a five-time divorcé. And of all the people to be chosen to personally receive the secret of the ages – an outcast among outcasts. Jesus must have smiled when he said, “I Am the Messiah.” And with that the most important phrase in this story is easily overlooked. “The woman left her water jar beside the well and ran back to the village, telling everyone, ‘Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?’” (vs. 28-29) Don’t miss the drama of the moment. Look at her eyes, wide with amazement. Watch as she scrambles to her feet, takes one last look at the Nazarene, turns and probably runs right into Peter just returning from the local In-N-Out with burgers and some fries – animal style.

Did you notice what she forgot? She forgot her water jar. She left behind the jug that had caused the sag in her shoulders. She left behind the burden that she’d brought. Suddenly the shame of her tattered romances disappeared. Suddenly the insignificance of her life was swallowed up by the significance of the moment. “God is here! God has come! And God cares . . . for me!” That’s why she forgot her water jar. That’s why she ran to the city. That’s why she grabbed the first person she saw and announced her discovery, “I just talked to a man who knows everything I ever did … and he loves me anyway!”

For some, the story of these two women may be touching but distant – distant because maybe you belong; you’ve got more friends than you can visit. Insignificance will not be chiseled on your tombstone. And if that’s you, be thankful. But for others it may be different. We’ve paused at the epitaph because, well . . . maybe it resembles what could be our own. We see the face of Grace Llewellyn Smith when we look into the mirror. We know why the Samaritan woman was avoiding people. We know what it’s like to have no one sit by us at the cafeteria, or at the local Starbucks, or just about any place. We’ve wondered what it would be like to have just one really good friend. And we’ve sometimes wondered, “Where’s God in all of this?” That was Barbara’s question.

Joy teaches Sunday school to underprivileged children in an inner-city church. One year her class was a lively group of nine-year olds who loved life and weren’t afraid of God – with one exception. Barbara. Her difficult home life had left her afraid and insecure. For the many weeks that Joy taught the class, Barbara never spoke. Ever. While the other children talked, she sat. While the other children sang, Barbara was silent. Always present. Always listening. But always speechless. That was until one day when Joy taught a lesson on heaven. She talked about seeing God. Barbara was fascinated and wouldn’t release Joy from her penetrating stare. She listened with a hunger that Joy had never seen before. Then she raised her 9-year-old hand. “Ms. Joy?” Joy was stunned. Barbara had never asked a question. “Yes, Barbara?” “Is heaven for girls like me?”

A tiny prayer that had reached the throne of God. An earnest prayer that a good God in heaven would remember a forgotten soul on earth. A prayer that God’s grace would seep through the cracks and cover someone the church had let slip through. A prayer to take a life that no one else could use and use it like no one else could. Not a prayer from the pulpit, but one from a bed in a convalescent home. Not a prayer prayed confidently by a preacher, but one whispered fearfully by a recovering addict. A prayer to do what God does best – taking the common and making it spectacular. Taking water and making wine; taking a peasant boy’s lunch and feeding a multitude; taking mud and restoring sight; taking three spikes and a wooden beam and making them the hope of humanity; taking a rejected Samaritan woman and making her the first missionary.

There are two graves in the story. The first is the lonely one belonging to Grace Llewellyn Smith. She apparently didn’t know love. She probably didn’t know gratification. She likely knew only the pain of the chisel as it carved the epitaph of her life. The second is near a well with a water jug for a tombstone. It has no words but bears great significance – it’s the place where grace was unmasked.

Grace,

Randy