Don't Miss the Moment

 

Don’t Miss the Moment

That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord’s glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. “Don’t be afraid!” he said. “I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior — yes, the Messiah, the Lord — has been born today in Bethlehem, the city of David! And you will recognize him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:8-12)

There were no tapestries covering the windows in this throne room; no velvet garments on the servants of the king. And instead of a golden scepter, the king held a crudely whittled olivewood rattle while cows munched, hooves crunched and a mother hummed as she nursed her newborn. It could have begun anywhere, this story of the King. But, curiously, it began in a manger.

Outside, the noise and the bustle began earlier than usual in the small village. As night gave way to dawn, people were already on the streets and vendors were jockeying for position on the corners of the busiest avenues. Store owners were unlocking the doors to their shops. Children were awakened by the excited barking of dogs on the street and the complaints of donkeys pulling their carts. The owner of the local inn had awakened earlier than most in the town. After all, the inn was full – all the beds were taken. Every available mat or blanket had been put to use. Soon, all the guests would be stirring and there’d be a lot of work to do.

And as the innkeeper sat with his family around the breakfast table, did anyone mention the arrival of the young couple the night before? Did anyone comment on the very pregnant girl on the donkey? Maybe. Maybe someone raised the subject, but it was probably never discussed because there was nothing particularly novel about those two. They were one of several families that may have been turned away the night before. Besides, who had time to talk about them when there was so much excitement in the air? Augustus had done the Bethlehem economy a huge favor by decreeing that a census should be taken. Who could remember when this kind of commerce had ever hit the village?

No, it’s doubtful that anyone mentioned the couple’s arrival, or even wondered aloud about the condition of the girl. They were too busy. The day was upon them. The day’s bread had to be made. The morning’s chores had to be done. There was too much to do to imagine that the impossible had occurred – that God had entered the world as a baby. Yet, if someone from the village had come to the sheep stable on the outskirts of Bethlehem that morning, they’d have seen a pretty unusual sight.

The stable stunk like all stables do. The stench of urine, dung and sheep was pungent. The ground was hard, the hay scarce and cobwebs clung to the ceiling while a mouse scurried across the dirt floor. A lowlier place of birth couldn’t exist. And off to one side sat a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, maybe perplexed, perhaps in awe, but no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. That’s because God goes to those who have time to hear him, and so he went to some simple shepherds to give them the news.

Near the young mother sits the weary father. If anyone is dozing, Joseph is. He can’t remember the last time he sat down. And now that the excitement has subsided, now that Mary and the baby are comfortable, he leans against the wall of the stable and feels his eyes grow heavy. He still hasn’t figured it all out. The mystery of the event still puzzles him, but he just doesn’t have the energy to wrestle with the questions right now. What’s important is that the baby’s fine and Mary’s safe. And as sleep comes, he remembers the name the angel told him to use. “We’ll call him Jesus,” he mumbles as he drifts off to sleep.

Mary, on the other hand, is wide awake. Her young head rests on the soft leather of Joseph’s saddle, and the pain of childbirth is now eclipsed by his wonder. She looks into the face of the baby. Her son. Her Lord. His Majesty. And at this point in history, the human being who best understands who God is and what he’s doing is a teenage girl in a smelly stable. She can’t take her eyes off of him. Somehow Mary knows she’s holding God. “So, this is him,” she ponders and considers the words of the angel, “His kingdom will never end.”

Funny, he doesn’t look like a king. His face is all prunish and red. His cry, though strong and healthy, is still the helpless and piercing cry of a newborn. And he’s absolutely dependent upon Mary for his well-being. Majesty in the midst of the mundane. Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat. Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager, in the presence of a carpenter.

This baby had created the universe. These rags keeping him warm were the robes of eternity. His golden throne room had been abandoned in favor of a dirty sheep stall. And worshiping angels had been replaced with kind but bewildered shepherds. Meanwhile, the city’s humming. The merchants are unaware that God has visited their planet. The innkeeper would have never believed that he’d just sent God out into the cold. And the people would scoff at anyone who would have told them that the Messiah lay in the arms of a teenager on the outskirts of their village. They were all too busy to consider the possibility.

Those who missed his Majesty’s arrival that night didn’t miss it because of evil acts or malice. They missed it because they simply weren’t looking. And little has changed in the last two thousand years, because it all happened in a moment; a most remarkable moment.

And as moments go, that one probably appeared no different than any other. If you could somehow pick it up off the timeline and examine it, it would look exactly like the ones that had already passed. It came and it went. It was preceded and succeeded by others just like it. It was one of the countless moments that have marked time since eternity became measurable. But in reality, that particular moment was like none other. For through that segment of time a spectacular thing occurred. God became a man. While the creatures of earth walked unaware, Divinity had arrived. Heaven opened itself and placed its most precious gift in a human womb.

In one instant, the Omnipotent had made himself breakable. The One who had been spirit became pierceable. He who was larger than the universe became an embryo. And the One who sustains the world with a word chose to be dependent upon the nourishment of a teenage girl. God as a fetus. Holiness sleeping in a womb. The creator of life being created. God was given eyebrows, elbows, two kidneys and a spleen. He stretched against the walls and floated in the amniotic fluids of his mother. God had come near.

He didn’t come as a flash of light or as an unapproachable conqueror, but as one whose first cries were heard by a peasant girl and a sleepy carpenter. The hands that first held him were unmanicured, calloused and dirty. No silk. No ivory. No hype. No party. No hoopla. In fact, were it not for the shepherds, there’d have been no reception at all. And were it not for a group of stargazers, there’d have been no gifts later. Angels watched as Mary changed God’s diaper. The universe watched with wonder as the Almighty learned to walk.

Children played in the street with him. And had the synagogue leader in Nazareth known who was listening to his sermons, he might have changed his delivery. Maybe he had pimples. Perhaps a girl down the street had a crush on him, or vice versa. Maybe he had bony knees. One thing’s for sure, though – he was, while completely divine, completely human.

So, what was it like watching him pray? How’d Jesus respond when he saw other kids giggling during services at the local synagogue? And when he saw a rainbow, did he ever mention a flood? Did Mary ever feel awkward teaching him how he created the world? Did he ever come home with a black eye? How’d he act when he got his first haircut? Did he have any friends named Judas? Did he do well in school? Did he ever have to ask a question about Scripture?

Did the thought ever occur to Mary that the God to whom she was praying was asleep under her own roof? And what do you think Jesus thought when he saw a prostitute offering to the highest bidder the body that he had made? Did he ever get angry when someone was dishonest with him? Did he ever wake up afraid? Who was his best friend?

When someone referred to Satan, how’d Jesus act? Did Mary ever accidentally call him Father? What did he and his cousin John talk about as kids? Did his other brothers and sisters understand what was going on and who he was? Did Mary ever think, “That’s God eating my dinner?”

For thirty-three years he would feel everything you and I have ever felt. He felt weak. He grew weary. He was afraid of failure. He was susceptible to wooing women. He got colds, he burped and had body odor. His feelings got hurt, his feet got tired and his head ached. And to think of Jesus in that light is … well … it seems almost irreverent. It’s not something we like to do because it’s uncomfortable. It’s much easier to keep the humanity out of the incarnation. Clean the manure from around the manger. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes. Pretend he never snored or blew his nose or hit his thumb with a hammer.

He’s easier to take that way. There’s something about keeping him divine that keeps him distant, packaged and predictable. But don’t do that this Christmas. Let him be as human as he intended to be. Let him into the muck and the mire of your world because he can’t pull us out until we let him in. Listen to him.

“Love your neighbor” – spoken by a man whose neighbors tried to kill him. The challenge to leave family for the gospel was issued by the very one who kissed his mother goodbye in the doorway. “Pray for those who persecute you,” came from the lips that would soon be begging God to forgive his murderers. “I am with you always” – the words of a God who in one instant did the impossible to make it all possible for you and me. It all happened in a moment. In one moment. A most remarkable moment. The Word became flesh. (John 1:14)

And there will be another. The world will see another instantaneous transformation. You see, in becoming man, God made it possible for man to see God. When Jesus went home he left the back door open. As a result, “we will all be changed — in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.”

The first moment of transformation went unnoticed by the world. The second one won’t. So, the next time you use the phrase “just a moment,” remember that’s all the time it will take to change your world. So, instead, don’t miss the moment this coming Christmas and decide to change it today.

Grace,

Randy

You're Invaluable

 

You’re Invaluable

You're Invaluable - Audio/Visual 

As soon as Jesus heard the news, he left in a boat to a remote area to be alone. But the crowds heard where he was headed and followed on foot from many towns. Jesus saw the huge crowd as he stepped from the boat, and he had compassion on them and healed their sick.

That evening the disciples came to him and said, “This is a remote place, and it’s already getting late. Send the crowds away so they can go to the villages and buy food for themselves.” But Jesus said, “That isn’t necessary — you feed them.” “But we have only five loaves of bread and two fish!” they answered. “Bring them here,” he said.

Then he told the people to sit down on the grass. Jesus took the five loaves and two fish, looked up toward heaven, and blessed them. Then, breaking the loaves into pieces, he gave the bread to the disciples, who distributed it to the people. They all ate as much as they wanted, and afterward the disciples picked up twelve baskets of leftovers. About 5,000 men were fed that day, in addition to all the women and children! (Matthew 14:13-21)

Theresa Briones is a tender, compassionate, loving mother; she also has a wicked left hook that she used to punch a woman in a laundromat. As reported in the Victoria Advocate, some kids were apparently making fun of Theresa’s daughter, Alicia. Alicia is bald. Her knees are arthritic. Her nose is pinched. Her hips are creaky. Her hearing’s bad. She’s missing teeth. She has the stamina of a seventy-year-old, but she’s only ten.

“Mom,” the kids taunted, “come and look at the monster!” Alicia weighs only twenty-two pounds and is shorter than most preschoolers. She suffers from progeria — a genetic aging disease that strikes 1 in 20 million children living at any one time. Kids with progeria seldom live beyond their mid-teens, and there are only 350 to 400 known cases of the disease in the world. “She’s not an alien. She’s not a monster,” Theresa defended. “She’s just like you and me.” Mentally, Alicia is a bubbly, fun-loving third grader with a long list of friends. She watches television in a toddler-sized rocking chair and plays with Barbie dolls and teases her younger brother. Theresa has grown accustomed to the glances and questions and she’s patient with the constant curiosity. Genuine inquiries she accepts; insensitive slanders she does not.

The mother of the finger-pointing children came to investigate. “I see ‘it,’” she told the kids. “My child is not an ‘it,’” Theresa stated and that’s when she used her left hook. That’s the nature of parental love. Mothers and fathers have a God-given ability to love their children regardless of imperfections. Not because the parents are blind because it’s just the opposite, really – they see vividly. Theresa sees Alicia’s inability as clearly as anyone, but she also sees Alicia’s value. And so does God.

God sees us with the eyes of a Father. He sees our defects, errors and blemishes, but he also sees our value. He knows that each human being is a treasure, and because he does people aren’t a source of stress but a source of joy. And when Jesus lands on the shore of Bethsaida, he steps into a sea of humanity. Keep in mind, he crossed the Galilee to get away from the crowds because he needed to grieve alone and then be with his disciples. The last thing he needed was another crowd of thousands to teach and heal.

But his love for people overcame his need for rest, and when Jesus landed and saw a large crowd he had compassion on them and healed their sick. He had compassion for them because they were like sheep without a shepherd. He welcomed them and spoke to them about the kingdom of God and healed those who needed healing. It’s doubtful that anyone in the crowd thought to ask Jesus how he was doing, however. There’s no indication that anyone was concerned with how Jesus felt. The truth is no one came to give; all had come to take.

When hands extended and voices demanded, Jesus responded with love. He did so because the code within him disarmed the alarm. The code is worth noting, too: People are precious. “Sure,” you say, “but that was easy for Jesus. He’s God. He could do things like that; I can’t. After all, he was divine.” True, Jesus was equally God and man, but don’t be too quick to dismiss what he did. Consider his loving response from another perspective. Consider that, along with his holy strength he also had a holy awareness. There weren’t any secrets on the mountain that day; Jesus knew the hearts of each person, and he knew why they were there and what they would do.

Matthew writes that Jesus “healed their sick.” Not some of their sick. Not the righteous among the sick. Not the deserving among the sick. But “the sick.” Surely, among the many thousands there were a few people unworthy of good health because the same divinity that gave Jesus the power to heal also gave him the power to perceive. For instance, I wonder if Jesus was tempted to say to the rapist, “Heal you? After what you’ve done?” Or to the child molester, “Why should I restore your health?” Or to the bigot, “Get out of here, and take your prejudice with you.”

And he could see not only their past, but their future as well. Undoubtedly, there were those in the multitude who would use their newfound health to hurt others. Jesus gave voice to the speechless who would curse. He gave sight to eyes that would lust. He healed hands that would kill. Many of those he healed would never say, “Thank you,” but he healed them anyway. Most were probably more concerned with being healthy than being holy, but he healed them anyway. Some of those who asked for bread that day would cry for his blood a few months later, but he healed them anyway.

Jesus chose to do what you and I seldom do. He chose to give gifts to people knowing full well that those gifts could be used for evil. So, don’t be too quick to attribute Jesus’ compassion to his divinity. Remember both sides. For each time Jesus healed, he had to overlook the future and the past. (Something, by the way, he still does) Have you noticed that God doesn’t ask you to prove that you’ll put your salary to good use? Have you noticed that God doesn’t turn off your heart when you misuse his gifts? Aren’t you glad that God doesn’t give you only that for which you remember to thank him?

God’s goodness is spurred by his nature, not by our worthiness. God does it daily for millions of people. So, what did Jesus know that allowed him to do what he did? What internal code kept his calm from erupting into chaos? He knew the value of people. Interestingly, the stress seen that day is not on Jesus’ face, but on the faces of the disciples. “Send the crowds away,” they demanded. Fair request. “After all,” they’re saying, “you’ve taught them. You’ve healed them. You’ve accommodated them. Now they’re getting hungry. And if we don’t send them away, they’ll want you to feed them, too!” I wish I could have seen the expression on the disciples’ faces when they heard their Master’s response: “That isn’t necessary. You feed them.”

 I used to think that that was a rhetorical statement. I used to think that Jesus knew the disciples couldn’t feed the crowd, but that he asked them anyway. I used to think that it was a “test” to teach them to rely on God for what they couldn’t do. I don’t see it quite like that anymore. I still think it was a test, but not a test to show them what they couldn’t do, but a test to demonstrate what they could do. After all, they’d just come back from a road trip achieving the impossible. Jesus was asking them to do it again. “You give them something to eat.”

And I wish I could tell you that the disciples did it. I wish I could say that they knew God wouldn’t ask them to do something he wouldn’t empower them to do, so they fed the crowd. I wish I could tell you that the disciples miraculously fed the five thousand men plus women and children. But I can’t because they didn’t. Rather than looking to God, they looked in their wallets: “That would take eight months of a man’s wages! Are we to go and spend that much on bread and give it to them to eat?” (John 6:7) It’s as if they were saying, “You’re kidding me, right?” “He can’t be serious.” “It’s one of Jesus’ jokes, right?” “Do you know how many people are out there?”

Eyes big as saucers. Jaws dangling open. One ear hearing the din of the crowd, the other the command of God. Don’t miss the contrasting views. When Jesus saw the people, he saw an opportunity to love and affirm them because they had value. But when the disciples saw the people, they saw thousands of problems. And don’t miss the irony, either. The disciples tell the “Bread of Life” that there’s no bread. How silly we must appear to God.

Look at this day one more time. Review what our Lord faced. Intense sorrow — the death of a dear friend and relative. Immediate threat — his name is on the Most Wanted poster. Immeasurable joy — a homecoming with his followers. Immense crowds — a Niagara of people followed him everywhere. Insensitive interruptions — he sought rest and got people. Incredible demands — crowds of thousands clamored for his touch. Inept assistance — the one and only time he asked for help, he got a dozen “you’re-pulling-my-leg” expressions.

But the calm within Christ never changed. The alarm never sounded. What did Jesus know that enabled him to do what he did? He knew the incredible value of people. As a result, he didn’t stomp his feet and demand his own way. He didn’t tell the disciples to find another beach where there were no people. He didn’t ask the crowds why they hadn’t brought their own food. He didn’t send the apostles back into the field for more training. He stayed calm in the midst of chaos. He even paused in the midst of it all to pray a prayer of thanks. And if you need something more contemporary, here’s a story.

A young boy went into a pet shop, looking for a puppy. The store owner showed him a litter in a box. The boy looked at the puppies. He picked each one up, examined it and then put it back into the box. After several minutes, he walked back to the owner and said, “I picked one out. How much will it cost?” The man gave him the price, and the boy promised to be back in a few days with the money. “Don’t take too long,” the owner cautioned. “Puppies like these sell quickly.” The boy turned and smiled knowingly, “I’m not worried,” he said. “Mine will still be here.”

The boy went to work — weeding, washing windows, cleaning yards. He worked hard and saved his money. When he had enough for the puppy, he returned to the store. The storeowner sorted and counted the cash, and after verifying the amount he smiled at the boy and said, “All right, son, you can go get your puppy.” The boy reached into the back of the box, pulled out a skinny dog with a limp leg, and started to leave.

The owner stopped him. “Don’t take that puppy,” he objected. “He’s crippled. He can’t play. He’ll never run with you. He can’t fetch. Get one of the healthy pups.” “No thank you, sir,” the boy replied. “This is exactly the kind of dog I’ve been looking for.” And as the boy turned to leave, the store owner started to speak but kept silent because then he suddenly understood. You see, extending from the bottom of the boy’s pants was a brace — a brace for his leg that had been “crippled” in an accident.

Why did the boy want that particular dog? Because he knew how it felt, and he knew the dog was incredibly special. And what did Jesus know that enabled him to do what he did? Because he knew how the people felt, and he knew that they were incredibly special. Don’t forget that. Jesus knows how you feel.

You are precious to him. So precious that he became like you so that you would come to him. When you struggle, he listens. When you ache, he responds. When you question, he hears. He’s been there. You’ve heard that before, but you need to hear it again. He loves you with the love of a Theresa Briones. He understands you with the compassion of the “crippled” boy. And like Theresa, he battles with hell itself to protect you. And, like the boy, he paid a great price to take you home.

Grace,

Randy