Easter

Truth or Consequences

There were also two criminals led out with Jesus to be put to death. When they came to a place called the Skull, the soldiers crucified Jesus and the criminals – one on his right and the other on his left ….

One of the criminals on a cross began to shout insults at Jesus: “Aren’t you the Christ? Then save yourself and us.”

But the other criminal stopped him and said, “You should fear God! You are getting the same punishment he is. We are punished justly, getting what we deserve for what we did. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Jesus said to him, “I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in  paradise.”

(Luke 23:32-33, 39-43)

During the latter half of the 1800’s, Edwin Thomas had few professional rivals. Standing a modest 5’6”, but blessed with a huge baritone voice, he’s still considered by most theatrical historians as the greatest American actor, and the greatest Hamlet, of the 19^th century. Debuting in Richard III at the tender age of fifteen, he quickly established himself as a premier Shakespearean actor. In New York, he performed Hamlet for 100 consecutive nights, a record that stood for almost sixty years until 1922 when John Barrymore broke Edwin’s streak by playing the title character in 101 consecutive performances. And in London, Edwin won the approval of the notoriously tough British critics. In short, when it came to performing tragedy on stage, Edwin Thomas was in a very select group, indeed. Unfortunately, when it came to experiencing tragedy in life, the same could be said as well.

Edwin had two brothers, John and Junius. Both were actors, although neither rose to Edwin’s stature. But, in 1863, the three brothers decided to unite their talents and perform Julius Caesar. The fact that Edwin’s brother, John, took the role of Marc Antony was, perhaps, a harbinger of what awaited the brothers – and the nation – two years later. You see, John, who played the role of the assassin’s victim in Julius Caesar, is the same John who became the real-life assassin at Ford’s Theatre when, on a crisp April night in 1865, he quietly stole into the rear of the box in the Washington theatre and fired a bullet at the head of Abraham Lincoln. Yes, the last name of the brothers was Booth – Edwin Thomas Booth and John Wilkes Booth.

Edwin was never the same after that night. Shame from his brother’s crime drove him into an early retirement of sorts. And he might never have returned to the stage had it not been for a strange twist of fate at a Jersey City train station.

Edwin was waiting for his train when a well-dressed young man, jostled by the crowd, lost his balance and fell between the railroad platform and an approaching train. Without hesitation, Edwin locked a leg around a railing, grabbed the man by his collar, and snatched him to safety. After sighs of relief, the young man immediately recognized the famous face of Edwin Booth. Edwin, however, didn’t recognize the young man that he’d rescued. That knowledge came a few months later in a letter. The letter was from a friend of Edwin’s, Col. Adam Badeau, who was chief secretary to General Ulysses S. Grant. The letter was sent to thank Edwin for saving the life of the child of an American hero, Abraham Lincoln. How ironic that while one brother killed the President, the other brother saved the President’s son, Robert Todd Lincoln.

 Edwin Thomas and John Wilkes Booth. Same father, same mother, same upbringing, same education, same training, same profession, same passion. Yet, one chose life, while the other chose death. How could that happen? I don’t know, but it does. And although their story may seem rather dramatic, it’s certainly not unique – not by a long-shot. Don’t believe me? How ‘bout Cain and Abel? They were both sons of Adam and Eve, but Abel chose God and Cain chose murder – and God let him. Abraham and Lot were both pilgrims in Canaan, but Abraham chose God and Lot chose Sodom – and God let him. David and Saul were both kings of Israel, but David chose God while Saul chose power – and God let him. Peter and Judas both denied their Lord, but Peter sought mercy while Judas sought death – and God let him.

You see, in every age of history, and on every page of the Bible, the simple truth is revealed: God allows us to make our own choices. In fact, no one makes that clearer than Jesus himself. In Matthew 7:13-14, Jesus talks about a number of choices we can make: a narrow gate versus a wide gate; a narrow road versus a wide road; the big crowd versus the small crowd. All of them, choices. And, we can choose to build on rock or sand (Matt. 7:24-27), serve God or riches (Matt. 6:24), or choose to be a sheep or a goat. (Matt. 25:32-33) God gives us eternal choices, and these choices have eternal consequences.

But he also invites our questions before we make that choice. For instance, have you ever thought, “Well, if God is such a good God, why does he allow human trafficking to steal our kids, or cancer to steal our health, or homelessness to steal our dignity, or death to steal our loved ones?!” I don’t have any glib answers to that question. Questions with the words “Why” and “God” in the same sentence are difficult to answer because we’re caught between what God says and what makes sense. We’ve done what He’s told us to do, only to wonder if it was Him talking in the first place.

We’ve stared into a sky blackened with doubt and wondered if we’re still on the right road. We’ve asked if we were supposed to turn left when we turned right. And we’ve asked if there’s a plan out there somewhere because things really haven’t turned out quite the way we thought they would. We’ve asked our questions. Maybe we’ve even questioned God. But regardless, we still wonder why God does what He does.

In the 11^th chapter of John, we read of a funeral that involved some very hard questions being asked by family members with some very raw feelings.

On his arrival, Jesus found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Now Bethany was less than two miles from Jerusalem, and many Jews had come to Martha and Mary to comfort them in the loss of their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went out to meet him, but Mary stayed at home.

“Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.”

Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha answered, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?” “Yes, Lord,” she replied, “I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who is to come into the world.”

            After she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary aside. “The Teacher is here,” she said, “and is asking for you.” When Mary heard this, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet entered the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. When the Jews who had been with Mary in the house, comforting her, noticed how quickly she got up and went out, they followed her, supposing she was going to the tomb to mourn there.

When Mary reached the place where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

            When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. “Where have you laid him?” he asked.

“Come and see, Lord,” they replied.

Jesus wept.

Lazarus had come from a very close family, among them two sisters: Martha and Mary. And, like a lot of us, Lazarus came from a good family and had a bunch of friends, one of whom, in this case, was Jesus. Problem is Jesus arrived in Bethany four days after Lazarus had already passed. And as he approaches the house full of people crying, both sisters run out to him, at separate times, and say, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

But I think these kind of “If” questions are pretty normal.  So, if you’ve asked yourself something similar, don’t blame yourself. “OK, you say. But if we’re not to blame, then, who is? God?” Well, that’s precisely what Martha and Mary imply as they grieve over the death of their brother: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

I’ve learned some time ago that it’s pretty senseless to accuse God or try to explain Him. But it’s not senseless, and certainly not sinful, to question Him. And maybe we’ve wondered why God lets certain things happen like human trafficking, or cancer, or homelessness, or even death. And it’s OK to ask these kinds of questions because we know from our story that Jesus didn’t scold these sisters for suggesting that maybe, just maybe, their brother’s death was really Jesus’ fault. So, what was Jesus’ response? He wept.

Frankly, this kind of puzzles me. Why is the King of kings and Lord of lords breaking down and crying at that moment? I mean, here’s God with skin on attending the funeral of a friend and weeping openly, without embarrassment and without apology, knowing full well that He’s eventually going to raise Lazarus from the dead! But as you continue to read the story, answers to the family’s “If” question gradually come into focus. First, Jesus wept for the family – for Martha and Mary and perhaps others in Lazarus’ immediate family. You see, when Jesus arrived He could see their pain and their suffering and the effects of losing their brother in their tear-filled eyes. So, He shared in the loss of the family and wept.

But I think Jesus’ tears were not only for the family, but because He, too, had suffered a loss. Lazarus was His friend. Maybe Jesus traveled with him, ate with him, talked for hours on the phone with him, Facebooked him, Twittered him, golfed with him, whatever. And, as a result, had grown in close fellowship with him. But Jesus’ friend was now gone; that relationship had been broken, and Jesus felt the pain of losing a friend. So, he wept.

And there may be one other reason why Jesus cried: Jesus knew that He Himself would soon face death. And He knew that there would be pain and sorrow among His own family and friends. And each of us will face the reality of death, eventually. Or, it may be that we’ll be orphaned by the death of a loved one or friend before our time comes. But the reality is that loved ones will be left behind. And so, Jesus wept.

And if that’s as far as the story went, it wouldn’t provide us much solace, or hope. But the story doesn’t stop there. John goes on to tell us that Jesus went to the tomb of his friend Lazarus. And at that point the truth then becomes crystal clear: that in Jesus there’s the power of life. Because Jesus spoke the words and Lazarus rose from the grave. And because of that event we, too, have hope. Because if Jesus can raise his friend Lazarus from the grave, He can raise us, too.

Ever thought about why there were two crosses next to Christ? I mean, why not six, or ten, or a dozen or more? And if you’ve actually thought about that, have you then wondered why Jesus was in the center? Why not on the far right, or far left, instead? Maybe this is a stretch, but could it be that the crosses on either side of the savior symbolized God’s gift of choice? Now, before you think I’ve gone just a little too far, keep reading.

The two thieves had a lot in common, didn’t they? They were convicted by the same system; they were condemned to the same death; they were surrounded by the same crowd; and they were equally close to Jesus. In fact, they even began with the same sarcasm: “The two criminals also said cruel things to Jesus.” (Matt. 27:44) But then, one of the thieves changed:

One of the criminals on a cross began to shout insults at Jesus: “Aren’t you the Christ? Then save yourself and us.” But the other criminal stopped him and said, “You should fear God! You are getting the same punishment he is. We are punished justly, getting what we deserve for what we did. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus said to him, “I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.” (Luke 23:39-43)

Now, a lot has been said about the penitent thief, but what about the other guy? “Yeah, what about him, Jesus? Wouldn’t a personal invitation have been appropriate? Wouldn’t a word of persuasion been timely, especially given the circumstances?” I mean, doesn’t the shepherd leave the ninety-nine sheep and pursue the one, lost sheep? And doesn’t the housewife sweep the house until the lost coin is found? Yes, the shepherd pursues and the housewife sweeps, but the father of the prodigal (the last “lost” parable in the trilogy) does nothing. Why? Well, maybe it’s because the sheep was lost innocently, and the coin was lost irresponsibly. But the prodigal son? He left intentionally. The father had given the prodigal son the choice, and Jesus gave the criminals the same.

There are times in life when it feels like God has sent thunder to stir us up, or times when God showers us with his blessings to draw us in. But then there’s those times when God sends nothing but silence as he honors us with the freedom to choose where we spend eternity. What an honor, don’t you think? I mean, in so many areas of life we don’t have a choice, do we? For instance, we didn’t choose our gender, our family, our race, or our place of birth. And, let’s face it; sometimes that lack of choice really angers us. “It’s not fair,” we say. “It’s not fair that I was born in poverty, or that I sing poorly, or that I run so slowly.” All that changed, however, in the Garden of Eden. Man made a choice, and it wasn’t for God. And man is suffering the consequences of that choice. It’s called sin.

Granted, it would have been nice if God had let us order life like ordering a meal at a smorgasbord. “I’ll take good health and a high IQ, please. But I’ll pass on the music skills. However, give me a great big portion of fast metabolism!” That would’ve been nice, but that’s not what happened. When it came to life on earth, you weren’t given a voice or even a vote.

But when it comes to life after death, you’ve got a choice. Seems like a pretty good deal to me. Wouldn’t you agree? Honestly, have we been given any greater privilege than that of choice? Not only does this privilege offset any injustice, but the gift of free will can offset any mistakes. Really? Yes, really, and here’s why.

Think about the thief who repented. We don’t know a lot about him, but we know this: he made some pretty bad choices in life. He chose the wrong crowd, the wrong morals, and the wrong behavior. But would you consider his life a waste? Is he spending eternity reaping the fruit of all the bad choices he made? No, just the opposite. He’s enjoying the fruit of the one good choice he made. In the end, all of his bad choices were redeemed by one good choice.

And we’ve all made bad choices in life. We’ve chosen the wrong friends, the wrong car, the wrong way, or maybe even the wrong career. We look back over the years of our life and say, “If only ….”  “If only I could make up for all those bad choices.” Well, you can. One good choice for eternity offsets a million bad ones made on earth – and the choice is yours to make.

So, how can two brothers be born of the same mother, grow up in the same home, and one chooses life while the other chooses death? I don’t know, but they did. Or, how could two men see the same Jesus and one choose to mock Him and the other choose to pray to him? I don’t know that either, but they did. And when one prayed, Jesus loved him enough to save him. And when the other mocked him, Jesus loved him enough to let him.

It’s a choice from which you cannot abstain. It’s not like you can say, “Well, that Jesus thing. You know, that’s a hard one. I think I’ll just abstain.” And I know the tendency: hard choices sometimes result in procrastination. But have you ever procrastinated on making a choice and then, one day, find that the choice has already been made for you? You see, one day, you will have either chosen Jesus, and chosen life, or you’ve rejected Jesus and chosen eternal separation from His presence. It’s a choice you cannot avoid. But Satan would like you to think so!

There’s a story about Satan and a couple of his lieutenants. And they’re having a discussion as to how best to get people to follow Satan and reject Jesus. So, the first lieutenant speaks up: “Hey, Boss. Let’s just tell them there’s no help. You know, there’s no God.” “Hmmmm,” Satan replies. “Problem is, I’ve tried that one already, and there’s just too much evidence of God’s existence.” With that, the second lieutenant pipes up and says, “I know, and I agree. Don’t tell ‘em there’s no help, simply tell ‘em there’s no hope. You know: that they’re just too jacked up for God to even care, much less, forgive them.” “Hmmmmmm,” Satan replies. “That’s pretty creative.” “However, when you consider that God sent his son Jesus, whom I know very well, to die for the sins of the planet, I don’t think you’re going to win on that one.” Finally, the last lieutenant offers his suggestion. “Boss, I agree. Telling them there’s no help or no hope is … well … hopeless. So, instead of feeding them those lies, how ‘bout we just tell ‘em there’s no hurry.” And so the lie.

We don’t know when the Lord will return but, from the looks of it, it’s certainly closer today than it was before. And you know there’s help and you know there’s hope. But maybe you’ve believed that there’s no hurry. Well, maybe that’s true. But then again, maybe it’s not.

One last thought, and it’s from one of my favorite Christian authors, C.S. Lewis who, as an adolescent, fell away from his faith, only to be later restored at the encouragement of his close friend J. R. R. Tolkien. Of this matter, Lewis said: "I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

So, no matter how strange or terrifying or unlikely it may seem, I have to accept the view that He was and is God. That’s the truth. Or would you rather suffer the consequences?

Grace,

Randy

Compassion

Compassion

Just then a lawyer stood up with a question to test Jesus. "Teacher, what do I need to do to get eternal life?"

He answered, "What's written in God's Law? How do you interpret it?"

He said, "That you love the Lord your God with all your passion and prayer and muscle and intelligence—and that you love your neighbor as well as you do yourself."

"Good answer!" said Jesus. "Do it and you'll live."

Looking for a loophole, he asked, "And just how would you define 'neighbor'?"

Jesus answered by telling a story. "There was once a man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. On the way he was attacked by robbers. They took his clothes, beat him up, and went off leaving him half-dead. Luckily, a priest was on his way down the same road, but when he saw him he angled across to the other side. Then a Levite religious man showed up; he also avoided the injured man.”

"A Samaritan traveling the road came on him. When he saw the man's condition, his heart went out to him. He gave him first aid, disinfecting and bandaging his wounds. Then he lifted him onto his donkey, led him to an inn, and made him comfortable. In the morning he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, 'Take good care of him. If it costs any more, put it on my bill—I'll pay you on my way back.'

"What do you think? Which of the three became a neighbor to the man attacked by robbers?"

"The one who treated him kindly," the religion scholar responded.

Jesus said, "Go and do the same." (Luke 10:25-37)

Of course, this is the fairly well known story of the “Good Samaritan,” and Jesus tells it in response to a question from a smart aleck lawyer. (Leave it to lawyers) And basically, the question was this: “What do I have to do to have eternal life?” Or, “What must I do to be saved?” And you can just picture Jesus kinda grinning a bit as he throws the question right back in the lawyer’s lap: "What’s written in God’s law? How do you interpret it?" Jesus asks the question, the man gives the answer and then Jesus responds by saying, “Good answer! Do it and you’ll live.” But the lawyer did what lawyers do so well: he looked for a loophole. So, wanting to justify himself, he says to Jesus, "And just how would you define ‘neighbor’?"

Why’d the lawyer ask that question? I mean, he’d measured himself against both of the commands and figured that he’d aced the first one. Of course, keeping the second one, well ….. that depended on how you defined “neighbor.” In other words, the lawyer was asking, “OK, who’s my neighbor, and how much is that gonna cost me?”

Aren’t we like that sometimes? Trying to reduce God’s commands down to something with which we can live? We’d like to believe that loving our neighbor means loving people who love us, or at least loving people who are lovable. So, in that context, loving our neighbor means doing nice things for people who’ll probably do nice things back. And that’s probably what the lawyer was thinking, too. But the lawyer’s original question was, “What do I have to do to get in?” However, Jesus’ answer to that question didn’t tell him what he had to do to get “in,” but described what a person who’s already “in” looks like. Oh, the lawyer knew the right answers alright, but he was totally unprepared for what compassion looks like in real life.

The 15 mile journey from Jericho to Jerusalem was infamous. It’s about an eight (8) hour walk climbing 3,750 vertical feet. (That’s like a 5% grade!) Not only was it a steep climb, but along its path were numerous places where highwaymen would lie in wait for their next, unsuspecting victim. In fact, this route was so treacherous that it was commonly referred to as the “Way of Blood.” And, since Jesus didn’t call it a parable, it would have been a very believable story to those who were listening, and it’s a primer on compassion, or grace.

Jesus starts the story by referring to the victim as “a man….” Today, we’d probably say, “Some guy….” The man, likely a Jewish male, had been robbed, wounded and left for dead. He needed help in the worst possible way. And as the unknown victim lay half-dead beside the road, three different men come his way. The first is introduced as a priest. However, when he saw the man, he crossed to the other side and continued on his journey.

Now some have offered excuses for the priest by suggesting that he didn’t want to touch the man because he might have been dead. And if that’d been true, that would have made the priest ceremonially unclean and unable to carry out his duties. But notice that it says that he “was on his way down the same road.” In other words, he was leaving church. And if anyone was going to reflect the character of God, shouldn’t it have been the priest? You’d think.

The second passerby was a Levite. In Jewish tradition, a Levite was a member of the tribe of Levi who performed certain religious duties for the Israelites, including taking on certain political responsibilities as well. Now, at least the Levite went over and looked at the poor guy, but he was just rubber-necking. You know the type, don’t you? He’s the one who slows down and cranes his neck while driving by an accident scene to see what happened and then says, “Whew, I’m glad that wasn’t me!”? And just like the preacher, he did nothing to help the victim.

In other words, both of these men saw the victim, but ignored his need. These were two religious professionals caught up in a lifeless religion. Oh, they were plenty pious at church and all, but their religion didn’t affect the way they lived. And it would have been shocking enough if Jesus had told his audience that the victim was helped by some ordinary Joe. But it was a jaw-dropper to hear that the guy was a Samaritan who’d come to the aid of a Jewish man who had been ignored by his countrymen – twice. So what? Well, here’s what.

When Israel and Judah divided, the ancient city of Shechem became the religious center of the Northern Kingdom. However, in about 883 B.C., the political capital of the nation was transferred by King Omri to his newly-built city of Samaria where it remained until it fell to the Assyrians. The inhabitants were promptly deported to various parts of Assyria, and colonists were sent in to fill the void. As a result, a mixed people with a mixed religion were established. They were half-breeds, “dogs,” and were considered unclean and to be avoided at all costs if you were a practicing Jew. In other words, being called a “Samaritan” was fightin’ words.

So, it would have been easy to conclude that the Samaritan would’ve simply finished the guy off instead of coming to his rescue. In those days, “good” and “Samaritan” were never used together in the same sentence; there was nothing “good” about a “Samaritan.” But the passage says that “when he saw the man’s condition, his heart went out to him.” The Greek word is splagchnizomai, which means “compassion.” It’s a word that refers to the intestines, or bowels. It’s that feeling that comes from the deepest part of who you since, in those days, the bowels were thought to be the seat of love and pity; a “gut feeling,” so to speak.

So, the Samaritan saw the same pitiful man lying in agony beside the road, but his heart couldn’t let him pass by without helping. And that’s the way compassion should affect us. It stirs us; troubles us; keeps us awake at night until we do something. And when the Samaritan looked at that suffering man lying half-dead on the side of the road, something happened in his gut; something made it impossible for him to simply walk away and do nothing. He didn’t decide to help this guy on the basis of how worthy he was. (Remember, this is a Samaritan helping a Jewish casualty) He helped him because of how needy he was.

Frankly, there’s no logical reason why the Samaritan should have rearranged his plans or spent his money to help the enemy. Of all the people who passed the injured man, the Samaritan had the least reason to help. He was despised by society, and a good deed wouldn’t do anything to change his social status. He helped because the victim needed assistance. But not only was the Samaritan’s compassion based upon the need, rather than the worth, of the victim, it caused the Samaritan to feel something so deeply that it had to be expressed in action. He didn’t pass by on the other side feeling all compassionate and then say “Godspeed!” He moved toward the injured man instead, and acted in relation to his need.

You see, compassion is not something that just magically happens. It takes effort. But only by moving toward people can we express compassion. Frankly, expressing compassion can be inconvenient. And don’t forget: had the victim been conscious and aware of who was helping him, he would have despised the help and, had the sandal been on the other foot, wouldn’t have returned the favor. But Jesus, in just six simple verbs, details the Samaritan’s compassion-in-action: (1) he went to him; (2) he gave him first aid; (3) he bandaged his wounds; (4) he lifted him on his donkey; (5) he led him to an inn; and (6) he took care of him. In every one of these acts he demonstrated compassion by responding in a practical, timely and unselfish way. In fact, putting the injured man on his own donkey meant that the Samaritan had to walk to the inn – uphill!

It’s also important to note that the Samaritan took care of the injured man. Let’s face it, we can’t help everywhere, and we can’t help everyone. But we can help someone, somewhere by providing physical and/or spiritual aid to a hurting soul. We can’t do it all, but we can do our all for some. And you’ve got to give it to this Samaritan guy. He really went the extra mile! He took this man to an inn and saw to it that the innkeeper would look out for the recovering victim during his absence. He also promised that he would return and reimburse the innkeeper for any additional expense that he incurred while caring for the guy. And, to top it all off, he left two days’ wages to take care of the man’s needs, and didn’t put a limit on how much he would be willing to spend to see the wounded man healed. There’s nothing more the Samaritan could have done to show his compassion.

At the conclusion of the story, Jesus asks the lawyer one last question: “What do you think? Which of the three became a neighbor to the man…?”  The lawyer almost chokes on his reply. In fact, he can’t even bring himself to say the word, “Samaritan,” so he responds by saying, “(t)he one who treated him kindly.” (Yeah, “that guy”) Then, for the second time, Jesus tells the lawyer to "Go and do the same.” Why does Jesus say that? Because Jesus knows that that slick lawyer won’t turn to him for salvation until he turns from his dependence on “doing” something to earn it.

Isn’t it funny how the initial question asked by the lawyer, “How would you define ‘neighbor’?” became, “What kind of neighbor am I?” And perhaps we can identify with the lawyer’s first question, “What must I do to get to heaven?” The answer has been, and remains, the same: stop trying to inherit eternal life by doing something. Instead, believe in Jesus and trust that he paid the penalty for our sins. I’m sorry, but we’ve got to get over ourselves because it’s not about us. It’s about Jesus and what He did for us.

Compassion is grace with a face. It’s the misery that we make our own that we can comfort; the want we make our own that we can satisfy. It’s the sin we make our own from which we can save another; and the gauge by which we can measure the sincerity of our faith.

Grace,

Randy

Significant

Significant

            As he was speaking, the teachers of religious law and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in the act of adultery. They put her in front of the crowd.

“Teacher,” they said to Jesus, “this woman was caught in the act of adultery. The law of Moses says to stone her. What do you say?”

They were trying to trap him into saying something they could use against him, but Jesus stooped down and wrote in the dust with his finger. They kept demanding an answer, so he stood up again and said, “All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” Then he stooped down again and wrote in the dust.

When the accusers heard this, they slipped away one by one, beginning with the oldest, until only Jesus was left in the middle of the crowd with the woman. Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”

“No, Lord,” she said.

And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.” 

(John 8:3-11; NLT)

“You don’t matter!” It rings in our ears and rolls around in our heads like thunder. Oh, people may not say it exactly that way, but that’s what they mean, don’t they? For instance, Rogaine commercials tell me that more hair makes me studly. And, beer commercials tell me that I’ll really matter if I drink Bud, or Coors, or Michelob. In other words, we can’t be fat and matter. We can’t be poor and matter. We can’t be old and matter. We can’t drive clunkers and matter. We can’t be unmarried and matter. We can’t make minimum wage and matter. We can’t like the Raiders and matter … well, they may have a point there. Sorry.

But you get the point, don’t you? You and I simply don’t matter. We’re all an interruption in the great, cosmic scheme of life; an insignificant piece of flotsam in a sea of 7,029,202,219 people. (Yep, that’s 7.03 billion people, give or take a few hundred thousand) But we seem to have this natural, inborn need to want to matter, to want to be an important person, to be valuable, and to be valued by someone else. We want someone to care.

So, we fear not mattering. We fear not leaving our mark, or even making a dent. It’s like the fear of not mattering is a bully who takes us down a path we don’t want to take to be someone we don’t want to become. But if we chase after what the world says is important, or what matters, we’ll neither find it nor achieve it. Never. In the end, we’ll spend our whole life chasing a mirage. Kind of like chasing a rainbow – it always seems to be just beyond our reach.

Now, the woman in our text is the perfect picture of someone who didn’t matter. She had nothing. She was caught in the act. She was scum; she was trash; she was a tramp. The only value she had was as a pawn to trick Jesus. The powers that be, you know, the ones that “really mattered,” deemed her unworthy and worthless. In fact, their attitude was, “Let’s just kill her and get her out of the way.” Kinda like how you’d talk about taking the trash out to the curb. And maybe that’s the message you’ve heard. Maybe your entire life.

So, you found someone else that made you feel like you mattered, until they dumped you. And then you got married and really felt like you mattered, until you had kids. And then you won the lottery and thought, “Wow, I really matter now,” until you find out that your “mattering” is a function of how much money you’re willing to give away. It’s kind of like the prodigal son who found out that he mattered so long as he had enough money to buy the next round of drinks. Once the money was gone, so were his “friends.”

What I don’t like about John’s story is that these guys set up a sting operation (they caught her “in the act,” remember?), dragged her from the crime scene, made her stand in a public place before a group of religious do-gooders, announced her sin to the world, and then decided on her punishment. And where’s the guy, anyway? (Frankly, I think he was one of them, or maybe a paid informant) Anyway, they do this right in front of Jesus, the very Son of God! It was like the whole world was shouting, “You don’t matter, and we should know because we matter!” But, isn’t it bad enough to feel worthless without having to be publicly humiliated?

This woman so not mattered that we don’t even know her name, just that they caught “this woman” in the act of adultery. She was worthless. She was disposable. She was a big zero. No one stood with her, not even her mother. No one. She just didn’t matter. Or, did she?

“What do you say,” Jesus? Excuse me? What does Jesus say? Yeah, what is he going to say about this tramp? (Now this is going to get really personal) Not what the law says. Not what the culture says. But, “What do you say?” And what does Jesus say about this troubled woman? Wham! The question of if this woman mattered has now been placed squarely in Jesus’ lap.

So, what does Jesus say? Well, Jesus says that we matter because he made us and he loves us. It’s Jesus that makes us matter. Not because we’re so special, but because Jesus loves us. His love is what makes us special. The God of this universe sent his son to die for us. So, why can’t we see that? Is it just too hard for us to believe? But if that’s true, who’s to blame here? God, or a life-long cultural beat-down? What Jesus saw was that this woman mattered because she was God’s workmanship. It didn’t matter what label her culture put on her, or what label our culture puts on us. What matters is the label God himself put on her, and puts on us. He calls her his masterpiece, his workmanship, the work of his hand. (Ephesians 2:10)

Now, there’s no doubt that she’d totally messed up what she was created to do. She wasn’t living anywhere near God’s will. God had taken the time to write an entire script for her life, including how her life would matter, and he’d given her all of the unique gifts and talents that she needed to fulfill the purpose for which she’d been created. But she was nowhere near living close to that plan. Actually, she wasn’t in the neighborhood. Frankly, she wasn’t even in the same zip code. She had substituted her own plan, and it was a mess.

But when Jesus looked at her, this person who didn’t matter to anyone, this person who no one stood beside, he saw past her clothing and the makeup, the smell, the hair, the sin, the past, and Jesus gave her value. He made her matter because he loved her. Still not convinced?

“For you formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; marvelous are your works, and that my soul knows very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in your book they all were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them.” (Psalm 139:13-16)

There it is, straight out: God made you. So, look in the mirror and tell me what you see. Do you think God made a mistake? If so, God can’t be God, can he? Not if he’s made a mistake, he can’t. And if he’s made a mistake, what other mistakes has he made? And who’d ever want to worship that kind of god, anyway? May as well worship yourself. (Did he just say that?) But, if God is perfect (Mark 10:18), then he makes no mistakes. And if he can’t make a mistake, then you were created intentionally. You were planned. You were designed. You were thought out. You were purposed. You were anticipated. Why? Because you matter.

OK, but isn’t that just a tad bit arrogant? No, not really. It’s what the Bible says. Look, we have to get over ourselves and come to grips with the fact that there is One who loves us more than we love ourselves. Stated differently, why should we hate ourselves when we’re loved by God so perfectly? Why should we condemn ourselves when we’re forgiven and accepted so completely? We’ve been invited into his Kingdom, and he made an unbelievable sacrifice to get us there, starting with the death of his son, Jesus, on the cross. So, if he made such a huge effort to get us, why should we wonder if we have value?

God in his love chose you. He came after you. This wasn’t planned by you, deserved by you, or even earned by you. God reached down and took hold of your heart and relentlessly drew you to himself because you matter. He doesn’t treat you like a loser, or a sinner, or an employee, or a slave, or a mistake, or an embarrassment, or a worm, or an irritation, or a nuisance, or a problem. You’re his child.

Tell me, what did the woman do to earn what Jesus did for her, hmmm?  Right.  Nothing. She just stood there in her shame and answered Jesus’ question. In fact, she did nothing at all. (And that, by the way, is called grace) And nearly every day of our lives this same scenario is being played out. In fact, it just may happen to you today, maybe even at lunch let’s say. Someone is going to throw a person in front of you and talk about their sins and their failings, trying to diminish them, and they will ask the same question of you that they asked of Jesus, “What do you say?” So, what will you say?

In the elementary school I attended, the illustrious Esther Lindstrom Elementary School, there was a bully. His name was Tommy, and I remember he wore the kind of leather jacket that most bullies wear. You know the one, don’t you? (Think, The Fonz from Happy Days) His face had been horribly scarred by an unfortunate accident, and he carried a huge chip on his shoulder. Tommy was an intimidator, and he terrified the rest of us kids. I remember meeting him in the hallway sometimes and being afraid. (Truth be told, Tommy and I eventually got into a fight just outside school one day. I can’t remember who or what started it, but it was pretty much a draw. Funny, after that fight, Tommy and I became pretty good friends)

And there’s a bully that prowls around our lives, and his name is F.E.A.R. (False Evidence Appearing Real) And like every bully, F.E.A.R. exaggerates its power. It shouts threats and warnings, and keeps us on edge. It makes us watch our every move. And so the bully yells at us again, “Hey, punk. You don’t matter!”

The difference is, this time, we don’t have to face the bully alone. This time, we’ve got Jesus, and who wants to mess around with that guy?

Grace,

Randy