Troubles

Troubles

Troubles - Audio/Visual

“This will happen just as I have described it, for God has revealed to Pharaoh in advance what he is about to do. The next seven years will be a period of great prosperity throughout the land of Egypt. But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Genesis 41:28-32)

About 20 years ago, a German Shepherd/Wolf mix attacked my youngest son who was walking to school one day with a friend. The crazed animal, completely unprovoked, climbed out of his dog run and onto the sidewalk and nearly killed William. The dog left my son with dozens of cuts and gashes, all of which required stitches whose number are far too many to remember. The dog even came back for “seconds.” Fortunately, thanks to some courageous passersby, a second attack was averted. The cur’s name was Cujo, of all things, and this wasn’t his first victim. As you can imagine, William didn’t leave my sight the rest of the day, and neither did my un-Christian thoughts about Cujo. Amidst the trauma, however, I was able to reflect on the goodness of God, since the day’s events could have had a very different outcome. But if things had turned out differently, would God still have been good?

Is God good only when the outcome is? When the cancer is in remission, we say "God is good." When the pay raise comes, we say, "God is good." When the university admits us, or the final score favors our team, "God is good." But would we, and do we say the same under different circumstances? In the cemetery as well as in the nursery? In the unemployment line as well as the grocery line? In days of recession as much as in days of provision? Is God always good?

Many of us have this kind of quasi-contract with God – the fact that God hasn't signed it doesn't deter us from still believing it. “I pledge to be a good, decent person, and in return God will … save my child; protect my job; heal my friend; or ______ (Fill in the blank). Only fair, right? Yet, when God fails to meet our bottom-line expectations, we’re left spinning in a tornado of questions. Is he good at all? Is God angry with me? Is he stumped? Overworked? Is his power limited? His authority restricted? Did the devil outwit him? When life isn't good, what are we to think of God? Where is he in all of this?

Joseph's words for Pharaoh offer some help in this area. Granted, we don't generally think of Joseph as being much of a theologian – not like Job, the sufferer, or Paul, the apostle. For one thing, we don't have many of Joseph's words. Yet the few we have reveal a man who wrestled with the nature of God. To the king he announced: “But afterward there will be seven years of famine so great that all the prosperity will be forgotten in Egypt. Famine will destroy the land. This famine will be so severe that even the memory of the good years will be erased. As for having two similar dreams, it means that these events have been decreed by God, and he will soon make them happen.” (Gen. 41:30-32) Joseph saw both seasons, the one of plenty and the one of scarcity, beneath the umbrella of God's jurisdiction. Both were "decreed by God." But how could God do that?

Was the calamity God's idea? Of course not. God never creates or parlays evil. "God can never do wrong! It is impossible for the Almighty to do evil." (Job 34:10; See also James 1:17) He is the essence of good. So, how can God, who is good, invent anything bad? Furthermore, he’s sovereign. Scripture repeatedly attributes utter and absolute control to his hand. "The Most High God rules the kingdom of mankind and sets over it whom he will." (Dan. 5:21) So, in summary: God is good, and God is sovereign. Then how do you factor in the presence of calamities in God's world if he’s good and self-determining?

Here’s how the Bible explains it: God permits it. When the demons begged Jesus to send them into a herd of pigs, he "gave them permission." (Mark 5:12-13) Regarding the rebellious, God said, "I let them become defiled . . . that I might fill them with horror so they would know that I am the Lord." (Ezek. 20:26) The Old Law even speaks of the consequence of accidentally killing someone: "If [the man] does not do it intentionally, but God lets it happen, he is to flee to a place I will designate." (Ex. 21:13)

God, at times, permits calamities. He allows the ground to grow dry, and stalks to grow bare. He allows Satan to unleash mayhem, like that Allstate guy. But he doesn't allow Satan to triumph. Isn't that the promise of Romans 8:28? "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." The key is that God promises to render beauty out of "all things," not "each thing." Isolated events may be evil, but the ultimate culmination is good.

We see examples of this all the time. For instance, when you sip a Starbucks and say, "Now, that’s a good cup of coffee," what are you saying? That the bag that held the beans is good? That the beans are good? That hot water is good? That a coffee filter is good? No. “Good” happens when the ingredients work together: the bag is opened, the beans are ground into powder, and the water is heated to just the right temperature. It’s the collective cooperation of the elements that creates good.

Nothing in the Bible would cause us to call a famine good, or a heart attack good, or forest fires good. These are terrible calamities, born out of a fallen earth. Yet every message in the Bible, especially the story of Joseph, compels us to believe that God will mix them with other ingredients and bring good out of them. But we have to let God define “good.” Our definition includes health, comfort and recognition. His definition? In the case of his Son, Jesus Christ, the good life consisted of struggles, storms, and death. But God worked it all together for the greatest of good: his glory and our salvation.

Joni Eareckson Tada has spent most of her life attempting to reconcile the presence of suffering with the nature of God. She was just a teenager when a diving accident left her paralyzed from the neck down. After more than forty years in a wheelchair, Joni has reached this conclusion: “[Initially] I figured that if Satan and God were involved in my accident at all, then it must be that the devil had twisted God's arm for permission . . . I reasoned that once God granted permission to Satan, he then nervously had to run behind him with a repair kit, patching up what Satan had ruined, mumbling to himself, "Oh great, now how am I going to work this for good?" . . . But the truth is that God is infinitely more powerful than Satan . . . While the devil's motive in my disability was to shipwreck my faith by throwing a wheelchair in my way, I’m convinced that God's motive was to thwart the devil and use the wheelchair to change me and make me more like Christ through it all . . . [He can] bring ultimate good out of the devil's wickedness.”

This was the message of Jesus. When his followers spotted a blind man on the side of the road, they asked Jesus for an explanation. Was God angry? Were his parents to blame? Who sinned here? But Jesus' answer provided a higher option: the man was blind so that "the works of God should be revealed in him." (John 9:3) God turned blindness, a bad thing, into a billboard for Jesus' power to heal. Satan acted, God counteracted, and good won. It's a divine jujitsu of sorts. God redirects the energy of evil against its source. God uses evil to ultimately bring evil to nothingness. He is the master chess player, always checkmating the devil's every move.

Our choice really comes down to this: trust God or turn away. The truth is that God will breach that “contract” of ours; he’ll shatter our expectations. And we’ll be left to make a decision. Because at some point we all stand at the intersection of the question, “Is God good when the outcome is not?” During the famine as well as the feast? The definitive answer to that question comes in the person of Jesus Christ.

Jesus is the only picture of God that we have in our photo album. And do you want to know heaven's clearest answer to the question of suffering? Just look at Jesus. He pressed his fingers into the sore of the leper. He felt the tears of the sinful woman who wept. He inclined his ear to the cry of the hungry. He wept at the death of a friend. He stopped his work to tend to the needs of a grieving mother. He doesn't recoil, run or retreat at the sight of pain, or life’s tragedies. Just the opposite, actually. He didn't walk the earth in an insulated bubble, or preach from an isolated, germ-free, pain-free island. He took his own medicine. Trivial irritations of family life? Jesus felt them. Cruel accusations of jealous men? Jesus knew their sting. A seemingly senseless death? Just look at the cross.

He exacts nothing from us that he did not experience himself. Why? Because he is good. God owes us no more explanation than that. Besides, if he gave us one, what makes us think we would actually understand it? Maybe the problem is not so much God's plan, but with our limited perspective.

Suppose the wife of George Frideric Handel came upon a page of her husband's famous work, “The Messiah.” The entire symphony was more than two hundred pages long. But imagine that she discovered a single page lying on the kitchen table one morning. On it her husband had written only one measure in a melancholic, minor key; one that didn't work standing on its own. But suppose Mrs. Handel, armed with this fragment of dissonance, marched into his studio and said, "What are you thinking, George? This music doesn’t make any sense at all. You aren’t a very good composer." What would he think? Maybe something similar to what God thinks when we do the same.

We point to our minor key – our sick child, joblessness, or famine – and say, "This doesn’t make any sense, God. I thought you were supposed to be good?" Yet out of all his creation, how much have we actually seen? And of all his work, how much do we understand? Not very much.

Is it possible then that some explanation for suffering exists of which we know nothing about? What if God's answer to the question of suffering requires more gigabytes than our puny minds can comprehend? And isn’t it possible that the wonder of heaven will make the most difficult life a great bargain? That was Paul's conclusion when he wrote, "Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all." (2 Cor. 4:17) And he saw heaven. (2 Cor. 12:2-4)

Suppose I invited you to experience the day of your dreams. Twenty-four hours on an island paradise with your favorite people, food and activities. There’s only one catch: you must experience a millisecond of discomfort. For reasons I choose not to explain, I tell you that you will need to begin the day with a millisecond of distress. Would you accept my offer? Probably. Because a split second is nothing compared to twenty-four hours, right? Similarly, we’re all in the middle of our milliseconds on God’s clock. So, compared to eternity, what’s seventy, eighty, even ninety years? It’s just a vapor. Just a finger snap compared to heaven. Your pain won't last forever, but you will. "Whatever we may have to go through now is less than nothing compared with the magnificent future God has in store for us." (Rom. 8:18) Less than nothing? What does that mean?

That’s the same puzzling question that Wilbur asked the lamb in Charlotte’s Web. “What do you mean less than nothing? I don't think there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of nothingness. It's the lowest you can go. It's the end of the line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would be something - even though it's just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it is.” The lamb’s response? “Oh, be quiet. Go play by yourself. I don’t play with pigs.” Wow, that’s pretty harsh.

None of us are exempt from suffering, loneliness, discouragement, or unjust criticism, because God is developing within us the character of Christ. And, in order to do this, he must take us through all of the circumstances in life through which he took Christ. Does this mean God causes tragedies? No. God is good, and he will not cause evil or do evil. But God can use the dark and stressful times of our life for good. He'll use them to teach us to trust him, to show us how to help others and to draw us closer to other believers.

Still think you’re alone? Some 2,000 years ago, Christians, just like you and me, felt the same way: “We were crushed and overwhelmed beyond our ability to endure, and we thought we would never live through it. In fact, we expected to die. But as a result, we stopped relying on ourselves and learned to rely only on God, who raises the dead.” (2 Cor. 4:8-9) We all go through difficult times. The difference for those who believe in Jesus is not the absence of shadows, but the presence of His Light.

What’s coming will make sense of what’s happening now. So, let God finish his work. Let the composer complete his symphony. The forecast is simple: Good days. Bad days. God is in all your days. He’s the Lord of the famine and the feast, and he uses both to accomplish his will.

Even in life’s troubles.

Grace,

Randy

Where's God?

Where’s God?
Where's God? - Audio/Visual

Immediately after this, Jesus insisted that his disciples get back into the boat and cross to the other side of the lake, while he sent the people home. After sending them home, he went up into the hills by himself to pray. Night fell while he was there alone.

Meanwhile, the disciples were in trouble far away from land, for a strong wind had risen, and they were fighting heavy waves. About three o’clock in the morning Jesus came toward them, walking on the water. When the disciples saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. In their fear, they cried out, “It’s a ghost!” But Jesus spoke to them at once. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Take courage. I am here!” (Matt. 14:22-27)

On a September morning in 2001, Frank laced up his boots, pulled on his hard hat and headed out the door of his New Jersey home. As a construction worker, he’d made a living building things. But as a volunteer at the World Trade Center wreckage, he was just trying to make sense of it all. He’d hoped to find a live body. He didn’t. He found forty-seven dead ones, instead. Amid the carnage, however, he stumbled upon a symbol – a twenty-foot-tall steel-beam cross. The collapse of Tower One onto Building Six had created a crude kind of chamber in the clutter.

It was in this chamber, through the dusty sunrise, that Frank spotted the cross. No winch had hoisted it; no cement was securing it. The iron beams stood independent of any human help at all. It was standing there alone. But, then again, not completely alone. Other crosses rested randomly at the base of the large one. Different sizes, different angles, but all crosses. Several days later engineers realized the beams of the large cross had actually come from two different buildings. When one crashed into another, the two girders bonded into one and were forged together forever by the ensuing fire. A symbol in the shards. A cross found in the crisis. "Where’s God in all this?" Frank pondered. We wondered then, too; perhaps we wonder even now. But the discovery dared us to hope that God was right there in the middle of it all. Can the same be said about our tragedies?

When the ambulance takes our child or the disease takes our friend, when the economy takes our retirement or the two-timer takes our heart – can we, like Frank, find Christ in the crisis? The presence of troubles doesn't surprise us, but the absence of God absolutely undoes us. We can deal with the ambulance – if God is in it. We can stomach the ICU – if God is in it. We can face the empty house – if God is in it. But is he? Is God in it? Well, Matthew would like to answer that question for you.

The walls falling around Matthew were made of water. No roof or building had collapsed, but it felt like the world was crashing in. A storm on the Sea of Galilee is like a sumo wrestler belly-flopping into a kiddy pool. The northern valley acts like a wind tunnel – compressing and then blasting squalls of terror onto the lake. Waves as tall as ten feet are common. And this is a lake, mind you, not the ocean. His account begins at nightfall. Jesus is on the mountain in prayer, and the disciples are in a boat in fear. They are "far away from land . . . fighting heavy waves." (Matt. 14:24) And when does Christ come to them? At three o'clock in the morning. (v. 25)

Now, if “evening” began at six o’clock and Christ came at three in the morning, the disciples had been alone in the storm for nine hours. Nine tempestuous hours. Long enough for more than one of the disciples to wonder, “Where’s Jesus? He knows we’re in the boat for heaven’s sake – it was his idea to begin with! Is God anywhere near?” And from within the storm comes an unmistakable voice: “I am.” Wet robe and soaked hair. Waves slapping his waist, and rain stinging his face. Jesus speaks to them at once. “Courage. I am. Don’t be afraid!” (vs. 27)

That wording sounds a little odd, I know. Because if you’ve read the story, you’re accustomed to a different shout from Christ. Something like, “Take courage! It is I” (NIV), or “Don’t be afraid … I am here” (NLT), or “Courage. It’s me.” (MSG) However, a literal translation of his announcement results in, “Courage! I am. Don’t be afraid.” But translators like to tinker with words for obvious reasons because “I am” sounds a bit truncated. “I am here,” or “It is I” feels more complete. But what Jesus shouted in the storm was simply the magisterial, “I am.” And those words should ring like the cymbals clashing in the 1812 Overture because we’ve heard them before.

Speaking from the burning bush to a knee-knocking Moses, God announced, “I AM WHO I AM.” (Exod. 3:14) Double-dog daring his enemies to prove him otherwise, Jesus declared, “Before Abraham was born, I am.” (John 8:58) Determined to say it often enough and loud enough to get our attention, Christ chorused: “I am the bread of life;” (John 6:48) “I am the Light of the world;” (John 8:12) "I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved." (John 10:9) "I am the good shepherd;" (John 10:11) "I am God's Son;" (John 10:36) "I am the resurrection and the life;" (John 11:25) "I am the way, and the truth, and the life;" (John 14:6) "I am the true vine." (John 15:1)

The present-tense Christ. He never says, "I was." But we do, don’t we? We do because "we were." We were younger, faster, lighter, prettier, etc. Prone to be people of the past tense, we tend to reminisce. But not God. Unwavering in strength, he never has to say, "I was," because heaven has no rearview mirrors or crystal balls because our "I am" God never sighs, "Someday I will be." But we do. Dream-fueled, we reach for horizons. "Someday I will . . . . (insert your dream)." But not God. Can water be wetter, or wind be windless? Can God be more God? No. He doesn’t change.

He is the "I am" God. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever." (Heb. 13:8) From the center of the storm, the unwavering Jesus shouts, "I am." He was tall in the Trade Tower wreckage. He was bold against the Galilean waves. And he’s bold in the ICU, or the battlefield, or the boardroom, or the prison cell, or the maternity ward – whatever your storm, "I am." Right there in the middle of it; right there in the middle of the storm. And the actual construction of this passage echoes that point.

Matthew’s narrative is actually made up of two acts, each six verses long. The first act, verses 22-27, centers on the power walk of Jesus. The second, verses 28-33, centers on the faith walk of Peter. In the first act, Christ comes alongside the waves and declares the words engraved on every wise heart: "Courage! I am! Don't be afraid!" And in the second, a desperate disciple takes a step of faith and – for a moment – does what Christ does; he walks on water. Then he takes his eyes off of Christ and does what we do. He sinks.

Two acts. Each with six verses. Each set of six verses contains 90 Greek words. And right in middle of the two acts, and the two sets of verses, and the 180 words is this two-word declaration: "I am." Matthew, a former tax collector who’s really good with numbers, reinforces his point. It comes layered like a terrific submarine sandwich: Graphically: Jesus – soaked but strong. Linguistically: Jesus – the "I am" God. Mathematically: whether in the number of words or the weathered world, Jesus – in the midst of it all. That’s because God gets into things. He gets into Red Seas, and big fish, and lions’ dens and furnaces. God gets into bankrupt businesses and jail cells; Judean wildernesses, weddings, funerals, fires, and Galilean tempests. Look and you'll find what everyone from Moses to Martha has discovered. God – right there in the middle of our storms. And that includes your storms, too.

A while ago, a young woman, recently married and the mother of an eighteen-month-old, tragically passed away. Her life abruptly cut short – abbreviated. And the shelves of help and hope are barren at those times. But at her funeral the officiate, who was a close friend of hers, shared a memory in his eulogy that gave those in attendance both the help and hope that the grieving attendees sought that day.

For several years prior to her death the young woman had lived and worked in New York City. Due to their long-standing friendship, the priest had stayed in frequent contact with her via e-mail, and late one night he received a message indicative of God's persistent presence in her young life. It seems that his friend had missed her station while on the subway. And by the time she realized her mistake, she didn't know what to do. She prayed for safety and some sign of God's presence because this was neither the hour nor the place for a young, attractive woman to be passing through a rough New York neighborhood, especially alone.

At that moment the doors opened, and a homeless, disheveled man came on board and plopped right down next to her. Terrific. “God? Are you near?” she prayed. The answer came in a song. The man pulled out a harmonica and played, "Be Thou My Vision" – her mother's favorite hymn. The song convinced her - Christ was there, in the midst of it all.

Frank saw him in the rubble. Matthew saw him in the waves. The young woman saw him in a stranger. And you? Look closer. He's there. Right in the middle of it all.

Grace,

Randy

Envy

Envy
Envy - Audio/Visual

Do you want to be counted wise, to build a reputation for wisdom Here’s what you do: Live well, live wisely, live humbly. It’s the way you live, not the way you talk, that counts. Mean-spirited ambition isn’t wisdom. Boasting that you are wise isn’t wisdom. Twisting the truth to make yourselves sound wise isn’t wisdom. It’s the furthest thing from wisdom – it’s animal cunning, devilish conniving. Whenever you’re trying to look better than others or get the better of others, things fall apart and everyone ends up at the others’ throats. (James 3:14-16)

This time of year reminds me of my grandmother’s pomegranate jam. Few delicacies in life compared with her jam. Each spoonful was a celestial experience. The only problem with her gift was that it didn't last. The bottom of my jar was in sight long ago, but I remember dreading the moment. I remember sticking my finger in the jam jar to scoop out the last remaining taste, and stain, of that blissful elixir.

If I had been my grandpa, however, I wouldn't have had such a problem. He got all the pomegranate jam he ever wanted. Did the clinking of the spoon at the bottom of the jar trigger tears for Papa? Hardly. He had an unlimited supply. Maybe even more than he deserved. So why did he have so much and I had so little? Why was his pantry full and all I got was a jar? Who gave him the key to the jam-and-jelly castle? Who crowned Papa the prince of pomegranates? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. In fact, the more I think about it, even now, . . . .

Which is exactly what I shouldn't do. I shouldn't think about it. For resting at the end of this trail of thought is the deadly briefcase of envy. If you haven't seen one in real life, you've probably seen one in the spy movies. The assassin carries it up the back stairs into the vacant room at the top of the building. When he’s sure no one can see him, he opens the case. The disassembled rifle sits in cushioned slots. The scope, the barrel, the stock – all of it awaits the hand of the marksman. The marksman awaits the arrival of his victim. And who’s his victim? Anyone who has more than he has. More karats, more horsepower, more office space, more money. Envy sets its cross hairs on the one who has more. "You want something you don't have, and you will do anything to get it. You will even kill." (James 4:2)

That’s awfully strong language coming from James. And although we wouldn’t kill with a rifle like the assassin, can’t we do the same with our tongue? With our glare? Our gossip? "Jealousy," informs Proverbs 6:34, "enrages a man." Are your sights set on someone? If so, be careful – “jealousy will rot your bones." (Prov. 14:30) So do you need a deterrent for envy? An antidote for jealousy? Rather than bemoan the pomegranate jam you don't have, rejoice in the abundant cup that you do. "My cup overflows with blessings." (Ps. 23:5)

Is an overflowing cup full? Absolutely. The wine reaches the rim and then tumbles over the edge. The goblet is not large enough to contain the quantity. According to David, our hearts are not large enough to contain the blessings that God wants to give. He pours and pours until they literally flow over the edge and down on the table. F. B. Meyer put it this way: “Whatever the blessing is in our cup, it is sure to run over. With him the calf is always the fatted calf; the robe is always the best robe; the joy is unspeakable; the peace passes all understanding. . . . There is no grudging in God's benevolence; He does not measure out his goodness as an apothecary counts his drops and measures his drams, slowly and exactly, drop by drop. God's way is always characterized by multitudinous and overflowing bounty.”

The last thing we need to worry about is not having enough. Our cup overflows with blessings. So, if focusing on our diminishing items leads to envy, what would happen if we focused on the unending items? If awareness of what we don't have creates jealousy and envy, is it possible that an awareness of our abundance would lead to contentment? Here are a couple of blessings that, according to the Bible, overflow in our lives.

Abounding grace. "The more we see our sinfulness, the more we see God's abounding grace forgiving us." (Rom. 5:20) To abound is to have a surplus, an abundance, an extravagant portion. Should the fish in the Pacific worry that they’ll run out of ocean? No. Why? The ocean abounds with water. Does the hawk have to be anxious about finding room in the sky to fly? No. The sky abounds with space. Should the Christian worry that the cup of mercy will run empty? He may; he may not be aware of God's abounding grace. So are you? Are you aware that the cup God gives you is a cup that overflows with his mercy? Or are you afraid your cup will run dry, or your warranty will expire? Are you afraid your mistakes are too great for God's grace? We can't help but wonder if the apostle Paul had the same fear.

Before he was Paul the apostle, he was Saul the murderer. Before he encouraged Christians, he murdered them. What would it be like to live with that kind of past? Did he ever meet children whom he had made orphans? Did their faces haunt his sleep? Did Paul ever ask, "Can God forgive a man like me?" The answer to his and, perhaps, our questions is found in a letter he wrote to Timothy: "The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus." (1 Tim. 1:14) God is not a miser with his grace. Your cup may be low on cash or even on clout, but it’s overflowing with mercy. You may not have the prime parking place, but you have sufficient pardon. "He will abundantly pardon." (Isa. 55:7) Your cup overflows with grace.

And how about hope? Because your cup overflows with grace, your cup also overflows with hope. "God will help you overflow with hope in him through the Holy Spirit's power within you." (Rom. 15:13) Heaven's hope does for your world what the sunlight did for my grandmother's cellar. I owe my love of pomegranate jam to Nana. She canned her own and stored the jars in an underground cellar. It was a deep hole with wooden steps, plywood walls, and a musty smell. As a youngster I used to climb in, close the door, and see how long I could last in the darkness. Not even a slit of light entered that underground hole. I would sit silently and listen to my breath and heartbeats until I couldn't take it anymore. Then, I would race up the stairs and throw open the door. Light would avalanche into the cellar. What a change. Moments before I couldn't see anything – all of a sudden I could see everything.

Just as light poured into the cellar, God's hope pours into your world. Upon the sick, he shines the ray of healing. To the bereaved, he gives the promise of reunion. For the dying, he lit the flame of resurrection. To the confused, he offers the light of Scripture. God gives hope. So what if someone was born thinner or stronger, lighter or darker than you? Why count diplomas or compare résumés? What does it matter if they have a place at the head table? You have a place at God's table. And he’s filling your cup to overflowing.

Hosts in the ancient East used the overflowing cup to send a message to the guest. As long as the cup was kept full, the guest knew he was welcome. But when the cup sat empty, the host was hinting that the hour was late. On those occasions, however, when the host really enjoyed the company of the person, he filled the cup to overflowing. He didn't stop when the wine reached the rim; he kept pouring until the liquid ran over the edge of the cup and down on the table. Have you noticed how wet your table is? God wants you to stay. Your cup overflows with joy. Overflows with grace. So, shouldn't your heart overflow with gratitude? The heart of the boy did. At least eventually. But not at first.

According to the fable, he lived with his father in a valley at the base of a large dam. Every day the father would go to work on the mountain behind their house and return home with a wheelbarrow full of dirt. "Pour the dirt into the sacks, son," the father would say. "And stack them in front of the house." And though the boy would obey, he also complained. He was tired of dirt. He was weary of bags. Why didn't his father give him what other fathers gave their sons? They had toys and games; he had dirt. When he saw what the others had, he grew mad at them. "It's not fair," he said to himself. And when he saw his father, he objected. "They have fun. I have dirt." The father would smile and place his arm on the boy's shoulders and say, "Trust me, son. I'm doing what is best."

But it was so hard for the boy to trust. Every day the father would bring the load. Every day the boy would fill bags. "Stack them as high as you can," the father would say as he went for more. And so the boy filled the bags and piled them high. So high he couldn't see over them. "Work hard, son," the father said one day. "We're running out of time." As the father spoke, he looked at the darkening sky. The boy stared at the clouds and turned to ask about them, but just then the thunder cracked and the sky opened. The rain poured so hard he could scarcely see his father through the water. "Keep stacking, son!" And as he did, the boy heard a mighty crash. The water of the river poured through the dam and toward the little village. In a moment the tide swept away everything in its path, but the dike of dirt gave the boy and the father the time they needed. "Hurry, son. Follow me."

They ran to the side of the mountain behind their house and into a tunnel. In a matter of moments they exited the other side and scampered up the hill and came upon a new cottage. “We'll be safe here," the father said to the boy. Only then did the son realize what the father had done. He had burrowed an exit. Rather than give him what he wanted, the father gave his boy what he needed. He gave him a safe passage, and a safe place.

Hasn't God done the same? A strong wall of grace to protect us? A sure exit to deliver us? Of whom can we be envious? Who has more than we do? Rather than want what others have, shouldn't we wonder if they have what we do? Instead of being jealous of them, how about zealous for them? There’s enough to go around, and one thing is certain: when the final storm comes and you’re safe in your Father's house, you won't regret what he didn't give you. You'll be stunned at what he did.

Grace,

Randy

Thankful

Thankful
Thankful - Audio/Visual

It happened that as he made his way toward Jerusalem, he crossed over the border between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten men, all lepers, met him. They kept their distance but raised their voices, calling out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” Taking a good look at them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.”

They went, and while still on their way, became clean. One of them, when he realized that he was healed, turned around and came back, shouting his gratitude, glorifying God. He kneeled at Jesus’ feet, so grateful. He couldn’t thank him enough — and he was a Samaritan. Jesus said, “Were not ten healed? Where are the nine? Can none be found to come back and give glory to God except this outsider?” Then he said to him, “Get up. On your way. Your faith has healed and saved you.” (Luke 17:11-19)

It’s a tribute to modern medicine that most of us, fortunately, don’t know much about leprosy. In fact, for many of us, what we know about the disease we only know from what we’ve read in the Bible. But if we had lived during those times, we probably would have known a whole lot more because it was the most feared disease in its time. It was deadly, incurable and hopeless. The ancients feared it so much that anyone suspected of having the disease was banished from society. In fact, in the rabbinic writings of the time, there are remedies for all kinds of diseases, but there’s nothing listed for leprosy. The rabbis said that curing leprosy was like “raising the dead.”

So, there’s Jesus, traveling near the border of Samaria and Galilee, and it’s there where he meets a group of lepers. We don’t know precisely where this encounter took place because you can’t even find the small town on a map. But it was somewhere south of Nazareth and north of Sychar.

And it’s no surprise that Jesus would encounter these unfortunate men between Galilee and Samaria. Galilee was Jesus’ home base. He was raised there. He had family and boyhood friends there. He made his headquarters at Capernaum on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Most of his miracles, and much of his teaching, was done in Galilee. It was the land of his greatest popularity. But Samaria? Well, that was another matter altogether.

You see, observant Jews avoided Samaria at almost all costs. The story goes back hundreds of years to the Assyrian captivity which began in 722 B.C. Some of the Jewish people had intermarried with the Assyrians and had become, in the eyes of their former countrymen, half-breeds and traitors. In other words, they were unclean. Over the centuries, then, the Samaritans had become a mixed race with a mixed religion. The Jewish people hated the Samaritans, and the Samaritans’ feelings were mutual.

And it’s here, on the frontier between Galilee and Samaria, in the DMZ between the Jews and the Samaritans, that Jesus meets ten lepers. And, frankly, where else could they go? The Jews didn’t want them, and neither did the Samaritans. So, here’s a colony of lepers joined by their common misfortune and misery. Their only uniting characteristic is the foul disease that had cast them out of society. And, as Jesus enters the village, these men stand a long way off and cry out to him for mercy.

Apparently, word had spread. "He’s here,” said one of the lepers. “Who’s here?” said the other. “Jesus of Nazareth,” said the first. “Naw, I don’t believe it,” said his friend. “It’s true. He’s really here,” said the first. “Do you think he could heal us?” said another. “I don’t know. But let’s find out.” So, there they stand, the most ragged choir in all of Israel – ten lepers crying out to Jesus for mercy. “Have mercy. Have Mercy,” came the cry from lips that had seen too little mercy, and too much condemnation.

So, what’s Jesus’ response? Will he heal them right then and there on the spot? That was certainly within his power, and no doubt was what the lepers had probably hoped he would do. But, instead, Jesus said something that, well … seems a little unexpected. When he saw them, he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.”

Now, at first glance, you might think that Jesus was simply putting them off. You might even think that he didn’t intend to heal them at all. And if you were to come to that conclusion, you could probably infer that Jesus meant to impress upon them the utter hopelessness of their condition. But all of those inferences would be wrong. As a matter of fact, Jesus fully intended to heal them, but he also intended to do it in keeping with the demands of the Law of Moses. You see, if Jesus hadn’t sent the lepers to the priest, no one would have ever believed that the miracle had really taken place.

But that’s not the whole story here. The last part of verse 14 says that “They went, and while still on their way, became clean.” In other words, they were healed as they went to go see the priest. Not before. Not after. That means that when they left to go see the priest, they still had leprosy. Now how do you suppose they felt when Jesus said, “Go show yourselves to the priest?” Go show what to the priest? That they were still lepers? Really? They didn’t have anything to show the priest that the priest wanted to see. In fact, the last thing the priest wanted to see was ten smelly, disheveled and deformed lepers. In fact, I wonder if one of them may have even said, “Why bother? After all, once a leper, always a leper.” But off they went, this shuffling band of sufferers marching off to see the priest, perhaps doubting their healing the entire way.

They take one step; they’re still lepers. They take two steps; nothing happens. They take a third step; the leprosy still clings to their skin. But on that fourth step, or maybe the fifth, or maybe the hundredth, something wonderful, something unbelievable, something they never dreamed possible happened. With that next step, they were healed. Instantly. Miraculously. All ten. All at once. They were healed as they went. Not before. Not after. But in the act of going they were healed. Why? Because it was the act of going that was an act of their faith. And it didn’t matter how they felt about it. God honored their going in spite of what may have been some pretty serious doubts along the way.

Like the lepers, our faith moves mountains when our faith moves us. When Jesus said, “Go show yourselves to the priest,” he was really saying, “Act as if you’re already healed.” What a great piece of advice. So many times we pray and pray and pray and nothing seems to happen. But when our faith, shaky though it may be, finally moves us to action, God honors it and answers begin to come.

Unfortunately, too many of us are trapped by the curse of passive religion. You know what that is, don’t you? It’s the view that says trusting God means letting him do it all. So, for instance, we pray, “Lord, I need money,” but we refuse to go out and look for a job. Passive religion uses God as an excuse to do nothing. But trusting God does not equal doing nothing. Remember: the ten lepers were healed as they went. It’s a marvelous miracle, but it’s not the end of the story. Because another miracle is about to happen.

Ten were healed and only one came back to give thanks. Luke says he fell on his face before the Lord. He’s been healed of leprosy. For who knows how many years he’s been a leper living in his remote, little corner of the world, separated from his family, forgotten by his friends, cut off from his own people. But, suddenly, the disease vanishes and with it the twisted limp, the crooked fingers and the atrophied muscles.

Then Luke adds, “He was a Samaritan.” The shock and amazement in that statement is such that we ought to read it this way: “Think of it! A Samaritan of all people!” Remember, Jesus was a Jew and the Jews thought Samaritans were half-breeds and traitors. To make matters worse, he was a Samaritan and a leper. To a Jew, you couldn’t find a more repulsive combination. He was from the wrong race, with the wrong religion, and the worst-possible disease. In religious speak, this Samaritan knew almost nothing, and what he knew was mostly wrong. But he knew Jesus had healed him, and he knew enough to be thankful to God.

Now, Luke doesn’t say so directly, but I think he may have also been insinuating that the other nine were Jews. And if that’s true, then what this story really means is that those who should have been the most thankful weren’t; and the one man who shouldn’t have come back did. And this story pictures life as it is. It’s a picture of the abundant grace of God. This is a wholesale cure – a whole hospital’s healed with only a word. Ten at a time. It’s a huge miracle. It’s also a picture of the prevalence of ingratitude. Nine out ten people will probably forget every blessing that they’ve ever received. But it’s also a picture of unexpected grace. Grateful hearts, it seems, pop up where you least expect them.

Jesus then asks the Samaritan three questions. “Were not ten healed? Yes. “Where are the nine?” Gone. Can none be found to come back and give glory to God except this outsider?” No one. And if you listen carefully, you can even sense a tinge of sadness in Jesus’ voice. He wanted to know about the others. Where are they? Weren’t they healed? Why didn’t they come back and say, “Thank You"? Good question. So, why didn’t they come back?

Well, maybe they were in a hurry to see the priest. Or, maybe they thought Jesus would be gone when they got back. Perhaps they assumed Jesus knew how grateful they were and they didn’t need to tell him what he already knew. I mean, he’s God after all. Or, maybe they were just too busy. So where are they now? Gone off with their blessings. Gone to see the priest. Gone to see their families. Gone with no word of thanks. Gone.

But when you really look at these ten lepers, they’re all alike aren’t they? All had leprosy. All were outcasts from society. All were determined to do something about it. All had heard about Jesus and believed he could help them. All appealed to him. All obeyed his word. All were healed. So, on the surface they appear to be identical. Yet what a difference. One returned. Nine went on. One was thankful. Nine were not. One man found forgiveness. Nine didn’t. One man got two miracles. Nine got one. All ten were healed. (That’s one miracle) But the Samaritan was healed and forgiven. (That’s two miracles) And I think that’s what Jesus meant when he said to the one, “Your faith has made you well.”

So, the question remains: “Where are the nine?” The answer is they got what they wanted and then promptly left the building. Jesus performed a mighty miracle for them and they said, “Thanks, Lord. We can take it from here.” Sadly, that kind of attitude can still be found today. The reason? Because we have so little appreciation for what God has done for us. We just don’t love the Lord that much, or just not enough to express gratitude for his blessings.

But isn’t gratitude and thankfulness the highest duty of the believer and the supreme virtue – the fountain from which all other blessings flow? Yes. But its corollary, ingratitude, or thanklessness, is the leprosy of the soul. It eats away from the inside. It destroys our happiness, cripples our joy, withers our compassion, paralyzes our praise and renders us completely numb to all the blessings of God.

Every good thing in the Christian life flows from gratitude, or thankfulness. And when we realize the goodness of God – not in the abstract or in the theoretical, but personally – then we are free to go, free to pray, free to tell, free to do, free to be. We don’t need to be coerced. We don’t need to be pressured. When we can finally look and see what God has done …. When we can count our many blessings and name them one by one .… When we can understand that every good and perfect gift comes down from the Father above .… When we can see that life itself comes gift-wrapped from on high …. When we know, really know, that all of life is God’s grace … then we begin to praise; we begin to give; we begin to sing; we begin to tell; we begin to serve; we begin to enter into the “Abundant Life.”

When we finally understand that we were born lepers, and then we see what Jesus has done for us, and when it finally breaks through that only by the grace of God do we have anything valuable at all, only then does life really begin to change. At that point, wonderful things begin to happen to us. What was duty is now privilege. What was law is now grace. What was demanded is now volunteered. What was forced is now free. What was drudgery is now joy. What was taken for granted is now offered up in praise to God. When it finally breaks through to us, then we come running to Jesus, just like the leper.

Ten men were healed that day, but only one came back to give thanks. Which one are you? Far too many of us take our blessings for granted and groan about duties. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Praise is a choice. A thankful heart is a choice. No one is forced into bitterness. You choose the way you live. The one who returned to give thanks chose not to forget what Jesus had done for him. The secret of a thankful heart is making a conscious choice not to forget what God has done – for each of us.

Grace,

Randy

Gethsemane

Gethsemane

Gethsemane - Audio/Visual

Knowing everything that would happen to him, Jesus went out and asked, “Who is it you are looking for?” They answered, “Jesus from Nazareth.” “I am he,” Jesus said. (Judas, the one who turned against Jesus, was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, “I am he,” they moved back and fell to the ground. Jesus asked them again, “Who is it you are looking for?” They said, “Jesus of Nazareth.” “I told you that I am he,” Jesus said. “So if you are looking for me, let the others go.” (John 18:4-8)

My grandmother taught me a lesson early on in life: don’t make a wreck of her garden. You can play ball in the front yard; you can have races‘round the acreage in back; you can even build a fort in the tree. But the garden? Leave it alone.

It was a small garden, about the size of a walk-in closet. She didn’t grow anything exotic, except for maybe some mint that we’d soak in our summer tea. Though the vegetables were tasty, she didn’t need to grow them; she could’ve bought them at the market. So why did Nana insist on having a garden?

Simple. She loved to see life. And her garden was a place full of life; a place where buds exploded and plants pushed back the soil. A place of turnips and tulips and tomatoes. A place worthy of love and protection because flowers are fragile. Plants are precious. So yank the weeds and scatter the critters, she’d say. Put up a fence. Grow a hedge. Even make a scarecrow if you’d like. But “Randy, whatever you do, don’t go trampling around in the garden.”

And I hate to think that I’ve got anything in common with the devil, but I guess I do. Because Satan learned the same lesson: don’t mess with a garden — especially a garden that belongs to God.

The Bible, in some ways, is the story of two gardens: Eden and Gethsemane. In the first, Adam took a fall. In the second, Jesus took a stand. In the first, God sought Adam. In the second, Jesus sought God. In Eden, Adam hid from God. In Gethsemane, Jesus emerged from the tomb. In Eden, Satan led Adam to a tree that led to his death. From Gethsemane, Jesus went to a tree that led to our life.

Satan was never invited into the Garden of Eden. He didn’t belong there. He wasn’t wanted there. Instead, he slithered like a snake into God’s garden and infected God’s children. And that’s all he’s done ever since. In fact, has he entered a few of your holy gardens?

For instance, we call it “holy matrimony,” where the word “altar” implies the presence of God. Marriage was God’s idea. The first wedding occurred in the first garden. But that doesn’t make any difference to the devil. He snakes his way into every home with one desire — to destroy. Sexual intimacy is God’s gift. Marriage is like a rose plucked from the garden, given by God and intended to be shared with your forever partner. But Satan mocks that kind of loyalty. He’s the father of incest and abuse. He’s the author of immorality. He’s the pimp of the garden.

We give sacred oaths and make solemn promises. We vow to be a good parent, a true companion and a loyal friend. But Satan’s head turns when he hears a pledge. “We’ll see about that,” the father of lies smirks.

In God’s eyes, a child is holy. The innocence of youth; the freshness of childhood; the joy of an infant. There was never a moment when Jesus turned away a child. But there’s never been a child Satan didn’t despise. He killed babies in an attempt to kill Moses. He destroyed infants to destroy the Christ. And his tactics haven’t changed. Millions of babies are still aborted, and an equal number of children are abused and trafficked. Jesus said of Satan, “He was a murderer from the beginning.” (John 8:44)

So, is there a realm untouched by Satan? Is there a place unscarred by his sword? The church, perhaps? The government? Not likely. Children? We hope. Purity? We pray.

And you, or me? We are called to be holy. We were made to be holy – set apart for his good work. We are the prized flowers of the garden. But is there one person among us who hasn’t felt the foot of the intruder? What Satan did in Eden, he still does today. For that reason we need to know that what Jesus did in Gethsemane, he still does today. He reclaims the holy. He will not sit silent while Satan strip-mines the sacred. At the right moment Jesus stands and speaks. And when he stands and speaks, Satan stumbles and is speechless. That’s exactly what happened in Gethsemane.

John tells us that “Judas came there with a group of soldiers and some guards from the leading priests and Pharisees.” (John 18:3) A bit of study reveals that Satan had masterminded a coup d’état. He’d enlisted the muscle of each significant force in the drama — the Romans, the Jews and the apostles.

First, he had a “group of soldiers.” The Greek word is speira, and it has three possible meanings. It can signify a Roman cohort of 300 men. It can refer to a cavalry and infantry totaling 1,900 soldiers. Or, it can describe a detachment known as a maniple, which contained 200 men. Now, I always had the impression that only a handful of soldiers arrested Jesus. But I was wrong. At a minimum there were at least two hundred soldiers dispatched to deal with a carpenter and his eleven friends.

Also present were “some guards.” These guys were the temple police. They were assigned to guard the holiest place during the busiest time of the year. They were probably among Israel’s finest. Yesterday’s version of Seal Team 6.

And then there was Judas. One of the inner circle. Not only had Satan recruited the Romans and the Jews, he’d infiltrated the cabinet. Hell must have been rejoicing. There was no way Jesus could escape. Satan had sealed every exit, and his lieutenants anticipated every move. Except one.

Jesus had no desire to run. He had no intent of trying to escape. He hadn’t come to the garden to retreat. What they found among the trees was no coward; what they found was a conqueror. And note the dialogue that ensued: “Knowing everything that would happen to him, Jesus went out and asked, ‘Who is it you are looking for?’ They answered, ‘Jesus from Nazareth.’ ‘I am he,’ Jesus said. (Judas, the one who turned against Jesus, was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, ‘I am he,’ they moved back and fell to the ground. Jesus asked them again, ‘Who is it you are looking for?’ They said, ‘Jesus of Nazareth.’ ‘I told you that I am he,’ Jesus said. ‘So if you are looking for me, let the others go.’” (John 18:4-8)

Remarkable. They stand only a few feet from his face and don’t even recognize him. Not even Judas realized who stood before them. What a truth. Apparently, seeing Jesus is more than a matter of the eyes; it’s a matter of the heart. The enemy is next to Jesus and doesn’t even realize it, and so he reveals himself. “I am he.” His voice flicks the first domino, and down they all fall. Were the moment not so solemn it would be almost comic. These are the best soldiers with Satan’s finest plan. Yet, one word from Jesus and they all fall down. The Roman guard becomes the Keystone Cops. The Temple thugs turn into Humpty-Dumpty. Two hundred fighting men, and perhaps more, collapse into a noisy pile of shields, swords and lamps. Don’t miss the symbolism here: When Jesus speaks, Satan falls.

It doesn’t matter who the evil one has recruited. It doesn’t matter if he has infiltrated the government. It doesn’t matter if he has seduced the temple. It doesn’t matter if he has enlisted one of the original, handpicked apostles. The best that Satan has melts like wax in the presence of Christ. And Jesus has to ask them again whom they seek. “Who are you after?” When they answer that they’re looking for Jesus of Nazareth, he tells them, “So if you are looking for me, let the others go.”

Did you catch that? Jesus commanding them. A Jew instructing a Roman? A renegade directing the temple guard? So, we turn to the commander, expecting a reply. We look at Judas, awaiting his response. We listen, expecting someone to announce, “You’re not the one in charge here, Nazarene! We’ll take whoever we want.” But not only are they silent, they’re obedient because, as you may have noted, the apostles are set free.

Many players appear on the stage in Gethsemane. Judas and his betrayal. Peter and his sword. The disciples and their fears. The soldiers and their weapons. And though these are crucial, they aren’t instrumental. The encounter is not between Jesus and the soldiers; it’s between God and Satan. Satan dares to enter yet another garden, but God stands and Satan hasn’t a prayer.

So don’t miss the message: Our fight is not against people on earth but against the rulers and authorities and the powers of this world’s darkness, against the spiritual powers of evil in the heavenly world. (Eph. 6:12) And, The Son of God came for this purpose: to destroy the devil’s work. (1 John 3:8)

And don’t miss the promises, either: Satan falls in the presence of Christ. One word from his lips, and the finest army in the world collapsed. Satan is silent in the proclamation of Christ. Not once did the enemy speak without Jesus’ invitation. Before Christ, Satan has nothing to say. Satan is powerless against the protection of Christ. “I have not lost any of the ones you gave me.” (John 18:9) When Jesus says he’ll keep you safe, he means it. Hell will have to get through him to get to you. Jesus is able to protect you. When he says he’ll get you home, he will get you home.

Has Satan invaded a garden of your life? Has he profaned a holy part of your world? Your marriage? Your peace? Your joy? Has he taken away from you a rose that God gave you? If so, let Jesus claim it back. Today. This moment. Satan has no authority over you. If he has invaded a garden of your life, then invite Jesus to reclaim it. Open the gate to God. He will enter and do what he did at Gethsemane. He will pray, and he will protect. Why don’t you do that? Don’t know how? It’s easy. Pray. Maybe something like this:

Precious Father, I praise your name. You have reclaimed so much in my life. I was lost, and you found me. I was confused, and you guided me. I had nothing to offer, but still you loved me. I confess that I still need help. I have a part of my life that needs your touch. Satan is battling for a garden in my heart. Don’t let him win. Drive him out. He’s a liar and has been since the beginning. Please defeat him. I’ll give you the glory. And Father, here is the area where I need your strength ….

And this is the place where I'll step out to leave you and God in the garden to talk over the details.

Grace,

Randy

Value

Value - Audio/Visual

Value

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. And 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 8,000,000 children. Kids with progeria seldom live beyond their mid-teens, and there are only 100 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. 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. Then she decked the woman. 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. 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.

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 on 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.

It was like 5:00 p.m. on most weekdays in a lot of homes. The time of day when everyone wants a piece of Mom. One’s hungry, and the other wants her to read him a book. Another needs help with her homework, and the husband wants to tell her about his day. All at once. It’s Piranha Hour. When’s yours? When do people in your world demand a lot and offer little? Every boss has had a day in which the requests outnumber the results. There’s not a businessperson alive who hasn’t groaned as an armada of assignments docks at his or her desk. For the teacher, the piranha hour often begins when the first student arrives and ends when the last student leaves. Piranha hours: parents have them, bosses endure them, assistants dread them, teachers are besieged by them, and Jesus taught us how to live through them – successfully.

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 a piece of cake 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. 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 arrogance 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, if ever, choose to 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, that 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 the 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.

And here’s where Jesus should have given up. This is the point in the pressure-packed day where Jesus should have exploded. The sorrow, the life threats, the exuberance, the crowds, the interruptions, the demands, and now this. His own disciples can’t do what he asks them. In front of five thousand men, they let him down. “Beam me up, Father,” should have been Jesus’ next words. But they weren’t. Instead he inquires, “How many loaves do you have?” The disciples bring him a little boy’s lunch. And a lunch pail becomes a banquet; all are fed. No word of reprimand is given. No furrowed brow of anger is seen. No “I-told-you-so” speech is delivered. The same compassion Jesus extends to the crowd is extended to his closest friends.

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 erupted. 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. Most importantly, he stayed calm in the midst of chaos. He even paused, in the midst of it all, to pray a prayer of thanks.

A 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. He walked up to the counter and laid down a pocketful of wadded bills. 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. 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 very 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 very special. Don’t forget that. Jesus knows how you feel.

Under the gun at work? Jesus knows how you feel. You’ve got more to do than is humanly possible? So did he. You’ve got children who make a “piranha hour” out of your dinner hour? Jesus knows what that’s like. People take more from you than they give in return? Jesus understands. Your teenagers won’t listen? Your students won’t try? Your employees give you blank stares when you assign tasks? Believe me, 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