Runt

                Runt

Runt - Audio/Visual 

     

“God does not see the same way people see. People look at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7)

Sixth-grade. Do you remember sixth grade? I don’t. Well, not really. I don’t remember my grades, and I can’t even tell you the name of the blond-haired girl I had a crush on. But that spring evening in 1969? Like it was yesterday. I’m seated in the den because I’d asked to leave the dinner table. Mom had even made some cookies, but I passed on dessert because I wasn’t feeling very sociable tonight. I mean, who has time for sweets at a time like this? Frankly, I’d expected the call before dinner, but it hadn’t come. I’d even listened for it during dinner. It hadn’t rung. Now, I’m staring at the phone like my dog does at his dish, hoping a Little League coach will tell me that I’ve made the All-Star team. I’m sitting on the couch with my glove at my side. I can hear my buddies playing out in the street, but I don’t care. All that matters is the phone. I want it to ring. Pleeeeeeeeeeease ring.  It doesn’t.

I help with the dishes and finish my homework in silence. Mom says some kind words like she always does, but I don’t really respond. Bedtime’s around the corner, but the phone never rings. It sits there in silence in the den. Painful silence. Now, in the great scheme of things, not making an All-Star team doesn’t matter a whole lot. But eleven-year-olds don’t always see the “grand scheme of things.” It was a huge deal for me, and all I could think about was what I would say when schoolmates asked if I’d been selected. Rejection. Disaster.

Maybe you know the feeling; perhaps the phone didn’t ring for you, either. Well, at least maybe in the grander scheme of things, it didn’t. Like when you applied for the job, or when you tried to make up. The call never came. And you know the pain of a no call. We all do. In fact, we’ve even coined phrases for it – he was left “holding the bag,” or she was left “standing at the altar,” or they were left “out in the cold.” Or, “he’s out taking care of the sheep.” Let me explain that last one.

David’s story begins on the ancient hillsides of Israel, as an equally-ancient priest trundles down a narrow trail with a heifer lumbering along behind him. Bethlehem lies ahead and anxiety brews within. Farmers in their fields notice him, and those who know his face whisper his name, and those who hear the name turn to stare at his face. Samuel. Yep, God’s chosen priest right there in Bethlehem. Called by God. And when the sons of Eli turned sour, young Samuel stepped forward. When Israel needed spiritual focus, Samuel provided it. When Israel wanted a king, Samuel anointed one – Saul. And now the very name causes Samuel to groan. Saul. The Israelites wanted a king, so we have a king alright. They wanted a leader, and we have a maniac – or manic – for one.

Saul’s heart has grown harder, and his eyes even wilder. He isn’t the king he used to be. In fact, in God’s eyes, he isn’t even the king anymore. The Lord had already said to Samuel, “How long will you continue to feel sorry for Saul? I have rejected him as king of Israel. Fill your container with olive oil and go. I am sending you to Jesse who lives in Bethlehem, because I have chosen one of his sons to be king.” (1 Sam. 16:1) And so Samuel walks the trail toward Bethlehem. His stomach churns and his thoughts race.

Frankly, it’s just a little hazardous to anoint a king when Israel already has one, especially when the king is Saul. But it’s even more hazardous to live with no leader in such explosive times. 1000 BC was a bad time for this ramshackle bunch of tribes called Israel. Although Joshua and Moses were history-class heroes, three centuries of spiritual winter had frozen people’s faith. One writer described the days between Joshua and Samuel with this terse sentence: “In those days Israel did not have a king. Everyone did what seemed right.” (Jud. 21:25) Corruption fueled disruption, and immorality gave birth to brutality. The people had demanded a king. But rather than saving the ship, Saul had nearly sunk it. Israel’s first monarch turned out to be a psychotic blunderer.

And then there were the Philistines: a warring, bloodthirsty, giant-breeding people who had cornered the market on iron and blacksmithing. The Philistines built cities, while the Jewish people huddled in tents. Philistines forged iron weapons while the Hebrews fought with crude slings and arrows. Philistines thundered in flashing chariots, while the Israelites retaliated with farm tools. In fact, in one battle, the entire Hebrew army owned only two swords — one for Saul and the other for his son, Jonathan. Corruption from within. Danger from without. Saul was weak, and the nation was weaker. So, what did God do? He did what no one imagined. He issued a surprise invitation to a nobody from nowhere. It’s like he dispatched Samuel to Ramona, California.

The Bethlehem of Samuel’s day was like Ramona: a sleepy, little village that time had forgotten nestled in the foothills some six miles south of Jerusalem. Bethlehem sat two thousand feet above the Mediterranean, looking down on gentle, green hills that flattened into gaunt, rugged pastureland. Jesus would issue his first cry under Bethlehem’s sky. But a thousand years before the manger scene, Samuel enters the village pulling a cow. And his arrival turns the heads of residents because prophets simply didn’t visit Bethlehem. Has he come to preach against someone, or maybe hide somewhere? (He certainly was sideways with Saul) “Neither,” the stoop-shouldered priest assures them. He has come to sacrifice the animal to God, and invites the elders, including Jesse and his sons, to join him.

The scene had a kind of beauty pageant feel to it. Samuel examines the boys one at a time like Miss America, and more than once ready to crown the contestant, God stops him each and every time. For instance, Eliab, the oldest, seems the logical choice. Envision him as the village Casanova: wavy haired, strong jawed. He wears tight jeans and has a piano-keyboard smile. This is the guy, Samuel thinks. “Wrong,” God says. Abinadab enters as contestant number two. You’d think a GQ model had just walked in. Italian suit. Alligator-skin shoes. Jet-black, oiled-back hair. Rolex watch. Want a classy king? Abinadab has the bling. “Nope.” God’s not into classy. So, Samuel asks for brother number three, Shammah. He’s bookish. You know, the studious type. Bursting with brains but in need of a charisma transplant. He’s got a degree from Harvard and his eyes on postgraduate studies. Jesse whispers to Samuel, “Valedictorian of Bethlehem High.” Samuel is impressed, but God isn’t. He reminds the priest, “God does not see the same way people see. People look at the outside of a person, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7) Seven sons pass. Seven sons fail. And the procession comes to a halt. Samuel counts the siblings: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. “Hey, Jesse, don’t you have eight sons?” (A similar question caused Cinderella’s stepmother to become very uncomfortable. And Jesse likely did the same) “I still have the youngest son. He’s out taking care of the sheep.”

The Hebrew word used for “youngest son” implies more than just age. It also suggests rank. So, the “youngest son” was more than the youngest brother. He was the little brother. Or, to put it differently, he was the runt. And sheep watching fits runts. Put the boy where he can’t cause trouble. Leave him with woolly heads and open skies. And that’s where we find David – in the pasture with the flock. The Bible dedicates sixty-six chapters to his story, more than anyone else except Jesus. The New Testament mentions his name fifty-nine times. He will establish and rule the world’s most famous city, Jerusalem. The Son of God will be called the Son of David. The greatest psalms will flow from his pen. We’ll call him king, minstrel, even giant-killer. But today, he’s not even included in the family meeting; he’s just a forgotten kid performing a menial task in a nowhere town.

So what caused God to pick him? After all, we’ve all walked in David’s pasture.  You know, the pasture of exclusion. We’re weary of society’s surface-level system, of being graded according to the inches of our waist, the square footage of our house, the color of our skin, or the label of our clothes. Don’t you get tired of those games? Hard work is ignored, and devotion is left unrewarded. The boss chooses cleavage over character. The teacher picks pet students instead of prepared ones. And parents show off their favorite sons and leave their runts out in the field. Are you sick of the enemy of exclusion? Then it’s time to quit staring at him. Who cares what they think, anyway? What matters is what your Maker thinks. “The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (16:7) Those words were written for the runts of society. Written for the misfits and outcasts. God uses them all. For instance, Moses ran from justice, but God used him. Jonah ran from God, but God used him, too. Rahab ran a brothel, Samson ran to the wrong woman, Sarah ran out of hope, and Lot ran with the wrong crowd. But God used all of them. And David? God saw a teenager serving him in a backward town and, through the voice of a brother, God said, “David! Come inside. Someone wants to see you.”

Human eyes saw a gangly teenager enter the house, smelling like sheep and needing a bath. Yet, “the Lord said, ‘Arise, anoint him; for this is the one!’” (16:12) God saw what no one else saw: a God-seeking heart. David, for all his flaws, sought after God like white on rice. He took after God’s heart, because he stayed after God’s heart. And, in the end, that’s all God wanted or needed.  And today, that’s all God wants or needs from you. You see, others measure your waist size, or your wallet. Not God. He examines hearts. When he finds one set on him, he calls it and claims it. The story of young David assures us of this: our Father knows our hearts, and because he does, he has a place reserved just for us. God doesn’t care about your waist size, the square footage of your house, the color of your skin, or the label of your clothes. God knows – and cares about – your heart.

The phone’s ringing. Pick it up and talk with God. He’s got great news for you. You’re an All-Star.

Grace,

Randy

Capsized

Capsized

Then Peter called to him, “Lord, if it’s really you, tell me to come to you, walking on the water.” “Yes, come,” Jesus said. So Peter went over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted. Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him. “You have so little faith,” Jesus said. “Why did you doubt me?” When they climbed back into the boat, the wind stopped. Then the disciples worshiped him. “You really are the Son of God!” they exclaimed. (Matt. 14:28-33)

Faith is often the child of fear. Fear propelled Peter out of the boat. He’d ridden these waves before. He knew what these storms could do. He’d heard the stories. He’d seen the wreckage. He knew the widows. He knew the storm could kill. And he wanted out. Desperately. All night he wanted out. For nine hours he’d tugged on sails, wrestled with oars, and searched every shadow on the horizon for hope. He was soaked to the soul, and bone weary of the wind’s wail. Look into Peter’s eyes and you won’t see a man of conviction. Search his face and you won’t find a gutsy grimace. Later on, you will. You’ll see his courage in the garden. You’ll witness his devotion at Pentecost. You’ll behold his faith in his letters. But not tonight. Look into his eyes tonight and you see fear — a suffocating, heart-racing fear of a man who has absolutely no way out.

But out of this fear would be born an act of faith, for faith is often the child of fear. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” wrote the wise man. (Prov. 9:10) Peter could have been his sermon illustration. If Peter had seen Jesus walking on the water during a calm, peaceful day, do you think that he would have walked out to him? Had the lake been carpet smooth and the journey pleasant do you think that Peter would have begged Jesus to take him on a stroll across the top of the water? Doubtful. But give a man a choice between sure death and a crazy chance, and he’ll take the chance . . . every time. Great acts of faith are seldom born out of calm calculation.

It wasn’t logic that caused Moses to raise his staff on the bank of the Red Sea. (Exodus 14:15,16) It wasn’t medical research that convinced Naaman to dip seven times in the river. (2 Kings 5:13-14) It wasn’t common sense that caused Paul to abandon the Law and embrace grace. (Romans 3) And it wasn’t a confident committee that prayed in a small room in Jerusalem for Peter’s release from prison. (Acts 12:6-17) It was a fearful, desperate band of backed-into-the-corner believers. It was a church with no options. A congregation of have-nots pleading for help. And never were they stronger, because at the beginning of every act of faith there’s often a seed of fear. Biographies of bold disciples begin with chapters of honest terror. Fear of death. Fear of failure. Fear of loneliness. Fear of a wasted life. Fear of failing to know God. Faith begins when you see God on the mountain and you’re in the valley and you know that you’re too weak to make the climb. You see what you need . . . you see what you have . . . and what you have isn’t enough to accomplish anything.

Peter had given it his best. But his best wasn’t enough. Moses had a sea in front and an enemy behind. The Israelites could swim or they could fight. But neither option was enough. Naaman had tried the cures and consulted the soothsayers. Traveling a long distance to plunge into a muddy river made little sense when there were plenty of clean ones in his own backyard. But what option did he have? Paul had mastered the Law. He had mastered the system. But one glimpse of God convinced him that sacrifices and symbols weren’t enough. The Jerusalem church knew that they had no hope of getting Peter out of prison. They had Christians who would fight, but too few. They had clout, but too little. They didn’t need muscle. They needed a miracle.

So does Peter, and he’s aware of two facts: he’s going down, and Jesus is staying up. He knows where he would rather be. And there’s nothing wrong with this response. Faith that begins with fear will end up nearer the Father. “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter says, “tell me to come to you on the water.” (Matt. 14:28) Peter’s not testing Jesus; he’s pleading with him. Stepping out onto a stormy sea is not a move of logic; it’s a move of desperation. Peter grabs the edge of the boat. Throws out a leg . . . follows with the other. Several steps are taken. It’s as if an invisible ridge of rocks runs beneath his feet, and at the end of the ridge is the face of a never-say-die friend.

We do the same, don’t we? We come to Christ in an hour of deep need. We abandon the boat of good works. We realize, like Moses, that human strength won’t save us. So, we look to God in desperation. We realize, like Paul, that all the good works in the world are puny when laid before the Perfect One. We understand, like Peter, that spanning the gap between us and Jesus is a feat too great for our feet. So we beg for help. Hear his voice. And step out in fear, hoping that our little faith will be enough. Faith is not born at the negotiating table where we barter our gifts in exchange for God’s goodness. Faith is not an award given to the most learned. It’s not a prize given to the most disciplined. It’s not a title bestowed upon the most religious. Faith is a desperate dive out of the sinking boat of human effort, and a prayer that God will be there to pull us out of the water. Paul wrote about this kind of faith in his letter to the Ephesians: “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith — and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God — not by works, so that no one can boast.” (Eph. 2:8-9)

Paul is clear. The supreme force in salvation is God’s grace. Not our works. Not our talents. Not our feelings. Not our strength. Salvation is God’s sudden, calming presence during the stormy seas of our lives. We hear his voice; we take the step. We, like Paul, are aware of two things: we are great sinners in need of a great Savior. We, like Peter, are aware of two facts: we’re going down and God is standing up. So we scramble out. We leave behind the Titanic of our self-righteousness and stand on the solid path of God’s grace. And, surprisingly, we are able to walk on water. Death is disarmed. Failures are forgivable. Life has real purpose. And God is not only within sight, he’s within reach. With precious, wobbly steps we draw closer to him. For a season of surprising strength, we stand upon his promises. It doesn’t make sense that we’re able to do this. We don’t claim to be worthy of such an incredible gift. When people ask how in the world we can keep our balance during such stormy times, we don’t boast. We don’t brag. We point unabashedly to the One who makes it possible. Our eyes are on him. “Nothing in my hand I bring; simply to Thy cross I cling,” we sing. (Rock of Ages) “‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved,” we explain. (Amazing Grace)

Some of us, unlike Peter, never look back. Others of us, like Peter, feel the wind and we’re afraid. (Matt. 14:30) Maybe we face the wind of pride: “I’m not such a bad sinner after all. Look at what I can do.” Or, perhaps we face the wind of legalism: “I know that Jesus is doing part of this, but I have to do the rest.” Most of us, though, face the wind of doubt: “I’m too bad for God to treat me this well. I don’t deserve to be rescued.” And downward we plunge. Weighed down by mortality’s mortar, we sink. Gulping and thrashing, we fall into a dark, wet world. We open our eyes and see only blackness. We try to breathe, and no air comes. We kick and fight our way back to the surface. With our heads barely above the water, we have to make a decision.

The prideful ask: “Do we ‘save face’ and drown in pride? Or do we scream for help and take God’s hand?” The legalists ask: “Do we sink under the lead-heavy weight of the Law? Or do we abandon the codes and beg for grace?” The doubters ask: “Do we nurture doubt by mumbling, ‘I’ve really let him down this time?’ Or do we hope that the same Christ who called us out of the boat will call us out of the sea?” We know Peter’s choice. But when he saw the strong wind and the waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted. (Matt. 14:30)

We also know the choice of another sailor in another storm. Although separated by seventeen centuries, this sailor and Peter are drawn together by several striking similarities: both made their living on the sea; both met their Savior after a nine-hour battle in a storm; both met the Father in fear and then followed him in faith; and both walked away from their boats and became preachers of the Truth. You know the story of Peter, the first sailor. But let me tell you about the second sailor, John. He had served on the seas since he was eleven years old. His father, an English shipmaster in the Mediterranean, took him aboard and trained him well for a life in the Royal Navy. But what John gained in experience, he lacked in discipline. He mocked authority. Ran with the wrong crowd. Indulged in the sinful ways of some sailors. Although his training would have qualified him to serve as an officer, his behavior caused him to be flogged and demoted.

So, in his early twenties, he made his way to Africa, where he became intrigued with the lucrative slave trade. At age twenty-one, he made his living on the Greyhound, a slave ship crossing the Atlantic Ocean. John ridiculed the moral, and poked fun at the religious. He even made jokes about a book that would eventually reshape his life: The Imitation of Christ. In fact, he was degrading that book a few hours before his ship sailed into an angry storm. That night the waves pummeled the Greyhound, spinning the ship one minute on the top of a wave. Plunging her the next into a watery valley. John woke up with his cabin filled with water. A side of the Greyhound had collapsed. Ordinarily such damage would have sent a ship to the bottom in a matter of minutes. The Greyhound, however, was carrying buoyant cargo and remained afloat.

John worked at the pumps all night. For nine hours, he and the other sailors struggled to keep the ship from sinking. But he knew that it was a losing cause. Finally, when his hopes were more battered than the vessel, he threw himself on the saltwater-soaked deck and pleaded, “If this will not do, then Lord have mercy on us all.” John didn’t deserve mercy, but he received it. The Greyhound and her crew survived. And John never forgot God’s mercy shown on that tempestuous day in the roaring Atlantic. He returned to England where he became a prolific composer. You’ve sung his songs, like: Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.

This slave-trader-turned-songwriter was John Newton. And along with his hymn writing, he also became a powerful preacher. For nearly fifty years, he filled pulpits and churches with the story of the Savior who meets you and me in the storm. A year or two before his death, people urged him to give up preaching because of his failing eyesight. “What!” he explained. “Shall the old African blasphemer stop while he can yet speak?” He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. What had begun as a prayer of fear resulted in a lifetime of faith. During his last years, someone asked him about his health. He confessed that his powers were failing. “My memory is almost gone,” he said, “but I remember two things: I am a great sinner, and Jesus is a great Savior.” What more do you and I need to remember?

Two sailors and two seas. Two vessels in two storms. Two prayers of fear and two lives of faith. Uniting them is one Savior — one God who’ll walk through hell or high water to extend a helping hand to a child who cries out for help. Capsized? Hardly. Though water in the boat may be its ruin, water under the boat is its support.

Grace,

Randy

Relative Difficulty

Relative Difficulty
Relative Difficulty - Audio/Visual 

Then Jesus’ mother and brothers came to see him. They stood outside and sent word for him to come out and talk with them. There was a crowd sitting around Jesus, and someone said, “Your mother and your brothers are outside asking for you.”

Jesus replied, “Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?” Then he looked at those around him and said, “Look, these are my mother and brothers. Anyone who does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:31-35)

Give me a word picture to describe a relative in your life who really bugs you. A parasite, perhaps? – your wife has this brother who never works and always expects you and your family to provide. Or, a cactus wearing a silk blouse? – she looks nice and everyone thinks she’s the greatest, but get close to her and she is prickly, dry and thirsty for life. Maybe a marble column – dignified, noble, but high and hard. That’s how it can be sometimes with difficult relatives. Stuck to someone with whom we can’t communicate. And it’s not as if they’re a neighbor from whom you could move away, or an employee you could fire. They’re family. And you can choose your friends, but you can’t … well, you know the rest. Odds are, you probably know that expression very well.

Maybe you’ve got someone like that in your life – someone you can’t talk to but can’t walk away from. A mother who whines, or an uncle who slurps his soup, or a sister who flaunts her figure. A dad who’s still waiting for you to get a real job, or a mother-in-law who wonders why her daughter married you. Sticky wicket relationships — stuck together but falling apart. It’s like being in a crammed elevator – people thrust together by chance on a short ride, saying as little as possible. The only difference is you’ll eventually get off the elevator and never see them again — not so with the difficult relative. Family reunions, Christmas, Thanksgiving, weddings, funerals. They’ll be there. And you’ll be there sorting through the tough questions. Why does life get so relatively difficult? If we expect anyone to be sensitive to our needs, it’s our family members isn’t it? When we hurt physically, we want our family to respond. When we struggle emotionally, we want our family to know. But sometimes they act like they don’t know. And sometimes they even act like they don’t care.

In her book, Irregular People, Joyce Landorf tells of a woman in her thirties who learned that she had breast cancer which would require a mastectomy. She and her mother seldom communicated, so the daughter was apprehensive about telling her. One day over lunch, however, she decided to reveal the news. “Mother, I just learned that I am going to have a mastectomy.” The mother was silent. The daughter asked her if she’d heard what she’d said. The mother nodded affirmatively. Then she calmly dismissed the subject by saying, “You know your sister has the best recipe for chicken enchiladas.” What can you do when those closest to you keep their distance? When you can get along with others, but you can’t get along with your relatives? Does Jesus have anything to say about dealing with difficult relatives? Is there an example of Jesus bringing peace to a painful family? Yes, there is. His own.

It may surprise you, but Jesus had a difficult family. Maybe it surprises you to know that Jesus had a family at all; you may not be aware that Jesus had brothers and sisters. Well, he did. Quoting Jesus’ hometown critics, Mark wrote, “[Jesus] is just the carpenter, the son of Mary and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas, and Simon. And his sisters are here with us.” (Mark 6:3) It may even shock you to know that his family was less than perfect. But they were. So, if your family doesn’t appreciate you, take heart, neither did Jesus’. In fact, here’s Jesus’ conclusion on life in the neighborhood: “A prophet is honored everywhere except in his hometown and with his own people and in his own home.” (Mark 6:4)

I wonder what he meant when he said those last five words – and in his own home. Because he went to the synagogue where he was asked to speak. And the people were proud that this hometown boy had done well — until they heard what he said. He referred to himself as the Messiah, the one to fulfill prophecy. Their response? “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” Translation? This is no Messiah. He’s just like us! He’s the plumber’s kid from down the street. He’s the accountant on the third floor. He’s the construction worker who used to date my sister. God doesn’t speak through familiar people, especially through some Jewish kid who grew up in our own back yard. One minute he’s a hero, the next he’s a heretic. And then look at what happens next. “But when they heard this, everyone in the synagogue was furiously angry. They sprang to their feet and drove him right out of the town, taking him to the brow of the hill on which it was built, intending to hurl him down bodily. But he walked straight through the whole crowd and went on his way.” (Luke 4:29–30)

What an ugly moment. Jesus’ neighborhood friends tried to kill him. But even uglier than what we see is what we don’t see. Notice what’s missing from this verse. Note what words should be there, but aren’t. “They intended to hurl him down bodily (from the brow of the hill, i.e., cliff), but Jesus’ brothers came and defended him.” We’d like to read that, but we can’t because it doesn’t say that. That’s not what happened. When Jesus was in trouble, his brothers were either not around or, worse yet, part of the mob. They weren’t always invisible, though. There was a time when they spoke. There was a time when they were seen with him in public. Not because they were proud of him but because they were ashamed of him. “His family … went to get him because they thought he was out of his mind.” (Mark 3:21). Jesus’ siblings thought their brother was a lunatic. They weren’t proud — they were embarrassed! “He’s off the deep end, Mom. You should hear what people are saying about him.” “People say he’s crazy.” “Yeah, somebody asked me why we don’t do something about him.” “It’s a good thing Dad isn’t around to see what Jesus is doing.”

Hurtful words spoken by those closest to Jesus. But it gets worse, because here’s some more: So Jesus’ brothers said to him, “You should leave here and go to Judea so your followers there can see the miracles you do. Anyone who wants to be well known does not hide what he does. If you are doing these things, show yourself to the world.” (Even Jesus’ brothers did not believe in him.) (John 7:3–5) Listen to the sarcasm in those words. They drip with ridicule. How does Jesus put up with these morons? How can you believe in yourself when those who know you best don’t? How can you move forward when your family wants to pull you back? Or worse yet, want to commit you! When you and your family have two different agendas, what do you do? Fortunately, Jesus gives us some answers.

It’s worth noting that he didn’t try to control his family’s behavior, nor did he let their behavior control his own. He didn’t demand that they agree with him. He didn’t sulk when they insulted him. He didn’t make it his mission to try to please them. I think a lot of us have a fantasy that our family will be like the Walton’s, an expectation that our dearest friends will be our next of kin. Jesus didn’t have that expectation. Look how he defined his family: “Look, these are my mother and brothers. Anyone who does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:35) When Jesus’ brothers didn’t share his convictions, he didn’t try to force them. He recognized that his spiritual family could provide what his physical family did not. The fact is, if Jesus himself couldn’t force his family to share his convictions, what makes you think you can force your own?

We can’t control the way our family responds to us. When it comes to the behavior of others toward us, our hands are tied. We have to move beyond the naive expectation that if we do good, people will treat us right. They may. And, then again, they may not. We can’t control how people respond to us. If your brother’s a jerk, you could be the world’s best sister and he still won’t tell you so. If your aunt doesn’t like your career, you could change jobs a dozen times and still never satisfy her. If your sister is always complaining about what you got and she didn’t, you could give her everything and she still may not change. As long as you think you can control people’s behavior toward you, you are held in bondage by their opinions. If you think you can control their opinion, and their opinion isn’t positive, then guess who you have to blame? Yourself. It’s a game with unfair rules and fatal finishes. Jesus didn’t play it, nor should we.

We don’t know if Joseph affirmed his son Jesus in his ministry — but we know God did: “This is my Son, whom I love, and I am very pleased with him.” (Matt. 3:17) I can’t assure you that your family will ever give you the blessing you seek, but God will. Let God give you what your family doesn’t. If your earthly father doesn’t affirm you, then let your heavenly Father take his place. How do you do that? By emotionally accepting God as your father. You see, it’s one thing to accept him as Lord, another to recognize him as Savior — but it’s another matter altogether to accept him as Father. To recognize God as Lord is to acknowledge that he is sovereign and supreme in the universe. To accept him as Savior is to accept his gift of salvation offered on the cross. But to regard him as Father is to go a step further. Ideally, a father is the one in your life who provides and protects. And that’s exactly what God has done.

He has provided for your needs. (Matt. 6:25–34) He has protected you from harm. (Ps. 139:5) He has adopted you. (Eph. 1:5) And he has given you his name. (1 John 3:1) God has proven himself a faithful father. Now, it falls upon each of us to be trusting children. Let God give you what your family doesn’t. Let him fill the void others have left. Rely upon him for your affirmation and encouragement. Look at Paul’s words: “You are God’s child, and God will give you the blessing he promised, because you are his child.” (Gal. 4:7) Having your family’s approval is desirable but not necessary for happiness, and not always possible. Jesus did not let the difficult dynamic of his family overshadow his call from God. And because he didn’t, the chapter has a happy ending. So, what happened to Jesus’ family?

“Then [the disciples] went back to Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives .… They all continued praying together with some women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, and Jesus’ brothers.” (Acts 1:12, 14)

Wow, what a change! The ones who mocked him now worship him. The ones who pitied him now pray for him. What if Jesus had disowned them? Or worse yet, what if he’d suffocated his family with his demand for change? He didn’t. He gave them space, time and grace instead. And because he did, they changed. How much did they change? Well, one brother became an apostle (Gal. 1:19), and others became missionaries. (1 Cor. 9:5) So, don’t lose heart. God still changes families. They’re like flowers in a bouquet: there's always one determined to face in an opposite direction from the way the Arranger intended.

Grace,

Randy