Absurdity

Absurdity
Absurdity - Audio/Visual (Excerpt) 

Now I would remind you, brothers, of the gospel I preached to you, which you received, in which you stand, and by which you are being saved, if you hold fast to the word I preached to you — unless you believed in vain. For I delivered to you as of first importance what I also received: that Christ died for our sins in accordance with the Scriptures, that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures . . . . (1 Corinthians 15:1–4)

The word gospel simply means “good news.” The central message of the Bible is the gospel, or good news, about the person and work of Jesus Christ. In his letter to the church in Corinth, Paul provided them with a very succinct summary of the gospel: the man Jesus is also God, or Christ, and died on a cross in our place, paying the penalty for our sins; three days later he rose to conquer sin and death and give the gift of salvation to all who believe in him alone for eternal life. I wish I could be that brief.

The great reformer, Martin Luther, rightly said that, as sinners, we are prone to pursue a relationship with God in one of two ways. The first is through religion/spirituality, and the second is by way of the gospel. The two are polar opposites. Religion says that if we obey God He will love us. The gospel says that it’s because God loved us through Jesus that we can obey. Religion says that the world is filled with good people and bad people. The gospel says that the world is filled with bad people who are either repentant or unrepentant. Religion says that you should trust in what you do as a good moral person. The gospel says that you should trust in the sinless life of Jesus because He alone is the only good and truly moral person who will ever live.

The goal of religion is to get from God things like health, wealth, insight, power and control. The goal of the gospel is not the gifts God gives, but rather God – as the gift – given to us by his grace. Religion is about what I have to do. The gospel is about what I get to do. Religion sees hardship in life as punishment from God. The gospel sees hardship in life as sanctifying affliction that reminds us of Jesus’ sufferings, and is used by God, in love, to make us more like Jesus. Religion is about me. The gospel is about Jesus. Religion leads to an uncertainty about my standing before God because I never know if I have done enough to please God. The gospel leads to a certainty about my standing before God because of the finished work of Jesus on my behalf on the cross. Religion ends in either pride (because I think I’m better than other people), or despair (because I’m constantly falling short of God’s commands). The gospel ends in humble and confident joy because of the power of Jesus at work for me, in me, through me, and sometimes … in spite of me.

“You mean to tell me God became a baby … The one asking the question was clearly puzzled. His thick eyebrows were furrowed in doubt and incredulity; his eyes were squinted in caution, but bordering on bemusement. Though there were plenty of places to sit, he preferred to stand. Apparently, he wanted to stay safely behind the crowd, unsure, yet intrigued by what he was hearing. Throughout the lecture he listened intently, occasionally uncrossing his arms to stroke his chin. Now, however, he stood upright, punching the air with his finger as he queried.

… And that he was born in a sheep stable?” Truth is, he looked as though he’d just walked in from a sheep stall himself, and sounded as if he honestly didn’t know if the story he was hearing was just an urban legend, or the gospel truth. “Yes, that’s what I mean to say,” the lecturer responded. “And then, after becoming a baby he was raised in a blue-collar home? He never wrote any books or held any offices, yet he called himself the Son of God?” “That’s right.” The lecturer being questioned was Landon Saunders, the voice of the Heartbeat Radio program. Nobody can tell the story of Jesus like Landon. “He never traveled outside of his own country, never studied at a university, never lived in a palace, and yet asked to be regarded as the creator of the universe?” “That’s correct.” The dialogue was a bit unnerving.

“And this crucifixion story. . . he was betrayed by his own people? No followers came to his defense? And then he was executed like a common junkyard thief?” “That’s the gist of it.” The authenticity of the questioner didn’t allow you to regard him as a cynic, or dismiss him as a show-off, or a whacko. To the contrary, he seemed a little nervous about commanding such attention, and his awkwardness betrayed his inexperience at public speaking. But his desire to know was just a little heavier than his discomfort. So, he continued. “And after the killing he was buried in a borrowed grave?” “Yes, he had no grave of his own, nor money with which to purchase one.”

The honesty of the dialogue was spellbinding. It was one of those rare events where two people were willing to question the holy; two men standing on opposite sides of a deep chasm, one asking the other if the bridge that stretched between them could actually be trusted. And then there was a hint of emotion in the questioner’s voice as he carefully worded his next query: “And according to what’s written, after three days in the grave he was resurrected and made appearances to over five hundred people?” “Yes.” “And all this was to prove that God still loves his people and provides a way for us to return to him?” “Right.” “Doesn’t that all sound rather. . .” He paused a second, searching for the right adjective. “Doesn’t that all sound rather … absurd?”

Christianity . . . absurd? Jesus on a cross . . . absurd? The Incarnation . . . absurd? The Resurrection . . . absurd? That’d be like taking my Sunday school Jesus down from the flannel board. I mean, wouldn’t we rather tell that guy how it made sense? You know, diagram the dispensations; present fulfilled prophecies; explain the fulfillment of the Old Law. That’s right. Covenant. Reconciliation. Redemption. Sure it makes sense. Don’t describe God’s actions as absurd! Are you kidding me? What God did absolutely makes sense. It makes sense that Jesus would be our sacrifice because a sacrifice was needed to justify man’s presence before God. It makes sense that God would use the Old Law to tutor Israel on their need for grace. It makes sense that Jesus would be our High Priest. What God did makes sense. It can be taught, it can be charted and it can be put in books on systematic theology. But why? Okay, now that’s absurd.

Because when you leave the method and examine the motive, the carefully stacked blocks of religious logic begin to tumble. That type of love isn’t logical; it can’t be neatly outlined in a sermon, or explained in a paper. Think about it for a minute. For thousands of years, using his wit and charm, man had tried to be friends with God. And for thousands of years he’d let God down more than he’d lifted him up. He’d done the very thing he promised he’d never do. It was a fiasco. Even the holiest of the heroes sometimes forgot whose side they were on. Frankly, some of the scenarios in the Bible sound more like the adventures of Sinbad than stories for vacation Bible school.

For instance, Aaron. Right-hand man to Moses. Witness of the plagues. Member of the “Red Sea Riverbed Expedition.” Holy priest of God. But if he was so saintly, what was he doing leading the Israelites in fireside aerobics in front of the golden calf? Or, how about the sons of Jacob. The fathers of the tribes of Israel. Great-grandsons of Abraham. But if they were so special, why were they gagging their younger brother and sending him to Egypt? And then there’s David. The man after God’s own heart. The King’s king. The giant-slayer and songwriter. He’s also the guy whose glasses got steamy as a result of a bath on a roof. Unfortunately, the water wasn’t his, and neither was the woman he was ogling. And the other womanizer? Samson? Yeah, he was swooning on Delilah’s couch, drunk on perfume, soft music and softer lights. He’s thinking, “She’s putting on something more comfortable,” and she’s thinking, “I know I put those scissors in here somewhere.”

Adam adorned in fig leaves with stains of forbidden fruit. Moses throwing both a staff and a temper tantrum. King Saul looking into a crystal ball for the will of God. Noah, drunk and naked in his own tent. These are the chosen ones of God? This is the royal lineage of the King? These are the ones who were to carry out God’s mission? It’s easy to see the absurdity. I mean, why didn’t God just give up? Why didn’t he just let the globe spin off its axis into oblivion? But even after generations of people had spit in his face, he still loved them. After a nation of chosen ones had stripped him naked and ripped his flesh with whips, he still died for them. And even today, after billions have chosen to prostitute themselves before the pimps of power, or fame, or wealth, he still waits for them. It’s completely inexplicable. It doesn’t have a shred of logic or a thread of rationality. And yet, it’s that very irrationality that gives the gospel its greatest defense: only God could love like that.

Sometimes, we just don’t see him, do we? Maybe it’s because we’re expecting someone in a flowing frock with silky-white hands. But Jesus is the lion of Judah, walking out from the dense forest of theology and ritual to lie down in a brief clearing. In his paw – a wound – and in his mane – stains of blood. But there’s a royalty about him that silenced even the breeze in the trees. Bloodstained royalty. A God with tears. A creator with a heart. God became earth’s mockery to save his children. How absurd to think that such nobility would go to such poverty to share a priceless treasure with such thankless souls. But he did. I guess the only thing more absurd than the gift is our willful stubbornness to receive it.

Grace,

Randy

Jesus

Jesus
Jesus - Audio/Visual 

In the beginning the Word already existed. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. He existed in the beginning with God. God created everything through him, and nothing was created except through him. The Word gave life to everything that was created, and his life brought light to everyone. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it …. So the Word became human and made his home among us. He was full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory of the Father’s one and only Son. (John 1:1-5; 14)

The heavy door creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open. In just a few strides, he crossed the silent shop and opened the wooden shutters to a square shaft of sunshine that pierced the darkness, painting a box of daylight on the dirt floor. He looked around the carpentry shop. He stood for a moment in the refuge of the little room that housed so many sweet memories. He balanced the hammer in his hand. He ran his fingers across the sharp teeth of the saw. He stroked the smoothly worn wood of the sawhorse. He had come to say good-bye. It was time for him to leave. He had heard something that made him know it was time to go. So he came one last time to smell the sawdust and the lumber.

Life was peaceful here. Life was so . . . safe. It was here that he’d spent countless hours of contentment. On this very dirt floor he had played here as a toddler while his father worked. Here Joseph had taught him how to grip a hammer. And on that workbench he had built his first chair. I wonder what he thought as he took one last look around the room. Perhaps he stood for a moment at the workbench looking at the tiny shadows cast by the chisel and the shavings. Perhaps he listened as voices from the past filled the air: “Good job, Jesus;” “Joseph, Jesus — come and eat!”; “Don’t worry sir; it’ll be finished on time. I’ll get Jesus to help me.” I wonder if he hesitated. I wonder if his heart was torn. I wonder if he rolled a nail between his thumb and fingers, anticipating the pain.

It was in the carpentry shop that he must have given birth to his thoughts. Concepts and convictions had been woven together in this place to form the very fabric of his future ministry. You can almost see the tools of the trade in his words as he spoke. You can see the trueness of a plumb line as he called for moral standards. You can hear the whistle of the plane as he pleads for religion to shave away its unnecessary traditions. You can picture the snugness of a dovetail as he demands loyalty in relationships. You can imagine him with a pencil and a ledger as he urges honesty. It was here that his human hands shaped the very wood that his divine hands had created. And it was here that his body matured while his spirit waited for the right moment, the right day. And now that day had arrived.

It must have been difficult to leave. After all, life as a carpenter wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all. Business was good, the future was bright, and his work was enjoyable. In Nazareth he was known only as Jesus, the son of Joseph. And you can be sure he was respected in the community. He was good with his hands. He had lots of friends. He was a favorite among the kids. He could tell a good joke, and had a habit of filling the air with contagious laughter.

I wonder if he wanted to stay. He could do a good job here in Nazareth. He could settle down. He could raise a family. Be a civic leader, maybe? I wonder about these things, because I know he’d already read the last chapter. He knew that the feet that would step out of the safe shadow of the carpentry shop wouldn’t rest until they’d been rammed through with a spike and placed on a Roman cross. He didn’t have to go. He had a choice. He could have stayed. He could have kept his mouth shut. He could have ignored the call, or at least postponed it. And had he chosen to stay, who’d have known? Who’d have blamed him? Or, he could have come back as a man in another era – when society wasn’t so volatile, religion not so stale, and at a time when people would listen better. He could have come back when crosses were out of style. Especially crosses made out of wood.

But his heart wouldn’t let him. If there was hesitation on the part of his humanity, it was overcome by the compassion of his divinity. His divinity heard the voices. His divinity heard the hopeless cries of the poor, the bitter accusations of the abandoned, and the dangling despair of those who are trying to save themselves. And his divinity saw the faces. Some wrinkled. Some weeping. Some hidden behind veils. Some obscured by fear. Some earnest with searching. Some blank with boredom. From the face of Adam to the face of the infant born somewhere in the world this very minute, he saw them all.

And you can be sure of one thing. Among the voices that found their way into that carpentry shop in Nazareth was your voice; my voice. Your silent prayers uttered on tear-stained pillows were heard before they were said. Our deepest questions about death and eternity were answered before they were asked. And our direst need, our need for a Savior, was met before we ever sinned. He left because of you; he left because of me. He laid his security down with his hammer. He hung tranquility on the peg with his nail apron. He closed the window shutters on the sunshine of his youth, and locked the door on the comfort and ease of anonymity. Since he could bear your sins more easily than he could bear the thought of your hopelessness, he chose to leave. It wasn’t easy. Leaving the carpentry shop never has been.

Many of the names in the Bible that refer to our Lord are nothing less than palatial and august: Son of God, the Lamb of God, the Light of the World, the Resurrection and the Life, the Bright and Morning Star, He that Should Come, and the Alpha and Omega. They’re phrases that stretch the very boundaries of human language in an effort to capture what can't be captured: the grandeur of God. And try as they might to draw as near as they may, they always fall short. Hearing them is like hearing a Salvation Army Christmas band on the street corner playing Handel’s Messiah. Nice try, but it really doesn’t work so well. The message is just too majestic for the medium. And such it is with language. The phrase “There are no words to express. . . ,” is really the only one that can honestly be applied to God. No names do him justice.

But there is one name which recalls a quality of the Master that bewildered and compelled those who knew him. It reveals a side of him that, when recognized, is enough to make you fall on your face. It’s not too small, but it’s not too grand. It’s a name that fits like the shoe fit Cinderella’s foot. Jesus. In the gospels, it’s his most common name — used almost six hundred times. And a common name it was. Jesus is the Greek form of Joshua, Jeshua, and Jehoshua — all familiar Old Testament names. In fact, there were at least five high priests known as Jesus.

The writings of the historian Josephus refer to about twenty people called Jesus. The New Testament speaks of Jesus Justus, the friend of Paul (Colossians 4:11), and the Jewish sorcerer of Paphos was called Bar-Jesus. (Acts 13:6) Some manuscripts give Jesus as the first name of Barabbas: “Which would you like me to release to you — Jesus Barabbas or Jesus called the Messiah?” (Matthew 27:16-17) And not only was Barabbas's first name Jesus, but his last name, Barabbas, means son (bar) of the father (abba). Jesus had always referred to himself as the Son of the Father, but his adversaries had always refused to acknowledge that he was. So, now there are two men named Jesus, each a "son of the father," but of opposite fathers because Jesus was an innocent man about to be murdered, and Barabbas was a murderer about to be set free. Interesting that, by “coincidence,” the people’s choice between God and the devil was being reflected back at them by the magnifying glass of circumstance.

Jesus could have been a “Joe.” If Jesus came today, his name might have been John or Bob or Jim. Were he here today, it’s doubtful he would distance himself with a lofty name like His Reverend Holiness Angelic Divinity III. No, when God chose the name his son would carry, he chose a human name. He chose a name so typical that it would appear two or three times on any given kindergarten class roll. “The Word became flesh,” in other words. He was touchable, approachable and reachable. And, what’s more, he was “ordinary.” In fact, if he were here today, you probably wouldn’t notice him as he walked through Westfield’s North County Fair. He wouldn’t turn heads by the clothes he wore, or the jewelry he flashed. In fact, according to the prophet Isaiah, Jesus was . . . well . . . unattractive. (Isaiah 52:14 – 53:3)

“Just call me Jesus,” you can almost hear him say. He was the kind of fellow you’d invite to watch the Padres-Dodgers game at your house. He’d wrestle on the floor with your kids, doze on your couch, and cook steaks on your grill. He’d laugh at your jokes, and tell a few of his own. And when you spoke, he’d listen to you as if he had all the time in eternity. And one thing’s for sure – you’d invite him back. It’s worth noting that those who knew him best remembered him as Jesus. The titles Jesus Christ and Lord Jesus are seen only six times. Those who walked with him remembered him not with a title or designation, but with a name — Jesus.

And just think about the implications of that. When God chose to reveal himself to mankind, what medium did he use? A book? No, that was secondary. A church? No, that was consequential. A moral code? No, because to limit God’s revelation to a cold list of do’s and don’ts is as tragic as looking at a California road map and saying you’ve seen Yosemite. When God chose to reveal himself, he did so through a human body. The tongue that called forth the dead was a human one. The hand that touched the leper had dirt under its nails. The feet upon which the woman wept were callused and dusty. And his tears, don’t miss the tears, they came from a face less fortunate, but from a heart as broken as yours or mine has ever been. “For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses.” (Heb. 4:15)

So, people came to him. Oh, how they came to him! They came at night; they touched him as he walked down the street; they followed him around the sea; they invited him into their homes, and placed their children at his feet. Why? Because he refused to be a statue in a cathedral, or a preacher in an elevated pulpit. He chose, instead, to be Jesus.

There’s not a hint of one person who was afraid to draw near him. Oh, there were those who mocked him, and there were those who were envious of him. There were those who misunderstood him, and there were those who revered him. But there was not one person who considered him too holy, too divine, or too celestial to touch. There was not one person who was reluctant to approach him for fear of being neglected. Remember that. Remember that the next time you find yourself amazed at your own failures. Or the next time acidic accusations burn holes in your soul. Remember that the next time you see a cold cathedral, or hear a lifeless sermon. Remember. It’s man who creates the distance. It’s Jesus who builds the bridge.

His name is Jesus. Give him a call.

Grace,

Randy

Revengeance

Revengeance
Revengeance - Audio/Visual 

Don’t say, “I’ll pay you back for the wrong you did.” Wait for the Lord, and he will make things right.” (Prov. 20:22)

As I’m writing this, I’m angry. I’m angered by, of all things, frogs. They’re loud. They’re obnoxious. They’re in my pool. And they’re in big trouble if I can get my hands on them. I’m up late. Later than I should be. But my sleeves are rolled up and my laptop’s humming. Get a jump on this thing, I’d planned. Get a leg up, I’d hoped. But get your hands on those frogs is what I’m mumbling.

Now, I have nothing against nature. The melody of a song bird, I love. But the evening ribbit-ribbit-ribbiting of the frogs really bugs me. So, I go outside to see what I can do. Now, we’re blessed to have a pool, and at the deep end of the pool is a rock grotto with a rock slide. And there they are. Must be a half dozen of them. All about three inches long, but each equipped with a ten foot foghorn. And when they’re inside the grotto, it sounds like there are a million of them. So, I turn the water on that leads into the pool to disturb them. Ahh, quiet … for a minute. Then I turn on the waterfall that spills over the grotto – that’ll drown them. Silence … for a moment. They're frogs. They don't drown. Humbling. I’ve been sabotaged by an army of amphibians; I’ve been reduced to a frog-stalker.

So forgive me if my thoughts are fragmented, but I’m launching artillery every other paragraph or so. The pool is just outside my study. This is no way to work. This is no way to end the day. My space is cluttered. My pants are wet. My train of thought is derailed. I mean, how can you write about revengeance when a bunch of stupid frogs are croaking for their collective love lives in your swimming pool? Oh. Guess I’m in the right frame of mind after all.

Revengeance. Tonight it’s easy to define: the noise of the soul. Revenge. The unseen irritant of the heart. Vengeance. The relentless invader of silence. Just like the frogs, revenge irritates. Just like the frogs, vengeance isn’t easily silenced. Just like the frogs, revengeance has a way of increasing in volume until it’s the only sound we hear. The louder it gets the more desperate we become.

When we are mistreated, our animalistic response is to go on the hunt. Instinctively, we double up our fists. Getting even is only natural – which is precisely the problem. Revengeance is natural, not spiritual. Getting even is the rule of the jungle. Giving grace is the rule of the Kingdom. But maybe some of you are thinking, “That’s easy for you to say, sitting there with a bunch of frogs as your chief complaint. You ought to try living with my husband.” Or, “You ought to have to cope with my past.” Or, “You have no idea how hard my life has been.” And you’re right, I don’t. But I have an idea how miserable your future will be unless you deal with the anger that spawns revengeance.

X-ray the soul of the vengeful and you’ll see the tumor of bitterness: black, menacing, malignant. It’s carcinoma of the spirit. Its fatal fibers creep around the edge of the heart and ravage it. Yesterday you can’t alter, but your reaction to yesterday you can. The past you can’t change, but your response to your past you can. Impossible, you say? No, and here’s why.

Imagine you’re from a large family – a dozen or so kids. A family more blended than the Brady bunch. All the children are from the same dad, but they have four or five different moms. Imagine also that your dad is dishonest and has been for a long time. Everybody knows it. Everybody knows he cheated your uncle out of the estate. Everybody knows he ran like a coward to avoid getting caught. Let’s also imagine that your great-uncle tricked your dad into marrying your mother’s sister. He got your dad drunk before the wedding and had his less fortunate looking daughter go to the altar instead of the pretty one your dad thought he was marrying. That didn’t slow your father down, though. He just married them both. The one he loved couldn’t have kids, so he slept with her maid. In fact, he had a habit of sleeping with most of the help. As a result, a number of your siblings look like the cooks. Finally, the bride your dad wanted to marry in the first place gets pregnant … and Viola! You’re born.

You’re the favored son, and your brothers know it. You get a car; they don’t. You get Armani; they get K-Mart. You get summer camp; they get summer jobs. You get educated; they get angry. And then they get even. They sell you to some Foreign Service organization, put you on a plane bound for Egypt, and tell your dad you were murdered by Al-Qaeda. You find yourself surrounded by people you don’t know, learning a language you don’t understand, and living in a culture you’ve never experienced.

Imaginary tale? No. It’s the story of Joseph. A favored son in a bizarre family who had every reason to be angry; to seek revengeance. He tried to make the best of it, though. He became the chief servant of the head of the Secret Service. But his boss’ wife tried to seduce him, and when he refused, she pouted and he ended up in prison. Pharaoh got wind of the fact that Joseph could interpret dreams and let him take a shot at some of Pharaoh’s own. When Joseph interpreted them he got promoted out of the prison and into the palace as prime minister: the second highest position in all of Egypt. The only person Joseph bowed before was the king.

Meanwhile, back in Israel, a famine hits and Jacob, Joseph’s father, sends his sons to Egypt for a foreign loan. The brothers don’t know it, but they’re standing in front of the same brother they sold to the Gypsies some twenty-two years earlier. They don’t recognize Joseph, but Joseph recognizes them. A bit balder and paunchier, he thinks, but they’re the same brothers. Now, imagine Joseph’s thoughts. The last time he saw those faces he was looking up at them from the bottom of a pit. The last time he heard those voices, they were laughing at him. The last time they called his name, they called him every name in the book.

Now’s his chance to get even. He has complete control. One snap of his fingers and his brothers are dead men. Better yet, slap some manacles on their hands and feet and let them see what an Egyptian dungeon’s like. Let them sleep in the mud. Let them mop the floors. Let them learn Egyptian. Revengeance is easily within Joseph’s power. And there is power in revengeance. Intoxicating power.

Haven’t we tasted it? Haven’t we been tempted to get even? As we escort the offender into the courtroom, we announce, “He hurt me!” The jurors shake their heads in disgust. “He abandoned me!” we explain, and the chambers echo with our accusation. “Guilty!” the judge snarls as he slams down the gavel. “Guilty!” the jury agrees. “Guilty!” the audience proclaims. We delight in this moment of justice. We relish this pound of flesh. So we prolong the event. We tell the story over and over and over.

Now freeze-frame that scene. I have a question. Well, not for you, really, but for me. I’m in that courtroom. The courtroom of complaint. I’m rehashing the same hurt every chance I get with anyone who’ll listen. But, who made me God, anyway? Why am I doing his work for Him? “Vengeance is mine,” God declared. “I will repay.” (Heb. 10:30) “Don’t say, ‘I’ll pay you back for the wrong you did.’ Wait for the Lord, and he will make things right.” (Prov. 20:22)

Judgment is God’s job. To assume otherwise is to assume God can’t do the job. Revengeance is irreverent. When we strike back we are saying, “I know vengeance is yours, God, but I just didn’t think you’d punish enough. I thought I’d better take this situation into my own hands. After all, you have a tendency to be a little soft.” Joseph understood that. But rather than get even, he reveals his identity and has his father and the rest of the family brought to Egypt. He grants them safety and provides them a place to live. They live in harmony for seventeen years. But then Jacob dies and the moment of truth comes. The brothers have a hunch that with Jacob gone they’ll be lucky to get out of Egypt with their heads on their shoulders. So they go to Joseph and plead for mercy. “Your father gave this command before he died … ‘Tell Joseph to forgive you.” (Gen. 50:16—17) Translation? “Daddy said to be nice to us.”

Joseph’s response? “When Joseph received the message, he cried.” (Gen. 50:17) “What more do I have to do?” his tears implore. “I’ve given you a home. I’ve provided for your families. Why do you still mistrust my grace?” Please read carefully the two statements he makes to his brothers. First, he asks, “Can I do what only God can do?” (v. 19) Let me restate the obvious. Revengeance belongs to God. If vengeance is God’s, then it’s not ours. God hasn’t asked us to settle the score or get even. Ever. Why?

The answer is found in the second part of Joseph’s statement: “You meant to hurt me, but God turned your evil into good to save the lives of many people, which is being done.” (v. 20) Forgiveness comes easier with a wide-angle lens. And Joseph uses one to get the whole picture. He refuses to focus on the betrayal of his brothers without also seeing the loyalty of his God. It always helps to see the big picture. To forgive someone is to admit our own limitations. We’ve been given only one piece of life’s jigsaw puzzle. Only God has the cover to the box. To forgive someone is to display reverence. Forgiveness is not saying the one who hurt you was right. Forgiveness is stating that God is fair and He will do what is right. After all, don’t we have enough on our plate without trying to do God’s work, too?

Hey! I just noticed something. The frogs are quiet. I got so wrapped up in this thing I forgot about them. I haven’t thrown anything, or done anything for at least an hour. Guess they fell asleep. Could be that’s what they wanted to do all along, but I kept waking them up by doing stuff to them. They finally ended up getting some rest, and I ended up finishing these thoughts. Remarkable what gets accomplished when we let go of our need for revengeance. Ribbit.

Grace,

Randy