Unavoidable

Unavoidable
Unavoidable - Audio/Visual 

One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to have dinner with him, so Jesus went to his home and sat down to eat.  When a certain immoral woman from that city heard he was eating there, she brought a beautiful alabaster jar filled with expensive perfume.  Then she knelt behind him at his feet, weeping.  Her tears fell on his feet, and she wiped them off with her hair.  Then she kept kissing his feet and putting perfume on them. When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know what kind of woman is touching him. (Luke 7:36-39)

Could two people have been any more different? He’s looked up to; she’s looked down on. He’s a church leader; she’s a streetwalker. He makes a living promoting standards; she’s made a living breaking them. He’s hosting the party; she’s crashing it. And if you had asked the other residents of Capernaum to point out the more pious of the two, they’d have picked Simon in a heartbeat. After all, he’s a student of theology; a man of the cloth. Anyone would’ve picked him – except Jesus.

Jesus knew them both, and Jesus picked the woman. What’s more, he tells Simon why. Not that Simon really wanted to know “why” because his mind was elsewhere. How did this floozy get into my house? And he doesn’t know who to yell at first – the woman or the servant who let her in. After all, this dinner is a formal affair, and by invitation only. So, who let the riffraff in? Of course, it was customary in that day for outsiders to hover around during banquets so they could watch the “pretty people” and hear their conversation. And since everything was out in the open, they’d even enter the banquet hall and speak to a guest since, in that day, women were never invited to banquets.

Simon is just plain mad. Just look at her groveling at Jesus’ feet, and kissing them, no less!  Why, if Jesus was who he said he is, he would have nothing to do with her. Of course, one of the lessons Simon learned that day is don’t think thoughts you don’t want Jesus to hear. Because Jesus heard them, and when he did, he chose to share a few words of his own. “Simon,” he said to the Pharisee, “I have something to say to you.” “All right, Teacher,” Simon replied, “go ahead,” probably thinking that Jesus was going to pay him a huge compliment in front of the assembled high and mighty.

“A man loaned money to two people – five hundred pieces of silver to one and fifty pieces to the other. But neither of them could repay him, so he kindly forgave them both, canceling their debts. Who do you suppose loved him more after that?” ¶Simon answered, “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the larger debt.” ¶“That’s right,” Jesus said.  Then he turned to the woman and said to Simon, “Look at this woman kneeling here. When I entered your home, you didn’t offer me water to wash the dust from my feet, but she has washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You didn’t greet me with a kiss, but from the time I first came in, she has not stopped kissing my feet. You neglected the courtesy of olive oil to anoint my head, but she has anointed my feet with rare perfume. I tell you, her sins – and they are many – have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love.  But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.”  (Luke 7:40-47)

Simon invites Jesus to his house, but treats him like a leper. No customary courtesies; no kiss of greeting; no washing his feet; no oil for his head. By today’s standards? No one opened the door for him, took his coat, or even shook his hand. Frankenstein had better manners. Simon does nothing to make Jesus feel welcome. The woman, on the other hand, does everything that Simon didn’t. We aren’t told her name, just her reputation – a sinner: a prostitute most likely.  She has no invitation to the party, and no standing in the community. It’d be like a call girl showing up at the church Christmas party. But people’s opinions didn’t stop her from coming, because it’s not for them that she came. It was for Jesus. Her every move is measured and meaningful. Each gesture is extravagant. She puts her cheek to his feet, still dusty from the path. She has no water, but she has tears. She has no towel, but she has her hair. She uses both to bathe the feet of Jesus. As one translation reads, “she rained tears” on his feet.

She opens a vial of expensive perfume, perhaps her only possession of worth (generally reserved for her dowry or her death), and massages it into his skin.  The aroma is as inescapable as the irony. The vial was likely an alabaster (finely grained gypsum) container with a long neck that had to be broken to pour out its content. Now, you’d think Simon, of all people, would show such love. I mean, isn’t he the pastor at the local church? A student of the Scriptures?  But he’s harsh and distant. And you’d think the woman would avoid Jesus. Isn’t she a woman of the night, the town hussy? But she can’t resist him. Simon’s “love” is calibrated and stingy. Her love, on the other hand, is extravagant and risky.

How do you explain the difference between the two? Training? Education? Money?  No, not really, since Simon wins that competition hands-down. But there’s one area where the woman leaves him eating the dust – literally. Think about it. What one discovery has she made that Simon hasn’t? What one treasure does she cherish that Simon doesn’t? God’s love.

We don’t know when she received it. We aren’t told how she heard about it. Did she overhear Jesus’ words, “Your Father is merciful”? (Luke 6:36) Or, did she hear Jesus say, “Come unto me … and I will give you rest”? (Matt. 11:28-30) Did someone tell her how Jesus touched lepers and turned tax collectors into disciples? We don’t know. But we know this. She came starving. Starving from guilt. Starving from regret. Starving from countless nights of making love and finding none. Simon, on the other hand, doesn’t even know he’s hungry. People like Simon don’t need grace – they analyze it. They don’t require mercy – they debate it. And it wasn’t that Simon couldn’t be forgiven, he just never asked. “A person who is forgiven little shows only little love.” In other words, we can’t give what we’ve never received. It’s like trying to get blood out of a turnip. If we’ve never received love, how can we love others?

Oh, we try. It’s as if we can conjure up love by our sheer force of will. As if there is within us a distillery of affection that lacks only a piece of wood, or a hotter fire. We poke it and stoke it with resolve. Need proof? What’s our typical strategy for treating a troubled relationship? We try harder. “I don’t care how much it hurts, I’m going to be nice to that bum.” “Supposed to love my neighbor? Okay, by golly, I will.” So we try. Teeth clenched. Jaw firm. We’re going to love if it kills us. And it may do just that. But maybe we’re missing a step. Could it be that the first step of love is not toward them but toward Him? Could it be that the secret to loving is receiving? You give love by first receiving it. “We love, because He first loved us.” (1 John 4:19)

Want to be more loving? Begin by accepting your place as a dearly loved child. “Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us.” (Eph. 5:1-2) Finding it hard to put others first? Think of how Christ put you first: “Though he was God, he did not think equality with God as something to cling to.” (Phil. 2:6) Need more patience? Drink from the patience of God: “The Lord isn’t really being slow about his promise, as some people think. No, he is being patient for your sake. He does not want anyone to be destroyed, but wants everyone to repent.” (2 Pet. 3:9) Generosity an elusive virtue? Then consider how generous God has been with you: “But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.” (Rom. 5:8) Having trouble putting up with ungrateful relatives, or cranky neighbors? God puts up with you when you act the same way: “He is kind to the ungrateful and wicked.” (Luke 6:35) Can’t we love like this? Not without God’s help we can’t.

Oh, we may succeed for a time. We, like Simon, may open a door. But our relationships need more than a social gesture. Some of our friends may need a foot washing. Maybe a family member needs a flood of tears. Or, our kids need to be covered in the oil of our love. But if we haven’t received these things ourselves, how can we give them to others? A marriage-saving love is not within us. A friendship-preserving devotion can’t be found in our hearts because “(t)he heart is deceitful above all things.” (Jer. 17:9) We need help from an outside source. A transfusion. Would we love as God loves? Then we start by receiving God’s love.

We’re guilty of skipping that first step. “Love each other!” we preach. “Be patient, kind, forgiving,” we urge. But instructing people to love without telling them they are loved is like telling them to write a check on a closed bank account. And that’s why so many relationships are overdrawn: hearts have insufficient love. The apostle John models the right sequence. He makes a deposit before he tells us to write the check. “God showed how much he loved us by sending his one and only Son into the world so that we might have eternal life through him. This is real love – not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.” (1 John 4:9-10) And then, having made such an outrageous, eye-opening deposit, John calls on us to pull out the checkbook: “Dear friends, since God loved us that much, we surely ought to love each other.” (vs. 11)

The secret to loving, I believe, is living loved. This is the forgotten first step in relationships. It’s kind of like taking down your Christmas tree – which is my usual chore during the New Year’s holiday. You know, remove the lights and ornaments, carry out the tree, take it to the local disposal site, and sweep up the thousands of needles. The tree is falling apart. Blame it on bad rooting because for a month or more the tree has been planted in a plastic bowl. Not much good comes from a plastic bowl.

Old Simon had the same problem. Impressive to look at, nicely decorated, but he falls apart when you give him a shove or two. Sound familiar? Does bumping into certain types of people leave you brittle, breakable and fruitless? Or, do you fall apart easily? If so, your love may be planted in the wrong soil. It may be rooted in their love (which is fickle), or in your own resolve to love (which is frail). John urges us to “rely on the love God has for us.” (1 John 4:16) He alone is the power source. Many people tell us to love but only God gives us the power to do so.

Several years ago, someone challenged me to replace the word love in 1 Cor. 13 with my name. When I did, I became a liar. “Randy is patient, Randy is kind.  Randy does not envy, Randy does not boast and Randy is not proud. Randy is not rude, Randy is not self-seeking, Randy is not easily angered, Randy keeps no record of wrongs. Randy does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. Randy always protects, Randy always trusts, Randy always hopes, Randy always perseveres. Randy never fails.”  (1 Cor. 13:4-8) Those words are false. I don’t always persevere, and I most certainly fail. That’s the problem. And for years that was my problem with this paragraph and, frankly, with the whole chapter – it set a standard that I couldn’t meet. No one can meet it. No one, that is, except Jesus. “Jesus is patient, Jesus is kind. Jesus does not envy, Jesus does not boast, and Jesus is not proud. Jesus is not rude, Jesus is not self-seeking, Jesus is not easily angered, and Jesus keeps no record of wrongs. Jesus does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. Jesus always protects, Jesus always trusts, Jesus always hopes, Jesus always perseveres. Jesus never fails.” (Id.)

So, rather than letting this scripture remind us of a love we cannot produce, let it remind us of a love we cannot avoid – God’s love. And some of you may be starving for this kind of love. Those who should have loved you, but didn’t. Those who could have loved, but wouldn’t. You were left at the hospital. Left at the altar. Left with a broken heart. Left with a question: “Does anybody love me?”

Listen to heaven’s answer. God loves you unavoidably. Personally. Powerfully. Passionately. Others have promised and failed. But God has promised and succeeded. He loves you with an unfailing love. And his love – if you will let it – can fill you and leave you with a love worth giving.

Grace,

Randy

Home-coming

Home-coming
Home-coming - Audio/visual 

But when the time arrived that was set by God the Father, God sent his Son, born among us of a woman, born under the conditions of the law so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage. You can tell for sure that you are now fully adopted as his own children because God sent the Spirit of his Son into our lives crying out, “Papa! Father!” Doesn’t that privilege of intimate conversation with God make it plain that you are not a slave, but a child? And if you are a child, you’re also an heir, with complete access to the inheritance. (Gal. 4:4-7)

Search the faces of the local Haitian children’s home for a little girl named Angelique. Study the fifty-seven dark-skinned, bright-eyed, curly-haired, Creole-speaking, fun-loving children for a unique seven-year-old girl. At first glance, she doesn’t look much different than the others – she eats the same rice and beans, and plays on the same grassless playground. She sleeps beneath a tin roof, like all the other girls, and hears the nearly nightly pounding of the tropical rain. However, although she may appear to be the same, don't be fooled. She lives in a different world – a world called, “Home-coming.”

See the slender girl wearing the pink shirt? The girl with the prominent cheekbones, bushy hair and a handful of photos? Ask to see the pictures, and Angelique will let you. Fail to ask her and she’ll show you the snapshots anyway. The photos bear the images of her future family. She's been adopted, and the pictures remind her of her home – coming. Within a month, maybe two at the most, she'll be there. She knows the day is coming, and every opening of the gate jump-starts her heart. Any day now her father will appear. He promised he'd be back. He came once to claim her, and he'll come again to carry her home. Until then she lives with a heart waiting for her homecoming. Shouldn't we all?

Our Father paid us a visit, too. Haven’t we been claimed? Adopted? "So you should not be like cowering, fearful slaves. You should behave instead like God's very own children, adopted into his family – calling him 'Father, dear Father.'" (Rom. 8:15) God searched you out. Before you knew you were orphaned by sin, he'd already filed the paperwork and selected the wallpaper for your room. "For God knew his people in advance, and he chose them to become like his Son, so that his Son would be the firstborn, with many brothers and sisters." (Rom. 8:29) Abandon you to a fatherless world? Not a chance. Those privy to God's family Bible can read your name because he wrote it there. What's more, he covered the adoption fees. Neither you nor Angelique can pay your way out of the orphanage, so “God sent his Son, born among us of a woman, born under the conditions of the law so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage.” (Gal. 4:5) In other words, we don't finance our adoption. But we do have to accept it.

Granted, Angelique could tell her prospective parents to get lost. But she hasn't. And in the same way, you could tell God to get lost, too. But why would you? The moment we accept his offer we go from orphans to heirs – “Heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ." (Rom. 8:17) Heirs. Heaven knows no stepchildren or grandchildren. Just children. You and Christ share the same Will. What he inherits, you inherit. You’re headed home. But sometimes we forget that fact.

We grow a little too accustomed to the hard bunks and tin plates of the orphanage. Seldom do we peer over the fence into the world to come. And how long has it been since you showed someone your pictures? Is Peter talking to you when he urges, "Friends, this world is not your home, so don't make yourselves cozy in it"? (1 Pet. 2:11) We’ve been adopted, we just haven’t been transported yet. We have a new family, but not our heavenly house. We know our Father's name, but we haven't seen his face. He’s claimed us, but has not yet to come for us.

So here we are. Caught between what is and what will be. No longer orphans, but not home yet, either. So, what do we do in the meantime? Frankly, sometimes it’s just that – a mean time. Time made mean with chemotherapy, drivers driving with more beer than brains in their bodies, and backstabbers who make life on earth feel like a time-share in Afghanistan. So, how do we live in the meantime? How do we keep our hearts headed home? Paul weighs in with this suggestion: “And even we Christians, although we have the Holy Spirit within us as a foretaste of future glory, also groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children, including the new bodies he has promised us. Now that we are saved, we eagerly look forward to this freedom. For if you already have something, you don't need to hope for it. But if we look forward to something we don't have yet, we must wait patiently and confidently.” (Rom. 8:23-25)

Interesting that Paul calls the Holy Spirit a “foretaste” – “We have the Holy Spirit . . . as a foretaste of future glory." (v. 23) No person with a healthy appetite needs a definition for that word. I’ve had a few foretastes, haven’t you? For instance, this Thanksgiving, I was in the kitchen sniffing around the dinner trimmings – just like my big, yellow Labrador, True, sniffs around the kitchen island for a treat. And then when my wife wasn’t looking, I snatched a foretaste – a morsel of turkey, or a bit of stuffing. Pre-dinner snacks stir our appetites for the table, right? Well, samplings from heaven's kitchen do the same.

There are moments, perhaps too few, when time evaporates and heaven hands you an hors d'oeuvre. For instance, your newborn has just passed from restlessness to rest. Beneath the amber light of a midnight moon, you trace a soft finger across tiny, sleeping eyes and wonder, “God gave you to me?” A pre-libation from heaven's winery. Or, you're lost in the work you love to do – work you were just made to do. And as you step back from the moist canvas, or hoed garden, or rebuilt V-eight engine, satisfaction flows within you like a long drink of cool water, and the angel asks, "Another aperitif?" Or maybe the lyrics to the hymn say what you couldn't but wanted to. And for a moment, a glorious moment, there are no wars, no wounds, or tax returns. Just you, God, and a silent assurance that everything is right with the world. Rather than dismiss or disregard such moments as good luck, or coincidence, relish them instead. They can attune you to heaven. The tough ones can, too.

"[We] also groan to be released from pain and suffering. We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children, including the new bodies he has promised us." (v. 23) Do you think Angelique groans? Orphans tend to do that because they live lonely lives. Seeing a child with a mother and father, they groan. They see a house and think of their bunk and they groan. When they wonder what happened to their biological parents, wouldn't they? Of course they would.

But Angelique's groans are numbered. Every cafeteria meal brings her closer to home cooking, and each dormitory night carries her closer to a room of her own. And every time she longs to call someone mama, she remembers that she soon will. Her struggles stir longings for home. So, let your bursitis-plagued body remind you of your eternal one; let acid-inducing days prompt thoughts of unending peace. Are you falsely accused? Acquainted with abuse? Mudslinging is a part of this life, but not the next. And rather than begrudging life's troubles, listen to them. Certain moments are so hideous that nothing else will do.

In 1992, a Time magazine essay entitled Corridors of Agony escorted readers into the ugly world of abused children. There, we met Antwan, age ten, puppet-stringed to neighborhood bullies and drug peddlers. They demanded his presence; he feared their punishment. When police appeared, the troublemakers stashed their drugs in his socks, thinking the boy wouldn't be searched. Tragically, Antwan knew the police better than he knew his teachers. What hope does a boy like Antwan have?

The writer then took us to his sparse apartment. His mother, Syrita, owned one light bulb. When she left the kitchen, she carried the lone bulb into the living room. As she screwed it into the lamp, the dim glow illuminated a poster on a far wall of a young black boy crying. The caption above read, "He will wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor pain. All of that has gone forever." (Rev. 21:4)

Write checks of hope on that promise. Don’t bemoan time passing; applaud it. The more you drink from God's well, the more you urge the clock to tick. Every bump of the second hand brings you closer to a completed adoption. As Paul writes, "We, too, wait anxiously for that day when God will give us our full rights as his children." (Rom. 8:23)

There was a time, long ago, when my kids celebrated my arrival home. They’d hear the car and scamper to the window, pressing noses and hands against the windowpane next to the front door. And as I pulled into the drive, I could see them jumping inside the house. You'd think someone had switched their M&M's for coffee beans. No returning Caesar ever felt more welcomed. And as I opened the door, they tackled my knees and flooded the entryway with a tsunami-sized joy. Their dad was home.

It's been too long since I searched for God that way. Too seldom do I hear the thunder and think, “Is that God?” I've let days pass without even so much as a glance to the eastern sky. Let's do better. "Let heaven fill your thoughts. Do not think only about things down here on earth." (Col. 3:2) How about regular ladle dips into the well of God's return? Don't you know Angelique's home-coming dominates her thoughts? The pictures – can she see them and not think of it? Blessings and burdens. Both can alarm-clock us out of a slumber. Gifts stir homeward longings. So do struggles. Every homeless day carries us closer to the day our Father will come to take us home.

Home-coming – what a coming home that will be.

Grace,

Randy

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving - Audio/Visual 

Then the frightened woman, trembling at the realization of what had happened to her, came and fell to her knees in front of him and told him what she had done. And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. Your suffering is over.” (Mark 5:33-34)

A clock for Christmas is really not the kind of gift that thrills an eight-year-old, but I said thank you and took it to my bedroom anyway. I put it on the nightstand and plugged it in. It was one of those rectangular-faced G.E. types. It didn't have moving numbers – it had rotating hands, instead. It didn't play music either, but over the years it did develop a slight, soothing hum that you could hear when the room was quiet.

Today, of course, you can buy clocks that sound like rain when it's time to sleep, or like your mother when it's time to wake up. But not this one. The alarm would’ve made the dogs howl. And forget a snooze button – you just picked it up and chucked it across the room. It probably wouldn't net 50¢ at a garage sale in today’s age of digital clocks and musical alarms. But still, over time, I kind of grew attached to it. Granted, people don't usually get sentimental about cheap, electric clocks, but for some reason I did about this one. Not because of its accuracy, because it ran a little slow. Not even the hum, which I didn't particularly mind. I liked it because of the light.

You see, this clock’s hands glowed in the dark. All day, every day it soaked up the light; it sponged up the sun. The hands were little sticks of ticks-and-time and sunshine. And when the night came, the clock was ready. When you flicked off the light to sleep, the little clock flicked on its light and shined. Not much light, mind you. But when your world is dark, just a little light seems like a lot. Kind of like the light a woman got when she met Jesus.

We don't know her name, but we know about her situation. Her world was midnight black – the grope-in-the-dark-and-hope-for-help kind of black. Read the following two verses and you’ll see for yourself: “A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding. She had suffered a great deal from many doctors, and over the years she had spent everything she had to pay them, but she had gotten no better. In fact, she had gotten worse.” (Mark 5:24-26)

Can you imagine? "Bleeding for twelve years;" "suffered very much;" "spent all the money she had," and "getting worse." A chronic, perpetual bleeding disorder. That kind of condition would be horrible for any woman of any era, but for a Jewess? Nothing could be worse, because no part of her life was left unaffected. Sexually, she couldn’t touch her husband. Maternally, she couldn’t bear children. Domestically, anything she touched was considered unclean. And spiritually, she couldn’t even go to church. She was physically exhausted and socially ostracized. Granted, she had sought help "under the care of many doctors," but the only thing those doctors had managed to do was to leave her worse-off and her wallet lighter. Maybe she even went outside conventional medicine. For instance, the Talmud gives no fewer than eleven cures for her condition, and she had probably tried them all. Some were probably legitimate treatments. Others, such as carrying the ashes of an ostrich egg in a linen cloth, were just empty superstitions.

She "had spent all she had." To dump financial strain on top of physical strain is adding insult to injury. A client battling cancer once told me that the pressure of creditors hounding him for payment in connection with his ongoing medical care was just as devastating as the pain that came with the disease itself. Making matters worse for this particular woman, "instead of getting better she grew worse." In other words, she may have been hounded by creditors for medical treatments that proved completely worthless. She woke up every day in a body that no one wanted. And by the time we get to her story, she’s down to her last prayer. And on the particular day that we encounter her, she's about to pray it.

However, by the time she gets to Jesus, he’s surrounded by people. He's on his way to help the daughter of Jairus, the most important man in her community. So, what are the odds that he will interrupt an urgent mission with a high-ranking official to help the likes of her? Pretty long. But what are the odds that she’ll survive if she doesn't take a chance? Longer still. So she takes a chance: "If I can just touch his clothes," she thinks, "I will be healed." (v. 28) Risky decision. To touch him, she would have to touch the other people that were surrounding him. And if one of them were to recognize her it’d be “hello rebuke,” and “good-bye cure.” But what choice did she have? At this point she has no money, no friends and no solutions. All she has is a crazy hunch that Jesus can help, and a hope that he will.

And maybe that's all you have, too: just a crazy hunch and a high hope. You have nothing to give but you’re hurting, and all you have to offer Jesus is your hurt. Maybe that’s kept you from coming to God. Oh, you've taken a step or two in his direction, but then you saw the other people around him. They seemed so clean, so neat, so trim and fit in their faith. And when you saw them, they blocked your view of God. So you stepped back. And if that describes you, then take heart because note carefully that only one person was commended that day for having faith – and it wasn't a wealthy giver. It wasn't a loyal follower, or even an acclaimed teacher. It was a shame-struck, penniless outcast who clutched onto her hunch that Jesus could help, and her hope that he would. That, by the way, isn’t a bad definition of faith: a conviction that he can, and a hope that he will. Sounds similar to the definition of faith given by the Bible: "Without faith no one can please God. Anyone who comes to God must believe that he is real and that he rewards those who truly want to find him." (Heb. 11:6)

That’s not too complicated, is it? Faith is the belief that God is real and that God is good. Faith is not some mystical, out-of-body experience, or a midnight vision, or a voice in the forest. It’s a choice to believe that the one who made it all hasn't left it all, and that he still sends light into the shadows and responds to even the simplest gestures of faith. There was no guarantee, of course. She hoped Jesus would respond . . . she longed for it . . . but she didn't know if he would. All she knew was that he was there and that he was good. That's faith.

Faith is not the belief that God will do what you want. Faith is the belief that God will do what is right. "Blessed are the dirt-poor, nothing-to-give, trapped-in-a-corner, destitute, and diseased," Jesus said, "for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." (Matt. 5:6 – my translation) God's economy is upside down to our way of thinking because God says that the more hopeless your circumstance, the more likely your salvation. The greater your cares, the more genuine your prayers. The darker the room, the greater the need for light. Which takes me back to my clock. When it was daylight, I never appreciated my little clock’s capacity to glow in the dark. But as the shadows grew, so did my gratitude.

Similarly, a healthy woman would never have appreciated the power of a touch of the hem of his robe. But this woman was sick, and when her dilemma met his dedication, a miracle occurred. Note, too, that her part in the healing was pretty small – all she did was extend her arm through the crowd: "If only I can touch him," she thought. But what's important to remember is that it’s not the form or type of effort, but that the effort was made in the first place. The fact is, she did something. She refused to settle for sickness another day and resolved to make a move. Healing begins when we do something. Healing begins when we reach out. Healing starts when we take a step. God's help is near and always available, but it’s only given to those who seek it. Nothing results from apathy.

The great work in this story is the healing that occurred. But the great truth is that the healing began with her touch. And with that small, courageous gesture, she experienced Jesus' tender power. Compared to God's part, our part is minuscule but necessary. We don't have to do much, but we do have to do something like asking for forgiveness, confessing a sin, calling Mom, visiting a doctor, being baptized, feeding a hungry person, praying, teaching, going. Do something that demonstrates faith, because faith with no effort is no faith at all. Have faith that God will respond. He has never rejected a genuine gesture of faith. Never. God honors radical, risk-taking faith. When arks are built, lives are saved. When soldiers march, Jericho’s tumble. When staffs are raised, seas still open. When a lunch is shared, thousands are fed. And when a garment is touched, whether by the hand of an anemic woman in Galilee, or by the prayers of a beggar in Bangladesh, Jesus stops. He stops and responds.

Mark assures you of that because when this woman touched Christ, two things happened that happen nowhere else in the Bible and Mark recorded them both. First, Jesus heals her before he knows it. The power left automatically and instantaneously. It's as if the Father short-circuited the system and the divinity of Christ was a step ahead of the humanity of Christ. Her need summoned his help. No neon lights or loud shouts. No razzle-dazzle. No fanfare. No hoopla. No splash. Just help. Just like my dark room brought the light out of my clock, our dark world brings out the light of God. And second, Jesus calls her “daughter” – “Daughter, your faith has made you well." (v. 34) It's the only time Jesus calls any woman – anywhere – “daughter.” God’s daughter. Just imagine how that made her feel because who could remember the last time she’d received any term of affection, or knew the last time kind eyes had met hers? It’d probably been a decade or more. To the loved, a word of affection is just a morsel, but to the love-starved, a word of affection can be a feast. And Jesus gave this woman a banquet.

Tradition holds that, in thankfulness, she never forgot what Jesus did. Legend states that she stayed with Jesus and followed him as he carried his cross up to Calvary. Some believe she was Veronica, the woman who, according to Catholic tradition, walked the road to Golgotha with him. And when the sweat and blood were stinging his eyes, she wiped his forehead. We don't know if the legend or traditions are true, but they could be. And I don't know if the same has happened to you, but I know that it can – and then be thankful when it does.

Grace,

Randy