Where Is God

Where Is God?

Where Is God? - Audio/Visual 

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

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

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

It was in this chamber, through the dusty sunrise, that Frank spotted the cross. No winch had hoisted it; no cement was securing it. The iron beams stood independent of any human help at all. It was standing there alone. But, then again, not completely alone. Other crosses rested randomly at the base of the large one. Different sizes, different angles, but all crosses. Several days later engineers realized the beams of the large cross had actually come from two different buildings. When one crashed into another, the two girders bonded into one and were forged together forever by the ensuing fire. A symbol in the shards. A cross found in the crisis. "Where’s God in all this?" Frank pondered. We wondered then, too; and we wonder now – almost twenty (20) years after our last national tragedy that was inflicted on us by a hostile enemy. But the discovery dared us to hope that God was right there in the middle of it all. Can the same be said about our tragedies, including the current pandemic?

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

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

Now, if “evening” began at six o’clock and Christ came at three in the morning, the disciples had been alone in the storm for nine hours. Nine tempestuous hours. Long enough for more than one of the disciples to wonder, “Where’s Jesus? He knows we’re in the boat for heaven’s sake – it was his idea in the first place! Is God anywhere near?” And from within the storm comes an unmistakable voice: “I am.” Wet robe and soaked hair. Waves slapping his waist, and rain stinging his face. Jesus speaks to them at once. “Courage. I am. Don’t be afraid!” (Matt. 14:27)

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 91^st psalm has no title, and its author is unknown. Some scholars believe it was Moses, because the psalm’s themes are similar to the psalm before. Others believe it was David, because it shares some of the same themes and phrases of Psalm 27 and 31. Regardless, both men were intimately familiar with calamities and wrote: Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the Lord: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I trust him. For he will rescue you from every trap and protect you from deadly disease. He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. (Psalm 91:1-4) The psalm is not intended to be an absolute promise, i.e., that every believer will be delivered from every trap or every disease. Instead, the writer – either Moses or David – could point to the many times when God did just that for him and God’s trusting people.

Lord Craven, a Christian, was a nobleman who lived in London when the plague ravaged his city in the fifteenth century. In order to escape the spreading pestilence, Craven determined to leave the city for his country home, as many of his social standing did. So, he ordered that his coach and baggage be made ready. But as he was walking down one of the halls of his home and about to enter his carriage, he overheard one of his servants say to another, “I suppose by my lord’s quitting London to avoid the plague that his God lives in the country and not in town.” It was a straightforward and apparently innocent remark. But it struck Lord Craven so deeply that he canceled his journey saying, “My God lives everywhere and can preserve me in town as well as in the country. I will stay where I am.” So he stayed in London, helped the plague victims and never caught the disease himself.

Frank saw him in the rubble. Matthew saw him in the waves. Lord Craven saw him in the plague. And you? Look a little closer. He's there. Right in the middle of it all; just like he promised.

Grace,

Randy

COVID

COVID[1]
COVID - Audio/Visual 

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. (Phil. 4:6)

The judge owned a gated mansion in Beverly Hills. He smoked Cuban cigars, wore Armani suits and drove a Bentley with a personalized license plate that read, Res Ipsa, which is Latin shorthand for “the thing speaks for itself.” He was on the payroll of every cartel and drug dealer on the west coast. They kept him in office; he kept them out of jail. They gave him votes; he gave them a pass. He was a crook. His mother knew it. His priest knew it. His kids knew it. God knew it. The judge couldn't care less. He never gave God a second thought, or an honest person a second chance. According to Jesus the judge was a scoundrel.

He certainly didn't care about the widow. "A widow of that city came to him repeatedly, saying, ‘Give me justice in this legal dispute with the plaintiff.'" (Luke 18:3) Let’s call her Ethel. She had a simple look to her: hair tied in a bun, plaid dress, old jogging shoes that appeared to have been rescued from a yard sale. If the judge were his Bentley, then Ethel was a clunker. But for an old clunker she had a lot of horsepower. She was determined to escape a certain litigant. A bill collector? An angry landlord? An oppressive neighbor? We don’t know, but someone had turned against her and was suing her. Someone had resolved to take her to the cleaners. She pleaded her case and begged for justice. No luck. She exhausted every possible solution. Finally, in a burst of chutzpah, she sought the assistance of the judge.

Every morning when he stepped out of his limo, there Ethel stood on the courthouse sidewalk. "Can I have a minute, Your Honor?" When he exited his chambers, Ethel was waiting in the hallway. "Judge, I need your help." At Giovanni's, where the judge ate lunch, she approached his table. "Just a few minutes of your time." How she got past the maitre d', the judge didn’t know. But there she was. Ethel even sat in the front row of the courtroom during trials, holding up a cardboard sign that read, "Can you help me?" During his Saturday-morning golf game, she walked out of the bushes near the fourth fairway. Ethel also annoyed the judge's wife. She hounded the judge's secretary. "Do something about Ethel," they demanded. "She's a pest!" "For a while the judge refused to help her." (v. 4)

One day, when the coast was clear, the judge dashed from his office to his limo and jumped in the backseat, only to be confronted by you-know-who. Ethel was in the car. He was stuck. He took one look at her and sighed, "Lady, you don't get it, do you? I don't like people. I don't believe in God. There’s nothing good in me. Yet you keep asking me to help you." "Just a small favor," Ethel asked, holding her thumb a quarter inch from her forefinger. He growled through clenched teeth, "Anything to be rid of you. What do you want?" She spilled out a story that included the words widow, broke and the phrase eviction notice. The judge stared out the car window as she pleaded for his intervention. "He thought to himself, 'Even though I don't respect God or care about people, I will see that she gets her rights. Otherwise she will continue to bother me until I am worn out.'" (vv. 4-5)

When she finally paused to take a breath, he waved her silent. "Okay, okay. I'll give you a break." "You will?" "Yes, but on one condition." "Anything." "That you get out of my life!" "Yes, I promise." Ethel beamed. "Can I give you a hug?" He told her “No,” but she hugged the judge anyway. She jumped out of the car and danced a jig on the sidewalk. The dishonest judge rode away, grumbling. And we, the readers, look up from Luke's gospel and wonder, What’s this story doing in the Bible?

A corrupt official. A persistent gadfly. Reluctant benevolence. No compassion or concern. Is there a message in this account? Is God a reluctant judge? Are we the marginalized widow? Is prayer a matter of pestering God until he breaks down and gives us what we want? No, this is a parable of contrast, not comparison. The judge groused, complained and murmured. Yet "even he rendered a just decision in the end. So don't you think God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night? . . . I tell you, he will grant justice to them quickly!" (Luke 18:7-8)

God is not the reluctant judge in this story, and we are not the widow. The widow in the story was at the bottom of the pecking order. She had nowhere to turn. But as a child of the King, you’re at the front of the line. You, at any moment, can turn to God. God doesn't delay. He never places you on hold, or tells you to call again later. God loves the sound of your voice. He doesn't hide when you call. He hears your prayers. And for that reason we can "be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let (our) requests be made known to God." (Phil. 4:6) With this verse the apostle calls us to take action against anxiety. Until this point he has been assuring us of God's character: his sovereignty, mercy and presence. Now it’s our turn to act on this belief. We choose prayer over despair. Peace happens when people pray, and God calls us to pray about everything.

The terms prayer, supplication and requests used in Philippians 4:6 are similar, but not identical. Prayer is a general devotion; the word includes worship and adoration. Supplication suggests humility. We are the supplicants in the sense that we make no demands; we simply offer humble requests. A request is exactly that – a specific petition. We tell God exactly what we want. We pray the particulars of our problem. What Jesus said to the blind man, he says to us: "What do you want me to do for you?" (Luke 18:41) One would think that the answer would have been obvious; self-evident. When a sightless man requests Jesus' help, isn't it apparent what he needs? Yet Jesus wanted to hear the man articulate his specific requests. He wants the same from us. "Let your requests be made known to God."

When the wedding ran low on wine, Mary wasn't content to say, "Help us, Jesus." She was specific: "They have no more wine." (John 2:3) The needy man in another of Jesus' parables said, "Friend, lend me three loaves" (Luke 11:5) not, "Hey, can you help a brother out?" He made a specific request. Even Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane prayed specifically: "Take this cup from me." (Luke 22:42) Why does it matter? Well first, a specific prayer is a serious prayer. If I say to you, "Do you mind if I come by your house sometime?" you may not take me seriously. But suppose I say, "Can I come over this Friday night? I have a problem at work and I really need your advice. I can be there at seven, and I promise I’ll leave in an hour." Then you know my petition is sincere. When we offer specific requests, God knows the same.

Second, specific prayer is an opportunity for us to see God at work. When we see him respond in specific ways to specific requests, our faith grows. The book of Genesis relates the wonderful prayer of Abraham's servant. He was sent to Mesopotamia, Abraham's homeland, to find a wife for Abraham's son. Now, just how does a servant select a wife for someone else in a foreign country? This servant prayed about it. "Please give me success today, and show unfailing love to my master, Abraham. See, I am standing here beside this spring, and the young women of the town are coming out to draw water. This is my request. I will ask one of them, 'Please give me a drink from your jug.' If she says, 'Yes, have a drink, and I will water your camels, too!' – let her be the one you have selected as Isaac's wife. This is how I will know that you have shown unfailing love to my master." (Gen. 24:12-14)

Could the servant have been more detailed? He asked for success in his endeavor. He envisioned an exact dialogue, and then he stepped forth in faith. Scripture says, "Before he had finished speaking, Rebekah appeared." (Gen. 24:15) She said the words, and the servant had an answered prayer. He saw God at work.

Third, specific prayer creates a lighter load. Many of our anxieties are threatening because they are ill-defined and vague. If we can distill the challenge into a phrase, we bring it down to size. It’s one thing to pray, Lord, please bless my meeting tomorrow. It’s another thing altogether to pray, Lord, I have a conference with my supervisor at 2:00 p.m., tomorrow. She intimidates me. Would you please grant me a spirit of peace so I can sleep well tonight? Grant me wisdom so I can enter the meeting prepared. And would you soften her heart toward me and give her a generous spirit? Help us have a gracious conversation in which both of us benefit and your name is honored. There. You have reduced the problem into a prayer-sized challenge. This isn’t an endorsement of a demanding, conditional prayer that presumes to tell God what to do, and when. Nor am I suggesting that the power of prayer resides in chanting the right formula, or quoting some secret code. Don’t think for a moment that the power of prayer resides in the way we present it. God isn’t manipulated or impressed by our formulas, or eloquence.

But he is moved by a sincere request. After all, isn’t he our Father? As his children we honor him when we tell him exactly what we need. "Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you." (1 Peter 5:7) Casting is an intentional act for purposes of relocating an object. When the disciples prepared Jesus to ride into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, they "cast their garments upon the colt." (Luke 19:35) The crowd removed the garments off their backs and spread them in the path of Christ. Let this kind of "throwing," or casting action be your first response to bad news. As you sense anxiety welling up inside you, cast it in the direction of Jesus. Do so specifically and immediately. Take your problem to Christ and tell him, "You said you would help me. Would you?"

The Old Testament prophet Isaiah said, "Put the Lord in remembrance [of His promises], keep not silence." (Isa. 62:6) God told Isaiah, "Put Me in remembrance; let us contend together." (Isa. 43:26) God invites you, no, commands you to remind him of his promises. Populate your prayer with "God, you said …." "You said you would walk me through the waters." (Isa. 43:2) "You said you would lead me through the valley." (Ps. 23:4) "You said that you would never leave or forsake me." (Heb. 13:5) Find a promise that fits your problem and build your prayer around it. These prayers of faith touch the heart of God and activate the angels of heaven. Miracles are set into motion. Your answer may not come overnight, but it will come. And you will overcome. "Prayer is essential in this ongoing warfare. Pray hard and long. Pray for your brothers and sisters." (Eph. 6:18) The path to peace is paved with prayer. Less consternation, more supplication; fewer anxious thoughts, more prayer-filled thoughts. And as you pray, the peace of God will guard your heart and mind.

So go ahead, COVID – call out victory in despair and see the mighty things that God will do. “The LORD replied, “Look around at the nations; look and be amazed! For I am doing something in your own day, something you wouldn’t believe even if someone told you about it.” (Habakkuk 1:5)

Grace,

Randy

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[1] Call Out Victory In Despair

Affluenza

Affluenza

Affluenza - Audio/Visual 

As Jesus was starting out on his way to Jerusalem, a man came running up to him, knelt down and asked, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” “Why do you call me good?” Jesus asked. “Only God is truly good. But to answer your question, you know the commandments: ‘You must not murder. You must not commit adultery. You must not steal. You must not testify falsely. You must not defraud anyone. Honor your father and mother.’” “Teacher,” the man replied, “I’ve obeyed all these commandments since I was young.”

Looking at the man, Jesus felt genuine love for him. “There is still one thing you haven’t done,” he told him. “Go and sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” At this the man’s face fell, and he went away sad, for he had many possessions. (Mark 10:17-22)

 The man came to Jesus on his knees, even though it probably hurt to have the pebbles and rocks biting into his skin. But he was earnest and genuine. And with an intensity of expression, he looked up and asked Jesus, “What can I do to inherit eternal life?” Good question. It’s like he was saying, “Look, I’ve seen enough, Jesus – the good and the bad. I know where it’s headed. No matter how much I do or achieve, one day I’m gonna die. I have an expiration date here on my forehead. Can you help me out here? Is there an antidote? What can I do to inherit eternal life?” Now cut to a doctor's examining room.

A woman sits on the examining table in her skimpy little hospital gown. She looks worried as she waits for the doctor to appear, hugging her purse nervously on her lap. The woman is actress Jackie O'Ryan from the soap opera All My Children, but here she’s starring in a little soap opera drama called Lives of Our Days, complete with all of that suspenseful soap-opera music and stuff. As she sits on the table fiddling with her huge gold earrings and necklace, in walks the doctor with very grave news: "I'm afraid there is nothing physically wrong with you." "Then why do I feel so awful. So bloated and sluggish?" she asks. "Nothing gives me joy anymore – not the clothes, the house, the raise. Doctor, I'm scared. Can't you give me a pill?" "There’s no pill for what you have. I'm afraid you're suffering from Affluenza. "Oh, my God," she reacts. "Why me? Is it fatal?" “It's the new epidemic," the doctor replies.

So begins John de Graaf's documentary film "Affluenza." It’s humorous, but hard-hitting. Scott Simon narrates a look at our culture, at our insatiable appetite for more which the producers define as truly an epidemic that is making us and our world sick. It’s a combination of "affluence" and "influenza." In their 2002 book, Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic, the authors define Affluenza as: "A painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety, and waste, resulting from the dogged pursuit of more." It’s even been used as a legal defense. Remember Ethan Couch?

Unlike the woman on the examining table, however, the rich man in our text doesn’t even know he’s sick. It doesn't list his symptoms, but you don’t have to. Clearly, he’s got an advanced case of Affluenza. Having maybe inherited the family fortune, perhaps an enormous landholding, he now wants more: he wants to inherit eternal life. So he kneels before Jesus with his request and Jesus gives him the standard prescription: "You must not murder. You must not commit adultery. You must not steal. You must not testify falsely. You must not defraud anyone. Honor your father and mother."

Wait. Did you read that last commandment before the mom and dad part? That's not on the list that I learned. But Jesus had replaced the more familiar Old Testament commandment against "coveting" with the word "defraud." Was Jesus implying that if this guy was so rich it may well have been the result of having defrauded poor people in his own community? Who knows, but the rich man doesn’t seem to notice the shift, or perhaps he just doesn’t care. He confidently assures Jesus that he’s the paragon of health as far as God's laws are concerned. "All these commandments I have kept from my youth." So, he sits on the table expecting now to receive a clean bill of health.

Curiously, Jesus doesn’t talk to him about his beliefs. He doesn’t say, “You know what your problem is? You’ve got to go to church more.” No. Instead, Jesus points to the Torah, the Jewish law, the commandments. Don’t murder. Be faithful to your wife or husband. Don’t steal. Tell the truth. Take care of your parents and family. It seems that Jesus is concerned with love and relationships above all. And the man thinks he’s done pretty well here. “I’ve kept all the commandments since I was a boy,” he says. Jesus gazes at him for a minute and just loves him. Jesus can see the sickness in this self-righteous man, yet Jesus still loves him; loves him as he loves each of us: with a wonderful, unexpected love that gazes deep into our souls and loves us and our world unconditionally. It is that love that heals him. Heals us.

What do you say to someone who’s perfect and keeps all the commandments flawlessly? So, Jesus pulls a grenade out of his pocket and drops it in the dirt: “Sell everything you own, give the money to the poor, and you will have wealth in heaven. Then come and follow me.” Boom! The man’s face likely turns white as a sheet. Maybe he feels the eyes of everyone looking at him. He stands up and walks away – dazed. He never imagined the price of eternal life would be so high. The sadness of this story is that the rich man can’t do it. He can’t take the cure. Even though Jesus has looked at him and loved him, the man leaves grief-stricken, alone, apparently to resume his illness. He is so addicted to his possessions, to his great wealth and inheritance, so sick with Affluenza, that he misses out on being an heir to eternal life, and to the community of the gospel.

So what do we do with this scripture? You know, those of us who have mortgages, or bills to pay, or college to fund, or retirement accounts – if we’re lucky. Sell everything we have? Are we all supposed to become St Francis of Assisi, living under the open sky and having dinner with a flock of birds? I’ll admit that I don’t really know. This story has always made me uncomfortable. And if Jesus’ words here don’t make all of us a little uneasy, then we’re not listening closely. Maybe this will help.

The story comes from Philip Yancey. He was doing research for a book called Disappointment with God, and was looking at ways pain and suffering can make people feel as if God has let them down, or even abandoned them. So, he scheduled an interview with Douglas. Douglas’ wife had cancer, which started in her breast and then moved to her lungs. Her illness put a great strain on her, and on Douglas and their whole family. But that wasn’t all. In the middle of this crisis, Douglas’ car was hit by a drunk driver. Douglas suffered severe head trauma in the accident and was never right afterward. He could no longer work full days. He got disoriented and forgetful. His vision was permanently damaged. The two men met for breakfast at a restaurant. Philip watched as Douglas struggled just to guide the fork to his mouth with each bite. Philip felt like he was talking to a modern-day Job, and he described his book on Disappointment with God to Douglas. Then Philip asked him, “Tell me about your disappointment. What have you learned that might help someone else?”

Douglas was silent for a long time. He stroked his beard and thought. Finally he said, “I don’t feel any disappointment with God at all.” He explained, “The reason is this. I learned, first through my wife’s illness, and then through my accident, not to confuse God with life. I’m upset about all that’s happened, and I vent my grief and anger. But I believe God feels the same way – grieved and angry. I’ve learned to see beyond the physical reality in this world to the spiritual reality. We tend to think that life should be fair because God is fair. But God is not life. If I confuse God with life (by always expecting good health, for example), then I set myself up for a great disappointment.” Douglas concluded, “God’s existence — even his love for me — doesn’t depend on my good health or good fortune. Frankly, I’ve had more time and opportunity to work on my relationship with God during my impairment than before.”

So how does Mark’s Gospel story end? Well, the rich man goes away, unable to take the cure. Maybe his grief and weeping were the first steps toward healing. Weeping can do that. But what does all this have to do with a seeker, like the rich man, and Jesus? Well, I think Jesus wanted him to do the same thing that Douglas learned to do. Look beyond the physical reality to the spiritual reality behind. All the physical stuff in our lives, i.e., bodies, possessions, and all the money we spend on them, none of it lasts forever. It’s important and all, but it won’t last. And any of it can disappear in a day. The physical passes away – as we all know too well in these Coronavirus days. Only the spiritual remains.

In other words, Jesus wanted him to travel light, to carry less for his own sake if nothing else. Put less stock in stuff and things, and more in love and relationships. Love of friends, neighbors and family. Love of strangers. Love of God. Love of creation. Love takes up no space in a suitcase or a garage. Love is the only currency that counts for eternal life. Frankly, in the end, love is all that matters.

There was a tribe of Indians who lived a long time ago near the Delaware River. During certain times of the year, they camped next to this very swift and swollen river. In fact, the current was so strong that if someone happened to fall in or stumble into it, they could be swept way down stream. One day the tribe was attacked by a hostile group of settlers. They found themselves with their backs against the river. They were significantly outnumbered, and their only chance for escape was to somehow cross the rushing river. So, they huddled together and those who were physically strong picked up the weak and wounded and put them on their shoulders. The little children, the sick, the old and infirmed, those who were ill or wounded, were carried on the backs of those who were strongest. And, by faith, they waded out into the river. Much to their surprise, they discovered that the weight on their shoulders actually helped them to keep their footing and to make it safely across the river.

You see, by using our money and wealth to help those who are weak and needy allows us to keep our proper footing as well. As Job noted, we come into the world naked, and we leave it the same way. (Job 1:21) The only thing we can take with us is the depth and quality of our loves. So let love be your focus, and keep a light touch on the rest – and don’t forget to wash your hands.

Grace,

Randy