Ugh. I have the most annoying story to report. I was just minding my own business in Jericho today when--Oh, um. Sorry. Let me start over, properly this time. I am an educated man after all. Excuse me. It's just that today's events have ruffled me a bit. Back to normal, now...
Alas, as I was calmly making my way down the road in Jericho, attending to the day's business with a vigor that always becomes a man serving G-d (can't be fully writing His Name, now, can we?), my diligent work--not to mention my delicate and tender nature--was quite disturbed by an unnecessary rabble flooding through the street as if they had lost every ounce of their already quite fragile sanity. Fortunately, I was able to move to the edge of the street just before the crowd reached me. My disgust was heightened when that hideous dwarf, that despicable tax collector Zacchaeus nearly trampled upon my recently cleaned feet in his rush. He looked madder than all the others combined, his eyes flickering right and left and his little legs stumbling all over the place as he dashed in front of the crowd and headed straight for a sycamore-fig tree down the road.
The crowd grew more and more ecstatic as they filed past me, all exclaiming silly things like, "Jesus of Nazareth! Yes, he's here!" Hmmph. All this bustle for a "teacher." Surely he doesn't deserve that title--or any other title but those too lowly for a distinguished man like myself to bother typing. Keeping my chin up and my lips set--for I mustn't show any emotional response to such a disgraceful scene--I waited patiently for the pathetic parade to pass.
What happened next, however, shook me to my very core--but I must tell you, to ease your own soul, that I made it through the furnace of this temptation with only a slight singe, and the few hours of passionate public prayer in which I engaged afterwards will have cured me of this, I am sure.
Anyway--oh! How I loathe to record such a scandalous scene! Stay, soul. Retain your dignity. My dear friends, here is what happened.
I caught a glimpse of the "teacher" as he made his way down the road. Ah, if he only knew who was touching him! His smile gave me chills. How could any respectable fellow smile when the grubby hands of those foul sinners were all over his robes?
He continued his ridiculous rambling down the street. I watched him, for I had nothing else to do while I waited for this dreadful crowd to pass. And, lo! As I watched, he stopped, right under the sycamore-fig tree. My heart sank. What was he going to do? Then he looked up at the tree and exclaimed, "Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today."
Oh, how vile! The dirty tax collector had climbed the tree like a darned fool--and now this offensive teacher wanted to eat with him? Surely he knows the significance of sharing a meal in our culture! Bah! He wanted to be friends with this tax collector!
Forgive me. I do not mean to be angry, but my zeal for the law is burning in my chest as I recall this awful event. G-d knows I disdain all sinners, and it's just infuriating that this Jesus would misrepresent all teachers of the law by lowering himself to eat with them.
Anyway, the scene grew all the more ridiculous as Zacchaeus scrambled down the tree and waddled along the road to his house with Jesus. One encouraging fact was that the crowd seemed just as disconcerted as I was. I heard many mumble, "He has gone to be the guest of a 'sinner.'"
In response to this, the silly tax collector stood up and said to Jesus, "Look, Lord!" (He really used that title!) "Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount."
As if that could save him, after all he's done! Don't get me wrong: I'll be glad to get back the money that fool stole from me. But still. The point is that he's acting as though works don't matter at all, as if G-d could really love him right here and now.
And what's even worse is that that teacher, that Jesus of Nazareth, agreed with him! He said, "Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost."
Oh, how my righteous heart cringes at these words. As if "faith" could save. No, no. Scandalous, I tell you. G-d would just never do such a thing. He just wouldn't save a bunch of sinners.
Hmmph. Alas, friend, it is past. I shall not burden you with the raging ridiculousness of this so-called Rabbi any longer. It's time for supper anyway. Don't forget to wash your hands before you eat.
-----------------------
For the biblical account of Zacchaeus' story, see Luke 19:1-10. My prayer is that you find our Lord's scandalous grace as refreshing as Zacchaeus did, for the Son of Man really did come to seek and save the lost. He loved this tax collector, and He loves you too. Praise be to God!
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Sunday, July 12, 2015
The Message the Mask Never Tells
We live in a busy world today. An airplane just flew over my head, probably carrying some two hundred people, each distantly pondering their own lives, their expected destinations, and their constantly buzzing phones. They probably didn't notice they were going some 200 miles an hour...or flying in the air, for that matter.
Cell phones beep constantly. Our thumbs are always tapping on their bright little screens, our eyes are always down, our heads are always spinning.
Cars zoom by. A dog barks. We squint against the wind, hide our faces from the sun. The boss calls, the baby whines, news reporters scream—and there goes that dreaded alarm again. The toaster dings, your headphones sing, advertisements gleam.
Headaches pound, the pills go down...and life drags on. We're weary, broken, panicked souls—tired, moaning, dulled.
Sunday comes, the church bells ring—or do we even have those any more? The pastor preaches, we all shake hands...lunch and day-long chores.
And all the time we never see that this busyness, this mess—this ain't reality.
Let me put that to you again: This is not reality.
We live in a world where production is key, where work comes first and time never stops. I mean, sure, this stuff is happening. It's "real," in that sense. But I think we know, somewhere deep down—in a place we've all but blocked off—that there's more to it than this. We're yearning for something deeper, secretly hoping all the noise will stop and the bustle will cease. We know that the giant mask of distraction championed by, well, nearly everybody these days is throwing us off, keeping us from that more meaningful message, that "real-er" reality. But we're scared—frightened out of our minds—to take our chances, to quiet our worlds ourselves. Aren't we? Aren't we worried by silence? Terrified at the thought of sitting down and reflecting, at abandoning the agendas and tackling head-on the whispers that flit through our heads in those few seconds where the distractions haven't managed to dull them enough?
Enough.
You know all this, don't you? You're painfully familiar with this busy world. Your heart cried as I described it. You long to settle down. We all do.
So what would we hear if we stopped, if we really stopped—not just the incessant tapping on screens or the unending sound waves bursting our eardrums, but the tiny voices that pester our souls, the quiet whispers that tell us the pain or the masks or the insecurity or the worthlessness is all there is? What if we moved into a silence that was deeper than all that—the deepest vibrations of reality? What would we hear? What message really lies underneath all the humdrum we've built up to drown it out?
Calm your mind down—right here, right now. Be still.
Now take some time to read this:
"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life" (John 3:16, NIV 1984).
You've heard it before. I know that. But slow down. Read it again:
"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."
Cell phones beep constantly. Our thumbs are always tapping on their bright little screens, our eyes are always down, our heads are always spinning.
Cars zoom by. A dog barks. We squint against the wind, hide our faces from the sun. The boss calls, the baby whines, news reporters scream—and there goes that dreaded alarm again. The toaster dings, your headphones sing, advertisements gleam.
Headaches pound, the pills go down...and life drags on. We're weary, broken, panicked souls—tired, moaning, dulled.
Sunday comes, the church bells ring—or do we even have those any more? The pastor preaches, we all shake hands...lunch and day-long chores.
And all the time we never see that this busyness, this mess—this ain't reality.
Let me put that to you again: This is not reality.
We live in a world where production is key, where work comes first and time never stops. I mean, sure, this stuff is happening. It's "real," in that sense. But I think we know, somewhere deep down—in a place we've all but blocked off—that there's more to it than this. We're yearning for something deeper, secretly hoping all the noise will stop and the bustle will cease. We know that the giant mask of distraction championed by, well, nearly everybody these days is throwing us off, keeping us from that more meaningful message, that "real-er" reality. But we're scared—frightened out of our minds—to take our chances, to quiet our worlds ourselves. Aren't we? Aren't we worried by silence? Terrified at the thought of sitting down and reflecting, at abandoning the agendas and tackling head-on the whispers that flit through our heads in those few seconds where the distractions haven't managed to dull them enough?
Enough.
You know all this, don't you? You're painfully familiar with this busy world. Your heart cried as I described it. You long to settle down. We all do.
So what would we hear if we stopped, if we really stopped—not just the incessant tapping on screens or the unending sound waves bursting our eardrums, but the tiny voices that pester our souls, the quiet whispers that tell us the pain or the masks or the insecurity or the worthlessness is all there is? What if we moved into a silence that was deeper than all that—the deepest vibrations of reality? What would we hear? What message really lies underneath all the humdrum we've built up to drown it out?
Calm your mind down—right here, right now. Be still.
Now take some time to read this:
"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life" (John 3:16, NIV 1984).
You've heard it before. I know that. But slow down. Read it again:
"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."
Breathe. One more time:
"For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."
What's really real is not the streaking cars, the blinking lights, or the worry they so faithfully share. No, child. That stuff is a mask, a distraction—pulling you from what the silence might otherwise convince you to hear. The deepest recesses of reality pulsate with a different message. Take a deep breath, and listen.
Watch the leaves as they flicker gently in the breeze. Run your hand through the ocean waves. Let your hair out. Smell the flowers. All creation is whispering one phrase, rejoicing in the truth of this well-known yet oft-forgotten verse: Your Father loves you.
Your Father loves you.
You. Yes, you. The one with the shaking hands and the stumbling feet. The one who spilled the milk yesterday. The one who just can't seem to dull her pain or quiet her pounding heart. The one who forgot how to tie his shoes. The one who can't muster up "faith," the one who can't remember a lick of Scripture, the one who never shows up to church on time...even the one who doesn't show up at all, the one who doesn't yet know His name. He's calling out to the liar, welcoming the criminal, the prostitute, the tax-collector, the broken, the bleeding, the clumsy, the insecure, the frightened, the weak, the imperfect—He wants us all. You've messed up. I have too. He knows that. Gosh, He knows that better than we do. But you know what the cross says? It says that, in it all, He loves you. The God of the universe loves you. And He wants you to know that. He gave everything so you could know that—and know that for eternity with Him.
It's a messy world. It really is. And we are messy people—every one of us. But, for ten minutes today—right now—would you just close your eyes and let Him speak over you? Let Him tell you what His love is like. My words are but a poor shadow of the relentless passion of your eternal Father. Let Him tell you. Choose right now to take a break, to rest, and to just know this one thing, the never-ending beat of His heart:
He loves you.
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