Peter.
What did he do in those days right after the Resurrection? What coursed through his thoughts?
How many times did he beat himself up for the denials? How often did he play that fiery courtyard scene over and over in his head trying to find some way to understand what he did and did not do? In those immediate days after the Resurrection did he see the face of Jesus on the inside of his eyelids? Did he replay Jesus’ voice? How close did despair come in overtaking Peter? To drowning him? Weighing him down? Smothering him?
I can hear the dialogue in Peter’s mind. Can you?
Those days after the crucifixion and even after the resurrection must have been dark days for Peter. He pulled his nets out of storage and worked the tangles out of them until his fingers were raw and the cuts stung from the residual salt. His thought patterns must have resembled the knots. Tangled with remorse, disgust, fear and anxiety. Humiliation and paranoia choked him, and he just couldn’t swallow it down. Disgust mounted and overflowed.
Pressure had squeezed him. Excuses and justifications rose in his mind, but he punched them down. Deflated them. There were no excuses. For three years Peter had been with Jesus. Had he learned nothing? As he untangled the knots he remembered walking on water—and sinking. He remembered the Transfiguration—and making a fool of himself. He remembered pulling Jesus aside—and chastising him. He remembered pulling his feet from Jesus’ hands—and protesting. He remembered the heft and weight of the sword—and cutting through Malchus’ ear in the garden. He remembered the vehement denials—and the rooster crowing and crowing and crowing.
Peter’s situation seemed as hopeless as the net in his hands. He could not find the beginning or the end of this mess.
One blunder—doubling. One mistake—multiplying. One sin—avalanching.
Tortured, Peter dropped head into his hands. His great, bulky body curled inward. He longed to disappear. To be invisible. To be swallowed whole.
Jesus had called him a rock. Seems like this was the only time the Lord had been wrong. Peter had not held up under the pressure. This rock had cracked. This rock split wide open when the weight fell.
And Peter could not bridge the enormous fissure inside his soul.
I have been with Peter. I have shared that ugly space with him. Inside my mind I have curled up in a fetal position and wondered if my mistakes could ever be fixed. Often I have worried that I would not survive the consequences or more importantly that others would not survive them.
There have been times and seasons when I have believed my mistakes and sins created fissures too wide to ever bridge and too deep to ever fill. Some of these happened before I became a Christ-follower, but many happened after. Many have happened in the past few years. Too many have happened in the past week.
Have you been there?
I wonder though…
I wonder if the Spirit interrupted the patterns in Peter’s thinking. Did the Spirit remind Peter of another conversation with Jesus?
Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times seven…”*
Jesus knew Peter. He knew his tendencies. His inclinations. His weaknesses.
Jesus knew the anguish writhing in Peter’s soul.
After the Resurrection Mary, Johanna and Susannah received specific directions from Jesus: go tell the others and Peter.**
And Peter.
How those words must have filtered into Peter and infused him with hope.
Peter didn’t expect the answer of seventy-seven times seven to his question of Jesus. And he didn’t realize they would be offered to him. Jesus did not ask of Peter or us something he would not be willing and ready to do himself.
Friends, Jesus knows us. He knows our tendencies. Our inclinations. Our weaknesses.
And it is time to uncurl. Time to stop beating ourselves to death. Time to stop despairing that our sins cannot be covered or erased. Time to stop living in fear that we (or others) will not survive the consequences. Time to stop acting as if there is something God can’t do.
It is time to hear Jesus say,
And Tamera.
And Terri.
And Christy.
And Steve.
And Angela.
And Dave.
And Amy.
And…
Do it.
Fill in your name.
And say it seventy-seven times seven.
*Matthew 18: 21-22
**Mark 16:7
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Others--Day 13
In beginning this fourteen day adventure I embraced a challenge. A challenge to my creative abilities and my spiritual discernment and obedience. But as always, God had something greater in mind. He had my transformation in mind. Not just mine, but possibly others, but mine nonetheless. And I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready.
Are we ever? Are we prepared for what God has planned?
Were the disciples ready for the events of the third day? Were the twelve men and all the company ready for Sunday?
Sunday, the day of Resurrection was surreal. Peter, Mary and John fell onto their bed pallets that night and pinched themselves in the dark to assure themselves they were still among the living.
Sunday was the day of the impossible becoming the possible.
Did they ask, “Is this real? Is this a beautiful idea? Is this just the manifestation of our hopes? Of our wishful thinking? How do we know? ”
Each time Jesus came to them was a confirmation of the reality they were beginning to understand.
I had a conversation with a friend this week. A hard conversation. My friend asked hard questions. And made some tough statements. On Easter weekend—the weekend of the impossible becoming possible—my friend challenged my faith.
We were discussing the reality of the faith. Is God just a good idea? Is he just an extension of our hopes?
My friend said, “I compare it [belief and faith] to "hearing stories of George Washington"...and seeing pictures of him in his black and white portraits and in the painting of him in his gallant pose crossing the Delaware
Soldiers followed Washington Washington Washington
Twelve men walked away from the Resurrection reality and based their entire lives on the fact that Jesus was alive. They based their life not on a story. Not on pictures.
And they told others. Then others told others. Others told others. And others told others…and others told us.
The Resurrection was and is not just a story. I am writing not because of an idea, but because a man invested his life in others. So much that they lived and died incredible and horrible lives and deaths to declare the good news.
In the midst of the Washington
A precious friend had passed away. 45 year old Tim was gone.
Tim was one of the others in my life.
Tim was a part of a group who introduced me to Jesus—not just an idea. He didn’t just tell me the stories of Jesus or show me the pictures. He allowed me to be privy to what God had done and openly shared the changes God wrought in him. At school and in other places I witnessed the affects of these changes in Tim. He wanted my life to be changed and transformed. Tim helped pray me into the kingdom. He invested in me because Jesus and others had invested in him.
As a result, you are reading this blog.
I have never laid eyes on Jesus.
But I have seen the affects of his incredible leadership. I have benefited from the fruit of his ministry. I am a recipient of his transforming power. I do not even remotely resemble the person I was becoming 28 years ago.
I have experienced his salvation.
A story is a powerful thing, but I am not willing to give my life to just a story.
My Washington
To live like this we will have to have faith—because faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.* Every time that hope fades or the certainty dwindles I remind myself of what I have seen and experienced. I go back and recount and remember.
On Sunday Tim experienced The Resurrection. His faith became sight. He entered the Reality.
When all of heaven was watching us here, when the witnesses of heaven were leaning over and looking in as we cried and proclaimed, “He’s alive!”—
Tim stood and gazed into the face of Jesus and nodded, “Yes! Yes, he is. He’s alive!”
Someday my friend and I will do the same.
Please join us.
*Hebrews 11:1
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The Linens and the Shroud--Day 12
These had held him.
Precious strips placed on his body by hands that loved. The head cloth sealed by tears dropping from faces so close to his.
These last earthly bindings—
Wrapped his bloodied, broken body. Encased his emptied frame.
Embraced him in their soft folds. Swaddled him in their lengths.
He pulled them to his face and breathed deeply—still scented with the myrrh and aloes.
In the unwinding, instead of decay and stench, it was a sweet aroma unwound.
The linens and shroud had fulfilled their purpose.
Gone was the mortal flesh that had been his tent. It had not been the spices that had preserved him. The linens and the shroud could not contain him. Power pulled him forth—resurrected him up and through the woven threads. Left them behind as if they were simply air. His Father had called his name, just as he, Jesus, had spoken to Jarius’ daughter. Just as he had called her back from the darkness, so had I AM called him back.
Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?*
Now, scared hands are folding.
No hurry. No rush.
He folded the lengths of linen. Smoothed them down. Laid them one on top of the other. Not quickly discarded. Not absently thrown. Not hastily cast aside. The head cloth last—placed separate from the rest.
He knew they would find them, and contemplate their meaning.
And soon they would understand that the linens and the shroud had encased a broken, condemned man.
But a Power greater than death had released the triumphant Savior.
*I Corinthians 15:55
Precious strips placed on his body by hands that loved. The head cloth sealed by tears dropping from faces so close to his.
These last earthly bindings—
Wrapped his bloodied, broken body. Encased his emptied frame.
Embraced him in their soft folds. Swaddled him in their lengths.
He pulled them to his face and breathed deeply—still scented with the myrrh and aloes.
In the unwinding, instead of decay and stench, it was a sweet aroma unwound.
The linens and shroud had fulfilled their purpose.
Gone was the mortal flesh that had been his tent. It had not been the spices that had preserved him. The linens and the shroud could not contain him. Power pulled him forth—resurrected him up and through the woven threads. Left them behind as if they were simply air. His Father had called his name, just as he, Jesus, had spoken to Jarius’ daughter. Just as he had called her back from the darkness, so had I AM called him back.
Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?*
Now, scared hands are folding.
No hurry. No rush.
He folded the lengths of linen. Smoothed them down. Laid them one on top of the other. Not quickly discarded. Not absently thrown. Not hastily cast aside. The head cloth last—placed separate from the rest.
He knew they would find them, and contemplate their meaning.
And soon they would understand that the linens and the shroud had encased a broken, condemned man.
But a Power greater than death had released the triumphant Savior.
*I Corinthians 15:55
Saturday, April 23, 2011
A Holy Day--Day 11
I went to a local super-center today. We needed several things. I had part of the list and my husband had the other part and we went in opposite directions in order to shorten the time of the dreaded task. To see and navigate the crowd one would have thought it was a holiday. Carts were overflowing. Arms were full. The lines were long. The cashiers were flustered.
My husband found me in the Easter candy aisle. I was looking for something special. We walked from one end of the long aisle to the other, but I just shook my head. What I was looking for (chocolate truffle eggs) wasn’t to be found.
I stood in the aisle and stared.
The aisle was filled with color: petal pink, new green, robin egg blue and lemon yellow. There were ready-to-be-filled camouflage eggs and peanut butter eggs. There were bobble-headed bunnies and M&M’s© dressed as bunnies. There were foil covered ducks and chickens. Tie-dye egg dyeing kits (and eggs were a tad bit cheaper than normal). There were speckled malted milk eggs and jelly beans in every color and flavor (even buttered popcorn). There were displays in the middle of the floor with dozens and dozens of pre-made Easter baskets. If you were willing to pick out all your goodies a tired employee would fill the huge, transparent and hollow egg baskets for you. And the clothing finery was something to behold: tiny dresses with matching bows and little suits with clip-on ties.
Near the end of the aisle on the middle shelf something caught my eye. Two small boxes filled with sixteen to twenty smaller boxes of cheap chocolate crosses. The boxes were plain, generic and almost colorless. The crosses had been shuffled from their plastic indentations. And not one box was gone from its allotted slot.
I don’t have a bit of problem with hiding Easter eggs (actually I wish we could do it for the adults too). I enjoy the vast variety of chocolates. I adore all the wonderful colors and sweet whimsy. I will be delighted when I see our friends’ little ones in all their finery. And I, too, will don a new spring sweater in the morning.
But, this is not a holiday.
This is a celebration of a holy day.
A Holy Day.
Holy carries and envelopes a sense of being set-apart.
Sacred.
This is a shouting day for me.
This is a celebration because we don’t have to live in the agonized suffering and fearful despair of Friday.
This is a celebration because we don’t have to abide in the closed, rock-sealed guarded tomb of Saturday.
This is a celebration because we can enter the empty tomb and embrace the resurrection hope of Sunday.
Not just Jesus’ resurrection, but ours.
And this Holy Day will not be relegated and emaciated to cheap chocolate crosses and egg-laying bunnies.
Both offend me.
If these are my only options then I will choose neither.
Glory be to my God and Savior they are not!
My husband found me in the Easter candy aisle. I was looking for something special. We walked from one end of the long aisle to the other, but I just shook my head. What I was looking for (chocolate truffle eggs) wasn’t to be found.
I stood in the aisle and stared.
The aisle was filled with color: petal pink, new green, robin egg blue and lemon yellow. There were ready-to-be-filled camouflage eggs and peanut butter eggs. There were bobble-headed bunnies and M&M’s© dressed as bunnies. There were foil covered ducks and chickens. Tie-dye egg dyeing kits (and eggs were a tad bit cheaper than normal). There were speckled malted milk eggs and jelly beans in every color and flavor (even buttered popcorn). There were displays in the middle of the floor with dozens and dozens of pre-made Easter baskets. If you were willing to pick out all your goodies a tired employee would fill the huge, transparent and hollow egg baskets for you. And the clothing finery was something to behold: tiny dresses with matching bows and little suits with clip-on ties.
Near the end of the aisle on the middle shelf something caught my eye. Two small boxes filled with sixteen to twenty smaller boxes of cheap chocolate crosses. The boxes were plain, generic and almost colorless. The crosses had been shuffled from their plastic indentations. And not one box was gone from its allotted slot.
I don’t have a bit of problem with hiding Easter eggs (actually I wish we could do it for the adults too). I enjoy the vast variety of chocolates. I adore all the wonderful colors and sweet whimsy. I will be delighted when I see our friends’ little ones in all their finery. And I, too, will don a new spring sweater in the morning.
But, this is not a holiday.
This is a celebration of a holy day.
A Holy Day.
Holy carries and envelopes a sense of being set-apart.
Sacred.
This is a shouting day for me.
This is a celebration because we don’t have to live in the agonized suffering and fearful despair of Friday.
This is a celebration because we don’t have to abide in the closed, rock-sealed guarded tomb of Saturday.
This is a celebration because we can enter the empty tomb and embrace the resurrection hope of Sunday.
Not just Jesus’ resurrection, but ours.
And this Holy Day will not be relegated and emaciated to cheap chocolate crosses and egg-laying bunnies.
Both offend me.
If these are my only options then I will choose neither.
Glory be to my God and Savior they are not!
Weighted Dice--Day 10
Two small cubes carved from bone. Worn smooth from repeated use and valuable to break a watch’s boredom. The roll of the dice had gained many a coveted possession for Quentus. Sturdy sandals. Thick cloaks. Sharp daggers.
His job was to strip the criminals of their possessions. And strip them he did—piling the loot at the edge of the crucifixion mound. The soldiers would mentally tag what they wanted and then wait for a break so they might roll their dice and enjoy their luck. This was one of the few perks of this nasty job—a minimal bonus for the extra hours and effort waiting for these condemned people to die.
Today the plundering had resulted in a paltry offering of less than desirable pieces. The men on duty gave the pile a cursory glance. Out of spiteful boredom they jabbed and smacked the impaled feet of the crucified for their meager contributions to the gamblers’ pot.
Quentus stared at the pile. One piece caught his eye. Most likely only he recognized its value because he had held and examined it. A plain undergarment. Nondescript at first glance, but it was seamless—woven as one piece from top to bottom. Why would a man condemned to death by crucifixion have this kind of garment? Had he stolen it? Or had someone given it to him? Someone who loved him—Quentus felt the twinge of jealousy and pushed it down.
Who was this man?
Quentus shook the dice in his hand. The other guards were nervous—the sky was eerily dark at a time when the sun should have been at its zenith. Muttering and cursing they made gestures and signs to ward off bad omens. He found their wary superstitions humorous and contradictory to their usual bold and crass ways. The dice were warm in Quentus’ hand. He squatted in the rocky soil and brushed a circle clear of debris. The others joined him.
One at a time they cast their lots. * The highest roll would take the seamless garment, and for some odd reason Quentus realized he wanted it. He peered up and the garment’s owner looked directly at him. Quentus felt pierced, and he didn’t like the feeling. He could not look away from this man. This was a convicted man who the Jewish leaders wanted dead before their religious Sabbath began. But he and his guard had discussed this man. In all their years of carrying out these grisly executions never had they encountered one like this man. He had been different from the very beginning.
At this man’s expense his men had enjoyed an entertaining diversion. They had heard rumored mumblings that the man was a prophet and a healer. Quickly they had devised a plan—blindfolding him and taunting him to prophesy and tell them which one hit him. Quentus, himself, had cuffed the man in the ear and sneered. “Who am I? Who’s hitting you? Tell me.” Fear skirted around Quentus as he wondered if the man recognized any of their voices.
What fate had put that man on this cross on this particular day? What choices had he made to have him nailed to its crossbeam? Quentus was a Roman citizen. He would never have to endure this type of execution, but what roll of dice caused him to be born to his Roman parents instead of here in this far country to Jews? What stars had aligned to bring this man before him to this destiny?
At last Quentus looked away. He could not hold the man’s gaze. The dice lay scattered on the ground before him. Fate, however, was against him today. He had rolled the lowest; he must forfeit the seamless garment. Quentus felt a stab of foreign regret. He scooped up his knuckle-bone dice and turned and walked away. Fate was a fickle thing he had heard someone say.
Fate didn’t lead Jesus to the cross.
Destiny, as an entity, did not nail him there.
The stars’ alignment did not destine Jesus’ execution.
A roll of the dice did not determine his end.
Randomness was not involved in this course of events.
No!
A weighed and measured choice was made.
This course of events was planned, choreographed and orchestrated.
God’s redemption for his people, for us, was not left to chance.
Our redemption was not a random afterthought, quickly thrown together to try and fix the problem. Our redemption was a ransom paid by a man who knew what he was doing before he ever came to live among us. No trick of fate or chance unfolded that forced Jesus’ hand. He didn’t make a last minute decision.
Understand, my friends, the dice were weighted.
They were weighted in our favor.
God weighted the dice in our favor at Jesus’ expense.
Proverbs 16:33
His job was to strip the criminals of their possessions. And strip them he did—piling the loot at the edge of the crucifixion mound. The soldiers would mentally tag what they wanted and then wait for a break so they might roll their dice and enjoy their luck. This was one of the few perks of this nasty job—a minimal bonus for the extra hours and effort waiting for these condemned people to die.
Today the plundering had resulted in a paltry offering of less than desirable pieces. The men on duty gave the pile a cursory glance. Out of spiteful boredom they jabbed and smacked the impaled feet of the crucified for their meager contributions to the gamblers’ pot.
Quentus stared at the pile. One piece caught his eye. Most likely only he recognized its value because he had held and examined it. A plain undergarment. Nondescript at first glance, but it was seamless—woven as one piece from top to bottom. Why would a man condemned to death by crucifixion have this kind of garment? Had he stolen it? Or had someone given it to him? Someone who loved him—Quentus felt the twinge of jealousy and pushed it down.
Who was this man?
Quentus shook the dice in his hand. The other guards were nervous—the sky was eerily dark at a time when the sun should have been at its zenith. Muttering and cursing they made gestures and signs to ward off bad omens. He found their wary superstitions humorous and contradictory to their usual bold and crass ways. The dice were warm in Quentus’ hand. He squatted in the rocky soil and brushed a circle clear of debris. The others joined him.
One at a time they cast their lots. * The highest roll would take the seamless garment, and for some odd reason Quentus realized he wanted it. He peered up and the garment’s owner looked directly at him. Quentus felt pierced, and he didn’t like the feeling. He could not look away from this man. This was a convicted man who the Jewish leaders wanted dead before their religious Sabbath began. But he and his guard had discussed this man. In all their years of carrying out these grisly executions never had they encountered one like this man. He had been different from the very beginning.
At this man’s expense his men had enjoyed an entertaining diversion. They had heard rumored mumblings that the man was a prophet and a healer. Quickly they had devised a plan—blindfolding him and taunting him to prophesy and tell them which one hit him. Quentus, himself, had cuffed the man in the ear and sneered. “Who am I? Who’s hitting you? Tell me.” Fear skirted around Quentus as he wondered if the man recognized any of their voices.
What fate had put that man on this cross on this particular day? What choices had he made to have him nailed to its crossbeam? Quentus was a Roman citizen. He would never have to endure this type of execution, but what roll of dice caused him to be born to his Roman parents instead of here in this far country to Jews? What stars had aligned to bring this man before him to this destiny?
At last Quentus looked away. He could not hold the man’s gaze. The dice lay scattered on the ground before him. Fate, however, was against him today. He had rolled the lowest; he must forfeit the seamless garment. Quentus felt a stab of foreign regret. He scooped up his knuckle-bone dice and turned and walked away. Fate was a fickle thing he had heard someone say.
Fate didn’t lead Jesus to the cross.
Destiny, as an entity, did not nail him there.
The stars’ alignment did not destine Jesus’ execution.
A roll of the dice did not determine his end.
Randomness was not involved in this course of events.
No!
A weighed and measured choice was made.
This course of events was planned, choreographed and orchestrated.
God’s redemption for his people, for us, was not left to chance.
Our redemption was not a random afterthought, quickly thrown together to try and fix the problem. Our redemption was a ransom paid by a man who knew what he was doing before he ever came to live among us. No trick of fate or chance unfolded that forced Jesus’ hand. He didn’t make a last minute decision.
Understand, my friends, the dice were weighted.
They were weighted in our favor.
God weighted the dice in our favor at Jesus’ expense.
Proverbs 16:33
Friday, April 22, 2011
Perform, Jesus--Day 9
Thursday night of Passion Week.
More happened to and with Jesus in a twelve hour span than happens to most of us in a decade. As I read and studied the vacillating events I was astounded by the escalation and intensity. I shouldn’t have been. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Jesus took his stand against the devil’s schemes.
Long before Paul would tell us that the struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms—Jesus stood. Paul told us to put on the full armor of God. Why? So we would be able to stand our ground. And when everything else was/is said and done we would be able to stand. Just to remain standing in battle. *
And Jesus remained standing. Read that again.
We need to understand this. Because there will come a time of great darkness in our lives. For whatever reason, under whatever circumstance, by whatever means darkness will come. Not if, but when. If anyone has told you differently they have lied to you
And the darkness is suffocating. It is debilitating. It is paralyzing. It is frightening.
And who will enable you to stand?
Jesus’ night of darkness came. He ate his last meal with his disciples. He prayed in a dark garden until blood seeped from his pores. He was betrayed by a friend. He was pursued as if he were a common criminal and arrested. He had to break up a fight and heal in the midst of the chaos. And everyone who had just shared the meat and drink with him ran.
And then he was brought before the rulers, the authorities and the powers of this dark world.
Caiaphas. Pilate. Herod.
The powers that be. Or so they thought. Believing they wielded the power these three men batted Jesus from one court to another all night long.
Jesus’ trial resembled a circus. A three ring fiasco.
And Herod acted like the circus master. He had acted like one once before, and had John the Baptist beheaded. He had heard about Jesus. Herod’s spies and court soldiers had brought him news and accounts of the activities of this Jesus. He had heard about Lazarus. He had been told about lepers arriving at the temple, clean—skin glistening and healthy. There was a report about a wedding in Cana and water turning to wine. Bread and fish for five thousand. And he had heard that this Jesus, this prophet from Galilee, had called Herod a fox. Yes, he wanted to see this man face to face.
Herod treated Jesus like a performing monkey.
Herod wanted to see Jesus perform. Herod wanted to see the miraculous happen as if it were a show for entertainment and pleasure.
Herod hounded Jesus. Interrogating. Needling. Poking. Plying.
Herod stepped off his dais. Approached Jesus.
“Perform, Jesus. Show me what you can do. They have told me about all your miraculous feats. Demonstrate for me. Prove the reports to me.”
Jesus remained utterly silent. The darkness grew thicker. Heavier.
Herod could hear the black crows of the Sanhedrin pacing and shouting.
As Herod moved close to Jesus’ face the metallic scent of blood caused his nostrils to flair and burn. There was a weakness in Jesus’ body, but there was no sign of weakness in his eyes. Herod saw red. This man had called him a fox, and Herod both liked and hated the implications.
Herod changed his tactics.
Herod turned back to his throne and grabbed his robe. He flitted and danced around Jesus, dressing him in the elaborate garment. Herod’s needling questions became sneers and mockery. He ridiculed and taunted Jesus. Poked and prodded him in an attempt to dredge up a reaction. His soldiers joined him. Laughing at Herod’s buffoonery, they added their own.
“Perform, prophet. I have a cut on my arm, heal it. Make the skin close back and the wound disappear. Turn this pot into gold. It’s dark outside, make it day.”
And Jesus remained silent. But Herod couldn’t handle Jesus. Couldn’t handle the silence or the lack of reaction. Most cowered in front of Herod. Begged for their lives. Pleaded for mercy. But this silence was deafening. Louder than the crows’ vehement accusations. Shriller than his soldier’s mean and drunken teasings.
Suddenly the room seemed dark and the walls closed in on Herod. His breath was shallow and fast. He recognized the feeling. Fear. And Herod hated fear.
“Take him back to Pilate. Take him back.”
And the three-ring circus spotlight moves in reverse.
Herod appalled me. His behavior sickened me. To ask Jesus to perform a miracle solely for Herod’s pleasure and entertainment—
Who did Herod think he was?
Who do I think I am?
How often have I asked Jesus to perform for me? How many times have I said, “Jesus, here’s my problem—fix it. The bank account is almost empty—fill it. I am hungry—feed me. I am lonely—help me. I screwed up—make it go away. I am unhappy—change it.”
How often do I expect Jesus to perform? How often do I act like he is the star attraction at a three-ring circus?
Why should I be surprised if he is silent?
*Ephesians 6:10-14
More happened to and with Jesus in a twelve hour span than happens to most of us in a decade. As I read and studied the vacillating events I was astounded by the escalation and intensity. I shouldn’t have been. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Jesus took his stand against the devil’s schemes.
Long before Paul would tell us that the struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms—Jesus stood. Paul told us to put on the full armor of God. Why? So we would be able to stand our ground. And when everything else was/is said and done we would be able to stand. Just to remain standing in battle. *
And Jesus remained standing. Read that again.
We need to understand this. Because there will come a time of great darkness in our lives. For whatever reason, under whatever circumstance, by whatever means darkness will come. Not if, but when. If anyone has told you differently they have lied to you
And the darkness is suffocating. It is debilitating. It is paralyzing. It is frightening.
And who will enable you to stand?
Jesus’ night of darkness came. He ate his last meal with his disciples. He prayed in a dark garden until blood seeped from his pores. He was betrayed by a friend. He was pursued as if he were a common criminal and arrested. He had to break up a fight and heal in the midst of the chaos. And everyone who had just shared the meat and drink with him ran.
And then he was brought before the rulers, the authorities and the powers of this dark world.
Caiaphas. Pilate. Herod.
The powers that be. Or so they thought. Believing they wielded the power these three men batted Jesus from one court to another all night long.
Jesus’ trial resembled a circus. A three ring fiasco.
And Herod acted like the circus master. He had acted like one once before, and had John the Baptist beheaded. He had heard about Jesus. Herod’s spies and court soldiers had brought him news and accounts of the activities of this Jesus. He had heard about Lazarus. He had been told about lepers arriving at the temple, clean—skin glistening and healthy. There was a report about a wedding in Cana and water turning to wine. Bread and fish for five thousand. And he had heard that this Jesus, this prophet from Galilee, had called Herod a fox. Yes, he wanted to see this man face to face.
Herod treated Jesus like a performing monkey.
Herod wanted to see Jesus perform. Herod wanted to see the miraculous happen as if it were a show for entertainment and pleasure.
Herod hounded Jesus. Interrogating. Needling. Poking. Plying.
Herod stepped off his dais. Approached Jesus.
“Perform, Jesus. Show me what you can do. They have told me about all your miraculous feats. Demonstrate for me. Prove the reports to me.”
Jesus remained utterly silent. The darkness grew thicker. Heavier.
Herod could hear the black crows of the Sanhedrin pacing and shouting.
As Herod moved close to Jesus’ face the metallic scent of blood caused his nostrils to flair and burn. There was a weakness in Jesus’ body, but there was no sign of weakness in his eyes. Herod saw red. This man had called him a fox, and Herod both liked and hated the implications.
Herod changed his tactics.
Herod turned back to his throne and grabbed his robe. He flitted and danced around Jesus, dressing him in the elaborate garment. Herod’s needling questions became sneers and mockery. He ridiculed and taunted Jesus. Poked and prodded him in an attempt to dredge up a reaction. His soldiers joined him. Laughing at Herod’s buffoonery, they added their own.
“Perform, prophet. I have a cut on my arm, heal it. Make the skin close back and the wound disappear. Turn this pot into gold. It’s dark outside, make it day.”
And Jesus remained silent. But Herod couldn’t handle Jesus. Couldn’t handle the silence or the lack of reaction. Most cowered in front of Herod. Begged for their lives. Pleaded for mercy. But this silence was deafening. Louder than the crows’ vehement accusations. Shriller than his soldier’s mean and drunken teasings.
Suddenly the room seemed dark and the walls closed in on Herod. His breath was shallow and fast. He recognized the feeling. Fear. And Herod hated fear.
“Take him back to Pilate. Take him back.”
And the three-ring circus spotlight moves in reverse.
Herod appalled me. His behavior sickened me. To ask Jesus to perform a miracle solely for Herod’s pleasure and entertainment—
Who did Herod think he was?
Who do I think I am?
How often have I asked Jesus to perform for me? How many times have I said, “Jesus, here’s my problem—fix it. The bank account is almost empty—fill it. I am hungry—feed me. I am lonely—help me. I screwed up—make it go away. I am unhappy—change it.”
How often do I expect Jesus to perform? How often do I act like he is the star attraction at a three-ring circus?
Why should I be surprised if he is silent?
*Ephesians 6:10-14
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
He Remembered--Day 8
He couldn’t get warm. He was chilled even though the fire before him blazed. He stared into the flames—watched them dance, leap and pulse. He wondered for just a brief moment if the flames were alive. Hunching his shoulders he strained to hear conversations across the courtyard. He could see the shadows on the stones of the palace courtyard. Elongated and surreal. He shuddered.
He closed his eyes, and he remembered. The Lord was on his knee, bent and stooped, wringing the soft, worn linen almost dry. Jesus had wiped the dust and grime of the day from Peter’s calloused, fisherman’s feet. Even now the protests rose and choked in his throat.*
Her voice startled him. “You were with him. You were with that man from Nazareth.”
The denial fell out of Peter’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. “I don’t know or understand what you are talking about.” He turned away from the woman and watched the flames. The tendrils seemed to reach toward him. Pulling and tempting. He just could not get warm. How had the Lord gotten to this place? Arrested and in trial across the courtyard even now. Why?
In the light of the fire Peter remembered. The Lord had explained. And Peter had been appalled. He had told the Lord he would not suffer. He would not be held by these people, would not be killed. Never. And the fire in Jesus’ eyes had scorched him. Singed him. *
The woman’s shrill voice broke into his fragmented thoughts. He could hear the accusation. He could feel all the eyes on him.
“He was one of them.”
Quickly his mind registered the contempt as she spoke the word them. He realized he was one of them. One of the disciples she had seen with the Rabbi from Galilee. What if they made him leave the courtyard? What if they opened the gate and escorted him out? Best to deny a connection right now. He wanted to remain as close as possible to Jesus.
Raising his voice he looked at the servant woman and snarled, “I’m not one of them.” The woman raised her eyebrow and did not drop her gaze. Peter turned back to the flames. Absently he muttered and talked to those standing with him.
Someone threw fuel into the fire and the flames danced closer. Sparks popped and crackled at his feet. An ember fell on his sleeve leaving gray ash. He brushed it away.
And Peter remembered. The garden had been dark. The olive trees planted close and tight. It was a familiar place. And the Lord had asked him to pray. Peter could still hear the sound in his voice.
Somewhere in the middle of the pleas he had nodded off. The third time the Lord had wakened him, Peter had been embarrassed. And when he got embarrassed he always made a fool of himself.*
The man next to him leaned toward his ear. “Surely you are one of them. You talk just like them. You speak like the group of Galileans. Didn’t I see you in the olive grove with him?” The man’s words targeted Peter. Eyes narrowed. Slitted. Riveted.
Curses spewed out of Peter’s mouth. Cursing the tell-tale cadence of his speech. He turned and swore even as he felt the hair on his neck rise. “I don’t know this man. I don’t know this man you’re talking about. He ran his hands through his hair and across his beard. And those standing close moved back—moved away from the reach of his wild gesturing. The courtyard went still. Voices fell away.
Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed.
Peter shivered. As the crowing faded the spit in Peter’s throat began to choke him. Frantically he clawed at his neck. He turned.
There Jesus stood. Looking at Peter. His eyes bore. He didn’t look away. But Peter did.
And Peter remembered. The look in the Lord’s eyes had been soft and full of compassion and a gentleness Peter could hardly bear. He had called him by his old name, “Simon, Simon.” And Jesus had warned him, “Simon, you are going to be sifted like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith would not fail.” Peter had turned with vehement words, “Lord, I am ready to go with you to prison and to death.”*
Strong, bold words for such a weak man.
In bitterness Peter laughed. An ugly sound from somewhere in his throat.
The rooster had crowed.
Peter tallied his denials.
Three.
He ran out of the courtyard into the dark night.
And he began to weep. And he could taste the bile in his throat.
*John 13; Luke 22:31-34; Mark 14:32-42; Matthew 16:23.
He closed his eyes, and he remembered. The Lord was on his knee, bent and stooped, wringing the soft, worn linen almost dry. Jesus had wiped the dust and grime of the day from Peter’s calloused, fisherman’s feet. Even now the protests rose and choked in his throat.*
Her voice startled him. “You were with him. You were with that man from Nazareth.”
The denial fell out of Peter’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. “I don’t know or understand what you are talking about.” He turned away from the woman and watched the flames. The tendrils seemed to reach toward him. Pulling and tempting. He just could not get warm. How had the Lord gotten to this place? Arrested and in trial across the courtyard even now. Why?
In the light of the fire Peter remembered. The Lord had explained. And Peter had been appalled. He had told the Lord he would not suffer. He would not be held by these people, would not be killed. Never. And the fire in Jesus’ eyes had scorched him. Singed him. *
The woman’s shrill voice broke into his fragmented thoughts. He could hear the accusation. He could feel all the eyes on him.
“He was one of them.”
Quickly his mind registered the contempt as she spoke the word them. He realized he was one of them. One of the disciples she had seen with the Rabbi from Galilee. What if they made him leave the courtyard? What if they opened the gate and escorted him out? Best to deny a connection right now. He wanted to remain as close as possible to Jesus.
Raising his voice he looked at the servant woman and snarled, “I’m not one of them.” The woman raised her eyebrow and did not drop her gaze. Peter turned back to the flames. Absently he muttered and talked to those standing with him.
Someone threw fuel into the fire and the flames danced closer. Sparks popped and crackled at his feet. An ember fell on his sleeve leaving gray ash. He brushed it away.
And Peter remembered. The garden had been dark. The olive trees planted close and tight. It was a familiar place. And the Lord had asked him to pray. Peter could still hear the sound in his voice.
Somewhere in the middle of the pleas he had nodded off. The third time the Lord had wakened him, Peter had been embarrassed. And when he got embarrassed he always made a fool of himself.*
The man next to him leaned toward his ear. “Surely you are one of them. You talk just like them. You speak like the group of Galileans. Didn’t I see you in the olive grove with him?” The man’s words targeted Peter. Eyes narrowed. Slitted. Riveted.
Curses spewed out of Peter’s mouth. Cursing the tell-tale cadence of his speech. He turned and swore even as he felt the hair on his neck rise. “I don’t know this man. I don’t know this man you’re talking about. He ran his hands through his hair and across his beard. And those standing close moved back—moved away from the reach of his wild gesturing. The courtyard went still. Voices fell away.
Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed.
Peter shivered. As the crowing faded the spit in Peter’s throat began to choke him. Frantically he clawed at his neck. He turned.
There Jesus stood. Looking at Peter. His eyes bore. He didn’t look away. But Peter did.
And Peter remembered. The look in the Lord’s eyes had been soft and full of compassion and a gentleness Peter could hardly bear. He had called him by his old name, “Simon, Simon.” And Jesus had warned him, “Simon, you are going to be sifted like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith would not fail.” Peter had turned with vehement words, “Lord, I am ready to go with you to prison and to death.”*
Strong, bold words for such a weak man.
In bitterness Peter laughed. An ugly sound from somewhere in his throat.
The rooster had crowed.
Peter tallied his denials.
Three.
He ran out of the courtyard into the dark night.
And he began to weep. And he could taste the bile in his throat.
*John 13; Luke 22:31-34; Mark 14:32-42; Matthew 16:23.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Judas Ways--Day 7
Did you know, Jesus?
You prayed all night long about the choosing of your twelve. Did you know even then? When you looked him in the eye did he look back? Did you peer into the eons of his soul? Did you see what he would do?
Judas.
A smart man. A hard man. A troubled man. A scheming man. A passionate man. A misguided man. An opportunistic man.
Did you watch him pocket the money? When you looked into his heart did you see the corrupted ambition? Did you hear the hushed conversations? Did it break your heart when he contrived the plan against you? Did it hurt when he seemed to want to spend time with you, but was actually taking note of your schedule in order to find an opportunity to turn you over to the authorities?
Did you see the flick of his heel and the twist of his heart as he turned away from you? Could you see his back as he walked away into the darkness?
This Judas, the fiery visionary from Iscariot, was a part of your inner twelve. You traveled with him. Rubbed shoulders with him. Taught him. Touched him. Included him. Ate with him. Broke bread with him. Washed his feet.
And he agreed to betray you.
Thirty pieces of silver jangled in his belt and the pharisaical stamp of approval was on his actions.
His zealousness, misplaced and misguided, pushed him to do the unthinkable and the inevitable.
And it devoured him. Whole.
You loved him.
You loved Judas anyway.
Reveal to me my Judas-ways, Oh God.
Uncover them and show them to me before I am devoured whole. Awaken me before I am consumed by my own motivations and agendas. Don’t allow my own vision to overshadow yours. Show me my own corrupted ambitions—ambitions I feed and justify. Justify because they seem to accomplish the end that I desire. But with you, Father, the end does not justify the means. Make visible to me the places in me that are bent against the philosophy and reality of your kingdom. Don’t allow me to be deceived by darkness. Please don’t allow me to trade my eternal position with you for a temporary place in a momentary spotlight here. Don’t allow me to taint precious opportunities. Don’t allow me to hold out my hand for a few pieces of silver. Silver spends too quickly.
We are not far from Judas. We want to think we are. The denial rises in our throat. We want to say we would never do such a horrendous deed. But be forewarned, our hearts are not far from corrupted ambitions and warped vision.
Reveal to us, our Judas ways.
And, please. Please love love us anyway.
You prayed all night long about the choosing of your twelve. Did you know even then? When you looked him in the eye did he look back? Did you peer into the eons of his soul? Did you see what he would do?
Judas.
A smart man. A hard man. A troubled man. A scheming man. A passionate man. A misguided man. An opportunistic man.
Did you watch him pocket the money? When you looked into his heart did you see the corrupted ambition? Did you hear the hushed conversations? Did it break your heart when he contrived the plan against you? Did it hurt when he seemed to want to spend time with you, but was actually taking note of your schedule in order to find an opportunity to turn you over to the authorities?
Did you see the flick of his heel and the twist of his heart as he turned away from you? Could you see his back as he walked away into the darkness?
This Judas, the fiery visionary from Iscariot, was a part of your inner twelve. You traveled with him. Rubbed shoulders with him. Taught him. Touched him. Included him. Ate with him. Broke bread with him. Washed his feet.
And he agreed to betray you.
Thirty pieces of silver jangled in his belt and the pharisaical stamp of approval was on his actions.
His zealousness, misplaced and misguided, pushed him to do the unthinkable and the inevitable.
And it devoured him. Whole.
You loved him.
You loved Judas anyway.
Reveal to me my Judas-ways, Oh God.
Uncover them and show them to me before I am devoured whole. Awaken me before I am consumed by my own motivations and agendas. Don’t allow my own vision to overshadow yours. Show me my own corrupted ambitions—ambitions I feed and justify. Justify because they seem to accomplish the end that I desire. But with you, Father, the end does not justify the means. Make visible to me the places in me that are bent against the philosophy and reality of your kingdom. Don’t allow me to be deceived by darkness. Please don’t allow me to trade my eternal position with you for a temporary place in a momentary spotlight here. Don’t allow me to taint precious opportunities. Don’t allow me to hold out my hand for a few pieces of silver. Silver spends too quickly.
We are not far from Judas. We want to think we are. The denial rises in our throat. We want to say we would never do such a horrendous deed. But be forewarned, our hearts are not far from corrupted ambitions and warped vision.
Reveal to us, our Judas ways.
And, please. Please love love us anyway.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
The Carpenter Bee--Day 6
Why.
A three letter word fathoms deep—
Echoing endlessly back and perpetually forward.
Every age, every era, every millennium asks.
Young and old. Male and female.
Why?
This word can be the hardest, deepest and saddest of all questions.
Why is often connected to cause and effect circumstances we can’t trace.
Why often remains answerless.
Why is a tangential question—a great tree that continues to branch and fork and grow in ringed girth.
Why is a child’s question—steeped in curiosity. Asked in the earliest stages of a child’s wing development. Asked when a teenager begins to stretch and discover flight.
Asked when a spouse leaves. Asked when the tests are clouded. Asked when the bank statement is close to negative. Asked when a child is abused. Asked when the cell divides. Asked when a dream dies. Asked when the answer is no. Asked when an earthquake destroys. Asked when a leader falls. Asked when suffering seems inevitable.
Why probes.
Why drills.
Why intrudes.
Why is like the fat carpenter bee that bore two holes in the sill of my backdoor. It hummed and buzzed furiously as it ate away at the hardwood. I watched as his round body disappeared into his spherical door and the sawdust kicked out behind him and drifted down to the deck. He continued to make the hole deeper and deeper—penetrating into the core and heartwood. Until I stopped him.
I thought about when Jesus would have asked why.
From Sunday to Thursday of this eventful week Jesus walked the steep and winding two-mile trek to Bethany. He traversed down and up the Mount of Olives. Each day before he entered and exited Jerusalem he would pass by the Garden of Gethsemane.
Every day Jesus had a foreshadowing of what awaited him. Jesus’ greatest struggle was coming. His greatest battle was being orchestrated. The enemy was strategizing.
Gethsemane waited. But, he had set his face.
Watch Jesus. Watch him.
He did not ask why. He knew and understood the why of Gethsemane.
The why was and is us.
You. Me.
As he passed by that grove of olive trees each morning, before he entered into the mayhem and chaos of Jerusalem’s demands, instead of asking why I believe he prayed.
“Father, give me strength for the day that is coming. I know your plan and purpose for me. Show me Tamera’s (put your name in place of mine) face this morning.”
And as he passed back by his would be place of suffering each evening, after all the accolades and interrogations, instead of asking why I believe he prayed.
“Father, thank you for today; you are faithful. I know you will provide strength for tomorrow. Thank you for my rest tonight.”
We are finite beings. We cannot see far enough into eternity to not have to ask why. Our perceptions, minds and realities are too narrow and too shallow to dismiss this word from our daily vocabulary. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a place and a time for the why. Why indicates struggle and growth.
But there are places and times we must learn to swat and smack the carpenter bee and have faith.
We must trust the Father’s plan.
We must.
We may be walking past our Gethsemane every day. We may be making a hard trek morning and night just to get through and we want to know why.
Why, Lord? Why?
Our greatest struggle may be on its way or have already arrived. Our greatest battle may just be around the next bend in the road or we may be right in the thick of it. The enemy may be laying out his battle plan or it may be in motion.
And we can ask why. Our Father is great enough to handle our whys. But as we walk by our Gethsemane let’s put the why aside.
In the morning when we pass by let’s pray, “Father, give me strength for the day that is coming. Remind me continually today of the plan and purpose you have before me.”
And in the evening pray, “Father, thank you for today; you are faithful. Remind me that you will provide strength for tomorrow. Please give me rest tonight.”
Yes, Gethsemane waits.
But we can ask the Father to prepare us.
There’s another carpenter bee hovering at my back door. I need to go and find my flyswatter.
.
A three letter word fathoms deep—
Echoing endlessly back and perpetually forward.
Every age, every era, every millennium asks.
Young and old. Male and female.
Why?
This word can be the hardest, deepest and saddest of all questions.
Why is often connected to cause and effect circumstances we can’t trace.
Why often remains answerless.
Why is a tangential question—a great tree that continues to branch and fork and grow in ringed girth.
Why is a child’s question—steeped in curiosity. Asked in the earliest stages of a child’s wing development. Asked when a teenager begins to stretch and discover flight.
Asked when a spouse leaves. Asked when the tests are clouded. Asked when the bank statement is close to negative. Asked when a child is abused. Asked when the cell divides. Asked when a dream dies. Asked when the answer is no. Asked when an earthquake destroys. Asked when a leader falls. Asked when suffering seems inevitable.
Why probes.
Why drills.
Why intrudes.
Why is like the fat carpenter bee that bore two holes in the sill of my backdoor. It hummed and buzzed furiously as it ate away at the hardwood. I watched as his round body disappeared into his spherical door and the sawdust kicked out behind him and drifted down to the deck. He continued to make the hole deeper and deeper—penetrating into the core and heartwood. Until I stopped him.
I thought about when Jesus would have asked why.
From Sunday to Thursday of this eventful week Jesus walked the steep and winding two-mile trek to Bethany. He traversed down and up the Mount of Olives. Each day before he entered and exited Jerusalem he would pass by the Garden of Gethsemane.
Every day Jesus had a foreshadowing of what awaited him. Jesus’ greatest struggle was coming. His greatest battle was being orchestrated. The enemy was strategizing.
Gethsemane waited. But, he had set his face.
Watch Jesus. Watch him.
He did not ask why. He knew and understood the why of Gethsemane.
The why was and is us.
You. Me.
As he passed by that grove of olive trees each morning, before he entered into the mayhem and chaos of Jerusalem’s demands, instead of asking why I believe he prayed.
“Father, give me strength for the day that is coming. I know your plan and purpose for me. Show me Tamera’s (put your name in place of mine) face this morning.”
And as he passed back by his would be place of suffering each evening, after all the accolades and interrogations, instead of asking why I believe he prayed.
“Father, thank you for today; you are faithful. I know you will provide strength for tomorrow. Thank you for my rest tonight.”
We are finite beings. We cannot see far enough into eternity to not have to ask why. Our perceptions, minds and realities are too narrow and too shallow to dismiss this word from our daily vocabulary. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a place and a time for the why. Why indicates struggle and growth.
But there are places and times we must learn to swat and smack the carpenter bee and have faith.
We must trust the Father’s plan.
We must.
We may be walking past our Gethsemane every day. We may be making a hard trek morning and night just to get through and we want to know why.
Why, Lord? Why?
Our greatest struggle may be on its way or have already arrived. Our greatest battle may just be around the next bend in the road or we may be right in the thick of it. The enemy may be laying out his battle plan or it may be in motion.
And we can ask why. Our Father is great enough to handle our whys. But as we walk by our Gethsemane let’s put the why aside.
In the morning when we pass by let’s pray, “Father, give me strength for the day that is coming. Remind me continually today of the plan and purpose you have before me.”
And in the evening pray, “Father, thank you for today; you are faithful. Remind me that you will provide strength for tomorrow. Please give me rest tonight.”
Yes, Gethsemane waits.
But we can ask the Father to prepare us.
There’s another carpenter bee hovering at my back door. I need to go and find my flyswatter.
.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
A Temple Whip--Day 5
Jesus went back to the temple.
He had unfinished business.
Let’s call this situation at the temple exactly what it was. It was contempt. The money-changers and the dove sellers profaned the temple. They had forgotten where they were.
They had grown so familiar with the temple it had become a common place. Just an ordinary place to do business. In the midst of clinking coins and bird feathers they had forgotten to be in awe, forgotten healthy fear and forgotten reverence.
The temple wasn’t a business to Jesus. It was his Father’s house. And he was returning to remind them.
But first—
But first watch what Jesus did.
He stops and makes a whip. He stands at the gate and slowly and methodically begins to braid cords together. He takes his time. There’s no hurry. There’s no exasperation.
Judas is staring. Peter is pacing impatiently. James and John are wondering what the whip is for (Perhaps they even wondered if they were going to get to use it. Remember earlier they had asked if fire could be called down on people. They don’t have the nicknames Sons of Thunder for nothing.)
And Jesus keeps braiding. Right over middle. Left over middle. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.* Love. Justice. Grace.
When he finishes he stands. And he entered the gates with Thanksgiving.
Thank you, Father, that this is your house.
And he entered the courts with praise.
Praise you, Father, for you are holy and good.
And then the whip cracked.
Smack.
Even the disciples jumped. Startled not just by the sound, but by the transformation in Jesus. There’s a light in his face and a shofar sound in his voice.
Tables turn. Cages open. Birds fly. Money rolls. Jaws drop.
And Jesus stood sentinel refusing to allow anyone carrying merchandise to walk through the courts.
And then…
Oh, I almost missed it. I almost missed the next detail.
And as he taught them…
As he taught them.
Jesus cleared the temple with a whip. Turned everything upside down and right side out.
Then he went back to the real purpose of the temple. He spent the rest of the day teaching and healing. Glory returned.And the house of God was once again a house of prayer.
We are the temple now. Yes, you read that correctly.
And we need to make a walk-through. We need to ask if familiarity is breeding contempt here in us? We may need to get angry with what we see.
We need to stop and make a whip of cords. Justice over love. Love over grace. Grace over Justice. All woven together to form one whip. And we need to be praying while we braid. Asking for discernment, for wisdom and for clarity.
When the whip is finished we need to go through and drive out all that is distracting and hindering us from the purpose of the temple—to be a house of prayer and to glorify God.
I need to go and make a whip.
He had unfinished business.
Let’s call this situation at the temple exactly what it was. It was contempt. The money-changers and the dove sellers profaned the temple. They had forgotten where they were.
They had grown so familiar with the temple it had become a common place. Just an ordinary place to do business. In the midst of clinking coins and bird feathers they had forgotten to be in awe, forgotten healthy fear and forgotten reverence.
The temple wasn’t a business to Jesus. It was his Father’s house. And he was returning to remind them.
But first—
But first watch what Jesus did.
He stops and makes a whip. He stands at the gate and slowly and methodically begins to braid cords together. He takes his time. There’s no hurry. There’s no exasperation.
Judas is staring. Peter is pacing impatiently. James and John are wondering what the whip is for (Perhaps they even wondered if they were going to get to use it. Remember earlier they had asked if fire could be called down on people. They don’t have the nicknames Sons of Thunder for nothing.)
And Jesus keeps braiding. Right over middle. Left over middle. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.* Love. Justice. Grace.
When he finishes he stands. And he entered the gates with Thanksgiving.
Thank you, Father, that this is your house.
And he entered the courts with praise.
Praise you, Father, for you are holy and good.
And then the whip cracked.
Smack.
Even the disciples jumped. Startled not just by the sound, but by the transformation in Jesus. There’s a light in his face and a shofar sound in his voice.
Tables turn. Cages open. Birds fly. Money rolls. Jaws drop.
And Jesus stood sentinel refusing to allow anyone carrying merchandise to walk through the courts.
And then…
Oh, I almost missed it. I almost missed the next detail.
And as he taught them…
As he taught them.
Jesus cleared the temple with a whip. Turned everything upside down and right side out.
Then he went back to the real purpose of the temple. He spent the rest of the day teaching and healing. Glory returned.And the house of God was once again a house of prayer.
We are the temple now. Yes, you read that correctly.
And we need to make a walk-through. We need to ask if familiarity is breeding contempt here in us? We may need to get angry with what we see.
We need to stop and make a whip of cords. Justice over love. Love over grace. Grace over Justice. All woven together to form one whip. And we need to be praying while we braid. Asking for discernment, for wisdom and for clarity.
When the whip is finished we need to go through and drive out all that is distracting and hindering us from the purpose of the temple—to be a house of prayer and to glorify God.
I need to go and make a whip.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Family and Friends
Where do you go when you are sad or hurting? Where do you go to be safe? The better question is to whom do you go? Who do you want to be with when life is about to hand you a hard thing that has no give? Who do you want to sit with you in silence? Or make you belly laugh regardless of the circumstances?
Do you have them in mind?
Jesus did. Actually he had two places and a group of people in mind.
Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Slow, steady and smelly. The palm branches fanned the air around him and the cloaks rippled like waves as they touched the ground before him. Shouts filled the air and a children’s choir delighted his heart. Innocence singing.
Zechariah’s word manifested.
And the spiritual leaders of Israel missed it. Before the palm branches stilled the Pharisees and the teachers of the law were rebuking and berating Jesus for the content of the children’s song.
But, watch Jesus.
Jesus moved past them. He was neither flattered by laud nor discouraged by criticism. He had set his face; he went to the temple.
Home away from home.
But what did he think when he entered the gates and courts? What did he mull in his mind as he studied this shadow of the reality? What was his assessment of this meager copy? What he found was a poor copy. A mimicry.
Sadly, this was not the house of prayer he longed for and needed. He had walked through the gates and entered the courts with a set face. He had come to pray. He had come to worship. He had come to talk to his Father.
What he encountered angered him.
Would it have angered us? Would we have been offended? Or would we have not seen anything out of the ordinary?
Jesus turned and walked away. He left his temple. He would talk to his Father somewhere else. He reset his face. His destination was Jerusalem, but that wasn’t where he was going to lay his head. He was going to another home away from home.
With his twelve men Jesus set out for Bethany.
He was going to Martha, Lazarus and Mary’s house to be among friends who had become family. He was going where he knew he was loved.
He could let his guard down in Bethany. No one would attempt to trap him in trick questions. No one would demand from him there. They would just let him be. (And if they didn’t, Martha would make sure they did. Don’t mess with Martha.)
At the most critical point in Jesus’ earthy life he needed to be with his Father and he wanted to be with his dearest friends.
He knows at the end of the week he is going to be left standing alone to face his accusers. He was going to meet death—face to face.
And where does he choose to go?
The hardest part of this earth-journey for Jesus was about to come. Pain, suffering, isolation and rejection. And he shows us what we should do. He always does.
Where do you go when life starts bending you backwards, when people start giving you grief, when your accuser points the finger at you, when your life becomes a hard thing?
Where do you go?
I hope you don’t have to think about it too long
Do you have them in mind?
Jesus did. Actually he had two places and a group of people in mind.
Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Slow, steady and smelly. The palm branches fanned the air around him and the cloaks rippled like waves as they touched the ground before him. Shouts filled the air and a children’s choir delighted his heart. Innocence singing.
Zechariah’s word manifested.
And the spiritual leaders of Israel missed it. Before the palm branches stilled the Pharisees and the teachers of the law were rebuking and berating Jesus for the content of the children’s song.
But, watch Jesus.
Jesus moved past them. He was neither flattered by laud nor discouraged by criticism. He had set his face; he went to the temple.
Home away from home.
But what did he think when he entered the gates and courts? What did he mull in his mind as he studied this shadow of the reality? What was his assessment of this meager copy? What he found was a poor copy. A mimicry.
Sadly, this was not the house of prayer he longed for and needed. He had walked through the gates and entered the courts with a set face. He had come to pray. He had come to worship. He had come to talk to his Father.
What he encountered angered him.
Would it have angered us? Would we have been offended? Or would we have not seen anything out of the ordinary?
Jesus turned and walked away. He left his temple. He would talk to his Father somewhere else. He reset his face. His destination was Jerusalem, but that wasn’t where he was going to lay his head. He was going to another home away from home.
With his twelve men Jesus set out for Bethany.
He was going to Martha, Lazarus and Mary’s house to be among friends who had become family. He was going where he knew he was loved.
He could let his guard down in Bethany. No one would attempt to trap him in trick questions. No one would demand from him there. They would just let him be. (And if they didn’t, Martha would make sure they did. Don’t mess with Martha.)
At the most critical point in Jesus’ earthy life he needed to be with his Father and he wanted to be with his dearest friends.
He knows at the end of the week he is going to be left standing alone to face his accusers. He was going to meet death—face to face.
And where does he choose to go?
The hardest part of this earth-journey for Jesus was about to come. Pain, suffering, isolation and rejection. And he shows us what we should do. He always does.
Where do you go when life starts bending you backwards, when people start giving you grief, when your accuser points the finger at you, when your life becomes a hard thing?
Where do you go?
I hope you don’t have to think about it too long
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