What God Wants Us to Know

Because of Your promise, and according to Your own heart, You have wrought all this greatness, so that your servant may know it. Therefore You are great, O LORD God; for there is no one like You. (2 Samuel 7.21-22)

“None Like You”

As a young person eager to grow in faith, I studied adults in my family and faith community closely, watching how they behaved in and out of church, listening to how they prayed, and staying attentive to shards of Scripture peppered through their conversation. (In those days, the saints were so conversant with the Word it routinely surfaced in their casual speech, often as no more than a phrase wedged into a sentence. It’s an art that, alas, has fallen from fashion.) Kids have innate sensors that flag sincerity and sham, and with little effort I gravitated to believers whose best practices I admired and hoped to emulate.

One of my greatest faith mentors was Rev. Eugene Gray, youth minister to a large church I adopted as my second home. As he took me under wing, I soon discovered what an uncommonly tender man he was; if a hateful thought crossed his mind during the years I knew him, it never passed his lips. Gene’s prayer mannerisms first drew me to him. In service, he prayed extemporaneously, with the confidence of a son who knew his father had all the answers and could do anything. A feature I truly loved was how Gene “sent” God to troubled souls. “Somebody is sick and without hope. Look in on them,” he’d pray. “Touch their bodies and lift their spirits… A mother’s son is languishing in prison. Speak to his heart and shield him from harm… Somewhere a teenager feels unloved and alone. Take her in Your arms. Let her know she’s Your child.” You didn’t have to be called out in Gene’s prayer for it resonate. Whatever your struggles, his assurance extinguished all doubt God saw you and was with you.

I learned where Gene’s trust originated during our prayer times together. Away from the pulpit he laid a hushed love feast before the Lord. He neither hurried nor tried to impress. He just talked to God, always starting with a list of thanksgivings that couched his requests. “Because of all You’ve done, I know You’ll do what’s best,” he’d say. Once he ended his requests, he hung around for quite awhile, simply to express how wonderful God was to him. He frequently latched on a phrase—usually from David’s psalms or prayers—and repeated it over and over, pausing to let it sink deeper into his heart with each repetition. “There is none like You,” he’d say. “None like You… None like You,” echoing David’s awe at God’s unfathomable kindness in 2 Samuel 7.22: “There is no one like You.” Gene’s been gone for many years, but his best practices survive in thousands who rarely end a prayer without telling God, “There is none like You.”

Utterly Bowled Over

David’s prayer, covered in 2 Samuel 7.18-29, is less about asking God for anything than extolling everything God is. In fact, God’s already spoken to David through the prophet, Nathan, answering many of the young king’s questions and soothing his anxieties. David’s so utterly bowled over, he sits down by himself and talks to God. To get the full effect of what he says, we should back up. In quicksilver time, David ascends Israel's throne, defeats its perennial enemy, the Philistines, and installs the Ark of the Covenant housing Judaism's holiest relics in the Tabernacle, a vast tent in which Jews have worshiped since Moses’s days. After the festivities, David looks at his palace and suddenly feels guilty about living in opulence while the Ark rests under a ragged canopy. Building an even more lavish temple seems the proper thing to do. But God puts the brakes on his idea, saying, “You don’t need a new project. It’s more important you slow down, get your bearings, and reflect on how far I’ve brought you. From shepherd boy to king—this wouldn’t be possible without Me. I promise to give you a son endowed with wisdom and skill to construct the greatest temple the world will ever know. Leave that to him. All I want from you is to realize how far you’ve come, because you’ve a long way yet to go.”

Totally undone by God’s kindness, David doesn’t know where to start. So, naturally, he does his best to say what words can’t describe. Yet he somehow manages beautifully. (Check out the entire prayer in the postscript and you’ll be amazed.) He’s still enthralled and tremendously humbled by the enormous palace he now calls home. “Who am I, O Lord GOD, and what is my house that you have brought me thus far?” he exclaims. (v18) He uses “house” in both senses—Israel’s royal residence as well as the House of David, the dynasty promised to him. Then he runs dry. “And what more can David say to you?” he asks in verse 20. Plenty, it turns out, once his thoughts turn from all God has done for him to what God wants him to know. His prayer comes to life in verses 21-22: “Because of Your promise, and according to Your own heart, You have wrought all this greatness, so that your servant may know it. Therefore You are great, O LORD God; for there is no one like You, and there is no God besides You, according to all that we have heard with our ears.”

Greatness That Constantly Amazes

So easily we’re flummoxed by how far we’ve come, where we are, or how far we’ve yet to go. God has brought us over great expanses pocked with rugged, unpredictable terrain; we look back and wonder how we got where we are. It’s tremendously humbling to realize our lives are richer and bigger than we ever imagined. And God's promises for greatness in store makes us lightheaded. Our first instinct is to do something worthy of the kindness we’ve received—to keep going full speed ahead. Yet the word spoken to David comes to us. It’s important we slow down, get our bearings, and reflect on where we’ve come from because there’s something invaluable that God wants us to know before we venture on.

There is no one like God, no god besides God. Anything we may attribute with our progress thus far—intellect, tenacity, courage, curiosity, support systems, insuperable hurdles, and even what some call plain old good luck—every blessing (including those we initially perceive as curses) would not be were it not for God. There’s not a power known to humankind or a force in this universe that compares to our Creator and Keeper. God is precisely Whom Gene Gray’s prayers projected—the Parent with all the answers, Who can do anything. Or, as David puts it, the Source of greatness that constantly amazes us. What more can we say but, “There is none like You”? That says everything. And that’s what God wants us to know.

When we recollect the great things You’ve done for us in the past, O God, the great blessings we presently enjoy, and imagine ever greater things ahead, we’re so utterly bowled over we sit down and try to say what words can’t describe. With nothing more to say, we thank You because You’re You. There’s no one like You. None. Amen.

It’s important we slow down, get our bearings, and reflect on where we’ve come from because there’s something invaluable that God wants us to know before we venture on.

Postscript: David’s Prayer

"Who am I, O Lord GOD, and what is my house, that You have brought me thus far? And yet this was a small thing in Your eyes, O Lord GOD; You have spoken also of Your servant's house for a great while to come. May this be instruction for the people, O Lord GOD! And what more can David say to You? For You know Your servant, O Lord GOD! Because of your promise, and according to Your own heart, You have wrought all this greatness, so that Your servant may know it. Therefore You are great, O LORD God; for there is no one like You, and there is no God besides You, according to all that we have heard with our ears.

"Who is like Your people, like Israel? Is there another nation on earth whose God went to redeem it as a people, and to make a name for Himself, doing great and awesome things for them, by driving out before His people nations and their gods? And You established Your people Israel for Yourself to be Your people forever; and You, O LORD, became their God. And now, O LORD God, as for the word that You have spoken concerning Your servant and concerning his house, confirm it forever; do as You have promised. Thus Your name will be magnified forever in the saying, 'The LORD of hosts is God over Israel'; and the house of Your servant David will be established before You.

"For You, O LORD of hosts, the God of Israel, have made this revelation to Your servant, saying, 'I will build you a house'; therefore Your servant has found courage to pray this prayer to You. And now, O Lord GOD, You are God, and Your words are true, and You have promised this good thing to Your servant; now therefore may it please You to bless the house of Your servant, so that it may continue forever before You; for You, O Lord GOD, have spoken, and with Your blessing shall the house of Your servant be blessed forever." (2 Samuel 7.18-29)

Justice is Served

Taking the five loaves and the two fish, He looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. (Matthew 14.19)

What’s with the Food?

I’m always delighted to meet people who have a vague idea of Who Jesus is, but the details and depth of His life and ministry (which we take for granted) escape them. As I fill them in, I also find myself feeling a wee bit envious of their chance to hear about Jesus with fresh ears and watch His story unfold through new eyes. None of our jaded, oh-yeah-I-remember-that-from-Sunday-school nonsense gets in their way. And since today’s Gospel pulls out one of the all-time Sunday school favorites—the miraculous feeding of 5,000-plus people—let's try a little experiment. Let’s pretend we know very little about Jesus. After reading the Gospels with curious detachment, what might strike us as most unusual about what Jesus does and says?

Many aspects of Jesus’s story may take us by surprise. He’s very adept at staying below the radar; He doesn’t hide, but neither does He court controversy like His cousin, John the Baptist, does. He’s unintimidating, yet never intimidated. He’s the underdog’s ultimate champion. These traits jump out at us. But sooner or later we’re sure to ask, “What’s with the food?” Because it's nearly impossible to get through a chapter of the Gospels without food entering the picture in some form.

Jesus introduces His philosophy by talking about people who “hunger and thirst for righteousness” and teaches His disciples to pray for daily bread. He performs His first miracle at a banquet, turning water into wine. He routinely invites Himself to dinner and attends a lot of feasts. He defends His disciples when legalists criticize their table manners. What’s more He dismisses criticism that He eats with the wrong crowd, saying, “The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her deeds.” (Matthew 11.19) Most of His stories revolve around growing food, raising livestock, or throwing parties. He says He’s the Bread of Life. The night before He’s executed He hosts a supper and asks His followers to remember Him whenever they break bread and drink wine. After His resurrection, He cooks breakfast for the disciples. Really. What’s with the food? The answer may surprise us more than any suspicion that Jesus—often imagined as a rail-thin, otherworldly ascetic—might very well be a foodie.

Tangible Reminders

Every time Jesus touches, tastes, or talks about food, He puts justice on the table. Teaching us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread,” sets the stage for our next request: “Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.” God’s grace and mercy in meeting our daily needs obligates us to offer grace and mercy to those no more worthy of them than we are. Multiplying food and wine demonstrates that no one deserves to go without. Sitting at table with the shunned and disrespected—as well as the rich and powerful—proves that Jesus regards everyone equally. Concerns about His reputation never interfere with opportunities to redeem reputations of those who’ve been misjudged or denied. The farming and feasting parables inevitably come down to this: human judgment is flawed. Every story stresses how knee-jerk assumptions undermine justice. Pulling up the weeds will kill the crop; let them grow up together and the farmer will judge what’s good and bad. The safety of 99 sheep matters little when one is lost. If the smart crowd turns down your invitation, don’t cancel the party; open your doors to outcasts and irregulars. When the wayward son returns broke and broken, welcome him with a lavish feast; don’t penalize him for his foolishness.

During the three-and-half-years Jesus lives and teaches, food and justice become so inextricably wound together they’re inseparable. That’s why, at the Last Supper, He intuitively reaches for bread and wine, declaring them tangible reminders of the physical body and blood He will sacrifice. For what is Calvary, if not justice redefined? Mercy rendered for lawlessness. Grace extended for selfishness. Acceptance offered to defeat shame and prejudice. Hope provided to end despair. All that and more is in the bread and wine, because justice is in the bread and wine. And while that may not be readily apparent to us, it’s very obvious to the disciples. Because what Jesus does with the bread at the Last Supper is what He’s always done to provide for His followers.

The Means

Of course, the disciples recognize what Jesus is doing at the Last Supper. How could they ever forget what they witness in today’s Gospel? (Matthew 14.13-21) Having just heard John the Baptist has been beheaded, Jesus seeks out a lonely place to grieve privately. But the masses find Him and He sets His sorrow aside to heal them. A rough count puts the crowd at 5,000 men, along with untold women and children. As dusk sets in, the disciples advise Jesus to send the people back to their villages so they can eat. “There’s no need for them to leave,” Jesus replies. “Let’s feed them.” Evidently the disciples know to expect this, because they’ve polled the crowd for food and only come up with five loaves of bread and two fish. “Bring them to me,” Jesus instructs. He does exactly as He does at the Last Supper. He takes the bread, and after blessing it, breaks it into pieces, and gives it to the disciples. They pass through the crowd, pulling off enough for each one to eat, and return with more than when they started—12 baskets full, or one for each of them.

To send the crowd away hungry is unthinkable to Jesus, because it’s unjust. “How so?” we ask. Didn’t He ignore His own grief to relieve theirs? Why isn’t it fair to let them fend for themselves? They didn’t care enough about His feelings to give Him space. Let them get their own bread. If they want to hang around, so be it. Nobody ever died from skipping dinner. But here’s what we overlook. Jesus has the means to meet their need. Looking at hungry faces while having food on hand leaves Him no just reason for not feeding them.

Even so, isn’t ridiculous to try? There’s not enough to feed Jesus and the disciples. At the very least, shouldn’t He devise a plan to thin out the crowd—say, set criteria for who gets to eat for free and who doesn’t? Out of more than 5,000, surely there are plenty of hangers-on and fakers and leeches looking for a free meal. Now that we think about it, forget the whole lot. Why did they show up in the first place? Not to console Jesus. Not to learn from Him. They came for miracles. They got what they came for. Send ‘em home. As right as that may sound, Jesus will have none of it, because it’s unjust to deny anyone in need when we have something we can offer.

On the Spot and In the Moment

This miracle, the Last Supper, and the supreme miracle of Christ’s sacrifice teach us justice is served when we use everything we possess to meet the needs of those without means. It’s a stand-alone process impervious to human logic and limitations. Justice is always served here and now—on the spot and in the moment. Let’s assume everyone has cupboards overflowing with food. They’re not at home, though. They’re hungry now. Let’s assume the disciples will figure out what the crucifixion means. They’re confused now. They need answers now. Let’s assume humanity can come to its senses and correct its evil ways. We’re lost now. We need help now.

We don’t know how Jesus takes five paltry loaves, breaks them, and feeds a multitude, no more than we understand how there’s never a shortage of grace for our sins. All we know is when justice is served, there’s always more than enough. When called to serve justice, we take what little mercy we have on hand, bless it, break it, and give it to those hungering for it. We don’t worry if it’s enough or whether they deserve it. We don’t begrudge them because they’re insensitive to our feelings or their motives may be impure. It’s not about what they have or haven’t done, or how much we’ve already given. Justice is about recognizing their need and knowing we have the means to meet it now. The rest is useless speculation and counterintuitive to everything Jesus teaches and models.

Such grace You’ve given us, O God—grace that defies reason and exceeds measure. Such trust You’ve placed in us by offering Your Son, our Bread of Life, to show and teach us the true meaning of justice. Pry logic’s grip from our minds and doubt’s hold from our hearts so that we may serve justice as You do. Amen.

We take what’s available to us, bless it, break it, and offer it to those in need. Though it may look paltry, there’s always more than enough to ensure justice is served.

Up-Enders

These people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also. (Acts 17.6)

Response to Real Change

“The more things change the more they stay the same,” 19^th-century critic Jean Baptiste Alphonse Karr mused. We take him to mean progress is illusory; though advances look like breakthroughs, they’re no more than fresh approaches to age-old challenges. To be sure, reading the epigram from this angle gives us plenty to mull over, since we live in what’s often described as a rapidly changing world. Communication is a prime example proving we’re awash in fast and furious transition. In roughly 600 years—a finger-snap in the human saga—written text evolved from tedious, time-consuming manual transcription to instant messaging (no less tedious or time-consuming, for different reasons). The methods changed, but the endgame is the same: packaging information to travel across time and space. In this sense, the saying suggests at its best, change is improvement, not innovation, refinement rather than revolution.

If this is what Karr meant, the adage proves his point, as it’s merely a fresh spin on an old idea. Ecclesiastes, a volume of proverbs traditionally attributed to Solomon, says, “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun.” (1.9) But I have a hard time agreeing, simply because what’s old indisputably began as something new. Though perhaps not as frequently as we imagine, revolutionary ideas can and will emerge, changing the world on such a profound level nothing stays the same. And what’s interesting about this is Ecclesiastes and Karr’s observations most assuredly apply to our response to real change. That has always been, and no doubt will always be, exactly what it is in Acts 17.1-15, where Christ’s revolutionary Gospel provokes emphatically opposite reactions from two remarkably different sets of people. It’s the classic faith-meets-fear conflict played to the hilt with everything but pitchforks and torches.

Hot Spot

The drama starts with Paul and Silas arriving in Thessalonica, Greece’s thriving deep-water port on the Aegean coast. Given what happens, the setting couldn’t be more perfect or ironic. Commercial advantages as the hub where West Asian, European, and Middle Eastern trade routes intersect grace it with a sound economy that stabilizes its multicultural population. Yet due to its location it’s equally well known as one of the least stable and sound places to live. The Romans call the region Thermaicus, or “Hot Spot,” alluding to thermal springs surrounding the city. Geologists connect prevalence of naturally hot water with seismic activity, and Thessalonica lives up to expectations. Earthquakes and tremors are common, as are landslides and avalanches in looming mountains that squeeze the city to the coast. So, despite their economic and cultural stability, the restive landscape makes Thessalonians easily excitable and stubbornly rigid. (Living on shaky ground that spews scalding water, staring at mountains that could dissolve into rock piles at any moment, will do that.) Which is why things get real hot real fast when any threat to the status quo comes to Thessalonica. And that’s what Paul and Silas bring to town.

Paul marches into the Thessalonian synagogue and draws its teachers into a heated discussion about Messianic prophecies that Jesus fulfilled by His suffering and resurrection. This goes on for three weeks, creating buzz that attracts bigger crowds at each Sabbath’s performance. Thessalonian Jews pack the front of the house, while Greeks who observe Jewish traditions fill the Gentile gallery and many of the city’s prominent women look on. Paul’s eloquent mastery of Scripture persuades many to embrace Christianity. Envious of his success and enraged that he preaches a faith that includes all ethnicities and genders, traditionalist Jews team up with local thugs and wreak chaos. They tear through the town looking for Paul and Silas. When they can’t find them, they attack Paul’s host, Jason, dragging him and other believers before the city authorities. “These people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also,” they complain. (Acts 17.6) Framing their indictment as a global shift is a cunning ploy; the slightest mention of terrestrial upheaval puts any Thessalonian on edge. Then they come in for the kill, misrepresenting the Gospel as a subversive plot. “They are all acting contrary to the decrees of the emperor, saying that there is another king named Jesus.” (v7) The city finds this disturbing. Becoming a reputed haven for up-enders puts its socioeconomic stability at risk.

Wisely, the city leaders release Jason and the others. While this is going on, Paul and Silas head south, to Berea. Although the city is also situated on rocky terrain, its ground is surer than Thessalonica’s and its people more reasonable. Paul does the very same thing he did in Thessalonica: without hesitation, he goes to the local synagogue. (Will he never learn?) The Bereans aren’t threatened by his message. “Many of them therefore believed, including not a few Greek women and men of high standing,” verse 12 reports. Similar changes to those that occurred in Thessalonica take place. But they’re welcomed. And they’re big news. Word of them reaches the disgruntled Thessalonians, and what do they do? They hurry down to Berea “to stir up and incite the crowds.” (v13) This time, their ploys don’t work. Paul leaves Silas and Timothy behind to establish the Berean church and travels on to Athens. That’s what up-enders do: they boldly declare their revolutionary message everywhere they go, turning the world upside down one step at a time. Someone recently framed this strategy as “Think globally, act locally.”

The Same New Ending

Christian theologians and historians cite Paul’s Thessalonian and Berean adventures as the moment the Church comes into its own. Prior to this, the doctrine of inclusion is realized on a case-by-case basis. The influx of Gentiles and other unorthodox believers has raised many concerns among Early Church leaders, which they resolve at the Jerusalem Council (Acts 15). And now we discover what real change looks like, as everyone—Jews and Greeks, men and women, the lowly and the prominent, poor and rich, ignored and respected—come together under Christ’s banner of love. There is no status in the Early Church—no barriers preventing total acceptance. Everyone plays a role; everyone is equally valued as an essential member of Christ’s Body. This is revolutionary—completely new and unheard of, not only in Judaism, but also in pagan religions and ancient society at large. While many welcome this change with enthusiasm, just as many find it so fearful they rally to prevent it from taking hold.

As seen in Paul's era and our own, when the Spirit calls the Church back to Its original doctrine of full inclusion, response to real change is always the same. Those resisting it will resort to every available tactic to see it’s defeated. They’ve heard about up-enders like us, who’ve courageously taken Christ’s revolutionary Gospel to heart. When real change reaches their shores, they’re alarmed, primarily because they live where stability and soundness aren’t guaranteed. These people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also! Figuratively and literally, they take to the streets, starting trouble and vilifying those who don’t agree with them. They attack inclusion’s allies and prevail on leaders to do something. They travel wherever inclusion is welcomed and make ruckuses there, too. That will not change. Neither will the final outcome, because real change cannot be thwarted.

John’s Gospel sums up real change’s invincibility beautifully: “What has come into being in Him [Christ] was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1.3-5) Yes, it’s the same old story. But with it comes the same new ending. We who are convinced Christ’s Gospel insists on total inclusion are up-enders. We’re turning the world upside down with the message we’ve been given. Adversarial responses are predictable to a fault. They’re nothing new and therefore nothing to worry about. We don’t stop because backward-thinking people disapprove. We don’t hang around to hear their allegations. We move ahead, turning the world upside down one step at a time. The more things change the more they stay the same: light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

God of endless change and perpetual motion, set our compasses to Your Spirit. Endow us with boldness to speak Your Word to fearful ears in unstable places. Open our eyes to the futility of those who oppose real change. And fire our passion to turn the world upside down one step at a time. Amen.

It’s the same old story: real change the Spirit calls us to lead frightens and angers many. But the same old story always comes with the same new ending.

Mattering

I ask you, not as though I were writing you a new commandment, but one we have had from the beginning, let us love another. And this is love, that we walk according to God's commandments. (2 John.1.5-6)

Crusaders

Last weekend hurled us into a haze of cognitive dissonance. We knew what we saw and heard was factual. Yet as we processed the news, we couldn’t shake the feeling it might not be real. Norway. Could there be a more benign place on Earth? On hearing of last Friday’s two-fisted attack on its government offices and a youth camp, the brutality of it didn’t compute, because Norway didn’t make sense. These were public servants and young people, bright of mind and rich of promise, ripped from the human tapestry by a deranged “Christian crusader” prosecuting a delusional war on multiculturalism. As with all terrorists, demonizers, and ideologues, only the crusade mattered to him. Nearly 100 lives randomly destroyed, countless relatives and friends forever marred by irreplaceable loss, an entire nation shattered, and a world stunned beyond speech—they mattered not.

This idea of “mattering” haunts me. In addition to the Norway coverage, the US debt-ceiling farce got plenty of play, as did the premature death of pop diva Amy Whitehouse, ongoing violence in Syria, escalating famine in drought-plagued East Africa, and continuing fall-out from the British tabloid scandal. The rhetoric and actions swirling around these stories were rife with insinuations that a select few matter, but the majority doesn’t. And the more I contemplate the heaviness of this useless burden I’m more convinced mattering is why love matters.

Why Love?

Jesus taught us many things—instilling in us humility, tolerance, self-sacrifice, joy, trust, and so on. But He commanded us to love. Heeding Him without question would seem the right thing to do. Still, there must be a reason why love is paramount, why we’re taught all that is right and good in us begins there. What makes love the linchpin? Why not faith or hope or truth? Why love? The answer is so obvious many look it in the eye and never recognize it. Loving others in obedience to Christ—as much as we love ourselves, with all the concern, patience, and understanding we desire for ourselves—is how we tell those who come into our lives, “You matter.” Not, “You matter to us.” Or, “You matter as much as us.” Simply, you matter.

Love confirms we see them. We hear them. And we value them as they are. We honor them because they reflect our Creator. Our mutual origins in the hands of God, Whose breath brings all of us to life, forge a love-bond calling for basic respect and selfless concern. And the only way we convey how much others matter is by loving them without condition or expectation. Loving them is all about them, only them, because Christ’s commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves isn't meant gratify or ennoble us. (That it often does is irrelevant.) Jesus instructs us to love others because every one of us matters to God.

The Vast Jigsaw Puzzle

That’s all love is: reassurance we matter. No one is inconsequential. None is worthless. Each of us exists as an essential piece in the vast jigsaw puzzle that, when properly assembled, portrays God’s perfect image. It’s when we mangle pieces with hatred, prejudice, ridicule, violence, and cruelty that God’s beauty and perfection are lost. It’s when we refuse to love one another as Christ commands that we lose consciousness of how much each of us matters. It’s when we make love hard with reasons and opinions asserting those we must love don’t matter that we become mangled by hatred and resentment. But, ah, when we do love—ratifying the value of those around us—the rest flows unrestrained.

Over and over we hear the Apostles echo Jesus’s love commandment, because people who courageously value those around them naturally coalesce into a community where harmony, peace, nurture, and joy thrive. Conscious awareness that everyone matters constantly reminds us of what really matters—and why what seems important may not be so important after all. In his second letter to the Church, John writes, “I ask you, not as though I were writing you a new commandment, but one we have had from the beginning, let us love another. And this is love, that we walk according to his commandments.” (2 John 1.5-6) This is nothing new, he says. We’ve been talking about it since we started. It's incumbent on him to remind his flock that loving one another is imperative for the sake of its stability and unity as a community. It’s essential they know they each possess unique worth vital to the whole.

Going All the Way

In saying, “I love you,” we take care to understand what we’re saying and what’s expected of us by saying it. If we speak love, we must be committed to do love exactly as Christ commands—to make love happen by going all the way. Indeed, the central message of John’s first letter emphasizes there’s no use professing love if we’re unwilling to prove it. He’s so determined we get the gravity of love’s demands he doesn’t sugarcoat the topic or leave the door open for any exceptions. Here’s the Reader’s Digest edition of 1 John:

“Whoever says, 'I have come to know God,' but does not obey God’s commandments, is a liar, and in such a person the truth does not exist; but whoever obeys God’s word, truly in this person the love of God has reached perfection. (2.4-5) Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. And by this we will know that we are from the truth and will reassure our hearts before God whenever our hearts condemn us; for God is greater than our hearts. (3.18-20) Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. Those who say, 'I love God,' and hate their brothers and sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother sister whom they have seen cannot love God Whom they have not seen. (4.7-8; 20) Everyone who loves the Parent loves the child. By this we know that we love the children of God and obey God’s commandments. And God’s commandments are not burdensome, for whatever is born of God conquers the world. And this is the victory that conquers the world, our faith.” (5.1; 3-4)

This is the discussion John references when he says, “This is nothing new,” in his second letter. Obedience to God and love for others aren’t linked; they’re one and the same. Lip-service love gives slip to the lie that we truly love God and our faith is real. In an age when no news is good news, every day conspires to prove how little we matter. Which is why true love that goes all the way—that happens on the ground, touching every life that touches us—has never been more crucial. Mattering is what love’s all about. In saying, “I love you,” and showing we mean it, we transmit healing and self-worth to people in desperate need of knowing they matter.

Most loving God, grip us with an understanding of why You command us to love truly, without condition. Create in us a gnawing desire to say, “I love you,” and mean it. We confess mixed results in our struggle against the idea that some matter and others don’t. When fear and doubt tempt us to stray, deal with us as You alone can, firmly and gently. Teach us to love Parent and child—every child—equally and lavishly. Amen.

It’s a brave thing we do, insisting everyone matters and proving it with love.

Between Worlds

While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader’s house to say, “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?” But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe.” (Mark 5.35-36)

A Day in the Life

In today’s Gospel (Mark 5.21-43), the writer tries his hand at narrative crosscutting. He gets one story going, interjects another, and finishes the first. Inasmuch as its events are sequential, the passage is linear. Yet Mark uses this technique to give us a day-in-the-life-of-Jesus snapshot to indicate there’s always a lot going on when and wherever He ministers. These 24 hours are especially eventful, and a sense of the distances Jesus and the disciples cover helps us gather how frenetic their days often were. Jesus spends the afternoon prior to today’s stories teaching on the Sea of Galilee’s western shore. Since He and most of the disciples are natives of this area, it’s where they feel most at home. The huge turnout to hear Jesus swamps the beach and a boat deck serves as His makeshift pulpit. When He finishes His lesson—the farming parables many of our preachers have discussed lately—the crowd doesn’t disperse. Jesus instructs the disciples to sail across the lake. At its widest, the Sea of Galilee spans a mere eight miles. But, as we quickly learn, it’s called a “sea” because conditions are frequently tempestuous and its opposite shore might as well be an ocean away.

A nasty squall kicks up overnight. The disciples panic and rouse Jesus from much-needed rest. After the foul weather lifts at His command, He chides them for allowing fear to overwhelm their faith in His guidance and protection. They land safely on Galilee’s eastern side, home to a predominately Gentile population steeped in Greek culture. The instant Jesus steps ashore, a naked madman tormented by evil spirits rushes toward Him, begging Jesus not to hurt him. As with the storm, Jesus speaks to the man’s chaos. The forces plaguing him plead with Jesus to drive them into a nearby drove of 2000 pigs—possibly more than He and the disciples have seen at one time, perhaps the first they’ve ever seen. The swine charge into the lake and drown. The locals are less impressed to find the madman clothed and in his right mind than furious over losing so many valuable animals. They order Jesus to leave. In roughly 15 hours’ time, He’s back where He started, on His turf, engulfed by another throng. Today’s reading picks up the story here.

Collision of Three Lives

The home crowd has learned how Jesus moves indicates what He wants to do. If He wants to teach, He picks a spot and they come to Him. If He wants to work miracles, He goes to them. Though rumors of His whereabouts travel swiftly either way, how He moves determines the type of crowd He attracts. Word of Jesus moving their way brings out people who don’t normally, or can’t possibly, attend His sermons—as happens with Jairus, a synagogue leader with a deathly ill 12-year-old daughter, and a woman bankrupted and housebound by a 12-year battle with menstrual hemorrhaging.

While Jesus is a popular favorite, the religious set views Him suspiciously. Based on Luke’s chronology, His own synagogue in Nazareth recently ran Him out of town, which no doubt set local tongues wagging. So Jairus takes a big risk when he seeks Jesus’s help. As does the woman whose “unclean” condition places her under house arrest. If seen in public, she’ll be excommunicated from her synagogue for endangering her village. Thus, we have the collision of three lives—a defamed Rabbi, desperate father, and determined lady—each of them bravely defying prejudice and taboo.

When Jairus finds Jesus, there’s no problem getting to Him. By alerting us to his status, Mark invites us to envision the crowd stepping aside for him and eavesdropping on his conversation. Some may gasp when Jairus falls before Jesus, begging Him to come to his house and heal his daughter. Others may be shocked when Jesus lets him beg repeatedly before agreeing to go. As He and Jairus set out, the crowd at their heels, Mark shifts to the woman.

Since it’s best she not to be recognized, the woman has to reach Jesus without benefit of social courtesy or personal kindness. In fact, she’s so wary of drawing attention she puts all her faith in touching Jesus’s clothes. Weak though she is, she pushes through the crowd until she’s able to graze His cloak. He senses power leaving Him and, to her horror, stops to ask who touched Him. A minor brouhaha ensues, with no one coming forward and the disciples’ asserting all He felt was random jostling. Jesus won’t budge. He scans the crowd. Only He and the woman know what He means. When their eyes meet, He’ll see she did it. In the face of backlash for ignoring religious law, she comes out to Him. “Knowing what had happened to her, [she] came in fear and trembling, fell down before Him, and told Him the whole truth. He said to her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease,’” Mark 5.33-34 says. Next we’re told stopping to call out the woman costs Jairus’s daughter’s life.

“While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader’s house to say, ‘Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?’” verse 35 reads. As devastating as this news is, it could have waited. That business about not bothering Jesus explains the rush to get to Jairus. With his house overcome with grief, arriving with a controversial Rabbi in tow is the last thing he needs. Jesus overhears the foolish advice and tells Jairus, “Do not fear, only believe.” (v36) He sends everyone but Peter, James, and John away and proceeds as planned. Walking into a scene pitched with hysterical mourning, He asks why everyone’s so upset. He’s nearly laughed out of the house when He tells them, “The child isn’t dead but sleeping.” (v39) Despite being enveloped by unbelief, Jesus honors the faith Jairus demonstrated by coming to Him and bringing Him home. He takes the little girl’s hand in His and commands her to wake up.

What We're Looking At

Mark (along with Matthew and Luke, as they embellish Mark) dovetails these two events with more in mind than literary flair or inserting a second plot to heighten the first’s suspense. Although we often detach the woman’s story from Jairus’s, both are better read and understood as all of a piece. Given what precedes it—Jesus’s parables about farmers who break traditional protocol, the back-and-forth crossing of the Sea of Galilee, the storm presaging the madman’s restoration, and the hostility it incites—as well as the background information on Jairus and the hemorrhaging lady, the narrative obtains parable-like force and dimension. We see what happens. But do we recognize what we’re looking at? Jesus, the disciples, Jairus, and the woman travel between worlds: from religion to faith, compliance to courage, comfort to dissonance, safety to risk. Changes they seek urge them to renounce caution and predictability. And in the process of moving between worlds, they’re asked to clear very high hurdles: life-threatening tumult, public humiliation, and ostensibly profound loss. In every case, Jesus answers its challenges with a variation of His word to Jairus: Do not fear. Only believe.

Settling for the world we know, conforming to its conventions and taboos, may alleviate fear. But it doesn’t create faith. For that, we choose to travel between worlds. We leave home shores, sailing stormy seas for places where mad people greet us, we see what we’ve always heard was foul and unhealthy looks like, and what we offer isn’t welcomed. Yet such journeys prepare us to enter chaotic, cynical environments where we must speak life in the face of derision and grief. We refuse to let what others think inhibit our desire to ask Jesus into our lives—even when we’re told not to bother Him. Though we live among people who view Him suspiciously, we bring Christ home and give Him charge of our house. We don’t succumb to religious insistence we’re social menaces to be kept from sight. We don’t forego faith and persistence when believers fearful of our touch make touching Jesus difficult. Nor do we permit social fall-out after our faith is found out to frighten us from publicly coming out as witnesses of Christ’s power. Do not fear. Only believe. It’s a mantra we travellers between worlds should tattoo on our hearts and minds.

O God, we pray our compulsion to find Christ, touch Christ, and witness Christ’s power will never diminish or relent. And we ask that You keep before us the reality that we’ll find everything we seek in Christ between worlds, where necessity makes faith flourish and miracles happen. Amen.

We travel between worlds because that’s how we find Christ and faith to touch Christ.

Not Thinking Ahead

Nabal answered David’s servants, “Who is David? Who is the son of Jesse? There are many servants today who are breaking away from their masters. Shall I take my bread and my water and the meat that I have butchered for my shearers, and give it to men who come from I do not know where?” (1 Samuel 25.10-11)

A Timely Tale Seldom Told

Today’s Old Testament reading (1 Samuel 25.1-22) takes a chapter from the married life of Nabal and Abigail. In light of sweeping financial crises and subsequent political turmoil that presently set the world on edge, it’s a timely tale seldom told. Its placement in the biblical narrative is also unsettling because it steals the spotlight from one of the most devastating losses in Israel’s history. In an oddly matter-of-fact tone, verse 1 informs us, “Now Samuel died; and all Israel assembled and mourned for him. They buried him at his home in Ramah. Then David got up and went down to the wilderness of Paran.” And that’s it. No funeral coverage, no in-depth analysis of how losing the prophet who ushered the Hebrews into nationhood affects Israel, no transcript of David’s eulogy—just, “Samuel dies. The people mourn. They bury him and David goes off to the wilderness of Paran.” Without so much as a transition, verse 2 begins the story of Nabal and Abigail.

Hang on. Before we dive into that drama, the mention of Paran tantalizes us with the prospect the writer has reason to include it. And he/she does. Paran is a vast desert extending SSE from Jerusalem’s outer perimeter to the Sinai. In Jewish mythology, it’s “where God dawns” and judgment originates. Most often, it’s associated with safety and survival, the place where the rejected find sanctuary and the lost sojourn while awaiting guidance. After they’re banished from Abraham’s house, Hagar and Ishmael settle in Paran. It’s where God’s presence, manifest as a cloud, leads the Hebrews to camp before undertaking the last leg of their journey. Thus, David’s venture into Paran fills in a lot of blanks. Samuel’s death deprives him of the rudder he’s relied on. The prophet’s integrity as God’s spokesperson was the critical link ensuring the nation’s health and prosperity. Without him, David doesn’t know what to do. So he goes to Paran, the Source, where God begins, judges, and shelters those without ties or direction.

A Favor

While David’s away, his herdsmen tend his flocks, though apparently not as well as when he’s there. From his desert retreat he dispatches 10 young men to call on Nabal, a rich rancher—a bona fide “job creator”—who’s shearing his flocks and due for an influx of cash. David tells them to approach Nabal in peace, reminding him their herds have shared pasture with his and they’ve never abused his shepherds or stolen his sheep. As king and neighbor, David appeals for a favor: could Nabal provide for David’s herdsmen until he returns? It’s little to ask. And given who’s asking, as well as the unfortunate circumstances behind the request, one would think he’d go out of his way be helpful. Think again.

Nabal’s reputation hangs on his wealth, smart and beautiful spouse, Abigail (trophy wife?), and nasty disposition. The text describes him as “surly and mean” (v4), but after seeing his response to David’s men, add miserly, self-important, uncaring, arrogant, imprudent, shortsighted, and disrespectful to the list—in short, a total buffoon. Once they tender the king’s request, Nabal replies, “Who is David? Who is the son of Jesse? There are many servants today who are breaking away from their masters. Shall I take my bread and my water and the meat that I have butchered for my shearers, and give it to men who come from I do not know where?” (v10-11)

Is he out of his mind? He’s just insulted his king—when David is grieving an irreplaceable loss and unsure of what to do, no less. His trumped-up excuse (the men might be impostors—might be) is a slap to the monarch’s face, implying David’s such a nobody that no one would think twice about using his name to con a rich man out of a few groceries. Nabal’s head is so swollen with greedy meanness there’s no room to entertain the possibility the request is legit, the men are legit, the need is legit, and his chance to reap rewards that money can’t buy is legit. His reasoning is so lame it’s bogus. “I’m not going to help because there are a lot of people abusing the good-neighbor system these days.” What if there are? The question Nabal needs to consider is, “What if I’m wrong?” And here’s the worst of it: Nabal knows he’s wrong, because he’s seen these men tending David’s sheep! He has no excuse. But selfishness won’t let him think that far, and next we see what comes from not thinking ahead. (Spoiler alert: the end, slated for tomorrow’s reading, is revealed.)

David explodes. He assembles a small army and heads for Nabal’s ranch. One of the miser’s shepherds gets to Abigail and tells her what happened. She can’t believe Nabal could be so stupid. She throws together as many supplies as she can gather and rushes to stop David before he strikes. She falls at his feet and begs his mercy. David won’t be deterred. “Pay no attention to that wicked man Nabal,” she pleads. “He is just like his name—his name means Fool and folly goes with him. And as for me, your servant, I did not see the men my lord sent.” (v25) She urges David not to resort to bloodshed because of her husband’s idiocy and presents her offerings as an apology. “You fight the LORD’s battles,” she stresses, cleverly hinting this a personal matter, therefore beneath him, and appeals to his integrity as a righteous king and leader. One can almost read David’s mind. She is smart. She is beautiful. And she is convincing. It’s senseless to slaughter Nabal’s household and make a widow of Abigail because of his foolishness. David relents. Abigail goes home, where Nabal is throwing a party fit for a king! He’s drunk and full of himself. The next morning, when she explains what almost became of him and his wealth, he has a stroke. In 10 days’ time, he’s dead. If you know anything about David, you see the final twist coming: he marries Abigail.

Excuses

A sea of present-day Nabals has overtaken us. It floods the airwaves, boils over in blogs and pollutes our social media. Nabals poison office water coolers and soak backyard barbecues in bile. Their response to the world condition is inexcusable and they know that, yet their selfishness doesn’t allow them to think that far. So they keep tossing out lame excuses that offer no help and flout their civic duty and moral responsibility. Request their help and generosity and they turn the tables. Their capacity to fix problems gets spun into why those who appeal for their help are con artists. Their swollen heads leave them no room to consider what befalls those who stare truth in the eye and insist it’s not true.

They know the crises confronting us are real. They know their surly indifference and meanness won’t solve anything. In their hearts they’re aware their greed and self-centeredness not only create many of our problems; they intensify them. They sense our grief and despondence. We’ve lost our rudder and can’t discern where to go or what’s next. They don’t care. They’re content with not thinking ahead. While they’re throwing parties fit for kings, drunk and full of themselves for having defied their consciences and leaders, comeuppance marches out of the desert, where God dawns, judgment originates, and the forsaken and lost take haven.

As disaster nears, we must become Abigails and throw ourselves on God’s mercy, interceding for innocent lives that will be destroyed by a full-scale outpouring of vengeance. This is a personal matter we beseech God to judge personally. The Nabals must be stopped, and when God’s judgment is levied, they will. It will come quickly, decisively, and finally—a just end for those whose names have come to mean Fool and whose folly goes with them.

Save us, O God, from the Nabals of our day. Deal with them swiftly and justly as You will and spare us greater grief from being swept up in their evil tide and the wrath it brings. Amen.

Surliness, meanness, greed—they’re all symptomatic of swollen heads that have no room to entertain the legitimacy of need or what befalls those who don’t think ahead.

Can't Scare Us!

The righteous will never be moved; they will be remembered forever. They are not afraid of evil tidings; their hearts are firm, secure in the LORD. Their hearts are steady, they will not be afraid. (Psalm 112.6-8)

Welcoming Life and All It Offers

Without batting an eye, I can say one of my greatest influences has been an amazing friend named Estie. It’s improbable you’d pick up how mighty and unstoppable she is by looking at her. On her tallest day—in heels—she’s not much over five feet tall. She’s not flashy in appearance or demeanor. At social gatherings, you’re less apt to find her in the middle of things than on the sidelines in rapt conversation. Estie can and will talk to anybody, because when you first meet her, she makes you the topic of choice. She doesn’t rely on the usual who-what-where battery of icebreakers, either. She plunges in, asking what you think about something she’s read or seen. What she really wants to know is what you’re about, as well as let you in on what she thinks and what she’s about. Her friends (who are legion) tell the same story: “I knew and loved Estie long before getting her facts—or giving her mine.” Months passed before I learned she was a mover and shaker in the financial markets or explained what I did for a living. It just never came up.

Years later, I still recall big chunks of our first talks, because, on top of everything else, Estie’s quite the quipster. Though she relocated and we’ve lost touch, a day seldom passes but what Walt or I don’t quote her. One of my all-time favorites: “Can’t scare me!” It’s rich coming from a tiny, unassuming person like her—and all the funnier for being true. You can tell Estie anything, take her anywhere, and introduce her to anyone without worry, as she’s fearless in welcoming life and all it offers. What comes her way may shock, distress, or confound her. But scare her? No. She knows what she thinks and what she’s about. Which is why Psalm 112’s praise for the righteous filled my head with a kaleidoscope of Esties—all knowing what they think, what they’re about, and ready to say, “Can’t scare us!”

Caught Unawares

The psalmist writes, “The righteous will never be moved; they will be remembered forever. They are not afraid of evil tidings; their hearts are firm, secure in the LORD. Their hearts are steady, they will not be afraid.” (v6-8) When we look back at people and possibilities we feared, we tend to give them more credit than they deserve. Our tales get taller and, consequently, we get smaller. It’s helpful to revisit these experiences with backs turned to their challenges so we can take a closer look at us. Other than profoundly tragic events—which no one can adequately prepare to absorb—chances are we had no reason to fear what made us afraid. We were frightened because we were caught unawares. Spiritually, mentally, and emotionally we were out of shape. We’d let some things slide and taken others for granted. Our prayer lives were in the doldrums. Conversations with God’s Word were hit-and-miss. Responsiveness to the Spirit’s guidance and counsel was so-so. We rationalized excuses for indulging unhealthy impulses and detrimental habits. Fondness for petty attitudes and baseless suspicions returned. Our hearts weren’t firm. Faith and discipline that anchored our security in God weren’t reliable. Steadiness we needed—certainty in what we think and what we’re about—wasn’t there. And we were afraid.

The psalm’s equation of righteousness with fearlessness is very instructive. When we diligently align our thoughts and pursuits with what God tells us is right and good, we’re invulnerable to doubts and anxieties that provoke fear. Our hearts stay steady and our faith in God remains secure because we keep them steady and secure. There’s nothing more to do in the face of uncertainty than be who we are. The psalmist is very explicit about who “the righteous” are. They honor God and delight in pleasing God. (v1) God blesses them with prosperity, yet they remain loyal to God’s ways. (v3) They don’t conform to the world’s pessimistic practices and prejudices: “They rise in the darkness as a light for the upright; they are gracious, merciful, and righteous.” (v4) Verse 5 says they’re generous and giving, and they “conduct their affairs with justice.” No wonder they’re unshaken by trouble and unafraid of bad news. Trouble may appear from nowhere, but they’re never caught unawares. You can’t scare someone who knows the right thing to do—and how to do it, since she/he’s been doing the right thing all along, even when it wasn’t “necessary,” or necessarily advantageous. Righteousness permits us to answer fearsome challenges with “Can’t scare us!” It’s neither a boast nor a challenge. It’s just how it is.

Discipline Begets Daring

The big message here is discipline begets daring. How firm and steady our hearts are, how fearlessly we welcome life and all it offers, comes down to stewardship of resources. There’s only so much of what we’re given—time, energy, money, attention, compassion, patience, and on and on and on. Wisely managing it becomes the critical factor in maintaining righteous thoughts and behaviors that, in turn, save us from squandering what we’ve been given on unnecessary fears. We won’t take time to pray. But we’ll make time to worry. We won’t devote the energy to open God’s Word. But when trouble calls, we’ll wear ourselves out begging God to tell us what to do. We won’t part with pennies we don’t need to help the penniless. But we’ll blow small fortunes on diversions, medications, and counselors when we confront situations we’re unprepared to handle. Everything God provides is for our use. And we will use it. Either we’ll invest it wisely in disciplines that righteousness requires, or we’ll spend it recklessly, trying to placate fear’s demands.

“In the end,” the psalmist says, the righteous “will look in triumph on their foes. They have distributed freely, they have given to the poor; their righteousness endures forever.” (v8-9) Investment in righteous disciplines is a sure thing. It’s repaid many times over in confidence and courage to outlast our adversaries. “The wicked see it and are angry; they gnash their teeth and melt away; the desire of the wicked comes to nothing,” verse 10 concludes. Will people take aim at us unjustly? Yes. Will they attempt to frighten us into compliance and conformity? Yes. Will circumstances conspire to undo us? Yes. They'll do all that and more. But we know what we think and what we’re about. The disciplines of righteousness have steadied our hearts and blessed us with daring. Whatever they do and however hard they try, they can’t scare us.

O God of all things right and good, we confess to submitting needlessly to fear because we’re unprepared for troubles that make us afraid. Instill in us a constant craving for righteousness and insatiable desire to invest wisely in its disciplines. Amen.

Daily discipline in righteousness steadies our hearts and prepares us to face trouble without fear.