Grace and Everything.

The story of the prodigal son has always been so fascinating to me. There is just something about the image of a God running like a crazy man that wrecks my legalistic view of law-giving, angry God and draws me back to the humbling reality of the absolute and total ridiculousness of grace.

I have heard so many sermons and talks over the years on this passage. And then there is the ever clever preacher who decides to speak from the perspective of the “other son.” You know, the one who misses the dance party? For shame. What person skips the dance party?

And so we read the story and condemn the self-righteous brother for skipping the party and we thank God we aren’t like some “prodigals” while we pray they will eventually come home. Or maybe we wonder if our life could potentially be considered a “prodigal” life.

“Was I bad enough to be considered a prodigal? Is this my story? I mean, I wasn’t as bad as that guy. I never did drugs or slept around. That dude’s story is definitely a prodigal son story.”

Or if you’re like me, you have a certain sense of jealousy of the guy who walks up on stage during share time at summer camp and tells his story of how he was an addict and God saved him over night and now he reads his Bible every day and helps other addicts. Then you think how you have been a Christian your whole life and you don’t have a ridiculous story of God’s forgiveness and you wonder if you could claim the story of the prodigal as your own or if you’re just the stiff necked brother who got mad he never got a party.

Right?

But what if we are both of them? What if we are the son who ran away and we are the son who got mad he didn’t get to two step? What if they aren’t two individuals but two attitudes that stem from the same problem? What if the whole big mess of this dysfunctional family comes from a lack of realization of who the father actually is and what he’s actually about?

Take the son who ran away for example. He went to pops and said he was tired of living at home so he asked for his inheritance which basically meant he was telling his own father he was dead to him and he just wanted to leave. The father gave him what would eventually become his and then the son packs it all up and takes off. Then something interesting happens. The inheritance runs out. He wastes it. There is no more fun to be had and the son realizes the mess he has got himself into. The bible says there was a severe famine in the land. An emptiness. A nothingness. He realizes he’s hungry. Alone. Lost.

We have all felt that, haven’t we? It doesn’t matter if you’re a Christian or not. You have felt the dryness in your heart. You have felt the emptiness in your heart. The thought that there must be something else, something more. It’s like a plant that hasn’t been rained on in weeks. Then you realize you’re hungry.

And then there is the second son. His request of the father isn’t much different from the first son. He looks at dad and says he’s always done everything he’s told. He’s kept all the rules. He’s always checked the boxes. He’s completed the to-do list. Now he wants a party. He wants his dad to pat him on the back and say well done.

And haven’t we all felt that too? Haven’t we all wanted someone to look at us and say, “Good job. Well done. You’re awesome. You did it. You measure up?” Haven’t we all felt like we deserve a party? Especially when the other guys are off running around being wild and crazy and bringing shame to the family.

But here is where the two sons and their requests and actions intersect. They both want more. The first son wants more freedom and so he takes it, runs off with it, and then realizes outside of the reach of his father, he actually has less freedom. In fact, he has found the “more” he had been given runs out and now he is trapped in a prison of having nothing and wanting everything. The second son wants more recognition; more accolades. He had adopted the attitude of “you owe me” which is at the heart of anger. And when you constantly look at what you think deserve that you aren’t getting, you neglect to look at what you already have.

So we have two brothers; one who has nothing and wants everything and one who has everything but thinks he has nothing. And these two brothers have a dad who believes in radical, scandalous, short-sighted, absent-minded, against all odds grace. He’s a dad who doesn’t care where his son went or what he did. He’s a dad who pulls up the hem of his robe and forgets his social status and takes of running like a crazed lune who has spent too much time in the sun working the fields.

But there is something about that image that stirs your heart and makes you think he’s probably not crazy at all. Maybe he’s just free, and in his freedom he can extend it to others in any way he likes. You see, maybe has had a brush with this true grace, or maybe he is grace, and when you meet it for what it is, it changes you and makes you do things and say things and live things and be things that the outside world probably would deem absolutely and totally insane.

And this is what the father who has been wrecked by grace or is grace says, “You are always with me and everything I have is yours. (Luke 15.31)”

Everything.

God has offered us everything. The creator of the universe who is in all, before all, and holds all things together has reconciled us to him though the sacrifice of his one and only son and he has offered us everything. Everything that is his is now ours.

In the presence of the father is everything. Everything we could ever want or ever need. Outside the presence of the father is a freedom that will run dry and just leave us thirsty for the real thing.

And here’s the sobering yet wonderful truth, you can’t earn more of everything. It’s everything and it doesn’t have a more. Be free to just sit in the presence of everything and be thankful for the grace you have found and there is a dad who risked everything to be in relationship with you.

Everything he has is already yours.

On Unconditional Love.

To love someone simply for the joy of loving them brings a love so much more complete and full in comparison to loving them in an effort to gain their approval or acceptance. We are free to love wholly, completely, and with abandon because Christ has qualified us as children of heaven. When our love is based on the finished work of Jesus, not the approval of man, it becomes a well that does not run dry because in Him we have all the approval we need, that being His death on account of His great love for us. It is this freedom, which comes through grace, that allows us to truly love unconditionally.

In Silence.

Eyes closed.

Warm breeze.

Soft grass.

And out of the silence rings a bell, a conversation is carried across the quad by the changing wind, and the “click, click” of a flywheel as a bike zooms passed. There is the crunch of leaves as someone walks past on the sidewalk, someone shouting from the steps of a lecture hall, and the bell rings again. Then, silence.

And your mind answers the question you didn’t even know you were asking but all the sound is coming from something, coming from people trying to take a world bigger than themselves and shrink it into pieces more manageable. We break the world into fragments because we are afraid of what we can’t understand, of what is bigger than us, and so instead of a world being big and wild and uncontainable,  we break it into walks and crunching leaves and conversations and bicycles.

But what about the silence when the world is quiet and there are no more pieces or distractions to pull us away from how big it all is and how small we all are? All we can hear is the beating of our own heart and the breath escaping from our own lungs. We can’t ask  ’what is that’ because there is no that. There is only us and our own beating heart and the silence of the world is deafening because we are forced to sit and listen to the storm in our own heart.

There is no bicycle or conversation or bell or anything. There is no ‘that’. There is only ‘this’. And this is scary because ‘this’ is now, ‘this’ is who we are, ‘this’ is where we are going. ‘This’ is the decisions we have made. ‘This’ is the actions we have taken and the wrongs we have made and the paths we have followed. And in the silence of it all we are forced to look at the ‘this’ in our heart and all of who we are stares at us in this face and asks the questions we can’t answer. It asks the questions we don’t know the answers to. It asks what is right and what is wrong. It asks who we are and what are we becoming. The storm of ‘this’ rages in our heart as our own breathe escapes from our own lungs. We realize we are the sum of all the decisions we have made and we are the sum of all the ones we haven’t. Because why do we do the things we do? We are who we are and we do what we do because all we have done has shaped everything we currently are and when all is quiet we are forced to look at the core of our very being and pass judgement on what we have become. Good or bad, this is the way it works.

And we ask ‘what is’ because ‘is’ is present and now and us. And the wind blows and the seas rage and the storm swells because ‘is’ is very rarely what should be. In crushing, loud, breaking silence, we ask ‘what is.’ In deep sorrow and loss of self, we ask ‘what is.’

Then it happens. The silence is so loud and unpleasant and when it threatens to finally crush us we hear a voice in the back of our brain, in the bottom of our heart, that says ‘I am,’ transporting us back to a time when the seas really did rage and the winds were really blowing and the boat was on the verge of sinking. ‘I am’ walked out on the deck of the boat, because of all things he was sleeping, and he speaks to the waves and the wind and sea and he says ‘be still.’ He conquers the supposedly unconquerable and the waves grew silent, like glass.

And just now, in the silence, ‘what is’ threatens to sink the boat which is really our very own self but ‘I am’ says to the storm to ‘be silent.’ Because it really is finished and all the things we have done in the past and all the decisions we have made and not made that are staring us in the face and threatening to drown us are silenced by the God who says, ‘I am.’

The irony of the whole thing is the silence so threatening before is in itself quieted by the very same ‘I am’ who created the universe and walked on the earth and died on a cross to break the bonds of ‘what is,’ and we realize it doesn’t even matter what we did or didn’t do because the story was written by ‘I am’ who is in control of all things and is before all things and holds all things together.

And the best part of the whole thing, the part so amazing and wonderful and lovely, is ‘I am’ is, right now, on the grass in the quad with us directing the world which seems so big and vast and wild and uncontainable.

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

NYC.

“Tell me what’s happening in New York,” they ask. “What does it look like? Describe it to me.”

But, can you? Really?

“Loud,” you say.

But so is the TV if you turn the volume all the way up. So is Stanford Stadium when it is full of the red and black faithful. So is the sound of a jet taking off or a baby crying in the middle of the night or the sound of your own heartbeat in the middle of a game of hide and seek. But can you really say all of these things are the same?

“Bright,” you say.

But so is the flash on a camera. So is the burst if lightning in the middle of the night and the pen light the doctor uses to check your eyes. So is the sunrise and the reflection of it off the freshly fallen snow. But can you really say all of these things are the same?

“Busy,” you say.

But so is every family in America the day before Christmas. So is every college student the week before finals. So is the grocery store clerk when several people call in late for work. So are ant hills and business men and pastors and kids building towers out of legos. But can you really say all of these things are the same?

“Big,” you say.

But so is the mountain in your backyard. So is the kitchen counter when you’re four and can’t reach the top. So is the ocean and the project due next week. So, is the hamburger you just cooked and the spider you just stepped on. But can you say all of these things are the same?

No, because stepping into Times Square is like stepping into a world bigger than the world. You Immediately feel small even in your normal sized self because normal is dwarfed by the hugeness of it all as if the buildings themselves may just grow legs and arms and feet and beards and squish the normal right out of you.

People are drawn to New York perhaps because someone said they should go or they want to walk the same streets millions of celebrities have and in some way feel connected to them or because they saw it in a movie or there was a whisper of the promise of the American dream, or perhaps because it is big and the vastness of the whole things makes the storms in our own hearts seem a little more manageable. They seem, if just for a second or a day or a week, small enough for us to handle, small enough for us to make sense of.

Then there is the paradox of the whole thing and perhaps this is what draws us because a paradox makes us stop, if just for the time it takes to think a thought, and consider the truth of the seemingly unrelated things. And we like paradoxes because they break us out of the normal and the mundane and the rhythm of our everyday. They invite us to hope in something new, something more, something beyond what we can see.

When you stand in the middle of Time’s Square, slowly spinning in circles as your mind tries to grasp the loudness and the brightness and the busyness and the bigness of the whole thing, you can’t help but notice the paradox of it all. Buildings that have stood for years and years and years beg of a time when the nation was still deciding who it wanted to be. It beckons us to a time when men built things with their hands and soldiers lined the streets on the way to war and the roar of industry allowed us to grow up and not out. And yet the buildings are there today, standing as ancient sentinels to when the times were different; standing there with a patchwork of scaffolding as the new world tries to drag the old world along with it. There they are, beautiful in their own right, crumbling and breaking and falling down as if the hope of the past for a better future is crumbling with them. And now they stand, in the middle of Times Square, covered by four and five story LED screens, flashing advertisements and messages that the better future we hoped for is still there, we just need the thing they are blinding us with.

And so there it is; the paradox of the whole thing. Old, romantic, breaking buildings covered on the outside with awe-inspiring, spine-tingling, loud technology. The old set next to the new.

But these are just words on a page and you really have no idea what I’m talking about. Just like I have no idea what the people in Joplin or Tuscaloosa mean when they say everything they had ever known was destroyed by a tornado. Just like I have no idea how truly terrible a volcano is or how truly beautiful the birth of your son is. They are just words on a page unless I have been there too and can give them flesh and blood and life.

And maybe we are drawn to New York because it really is all of those things. It’s bigger than words on a page, the paradox of it all causes us to stop and think, the vastness makes everything we are feel small, and it’s busy and bright and loud.

And maybe it reminds us, just a little, when the words on a page became flesh and grew arms and legs and a beard and feet and walked around with us, squishing all the normal right out us. Maybe it reminds of the time when something beautiful hung there on the old, broken, cross proclaiming to us the hope of a better future and a new promise that all the things we should be hoping in really were the the things we should be hoping in and all the old, breaking buildings would indeed be made new all over again. Maybe it reminds us that at the center of history there is a paradox which causes us to stop and think, maybe just for a second. The paradox of a king, hanging there on something old, dying the death of a slave, a thief, a murderer.

It was big in the sense that it all happened the way he said it would. It was big in the sense that people who were once dead were walking the streets and drinking coffee and the local Starbucks. It was big in the sense that the cloth in the temple tore from top to bottom and the holiness of the holy of holies poured forth like a torrent of raging water held too long behind a giant, man made dam. It was big in the sense that the temple was torn down and rebuilt in three days.

It was busy in the sense that people from all walks of life scrambled to see if this man who called himself God would indeed die, or if he, by some miracle, would save his own life. It was busy because all through the night he was on trial and being sold by his friends. It was busy because it was the sabbath and passover had to be done just right. It was so busy because the people standing around the place they called “skull” missed the perfect representation of the passover playing out before their very eyes.

It was bright in the sense that it flashed like lightning and knocked a man off his horse and left him blind for a few days. And it was bright in the sense it was described as a light shinning in the darkness, and we all know what happens when even the smallest light shines in the shadows. The darkness retreats as if it is being chased by a thousand dragons and with it our fear because what shines in the night makes plain the things hidden, which can in and of themselves become fantastical distortions of what is really true. Ask any child what happens to the monster under the bed when you turn on the light.

And it was loud. It was loud not because people were crying and wailing at the loss of the one they had given their everything to believe he was the Messiah. It was loud not because there was a crowd standing around watching the scene unfolding in terrible slow motion. Will the agony of it all every end? No, it was loud because this man reached all the way back in history and said something that shook the foundation of the earth and as the crowd gasped in exclamation at the recognition of the messiah as he simply said, “It is finished.” I’m sure when he said it it was hardly audible but it stands pivotal in the history of this world because it was the moment the price had been paid and the debt lifted and the chains removed.

And so people are drawn to New York because it is the shadow of a shadow of a bigger story, one bigger than the world, and for just a moment we catch a glimpse of something more wonderful and terrible than ourselves and we believe the monsters in the dark can indeed be pushed back because after all, a light shines in the darkness. But can you say all of these things are the same?

These are just words on a page and you really have no idea what I’m talking about. Just like I have no idea the terrors of war by reading the newspaper or the freedom of skydiving by watching it on TV. But then maybe you do know what I’m talking about because you have seen a sunset or seen the birth of your first child or held the hand of your wife on the first day you can call her wife, and for a second our hearts give pause because all of these things are reflections of a reflection of a bigger picture which has been playing out since the beginning of time and is the story we all desperately need to hear.

The Gospel as Comedy.

So Sarah laughed to herself as she thought, “After I am worn out and my lord is old, will I now have this pleasure?” (Genesis 18.12 NIV) 

Have you ever been in a situation where the only response you can give is some hearty laughter? But not because the situation is funny in a way we think of comedy. It’s not funny because of a joke or some simple slapstick humor. As a matter of fact, if you could objectively look at the situation outside of your own eyeballs, it wouldn’t even be funny at all.

Yet, in the moment, you can’t help but laugh. You know what I’m talking about. It’s the moment where words just aren’t enough. It’s the moment when you just can’t think clear thoughts. It’s the moment when it just seems too good to be true.

“Is this real?”

“Is this happening?”

“You can’t be serious.”

So, you laugh. You can’t help it. Something is happening inside your heart. Bubbling up to the surface and the only response is a chuckle. A laugh. A smile. A hope.

You see, comedy was once defined differently then it is today. In Elizabethan literature, comedy is a story with a happy ending.  The main character overcomes the oppressor and against all odds finds true love, acceptance, meaning and purpose. And so the story ends well.

This is the gospel, isn’t it?

Yes, the gospel is a story. And fortunately for us, it’s true and very real.

So, let me introduce the characters in our story. First, let’s look at the oppressor. The bad guy. The deceiver. The thief. And here is what we know about him.

“The thief comes to kill, steal and destroy…” (John 10.10) 

And he has done it. To you and me. We are broken. We have been destroyed. We have been found wanting. We are lost. Depraved. Empty. Hopeless. Useless. Evil. Unrighteous. Unholy. As a matter of fact, nothing good lives in the heart of man. We have succumbed to the cancer of the thief. And our life has literally been stolen from us. We have already been destroyed and we are headed for an eternity of weeping and gnashing of teeth.

And let us be reminded.

 For you are not a God who is pleased with wickedness;
with you, evil people are not welcome.

 The arrogant cannot stand
in your presence.
You hate all who do wrong;

You destroy those who tell lies.
The bloodthirsty and deceitful
you, Lord, detest. (Psalm 5.4-6 NIV) 

We are indeed enemies of God. It’s a harsh reality, but it is true.

Let us meet the second character of our story.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. (John 1.1-4 NIV) 

This Word, this person who was with God in the beginning, was God’s son, Jesus, and he was born a savior (Luke 2.11).

And so God, in his infinite love and wisdom set about the work of redeeming the world. He set about the work of undoing all the thief had done. He set about the work of reconciling us, the enemies of God. Because a savior had been born.

(Are you laughing yet?)

And so Jesus takes on the iniquity of us all. He takes my sin. He takes your evil. He takes the cancer in our heart. And he pays the price. He goes to the cross. Naked. Broken. Beaten. Bleeding. Our deserved punishment becomes his reality.

And here is the worst part of it all. Jesus lived a life worthy of heaven. In fact, he was perfect. He was God. He was man. You could take his life and put it on the scale and he would have been found in right standing with God. He had earned heaven.

And yet, because you and I never could, he took it upon himself to bridge the great divide between us and heaven. And so, he was nailed to the cross, and there died. For the payment of sin is death.

And because a man who did not deserve death took on death it’s power over us is broken. Death has been defeated. The grave could not hold Jesus. And neither can it hold you.

Grace has been given. It has been extended to you and I. The thief has been destroyed and his power taken from him.

What you were powerless to do, Jesus did for you. You are destined for destruction and there is nothing you can do about it. And yet, Jesus payed the penalty and has extended grace.

No amount of good works, no amount of self improvement, no amount of anything could ever be enough. There was only one way, a sacrifice for the people. For you and me. It has been paid in full.

(Are you laughing yet?)

Let’s revisit the Psalm one more time. But this time, we will go a bit farther.

For you are not a God who is pleased with wickedness;
with you, evil people are not welcome.

The arrogant cannot stand
in your presence.
You hate all who do wrong;

you destroy those who tell lies.
The bloodthirsty and deceitful
you, Lord, detest.

But I, by your great love,
can come into your house; (Psalm 5.4-7 NIV). 

And there it is. God’s great love. His grace.

Is this real?

Is this happening?

You can’t be serious.

But I am. This is real. This is true. And it’s available to you.

And so we laugh, not because the gospel is funny, but because it is truly wonderful. And when you take the comedy of the gospel and set it next to the tragedy of the gospel, salvation is so much sweeter. You can’t have one without the other because before the gospel was good news, it was bad news.

But let’s be honest. It is really good news…

Are you laughing yet?

The Gospel as Tragedy.

Before the Gospel was good news, it was bad news.

In the beginning, God created the world and it was good. Then it went bad. There was an uprising in heaven and evil was cast out, only to make its residence on the earth.

And evil set about the work of destroying all that was good. Eve ate the apple. Then so did Adam. Wickedness and disobedience spread in the hearts of man like a virus.

The world grew in unrighteosness; scorning the things of God and making for themselves idols in which to worship anything other than the one who created it all. God looked down from heaven and saw the world had grown sadistic so he sent a flood in an effort to choke out evil. He spared an honest man and gave him the task of starting the world over. And yet, evil persisted. It grew in the hearts of man. Conquering. Spreading. Consuming.

Even unto today, evil is alive. This world is broken. Sin is in the heart of man. You. Me. We have all fallen short of the glory of heaven. We can never hope to obtain the righteousness that is Christ’s. And yet, this is the requirement of heaven. We are to be like Christ himself. Spotless. Sinless. White as snow.

We know we aren’t. We know in the deepest, darkest corners of our heart is an evil. Lurking. Waiting. Corrupting. We know we can’t help to obtain the perfection of Christ. The perfection heaven requires. Even if we decided right now to walk in righteousness. Even if we decided right now to muscle our way past every wrong decision. Even if we decided with just sheer might to obstain from that which is evil, we would still have a past.

No, there is not one who is righteous. There is not one who can stand beside the Christ and be counted worthy.

Please give ear to me and hear, there is nothing you can do. There is no amount of work you can do to earn your way into enternity with the God of heaven. You can’t go far enough. You can’t love enough. You can’t work hard enough. It is not a simple matter of good works outweighing bad ones. No, just one bad one is enough to tip the scale in the favor of hell. You are helpless. Broken. Lost. Destined for an eternity separated from Christ. Doomed for destruction.

And there is nothing you can do about it. Indeed, it is as if chasing after the wind.

For you are not a God who is pleased with wickedness; with you, evil people are not welcome. The arrogant cannot stand in your presence. You hate all who do wrong; you destroy those who tell lies. The bloodthirsty and deceitful you, Lord, detest. 

-Psalm 5.4-6

Rivers of Living Water.

The more I get to know Jesus, the more I realize everything he did was strategic and intentional. Everything was on purpose and everything held significance to the people he was talking to. This is none more apparent then in the book of John. I have been going through it the last few weeks and I stumbled across something that caused me to just sit and stare at my Bible with my mouth hanging open. I think people were pointing and laughing at me… but that’s beside the point.

In John 7 we find Jesus and his band of merry men at the Feast of Booths (or Tabernacles). In Zecheriah it says this about the Feast…

Then everyone who survives of all the nations that have come against Jerusalem shall go up year after year to worship the King, the Lord of Hosts, and to keep the Feast of Booths. And if any families of the earth do not go up to Jerusalem to worship the King, the Lord of Hosts, there will be no rain on them. 

You see, the Feast of Booths was a celebration of the harvest. This feast happened at the end of the year, after all the crops were harvested. And we all know how important rain is to those who make their living on crops. Zecheriah clearly says the people of Israel were to head to Jerusalem for the feast or they wouldn’t get any rain. So, not only was the feast a celebration of the past year it was a also an acknowledgment of the need for water for the coming year. Water was a key component of the feast.

Keep that in mind while I change gears for a second…

Not only was water significant for Israel and their crops, but it also played an important role in purification rights. All throughout the Bible we see examples of the nation of Israel washing their hands or cleansing themselves with water (see Leviticus 11-15.) As a matter of fact, Jewish biblical and oral law suggests some things make a person so unclean they must put their entire self underwater. And here is the most interesting part, you couldn’t just get in any pool or body of water, it had to be living water. This meant a stream, river, or natural spring. It had to be flowing, living, and active.

As far as I can tell, there a lot of things that require submersion in living water, however, there are two which are incredibly fascinating. The first is conversion to Judaism requires a person to clean themselves in living water. The second is when a person comes into contact with a dead animal or person, they must wash themselves living water. The second one is pretty obvious…

But let the implications of that sink in for just a second…

It’s almost as if a conversion to Judaism requires a person to wash off their old self. To wash away their past before they can truly enter into right standing in the Jewish faith.

Similarly, a person who comes into contact with death must wash it away. Clean themselves from decay and come into full life.

Some of you know where I am going with this…

With all that in mind, listen to the words of Jesus as he talks to the Samaritan woman at the well.

Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.” 

Jesus is offering this woman living water. The water that cleans. The water that heals. The water that brings life. Could you IMAGINE the implications of this??

Let’s keep tracking. Obviously the woman doesn’t understand…

“Sir,” the woman said, “you have nothing to draw with and the well is deep. Where can you get this living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did also his sons and his flocks and herds?” 

For those of you that know anything about wells you know they are dug deep into underground aquifers which are, incidentally enough, underground rivers. And not only is this water a type of living water, it was dug by Jacob himself. Jacob was a father of the nation of Israel, he was a patriarch. He was at the beginning. In short, he was a legend.

And here is this lady looking at Jesus and she asks him, “You are better then this? You are more than this?” Can you feel the intensity rising? There air is about to explode…

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” 

Jesus looks straight at her and says whoever drinks of this well will be thirsty again. You will need this well again. You will be unclean again. You will have to keep coming back here. Over and over and over. But what Jesus is offering is a living water so great and so vast and so amazing, we will never need another. We will be clean. We will be alive. We will be pure.

Jesus is claiming to be the source and if we would just accept it and drink deep, we would walk with him into eternity.

You see, the whole book of John is characterized by symbols. The Jews believed everything meant something. It all stood for something. Living water. Bread of life. The true vine. It was all significant. It was a symbol for God and what he is and how he had provided for them as a nation. And Jesus comes on the scene and says HE IS those things. He is the living water. He is the true vine. He is the bread of life. He is the FULFILLMENT of the law. The FULFILLMENT of everything the Jews had ever believed. He says everything in their culture pointed to and led up to him and his ultimate sacrifice on the cross. He was the beginning and the end. He was and is EVERYTHING.

But here is the best part. Here is the good news for you and me. Here is the application.

Whoever believes in me, as scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them.

That Jesus who is the source has filled our hearts to overflowing with living water. His Spirit lives and breathes inside of us. It brings life not only to us, but to those around us. We are to set the captives free and bind the brokenhearted because the living water has been given to us that we should let it flow freely to all.

So, go and overflow.

-jw

The One Sheep.

I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent. (Luke 15.3 TNIV) 

This verse was spoken by Jesus in the context of him being ridiculed for “welcoming sinners and eating with them.” Then he tells a story about a shepherd who loses just one sheep out of his flock. Even though he has plenty more, he leaves them to go find the one.

Just one.

I read this story and can’t help but think about how we do ministry. In a world full of programs and discipleship classes and building campaigns and worship services, do we have the one sheep in mind or the ninety-nine?

Are we doing everything in our power to seek the one? That one person who is broken from a destroyed marriage and has never heard the hope of the gospel? That one person struggling with addiction and doesn’t know there is freedom in salvation?  That one student who is thinking about having sex with her boyfriend and doesn’t know a savior who can satisfy? Are we thinking about that person?

This idea is a game changer, isn’t it?

Just think about it, what if we viewed Sunday morning through the context of the one sheep? Through the context of the outsider? What if we put on their glasses and planned a service on a Sunday morning? What would it look like?

I’m talking about every aspect of a Sunday morning from the parking lot, to the chair they sit in, to the bathroom they walk in, and to the room they drop their kids off at. I’m talking about everything from the person who holds the door to the person who speaks from stage.

If we truly believed and lived this idea, everything we did would be about making them feel comfortable, making sure they could find their way and making sure they hear the hope they need to hear. We would make church something familiar to them, not to us.

I work in a ministry model that gets criticized all the time for not being deep enough, being too much of a show, being too loud, or not having enough discipleship classes. We are all of those things. You know why? Because my neighbor whose life is wrecked, who is in desperate need of the hope of the gospel, feels more comfortable at a Coldplay concert on a Friday night then he does at a church on a Sunday morning.

You want to know why I speak simple truth on a Sunday morning? I do it because Sam is a freshman in high school struggling with acceptance and when he’s being asked to smoke weed, he isn’t going to be thinking about symbolism in the Gospel of John. No, he’s going to need to know the God of universe accepts him for who he is and the friends he makes when he is a freshmen will determine the direction and quality of his life.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe in solid theology and excellent teaching. I believe in discipleship and investing in the next generation. I believe in raising up men and women who live and breathe the gospel of Jesus. I’m just suggesting their may be a better venue for this than a Sunday morning. Because none of that matters if we can’t get them in the door.

Here’s the deal, God throws a party for the one. And maybe we should too.

 

-jw

…but I am going there to wake him up.

So, I have stopped and started this post a couple of times… There are so many ways to take it. So many things I want to say. But this is what I know, God asks hard things from us. Most of the time they make no sense, and all of the time they require sacrifice.

If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters—yes, even life itself—such a person cannot be my disciple. And whoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple…

Let me clear, I don’t hate my family. They are an anchor of hope for me! But, I don’t think this is what Jesus means. I don’t think he is literally saying to hate them. The reality is, family and friends provide a certain sense of security. They are a safety net. They are comfortable. They are home. But if Jesus had no place to lay his head, why should I?

Let me tell you, I was comfortable. Four months ago I was living at home. My best friends from college were an hour away. My girlfriend was 40 minutes away. I was saving a lot of money and didn’t have to buy groceries. I was working at a pretty sweet job at a rapidly growing church. I was part of a student ministry team comprised of brilliant people.

Comfortable.

And then everything changed. Pretty unexpectedly I was let go of my job and had no idea what I was going to do next. I started the search process and after a few weeks got a call from Red Rock Church here in Colorado Springs. I was intrigued to say the least, but move to Colorado? So far from everything I knew? I wasn’t so sure…

They flew me out for a visit and some interviews. I hadn’t even been here 24 hours and I knew Colorado Springs was where I was supposed to be. The staff was incredible. And I’m convinced God created the mountains just for my enjoyment.

But Colorado? There are mountains in North Georgia. Why not there? Or Tennessee? But God was calling.

So, I said bye to everything I had ever known. Sold my car. Packed three suitcases and my bike (thank the Lord for that bike), and headed west. A real life Oregon Trail. Just without a covered wagon and I didn’t quite make it to Oregon.

I’ve been here almost four months and wouldn’t trade it for anything. Don’t get me wrong, there have been days and nights, hours and minutes, where I thought I couldn’t do it. Where I thought I would never make it and I was in over my head.

I had to make new friends. Start a new job with new people. Learn a new city. Learn how to mountain bike. I wasn’t on a team with with brilliant people anymore. I had to buy my own groceries (still figuring that part out…), budget my own money, and make my own decisions. Not only that, but every decision I made and am still making has eternal significance for students all across the springs. Talk about pressure.

And then God came knocking again. This time he went straight for the heart, asking for something I had spent a lot of time fighting for. A lot of time investing in. A lot of time loving. I fought with God. Wrestled. Pleaded. I was mad. Angry. Sad. Confused. But God is God and he is sovereign. I mean, Jonah tried to resist God’s will and got eaten by a whale. Now, I don’t think there are whales in Colorado, but maybe…

Regardless, God had spoken and I had to obey. So, I shouldered my cross and proceeded to follow the Lord. Wherever he may lead. Because when God calls his disciples, he asks everything of them.

So, here I am living in this beautiful mess, wondering why in the world God does some of the things he does. I’m asking God why he asks so much of us and why it has to be so hard.

There is a story in the book of John I have heard several times over the last few weeks. In the story one of Jesus’ best friends is sick. As a matter of fact the Bible refers to him  the “one Jesus loves.” This man is Lazarus and he is on the verge of death. Jesus could have done something about it. I mean, he could have healed him from the chair he was sitting in at the time he heard the news, but instead he simply does nothing. He waits. And waits. And Lazarus dies.

Now that the situation is all but hopeless, Jesus decides to act. He said this…

“Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep; but I am going there to wake him up.” 

I love that. He is going to wake him up.

Well, when Jesus shows up, a funeral was happening and everyone was mad at Jesus because he was a little late. I mean, if he had just come sooner. Faster. But he didn’t.

“Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

My thoughts exactly…

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?” 

Of course she does…

And so Jesus does what only he can do.

“Take away the stone,” he said. “But, Lord,” said Martha, the sister of the dead man, “by this time there is a bad odor, for he has been there four days.”  Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”  So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.”  When he had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

Yes, you read it right. Jesus told Lazarus to come out of the grave. He had been dead for a while and he smelled bad. And I’m sure you can guess what happened.

The dead man came out…

Yes he did. He walked out of the grave. You, see Jesus wasn’t late, he was patient. He knew God’s glory would be praised far and beyond just healing a sick man. This guy was dead. And now he was alive.

I don’t know why Jesus does what he does sometimes. I don’t know why he asks so much of us and why it has to be so hard.

But this is what I know, if we believe, we will see the glory of God and every morning I walk out my front door and see the glory of God displayed by a snow capped mountain rising to 14,000 feet. This doesn’t make the heartache or the pressure or the overwhelming feeling goes away, but I smile. Because I believe.

And I’m awake.

-jw

A Certain Sense of Majesty…

Majesty – supreme greatness or authority; sovereignty.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to climb a 14er, which is a mountain that summits at over 14,000 feet. The air is very thin at that altitude and makes breathing and hiking very difficult. On top of that there was no real trail, so we just kind of forged our own way to the top. Oh yeah… through the snow. It was hard going in some places to say the least. I’ll be honest, there were times when I wanted to go home.

And then I would stop, take a break, and turn around. The view was simply breathtaking. And for some reason, in view of the mountains sitting majestically in the distance, the hardness of the hike was all but forgotten.

If the view was this good now, how much better would it be at the summit? I wasn’t disappointed. It was pretty amazing. Humbling, really.

And I think it’s easy for us to do the same thing in our life every day. We tend to get lost in how hard and miserable the journey is sometimes. But, what if we took the time to stop and look back and what all God has done for us? For our friends? For our family?

Because when you view God in his majesty, the present reality gets the volume turned down.

And just think, how much better will the view be at the top?

I will remember the deeds of the LORD; 
   yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago.

-j3000