Craving Bliss May 10, 2012

We humans long for blissful days—unchanging, joyful, stretching out year after year. This is the yearning of our hearts. We believe that happy days on this earth will satisfy us. We don’t like change; we want all to remain lovely and idyllic; we want paradise on earth. We want it now! That is what our hearts crave.

What we don’t recognize is that we crave heaven. That is when we get the ideal. Not here.

When we don’t have perfection in this world, we feel as if something is wrong, as if we’ve been cheated. Where is God? How could he allow this? The wreck sin and death have made of the world precludes the bliss we expect. Satan tempted. Adam ate. Sin and death still do their work. We feel it every day.

Our bodies grow old and betray us; our friends let us down; our loved ones die; people don’t comprehend our pain; cancer strikes; accidents happen; life courses are altered. Bit by bit, we’re stripped of the illusion that everything can ever be alright in this world.

But someday this world will be redeemed, restored, all made beautiful again. The King will return.

What we need is Jesus. We don’t usually recognize it at first. Thinking success, family, vacations, money, education, fill in the blank, will satisfy us and give us the bliss we crave, we go running out into the wider world, looking for fulfillment. But then dreams crash. The hollow place in our hearts grows deeper and more painful as we see that none of these leave us full. We feel despair.

What we desire is Jesus. Why do we run from him? Why do we flit from other lover to other lover, trying to fill the craving place? We just need him. He takes all the wreckage of our lives and weaves it into a beautiful story that makes sense. He makes beauty from what is shattered. He understands all our pain; he knows us like no other. He comforts and encourages. He gets us through this life and into his arms at the end. He gently reminds us that this life is just a prequel to much better things to come. He gives meaning to nonsensical tragedy.

Sometimes the testimony of others makes this clear to us. Please click on the link below and watch the video at the bottom of the page. Two young lives have touched my heart, disrupted my sleep, and filled my mind with these considerations and with prayers for them. See how Ian and Larissa have learned that Christ is all we need. The lesson is vivid.

Click here to watch Ian and Larissa

Who Cares? May 4, 2012

The path is daunting. I’m in a turmoil of emotion as I craft this post. As usual, I’m attempting to juggle too many plates (again). Keeping everything up in the air is particularly challenging this time. Every plate is fraught with emotion and is life changing. I might just let the Savior toss them around.

I’m being forced into retirement. This final year of parenting and homeschooling has gone way too fast, though I’ve had the brakes on. I’ve paused numerous times to capture the memories, to just sit and bask in the moment.

My youngest child, the one born when the oldest of my six was sixteen, wraps up her homeschooling career and mine. Her commencement marks my retirement from twenty-eight years of homeschooling and over thirty-four years of parenting. Her university path planned and scholarships secured, she is poised on the cusp of her adult life. How did she grow up so fast?

I now move from teacher and parent to friend and guide. I am becoming a consultant, “the guide on the side,” rather than “the sage on the stage,” as my cousin Patti, the teacher of teachers, says. This summer the nest will be empty.

But first comes schoolwork to finish, our creative writing module to wrap up, choir concerts, violin performances, final transcript to prepare, big party to plan (cake, food, tent, balloons, photo display), older children to welcome home from the far corners, and messy house to ready.

Just as I’d hoped, as this stage of my life is coming to completion, the next stage is opening up. I’m revising my historical novel again—I can see the hope of publication there on the horizon, far in the distance. Each revision brings me closer to the goal. I’m also launching my business to sell the bible-study material I’ve been writing for my church for the past several years. Website, fonts, domain name, colors, tag line—all of these fill my mind along with my graduation to-do list.

All of these plates sail through the air, the next-phase plates interwoven with the completing-phase plates. Sometimes they crash into one another, and the entire lot of them fall to the ground. I pick them up and begin tossing again, asking the Savior for help. I can’t keep them all in the air without him.

All of this peppers my heart with joy and doubt, confidence and dismay, hope and despair, satisfaction and terror. It’s an emotional time. I have the brakes pressed to the floor; but I can’t stop time. This girl is all grown up, just like the rest. My task is done.

This is the minutia of my life. Who cares? Everyone is busy. Everyone has milestones. Everyone has dreams. Children grow up. The nest empties. Retirement happens. Time marches on.

Thank God for the Savior! He’s concerned with every fleeting emotion I’m experiencing, every worry, every blissful exaltation. He keeps my tears in his bottle, aware of each one, recording each one in his book (Psalm 56:8). His thoughts toward me outnumber the grains of sand on the earth (Psalm 139:17-18). He cares. I tell it all to him, regularly downloading my overwhelmed heart.

He’s always listening. He knows. He was crucified on an obscure hillock, everyone looking the other way, attempting to get the unpleasant task of his death over with so they could go home to celebrate the Passover that, ironically, had been set in place to provide an illustration of his coming. He knows what it is to fulfill a momentous, wearying task that goes unnoticed in the wider world. His eye was on the prize of obtaining us; he knew there was glory awaiting. Because of him, it’s there for me, too.

For me now, there’s no parade. No call from the President. No congressional medal. Just a quiet party with family and friends. A joyous marking of a lovely young woman’s moving on to the next part of her life. A wrapping up of the loving labor of raising my precocious and amazing children.

But some day, I’ll hear the Savior say, “Well done, good and faithful servant,” (Matthew 25:21). It will be enough. I did all of this for him, and he saw it all, the times I fell flat and the times I did it well, the times I tried to go it alone and the times I relied on him. He redeems all the messes, and he loves me through it all. He himself is more than enough. He is the glory that awaits me. He carries me.

“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book? This I know, God is for me. In God I trust.” (Psalm 56:8, 9b, 11a ESV).

Daddy, Where are You? April 26, 2012

“Do not hide your face from me in the day of my distress! Incline your ear to me; answer me speedily in the day when I call!” (Psalm 102:2 ESV)

The noise of celebration filled the church gymnasium. It was a friendly crowd. A wedding banquet had just occurred, and the place was filled with friends and family celebrating the marriage of a beloved couple. Loud talking and joyous laughter echoed. Hundreds of people were packed into the large room, all sitting comfortably around candlelit tables or standing talking together. The bride and groom were preparing to leave. It had been a long and happy day.

In one corner of the gymnasium several small cousins clustered around the coffee table, serving themselves Styrofoam-cup coffee. An older cousin was helping three-year-old Daniel load his small serving of coffee with numerous sugar packets and fancy creamers—café mocha, toddler style. Church kids like fancy church coffee.

Their parents were all nearby, enjoying one another’s company. The party was winding down. Suddenly, Daniel turned around, eyes wide.

“Daddy!” he yelled frantically, coffee forgotten. “Where are you?”

He listened a moment. Only talking, laughter, and noise of the party reached his ears. No Daddy.

“Daddy!” he called louder.

“Daniel!” boomed the loud response from the far side of the wide gymnasium. “I’m here, Buddy!”

Unable to see his father from his vantage so near the floor, Daniel took off like a shot, following his daddy’s voice, aiming that direction, bypassing groups of towering people, circling crowded tables. Halfway toward his goal, attempting to get his bearings, Daniel paused. He still couldn’t see his father.

“Daddy!”

“Here, Buddy!”

Daniel adjusted his trajectory. All the way across the gymnasium, the little guy ran. When he arrived at his destination, his daddy scooped him up for a big hug. Having secured that hug, a happy smile now in place, Daniel ran back through the crowd, weaving his way back to the coffee table, where he calmly finished preparing his beverage.

I was one of very few people who witnessed this small, endearing, domestic event.

Daniel’s father was able to detect his little son’s voice amid noisy merrymaking, even though they couldn’t see one another. No other person in the room even acted as if they’d heard Daniel’s voice. Nothing changed about the revelry of the partygoers. But Daniel’s father caught that desperate cry from a small voice in a crowded room filled with lively celebration.

Immediately to my mind came the solid fact of God the Father’s attentive ear, awaiting our call, recognizing our voice when we cry out to Him, always listening, no matter the hubbub surrounding us. It was a vivid picture. With focused attention, God is watching and waiting. He always hears us, even when we cannot hear Him. We are never lost. All we have to do is cry out.

“The LORD is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth” (Psalm 145:18 ESV). “In the day of my trouble I call upon you, for you answer me” (Psalm 86:7 ESV).

Have you cried out to Him recently? 

Taking Criticism April 20, 2012

My husband did everything right in the past forty-eight hours. The man should be given an award of some kind, perhaps on an international level. He’s married to a writer. He has a tough assignment. My hubby had his hands full this week, and he blessed my life in every way.

I love my husband, and I love Jesus. Today I am overwhelmed with gratitude to them both.

When I started writing for public consumption, rejections were devastating, and criticism was hard to take. By the grace of God, I’ve learned to ask for the critique of others, to sift through their words, to detect the truth, to avoid taking it personally, and to apply the wisdom contained therein, no matter how it is delivered. Applied wisely, criticism makes me a better writer and a better person.

I’ve also learned to spot the subjective parts of critique, the personal preference issues. Human evaluations are subjective. Some things you like. Some things you don’t.

Recently, I entered my controversial novel in a contest. It’s a literary-biblical-historical-supernatural-speculative retelling of the story of Cain and Abel. How’s that for a genre! My readers have called it a page-turner, a novel they can’t put down. However, before I market it, I needed to seek some pointed criticism to discover the flaws.

For the contest, the first fifteen pages of the novel were submitted along with a one-page synopsis of the entire story. Novels were evaluated based on this small sampling; so, actually, the novel’s concept and plot, as presented in the synopsis, and the novel’s opening scenes were being judged. These elements are crucial to a novel’s success. Entries were judged anonymously by professionals, giving authors the chance to see areas that need improvement.

Enter subjectivity.

All of the judges made positive comments about my writing—it is strong. Good. I’m mastering the craft. One judge gave me highest marks (5s and 4s). This judge found my insights intriguing, my story idea interesting, and my voice strong. I’m glad I read this one first. Another judge found my premise problematic and didn’t like anything about the story. This judge gave me 2s, 3s, and 4s. I felt like I had whiplash.

The comments and praise of the third judge were almost identical to the first judge; but what he described as strong writing merited 3s and 4s. He gave no 5s. I felt he was tough but fair. He also liked the story, told me I had done a good job, and was captivated until the end.

A sandwich of good news with a meaty patty of gristly criticism.

I read. I cried. Then I stepped away from my computer to allow my emotions time to settle. In order to benefit from their criticism, I had to evaluate it objectively. When I returned, I reread their comments, asking the Lord for clarity.

To determine where to begin, I looked for the common criticism. All of them thought I needed less narrative in the opening—more showing, less telling. I’m a teacher—I tend to spend too much time setting the scene at the beginning. The opening hook needed to be stronger. That was helpful.

Sparkling dialogue, they said, keep an eye on that. As I revise, every conversation in the novel will be spoken out loud and strengthened. Each of them also had one particular comment that was unique to them. They were right. I will be applying each of those. I wrote to thank each one.

Their critique of those first fifteen pages will make my entire novel better. The positive comments gave me hope. Immediately, I began to apply the suggestions of all three, working to craft a more excellent product. It ended up being a time of rejoicing. My novel sparked controversy (which it will), I received good critiques that I can apply, and two professionals liked what I’d written and were captured by my story.

While I was dealing with all of this, my husband, having learned from my past rejections, was leaving me alone when I needed solitude, holding me when I needed a hug, listening sympathetically, doing the dishes, and taking me for a walk. He had help. Since committing his life to Christ, Tim has grown to be a stellar man. He would give God all the credit for his transformation. Hubby kept me going.

Through it all, Jesus was singing to my heart, encouraging me. I felt as if he were embracing me in his strong arms. He reminded me of truth: He is sovereign. God is in control. Nothing can touch my life unless it is for my ultimate good. He promised.

I asked him to help me believe his words. I clung to him. I didn’t fall flat.

Jesus loves me whether my novel is controversial, run of the mill, terrible, or a bestseller. When he got up on that cross to die for me, he proved his love. It’s unwavering. Any criticism is taken in light of this unvarying, objective, blessed truth. That’s such a relief!

Have you had any criticism that knocked you flat? Who kept you going?

Falling Flat April 12, 2012

On Easter weekend the thirteen young adults receiving baptism stood before hundreds and testified, nervously unfolding their individual stories to the masses. One after another—some shyly, others boldly, each stepped up to the microphone. Their accounts brought tears. All were deeply touching. God was glorified—the electric energy of the encouraged saints was palpable.

Hoots, hollers, and applause rang out! God is in the business of changing hearts and lives!

One by one, they went into the water, their friends shouting praises and embracing them, jumping up and down in the baptismal tank with them, all of them drenched. The singing raised the roof! It was glorious!

As I watched and listened, I thanked God repeatedly for making me a member of his family and for giving me such open and unguarded brothers and sisters. By the end, my face hurt from smiling for the entire three hours. But the low often (usually) follows hard after the high. So, I also prayed that as they leapt and danced away from this pinnacle, they would rely on the Lord when they hit the coming valley.

The low after the high teaches us to cling ever more tightly to the Savior.

“Let us also go, that we may die with him,” Thomas proclaimed (John 11:16 ESV).

“I will lay my life down for you,” Peter said just hours before he betrayed Christ (John 13:37b ESV).

“We believe that you came from God,” Jesus’ disciples stated right before fleeing into the darkness at Gethsemane (John 16:30 ESV).

Lovers make proclamations of undying affection and devotion. We come charging out of our spiritual mountaintops full of vows of what we will do and how we will now live. I love you! I will follow! I will obey! I will never waver! Faces beaming and hearts full, we sing our praise songs.

Jesus smiles gently at our pronouncements. He cherishes our passion for him. But he knows us better than we know ourselves. We’re easy targets after our highs. We coast on emotion. We always want to feel just like this.

Then Satan aims his arrows at us; and, if we are unaware and don’t throw up that protective shield of faith, we fall flat on our faces. It’s predictable. Like Elijah, we run out into the desert, weary, overwhelmed, frightened, and believing we are alone. God comforts us and puts us back together.

And so, Jesus quietly carried out his plan to aim for Jerusalem and to get up on that cross, recognizing the test that also awaited his bold disciples. With Thomas, Jesus simply followed the plan. Cognizant of what was coming, he headed back toward Judea to raise Lazarus, setting the final conflict with the religious leaders into motion. Thomas would be shattered, his faith shaken. But then, later, he would see and touch the truth.

Jesus told Peter plainly that, unfortunately, he would not lay down his life for him on that night. Peter would instead deny Jesus three times. Imagine Peter’s consternation. After dropping that bomb, Jesus calmly and lovingly continued his Last Supper discourse, “Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me” (John 14:1 ESV).

The Savior is ever mindful that we sinners are in need of saving. Don’t be troubled, he said. Believe in me. It’s always the answer after the fall.

To the bold disciples who made their belief statement on that night before his death, he quietly stated that they would be scattered, leaving him alone. Having thought he would be pleased with their pronouncement, I imagine they all sat back, stunned and appalled.

But Jesus said to them, “I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33 ESV).

Unflappable in each instance, never missing a beat, Jesus’ words and actions demonstrated that their salvation depended on him, not on their own works or emotions or proclamations.

What a relief! Take heart. Have peace.

Not only does our Savior give us eternal life, but we gain intimate fellowship with One who knows us more completely than we know ourselves. He realizes beforehand that we’re going to blow it as we come skating out of our spiritual highs. Knowing this, he loves us thoroughly, providing the way of escape, guiding us to take it, and picking us up when we don’t. What a gentle and merciful Savior!

Have you had any recent lows that followed your highs?

 

 

Resurrection April 8, 2012

“The Son of Man will be delivered over to the chief priests and scribes,” Jesus said, referring to himself, “and they will condemn him to death and deliver him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified, and he will be raised on the third day” (Matthew 20:18-19 ESV).

Lord, you never had any intention of leaving your dead body there in the tomb. You yourself are life. Once you had wrapped your deity in human flesh, your body would not undergo decay—it had been written (Ps. 16:10). You would re-enter that body and wear it for all eternity, glorified now, illustrating how you intend to transform our dead bodies when you return again. Metamorphosis! This gives us hope.

Death looms ahead of us all. Like you, our bodies may be battered, ruined, and destroyed before we cross that final threshold. Relieving us of our fear and anxiety about these fragile jars of clay, your intention was to conquer death in every possible way. And you did.

Early in your ministry, you had said, “Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life. An hour is coming and is now here, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live…all who are in the tombs will hear the voice of the Son of Man and come out,” (John 5:24-25, 28 ESV).

Resurrection was always the plan. Resurrection of your body. Resurrection of our spiritually dead lives. Future resurrection of our bodies to be like yours.

For dead people, this is a great relief. You are our hope.

Resurrection and eternal life are so intimately connected to you that they are embodied in you, Lord, and can only be found in relationship with you—you are the resurrection and the life, you told Martha right before you raised Lazarus (John 11:25-26). Whoever trusts in you will never die.

Sunday morning the miracle occurred; your spirit reentered your dead flesh. Your radiant body burst forth from the shroud, imprinting all with your glorious light. Ever orderly, Creator of the universe, you folded the cloth that had covered your face. You stood.

Alive again! Deity proven! Justification secured for your beloved! Vindicated!

Starting with the faithful women, your resurrected self was witnessed by hundreds on multiple occasions (1 Corinthians 15:3-11). You ate and talked and taught, explaining again, reviewing it all. Formerly hopeless disciples were now vibrant eyewitnesses to the greatest event in history. These men and women went out to change the world. Your resurrection altered everything.

Thank you! I believe! How I adore you! I cherish everything about you and every way you did it!

Resurrect my dead body, too, one day. Call me forth from the grave. With Paul, I say, make me like you in every way, in death and in resurrection (Philippians 3:9-11).  

“Our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body” (Philippians 3:21 NIV).

A Really Bad Day April 7, 2012

“See, we are going up to Jerusalem,” Jesus had informed his disciples in the final weeks before his death. “And the Son of Man will be delivered over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death and deliver him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified, and he will be raised on the third day” (Matthew 20:18-19 ESV).

They didn’t remember. How it must have hurt them to remove your stiffened, bloodied corpse from the cross, to lift your body down so gingerly, to smooth the matted hair back from your blood-caked face, to kiss your wounds, to wash and prepare your body for burial, to leave you in the cold cave.

How their hearts must have ached, their tears overflowed. The women were beside themselves with grief, the men in shock. What had just happened to all their glorious plans for your earthly kingdom?

How could they have been so wrong?

They were confused, terrified, and hopeless. You had known they would be, hence all the talking, teaching, reminding, and informing that you had carried out in the preceding weeks. The Holy Spirit would bring it all to mind when they saw you again—you had known this. But you had also been aware that in that dark day immediately afterward, they would lose hope. And they did.

Sometimes dark hours are necessary—they show us just how important the light is; they refine us, and we grow like sun-starved plants, stretching for the light. Glorious light was coming; but they hadn’t recalled it yet. They had forgotten your prophetic words, the predictions you had made just days before. It had made no sense to them at the time: Is he speaking figuratively again?

It was the worst day of their lives.

Did You Think Of Me? (8th Lenten Meditation) April 5, 2012

Piercing your brow, a crown of thorns was embedded in your flesh, a cruel and mocking implement of torture. Sweat and blood dripped from your brow—no hand was free to wipe the salty rivulets from your eyes. Stinging. Burning. Sins of the world piled upon you. Tears of anguish. Separation from the Father.

The King of heaven laid down his life. Naked. Impaled on wood. Beautiful Savior.

As you hung there, did you think of me?

Heaving yourself up onto the spikes embedded in your ankles, you battled the suffocating weight and gasped for air. Sagging back onto the nails in your wrists (burning torture), the fought-for air seeped slowly from your lungs. Fresh lacerations chafing against wood with each and every breath, throbbing ache shooting up your arms and legs—the agony was unbearable.

Rubbed raw, beaten flesh dragging up and down the wooden beam, did you think—how I love her! She is so worth it! As you struggled for each breath, dragging in the life-prolonging oxygen, did my face flit before your mind’s eye?

Did you picture each of my transgressions, one by one? Were you glad you could take them on yourself and remove them from me, poor and undeserving sinner that I am?

As your heart struggled to pound out the beats, did it leap with love for me? Did the joy set before you—the elation of forgiving me, gaining me to be your own, having me—give you the strength to endure the anguish of the bloody sacrifice?

Hour after hour, you wrestled for life until the ransom price had been paid for our sins. As you redeemed us, did you recall each one of us—when you had planned our individual existence, how you had numbered each of our days before you’d even spoken the universe into existence?

What did you think as you hung there?

Were your thoughts this intimate about each one of your own? Did you see our faces? Did you picture how your Spirit would draw each of us to come to you, to recognize that you are God, to know that you had died for us, and to believe? Did you foresee how we would come to know that we wanted you, that we had to have you? Did you play out each scenario in your mind, the drawing of each of your beloved? Did the joy and satisfaction of gaining us for all eternity, though costing you your very lifeblood, give you the strength to endure the torment?

What did you feel as you hung there?

Living fulfillment of Psalm 22 and Isaiah 53. Fully man and fully God. The man-part wanting to escape that cross, to stop the torture, to fight for life, and to live! The God-part loving us so completely and thoroughly that the mere consideration of coming down from that cross was an impossibility!

You wouldn’t come down. You are God. God is love. You couldn’t come down. It wasn’t an option.

Shocking the watching crowd, you could have called a legion of angels to remove you, to bear you to heaven, showing Satan and the mockers what’s what, saving your skin. But you didn’t—that fact alone proving your deity and winning the day. Any man who is merely a man would have taken the out—crucifixion is the cruelest torture ever devised.

But you are God-man, God in the flesh. It wasn’t in your character to forsake the Father’s loving plan to redeem us. To do so would have been unloving. It wasn’t a possibility for you to leave us to pay for our own sins, for all eternity—all eternity! So you hung there. You willingly kept yourself on the cross.

Giving it all. Bleeding it out. Taking our sins. Finishing the task. Forsaken.

Breathing your last. Yielding your spirit into the Father’s hands. Dead.

Side pierced. Coagulated blood flowing. Body cold. Lifeless, bloodless, stiffening. Beloved corpse.

John and Mother weeping. Women wailing. Men embracing the battered and empty shell of you.

Buried in the tomb. Sealed behind the stone.

But….

But….

Remember Me (7th Lenten Meditation) March 29, 2012

In the weeks before Jesus’ crucifixion, his disciples squabbled over who would be the greatest in his kingdom—the kingdom they expected him to set up at that time, where he would rule as an earthly potentate. John and James’ mother even argued her sons’ case for positions of prominence. Lazarus’ raising, Jesus’ triumphal entry to hearty cheers, the casting out of the money changers, more miracles, the Lord’s wise refuting of the religious leaders—all of these events filled their minds. Surely, it was time!

Meanwhile, with this background chatter in his ears, Jesus’ heart and mind were fixed on teaching as much truth as possible, making his deity and love apparent, and then getting up on that cross. His goal was different than theirs for the present. They were at cross purposes.

The kingdom had to be won first—the cost was his death.

He kept telling them: “See, we are going up to Jerusalem. And the Son of Man will be delivered over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death and deliver him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified, and he will be raised on the third day” (Matthew 20:18-19 ESV).

After the fact, this seems pretty clear. But his disciples didn’t listen or take heed; they didn’t remember. We often don’t either. Oblivious to the Master’s plan for redemption, they looked forward to an earthly reign, the defeat of the Romans, and their prominent positions.

The day before his death, as Jesus directed the disciples’ preparation of the Passover feast and interacted with people in Jerusalem, his disciples quibbled. I have six children. When they were all small and summer wore long, the quibbling began. Year by year, I moved our homeschooling start date earlier and earlier—idle hands needed something to do. Idle disciples needed work and an example.

Weary and emotional about his coming ordeal and their incomprehension of his mission to die for the sins of mankind, Jesus trudged up the stairs to the upper room and saw that no provision had been made for the number-one rule of first-century hospitality—guests needed to wash. Sandaled feet covered with dust, offal, urine, and excrement needed to be cleansed. Arrayed around the table, the guests would recline, propped on elbows as they ate, their feet near one another’s upper bodies. Feet had to be cleaned.

Since each one sought prestige, the disciples all flopped down, each waiting for the others to do the dirty work. Watching and waiting, Jesus took his place, giving them the chance to serve, ever patient. Six days earlier, Lazarus’ sister Mary had anointed Jesus’ head and feet with nard. The lingering scent of the sweet embalming perfume, whiffs of her adoration and comprehension, probably soothed his heart. She had heeded; she had remembered.

But on this night of his last supper, no one thought of service. No awareness was shown that Jesus’ time had come, even though he had spoken of it often. None remembered.

Of course, he did not react like you or I would. He never does. He has no insecurities. He is God. He knew that the Father had put all things under his power, that he had come from God, and that he was about to return (John 13:3). Our mighty God is a God of love. His love always provokes him to sacrifice rather than to exploit his position (Philippians 2:1-11).

Heart filled with affection, Jesus showed them the full extent of his love (John 13:1). He rose from the table, removed his outer garments, poured the water, and wrapped a towel about his waist. Idle disciples received a lesson: He who would be greatest among you must become the servant of all. The Messiah—Creator of the universe, Son of God—lifted filthy foot after filthy foot into the water, drying them with the towel, dumping and refilling often. He cleaned soles and toes and hearts. He cleanses us still.

As he washed, he spoke gentle lessons. “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me” (John 13:8b). He gave a quiet tutorial, his actions speaking louder than his words. “I have set an example that you should do as I have done for you” (John 13:15). And then, they ate, and he talked his way through five chapters of the most encouraging words in scripture and a prayer that included even us (John 13-17).

Our lives and actions are to be lived in remembrance of him—this example, these words, this life.

This is why we repeat his final meal regularly, why we break the bread and drink the wine—to remember him, to avoid the lack of awareness that his disciples showed that night, to repent of similar selfishness, to recall how to follow his example. Doing so, we proclaim his death until he returns. His death and resurrection are the hope of mankind.

“This is my body which is for you,” he said. “Do this in remembrance of me…This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me” (1 Corinthians 11:24b, 25b ESV).

Lord, we remember you. Let us never forget. We repent of our selfish striving. Enable us to live like you.

Satan’s Hour (6th Lenten Meditation) March 22, 2012

“The Word (Jesus) gave life to everything that was created, and his life brought life to everyone. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it” (John 1:4-5 NLT).

Satan got one hour. That was it. But it was the most important hour in the history of humanity, and he seized what he was given, just as God had planned beforehand. Satan is constrained. We see this clearly in the book of Job where God draws Satan’s attention to Job and establishes the limits within which Satan must remain. Satan can only do what God allows him to do—within those parameters he exercises his evil intentions to the full.

Therefore, when given permission to enter Judas and bring about Christ’s death, Satan did his worst, destroying Judas in the process and inspiring all the suffering Christ endured. Every laceration, every whiplash, every tearing out of Jesus’ beard, every glob of spittle that hit Jesus’ face, each mocking statement, each fleeing and terrified disciple, each spike hammered into sacred flesh, every hovering raven that might have harassed—all of these were maximized by Satan. It was his hour, the hour of darkness (John 13:2, 27, 30b; 14:30-31; Luke 22:53b).

Though hard to comprehend, it doesn’t appear that Satan knew that the outcome would be his defeat and Christ’s ultimate triumph. God’s plan was hidden from even the angels, fallen and elect. That God would put on human flesh and come down to be the sacrifice for the sins of mankind was a mystery. “None of the rulers of this age understood this, for if they had, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory” (1 Corinthians 2:8 ESV).

And God wanted him to be crucified—his death was necessary for our forgiveness. Through Christ “God reconciled everything to himself. He made peace with everything in heaven and on earth by means of Christ’s blood on the cross” (Colossians 1:20 NLT).

The angels knew God was up to something, because the prophets had testified to it; but it was veiled from even them, though they longed to look into it (1 Peter 1:10-12). That God would lay down his life to purchase the church as his bride was inconceivable. Of this, Paul said: “I was chosen to explain to everyone this mysterious plan that God, the Creator of all things, had kept secret from the beginning. God’s purpose in all this was to use the church to display his wisdom in its rich variety to all the unseen rulers and authorities in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 3:9-10 NLT).

Even the angels needed to be informed. This was according to God’s eternal purpose.

So when Jesus sat at the Last Supper table, dipped the bread, and handed it across to Judas, Satan entered him, and Jesus said, “What you are going to do, do quickly” (John 13:27 ESV). Out he went. It was the hour for the Son of Man to be glorified, dying like a kernel of wheat that falls into the ground, that it might bear much fruit (John 12:23-24). Satan was the tool used to bring it about.

Immediately after Judas left, Jesus gushed a victory statement. The apostolic writers expressed these same sentiments in their epistles, extolling the union of Father, Son, and Spirit in bringing about their secret plan, the redemption of their chosen ones, bringing back into fellowship those who believe.

“The time has come for the Son of Man to enter into his glory, and God will be glorified because of him. And since God receives glory because of the Son, he will soon give glory to the Son” (John 13:31-32 NLT).