I also have it on good authority that it will happen.

Ah, I know what some of you are thinking: the you who think you know me, that is. You’re thinking I already am one of most loving people you know, but the trouble is, you don’t know me, know me. You can fool some of the people some of the time…

And those of you who do know me, well, I see that knowing little smirk on your faces! I have glommed onto your thoughts like a blind man reading braille, also. Those smiles tell me that you’ve been waiting a long time for me to see the Light—that I am like the Frost poem, “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening” where the subject still has “miles to go…”

Yeah, I’m onto you.

But back to my stated position. I have it on good authority that what I seek will come to be, since I have come to understand prayer as more finding the will of God on a matter and praying that back to Him, rather than a monologue of wishes on a premeditated list. It’s clear to me that this salvation journey I am on includes His bringing me into fullness. Into glory. Or, as Paul put it to the Ephesians: ‘to grow me up to the Full Man, which is Christ’ (my paraphrase from 4:13).

That, o friends o’ mine, tells me that it is His intention that I live as He lived, walk as He walked, obey as He obeyed and love as He loved. And so, as I leeched onto His will for me, I decided to pray in expectation that He will do this thing in me. Granted, He’s got some work to do.

It’s a tall order, and I have fallen woefully short.

Granted.

But back to the premise. Er, the promise. When we “pray the prayer of the kingdom” (as Evan Roberts coined it), and learn the Father’s will, we can have the assurance that what we ask is truly from Him and our asking will lead to its doing (see Matt 6:10; Matt 18:18-20; Mark 11:22-24*).

So…I aimed for the fences with my asking.

I just said to myself: Why go little, when you can go TALL?

Here’s what my journal said just the other day:

“Father, You know what I ask for me: I desire to have all envy, jealousy, bitterness, forgiveness, vengeance and offense redeemed out of me! I desire to be the most loving person people will ever meet—whether they like me or not. Whether persecuted, I bless. Ignored, I rejoice. Overlooked or bypassed, I praise. Despised, I love. Hurt, I forgive. Treated discourteously, I return kindness. Belittled (even in attitude), I submit. Forsaken, I triumph.

“Lord Jesus, I trust You to save me from myself. Your work is finished, which is my set hope for my “finished” course. I turn to You to do the impossible. With God, all things are possible. Even these hopeless, endemic, pandemic issues in my flesh.

“You will answer this prayer of mine because I know I pray Your will. You will bring me all the way into glory, victoriously, not by the skin of my teeth…”

It occurs to me that my birthday is in four days. Hint, hint. I pretty much know what I want and I have stated it here. There is no hope it will be done by September 3rd (did I mention that was my birthday?), but I have every hope it will be done in time to see Christ Jesus, for “when I see Him, I will be like Him, for I shall see Him as He is.” (1 John 3:2)

I just want a head start.

*These each presume the pray-er has already learned the will of God

We are distressed/hard-pressed/troubled/squeezed on every side…
(Paul, 2 Corinthians 4:8)

Nobody puts ‘Baby’ in a corner.
(Johnny Castle, Dirty Dancing)

I’m feeling ‘hemmed in’ these days. Diminished. Limited. Grounded, like a teenager: no keys, no car, no friends. Just school, then home.

On top of that, I feel cornered. Outnumbered.

It’s redolent of a scene in Thor where the Viking hero and his compatriots infiltrate the Frost Giant’s lair and are met by a relentless enemy in wave after wave, each giant becoming more formidable than the last and more numerous than before.

Yeah, that captures it nicely.

On every front a vexing battle is being waged and it seems like I am losing ground.

Ministry.

Family.

Finances.

Friends.

Health.

Some fronts are more like skirmishes while others border on “Shock and Awe.” These days I look like the Arizona border, Iraq (in March, 2003) and Afghanistan all rolled into one.

Lord, is it warfare?

Am I being downsized? Capsized? Ostracized?

Then, like good news from home, these words came for me when I was about to arrive at some ill-advised conclusions:

On your behalf I speak to adversity, for I the Lord come to bring the power of My voice over the power that has come against you. For, I have been given all authority, and by that authority I speak over your life that you may be totally free from all adversity, oppression, depression, fear, anxiety and worry. When I am with you, you cannot be defeated. I speak into your life–peace be still. And, there will come a great calm and a great benefit. No longer allow yourself to sit down in the very pit and doldrums of failure, but arise to new heights. As the sun rises each day, arise and shine for you are the people of light; the children of light and the glory of My kingdom upon the earth. It is time for you to come to a new understanding of who you are in Me and who I am in you. It is time for you to feel the power of My wind upon you; the power of the wind that flows through your mind and regenerates your spirit. Come this day and receive a fresh baptism and allow the wind of My Spirit to move you and to lift you. Come and fly with Me, says the Lord.

On the other hand, I could be hearing:

Snip, snip.

That doesn’t negate the rhema word. Whether I’m being intentionally hemmed in (like a time-out for an unreasonable child) or it’s just my time for the gardener’s shears—either way—my trust is in God and I purpose to stay the course.

Faith may not know where it’s going, but it is in love with its Leader.

In faith, this day, I have it on good authority that I am not being shelved or downsized. Neither are you. We’re being prepped for reassignment. “Faithful is He who calls you, who also will do it.”

In faith, this day, I declare that “friends may fail me, foes assail me” but, hear this enemy: “He my Savior makes me whole.” Jesus. What a Friend for Sinners. I know He loves me to death, but not like Lenny in Of Mice and Men who loved a little too hard. His Hands enfold me, they do not crush me.

Though He slay me…even if there’s no seed in the barn and the cattle barns are empty…no figs on the branches…if this infection never leaves my body and my leg falls off…if (fill in your own blank here)…

Either way.

Whatever.

I say:

I will rejoice in the Lord!
I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!
The Sovereign Lord is my strength!
He makes me sure-footed as a deer, able to tread upon the heights!
(Habakkuk 3:17-19)

Hemmed in. Targeted. Isolated. Pressed on every side. Fire on one side and flood on the other.

Do not despair, o my soul.

He always brings us through and out, and gloriously IN.

Related articles (some I haven’t proofread entirely, mind you):

• Watch Rob’s Story
• Will I Get Through This?. (greatriversofhope.wordpress.com)
• Thoughts about what I read this morning (standingatthedoor.wordpress.com)
• Habakkuk 3:19 (jantzika.wordpress.com)

Did Dad ever want to wring the son’s neck? Ever?

Where was Mom in all this?

What happened six weeks or six months later?

Did the kid suffer a relapse?

Questions.

So…let’s pretend.

Imagine if Father’s Day fell a week following the prodigal son’s return. No, check that. Let’s pretend it occurred about six or seven months later. On that morning, the father—let’s call him Chanan (Hebrew for gracious)—awakens from a dreamless sleep and rubs his eyes so as to roust them from their hours of inertia. It is still dark, but an oil lamp casts a coppery glow inside the master’s bedroom, and he looks at the pleasing, sleeping form of his wife—oh, may as well: Chana. Hannah. Grace.

She stirs slightly and for a moment he only wishes to look at her, not interrupt her slumber, and when her breathing again falls to a soft purr, he smiles. Ah, Chana! How gracious our Yahweh is! The woman I adore is the woman I awaken to each morning…

He persists in this reverie for a few more holy moments before something draws his eyes past her to the tapestried fold in the door. Just over the delicate slope of Chana’s hip he sees the corner of a small parchment partially slid beneath the curtain. His brow plunges in puzzlement so he quietly rises from the bed and pads over to the door and stoops to retrieve the paper.

As he carefully slides it to himself, he notices a familiar hand has addressed it: “Gracious Father.” A note from Habib (dearly loved). His youngest. Chanan’s eyes mist as he remembers the long nights spent in this very room praying for Habib’s return, crying out to G-d with Chana that He would keep their boy from peril and destruction. The years were long and their inner woundings great, but Elohim proved powerful as always and His providential blessing brought palatial healing and restoration.

Chanan’s eyes welled and spilled over, mirroring his heart’s release. Habib. The little lamb that was lost. Now home. Their lamb once again. The moment was only spoiled by the jealousy of Aaron (lofty, exalted one) who, even to this day sulks and harbors inner hatred. He has gone to his own far country. Chanan sighed and petitioned for Aaron’s “return” once more…

Old, gnarled fingers lifted the parchment to his heart as Chanan walked nearer to the light source for better reading. He sat by the table and unfolded the document. Chana lightly breathed from the bed behind. Outside he could hear some of the animals coming to life and those who tended to them. Dawn was moments away.

Gracious Father,

It was your love that found me where I was—that despicable, hellish place—and with tender bands to my wrists and ankles, you pulled me home. I am a slave to your love and forever choose to remain in your care. I will spend the rest of my life in awe of such grace that never gave up on me, searched for me, located me and has made a home for me. And I will let such grace run its full course in me until I, too, become this grace to others. You and Mother are everything I never knew I wanted, but now that my eyes have been opened, I want naught else.

I thank Eternal G-d that I was delivered from the pit, but I also consider the far country a closed chapter in my book. I know it will come as no surprise to you, Father, but since my return, I have entertained thoughts of going back, but they were only thoughts, praise Yahweh, never actions! Today I declare I could never go back to where I was, for the beauty of where I am is so alluring and permanent.

But, Abba, I also want you to know that I am not only delivered from the pit and done with the far country, but I am determined to choose life always. You never let me finish my little speech back there on the hillside where I fell at your feet. I know now it was grace that stopped me short that day; your grace that finished my best intentions. But you must know, Papa, on this Father’s Day, since you gave me life, to quote beloved David: “I would rather be a doorkeeper in your house than to dwell in tents of wickedness.” I know he was singing about the G-d of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob but I feel the need to declare my intent to serve you, Father, by living out all of my days as your son. This is my promise: your name, your values and your heart will be perpetuated through my life. With you is life. With you always I will remain.

This is the best way I know to thank you, Father. And to honor you. These are not mere words. Watch me. You will not be disappointed.

Happy Father’s Day.

Yeah, that’d be a pretty cool card. Parents of prodigals would die smiling if this scenario ever became their own.

But in the larger story: do you see yourself anywhere in this narrative?

Here it is, completely unedited, as is. That’s what makes it so powerful:

Hi my name is Graham and I’m a drug addict. This is a little about me. This is coming from a recovering addict of everything I put my hands on. Meth was my drug of choice. I wish meth would’ve never been invented. I was so trapped in the chains of addiction to meth that I didn’t care about myself or anyone else. I begged borrowed stole and hustled daily to get high. I will forever be haunted by the memories of myself and the things I’ve done. Meth changed who I was. I became this “zombie” who cared nothing about anything other than the drug. Thankfully I have a God who cared enough about me to stop me before it was too late. A year ago I was cashing fake checks for a dealer of mine so that I could have money to buy whatever I wanted. Out of the thousands of dollars I stole, I have only one thing to show for it, I bought a 400 dollar cell phone a few days before I was arrested and thankfully I still have it. I also bought two cd’s: Gucci mane Back to the trap house and Outkast stankonia. (I don’t have those anymore.) The rest went to Oxycontin 80’s Roxie 30’s and meth. I was arrested 4-22-10 with 9 counts of forgery (felony) and 3 counts of theft by deception (felony) not to mention I was on first offender probation for Possession of marijuana with intent (felony). Needless to say I wasn’t getting out. I did 6 months in the county jail and six months in Coastal State Prison then Clayton County CI. God had to slow me down. I was on the path to death. I am thankful for it. I wish you would never try meth. It will destroy you. Trust me. I could tell you all this till I’m blue in the face and you’re going to do whatever you want and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop you. But for the people who are still chained to addiction, my prayers go out to you. I am not perfect in any way trust me, but I’m doing my best. I feel better about myself. I have made amends to my family and we are doing great. To all the people I stole from, robbed, cheated, and tricked, saying sorry isn’t enough, but I’m sorry. I’m not the same person, and I work daily to become a better person. This is my curse. This is what I have to deal with daily. But today I will wake up and chose to be sober. Today I chose not to be a zombie. I chose life to the fullest. Not a fake world of illusions that drugs brings but a real world. It’s funny as I was writing this; I got a call from Johnny’s Pizza. I got the job! I start tomorrow. My God is an awesome dude. He helped me break the chain of addiction in my life, granted me parole, and got a 3 time convicted felon, currently on parole, tatted to the gills, a job within a month of my release. Sweet. Thank you God.

Years, not degrees.

*sigh*

Please don’t misunderstand, that sigh was a good one. It was the satisfied sigh of someone watching a sunrise bloom over a resplendent mountain peak or holding their baby for the first time. Or akin to the musical hum of a soul in perfect alignment.

You see, I almost did not live to see this day.

But, praise be, I’m gloriously still here. And deliriously satisfied.

In the late spring of last year I desperately cried out to God for something I could not do for myself. When Jesus gave His blessing to those who “mourn” He used the strongest of the nine words for sorrow in the Greek New Testament. If I wasn’t in that category I was doubtlessly moving in its direction.

As the mucus seeped and tears leaked and it all seemed to catch in my throat, I pled through racking sobs for God to be my Health and Healer. The weight of my burden had so pinned me to the mat that I truly, at the risk of sounding too Paul-een, “despaired of life.” Twenty-six years of undisciplined living were stealing years from my life but I always managed to swat such thoughts away with a flippant “if I die, I’ll be with Jesus, which is far better” (here’s me, waxing Paul-een again) response. But that warm afternoon I decided I did not want to die after all. Oh, that’s hardly accurate! Actually, I cried up from the bellows of my heartsickness for God to add years to my life and life to my years!

And then, something shifted internally.

We’re talking seismic in scope here.

The Voice of Many Waters that thunders, quakes and flashes, shouted through an eternity of universes and struck against the bondage of years that were in me and freed me from my enslavement. The God who keeps covenant with them that fear Him—and turn to Him in their ‘cast-down-edness’—will with certainty be to them a Healer and Refuge.

“I have heard You, Scott. The life in your years that has been taken will be restored. I AM to you your Health and your Healer.”

Instantly, the mourning in me was transformed into soul-deep consolation and new, unbitter, tears began to flow.

“The means by which this Healing will be realized must be a very difficult path. Perhaps the hardest road you’ve ever traveled.”

I listened intently, but without fear.

“But I will be beside you in this journey and, in the end, you will look back with joy upon the road and praise Me for it.”

When God speaks, He acts.

When He acts, it is for keeps.

Over the next few weeks, I underwent a change in discipline of self and lost some weight. Nothing noticeable, almost imperceptible to others, but Sandy and I knew. And our hope grew. Then I had my September physical. Prostate, good. Blood pressure, good. Heart, good. Pulse rate, good.

“I’ll call you in the next 48 hours with the results of your blood work,” Dr. Kiley informed me.

I felt better. I was honoring the Lord with my day-to-day schedule, so I almost forgot about the follow-up call until the phone rang and I saw Dr. Kiley’s name on the caller screen.

“Everything looks normal, but there’s been a new development. You’ve become a diabetic since your last physical.”

The D-word. Type 2.

He gave me the name of a personal friend of his who practiced endocrinology and told me to make an appointment as soon as possible.

“Your A1c level is almost 12,” he warned me.

A1c? I had no clue what that was but I could tell the way his voice dropped when he said ‘12’ I was very sure that the number was way too high. Or way too low. Whichever, I made haste to call my new doctor.

When Dr. Wolffe saw me, he told me we could lick this thing but I would have to follow a strict diet and regimen of exercise. No problem, doc, already begun…

My blood sugar was in the upper 300s so he pulled out a syringe and told me the liquid inside was a kind of ‘booster’ to lower my sugar dramatically over the next 24 hours. Such a calm demeanor, but I was sure it was hiding a great deal of uncertainty as to where I might end up in all of this. His southern gentlemanly drawl warned me of blindness, sores that won’t heal requiring amputation, heart disease and stroke.

And I feared not one whit.

By God’s grace I knew when I saw Dr. Wolffe again, there would be a much different scenario.

So I went home with my new glucose meter, test strips, lancets and prescription of metformin (My doctor told me the latter would also cause weight loss. Hooray!) and thus began my journey with diabetes.

When I began crying out to the Lord for His power and might to transform me a few months prior, I added that I needed a few months away from ministry and more ordered days for my lifestyle to have even a remote shot at recovery. Well, now I had it. I had preached my final sermon as pastor of my little flock in Douglasville and the calendar was ceremoniously clean and sterile. As such, I could attack this little issue free of any other expectations and tug-o-wars. God was proving faithful yet again.

The day after my ‘booster shot’ my blood sugar fell below 100 but the next day it rebounded to the mid-300s. A call to my doctor assured me this was expected. Void of alarm, his soothing tone could calm a coon dog bawling at his treed prey!

The next couple of weeks proved to be the proverbial calm before the storm. Sange and I were positively giddy about the coming holiday weeks. She had taken two vacation weeks in November around Thanksgiving and the first weekend of November we were being treated to a freebie weekend at a 5-star hotel in Huntsville, one of our favorite cities in the southeast.

Under such warm and oozy feelings, we piled into the van on October 31^st and made for a special night out, not wanting to be around the house for the evening’s inevitable trick-or-treaters. We both love Italian and while we have other more favorite Italian restaurants, the Italian Oven on the East-West Connector, a half hour from our house, isn’t bad.

We were served that night by a “witch” complete with black fingernails, lipstick and eye-dark. Gratefully, she wasn’t practicing but just dressing for the occasion. Even still, well…just, even still.

I ordered the lasagna, or as I like to say: “lazzag-na” (pretending to be a redneck; Sange just loves when I do that), and several bites in, lost my appetite. I knew that my stomach had shrunk because the Lord had given me grace to push away from the table the previous months, but this was different. I literally quit after about three bites. Sandy was not alarmed as she had been “proud” of me for aggressively competing against my hypothalamus and chalked it up to discipline.

As we climbed back into the van, my precious asked me to take her to the Hobby Lobby craft store behind the restaurant so she could see if there might be new stock for the upcoming holidays. I elected to stay in the van and listen to the Georgia Bulldog game on the radio.

“How long do I have?” Sandy asked as she jumped out of the van.

“As long as you need, baby,” I told her. She waved and smiled and I turned on the radio.

The radio did not stay on long as Florida was rolling up the points and hammering my ‘Dawgs to the ever-loving turf. ‘Nuff of that. The sky turned granite-gray and there was only a slight chill in the air. Very slight. But I suddenly got a little frigid inside the van. I started the engine and turned on the heater full-blast. It helped, but then the symptoms of a urinary tract infection began following one after another like cars on a choo-choo train.

My head began to turn ill and “sparkly” (kind of like being dizzy).

I started to dry-heave.

Feverish.

Chills.

Clammy sweat.

I reached for my cell phone and dialed Sandy. She had only been in the store for about a half hour but when I told her I was feeling very ill and we may need to head home, she left her purchases behind and was out the door. She is my angel.

We mercifully got home and I made a beeline for the bedroom. It was Saturday, so I’d have to wait 36 hours before I could get in touch with my doctor. The best thing I could do now was get in bed, take some flu medicine and sleep. Sometimes when I get hit with it, I could be better by the next morning. Other times, a few days.

When I laid my sick body (I didn’t have a clue how sick) on my low-air loss mattress, I had no inkling that I would not leave it until the next Sunday—and then in an ambulance.

I would not eat another meal for the next eight weeks.

There was no way I could have known then, but the road—the real road prescribed for me—had just gotten a whole lot harder.

And deadlier.

Far too many in the professing church today are hoping in a false security for all their eternal wants and wishes. Because they prayed a prayer, lifted a hand at a pastor’s behest during an invitation or filled out a decision card, they feel they are “in” and that’s all there is to it. There is no coming under the reign of Christ. They live as they good and well please. The Gospel of Heaven has replaced the Gospel of the Reign of Christ in the modern church.

When John the Baptist came preaching an “at-hand” Kingdom of Heaven, it was clear to him that a characteristic of a Kingdom citizen was one who was continually brought under the Lordship of the Son, the King of that Kingdom, Jesus the Christ.

“He must increase; I must decrease.”
(John 3:30)

The interesting thing about that passage is its Greek construction. The first phrase is a present active reality. “He must be increasing.” Simply put, the Baptizer knew this about the Kingdom economy: its citizens MUST be seen flourishing in the Life of Christ and He must be seen thriving and thrumming in them. The Good News is, this is not something we can work up on our own.

In the second phrase, the mood switches to the passive, morphing the words into these: “I must be BEING decreased.” I cannot break myself nor can I bring holiness to myself. It is the Lord’s doing.

Be forewarned. Those who would follow Christ are ripe for the anvil since we are all rife with self. Paul of the Damascus Road once shouted with his reed: “That I may know Him and the power of His resurrection (He must increase) and the fellowship of His suffering (I must be being decreased)…”

And still, still after years of hammering and hurting, scraping and scouring, being cast down, cast out and cast off, this hearty old apostle could say at the end of his days it had been “a good fight.” How can you kill a man who’s already dead?

When young Gypsy made Christ Lord of all His Life, it stuck. He made it his life’s pursuit to know Christ.

Eternal life is not gained by the mere lifting of a hand but with a life that abides in His Love (John 17:3). And it is a restful abiding, to be sure. Our work is only to yield (though that seems like hard labor in a prison yard at times as self is so unrelenting!). But His work is to deliver us all the way from Egypt and to Promise.

And one day, maybe a few hundred miles from this moment, or just a few perhaps, may we also turn to a would-be inquirer with glowing face and smiling eyes and give witness to a life well lived.

A life that, by God’s needful grace, never loses the wonder.

REVIVAL is a work of God among Christians bringing them to…

…conviction
         …repentance
                       …confession
                                     …restitution
                                                   …reconciliation
                                                                       …separation from the world

AND

…submission to the Lordship of Jesus Christ.

(Vance Havner)

Closed quote.

If this is indeed what stipulates genuine revival…then…

(And I think you know where I am going with this)

Dare we not fall upon our faces right now? Confessing, Repenting, Mourning, and Getting off the Throne?

Should we not be appealing to God for kindness which leads to repentance?

Should we not be pining for a holy wind to stir the flames of passion within?

Is love abated?

Are the embers turning to ash?

He has charged us to buy gold, refined in the fire. What could this possibly mean? Remember, the Laodiceans boasted of their riches and self-sufficiency (Rev. 3:17). They arrogantly strutted atop the pedestal of prosperity, deceived by the wealth they rolled around in, seeing it as God’s favor all the while pushing Him to the outer margins of their existence. They blindly played at religion and made a good living at it.

Their All-Knowing Judge saw it differently:

“You stink with poverty.”

“Your Sunday best cannot hide your indulgences and adulteries.”

“You no longer look to Me and I have removed light from your eyes.”

“You’ve turned sour in My stomach.”

But there was grace even for them. Yeshua called them to seek—to ask for, to eagerly want!—a crisis in their fellowship. Such crisis as would lead to purity, transformation and a baptism of renewed Love! He said, “I counsel you to BUY FROM ME gold, refined by fire…” The word translated ‘counsel’ means to partner with, agree with…to come to the same conclusion! He’s telling them, in essence, There’s no other way…

But to trust and obey. 

“Buy from Me?” Just how was that possible? He had just told them they were POOR. With what currency could this transaction be completed?

You must let Me place you in the furnace.

No God, anything but that! we say.

It’s the only way, Child.

You will never learn to Love Me until all of self is abandoned. Until then, there will always be an obtrusive challenger for My affections… 

Now…

This is going to hurt…

But I love you too much to let you go away. Remember My promise to never leave you?

It’s still binding, even in this horrible, beautiful place.

I know the flames scare you. But those very flames are your freedom.

And you want to be free…

Don’t you?

Two men.

Both sinned against the Lord on the exact same night.

Both betrayed Christ.

Both repented.

Only one was justified.

The other penitent soul went straight to hell.

Yikes. Are you listening?

Of course we are talking about Judas Iscariot and his fellow disciple, Simon who was called Peter. Judas betrayed Christ for some coins, striking the necessary spark for Christ’s crucifixion. One gospeler says of the devilish disciple (John 6:70)—the only disciple from Judah—that satan entered into him, so we know this follower of Christ (at least geographically) was possessed by satan himself on that fateful night (John 13:27). Under cover of night, of both the natural and supernatural kind, Judas went out at the direction of Christ (John 13:27) and set in motion the night of all nights.

Judas’ betrayal was sealed with a kiss.

Sifted Simon had his part in the cosmic drama as well. After Jesus had been taken, he followed the retinue of soldiers and the shackled Messiah to the home of the high priest where the Christ was bloodied and bullied all night long. Outside, in the courtyard, Simon was confronted three different times, twice by two different “girls” (Matthew 26:69,71) who were able to expose his weak-kneed faith.

You remember Peter, don’t you? Upstairs? In the Hall of the Last Supper? Yeah, that’s him: loudly heralding his undying commitment and willingness to die alongside Jesus if called upon to do so. And see all the disciples around him? Well, Judas had already fled into the night, but the rest were adding their amens and hallelujahs, each stepping forward and volunteering for the King’s Army of Martyrdom.

Now some scant hours later, Peter-the-spokesman, is tragically and pathetically calling down curses on himself and others if he had had as much as a passing relationship with this Man who called Himself Messiah. The final betrayal, a string of words that would make any salty fisherman proud, was met with the loud and soulful wail of a rooster as it crowed. Or perhaps it was a soldier’s bugle, sounding out “cock-crow.” It didn’t matter. Whether from metal or animal, as far as the future Apostle was concerned, it was surely his death-knell. He must have covered his ears, squeezed his eyes shut and fallen to the earth waiting for the inevitable lightning strike.

I like what Adam Clarke says about this alarming detail:

This animal becomes, in the hand of God, the instrument of awaking the fallen apostle, at last, to a sense of his fall, danger, and duty. When abandoned of God, the smallest thing may become the occasion of a fall; and, when in the hand of God, the smallest matter may become the instrument of our restoration. Let us never think lightly of what are termed little sins: the smallest one has the seed of eternal ruin in it. Let us never think contemptibly of the feeblest means of grace: each may have the seed of eternal salvation in it. Let us ever remember that the great Apostle Peter fell through fear of a servant maid, and rose through the crowing of a cock.

While Judas’ betrayal was sealed with a kiss, Peter’s was sealed with something much more potent: the eyes of Jesus.

That’s right. No sooner were the self-damning words out of his mouth, was Peter caught by the sight of His Lord, beaten bloody, black and blue, shuffling down the courtyard steps between two burly, irascible soldiers. Although the event was witnessed by a growing crowd, the Savior’s swollen, tear-stained eyes locked onto the backwater fisherman from Galilee.

And Peter wept. Bitterly.

Let me explain what those words mean. The English makes it sound like he quietly cried into his hands off in a corner somewhere, but the Greek paints a far different picture. The words Matthew used are literally translated “wailed violently.” He convulsed. Spasms of sorrow sent shudders through his being. The dude was broken to bits! His cry alerted the entire crowd he belonged to Messiah and he didn’t care whether they took and tortured him or not.

No, Peter was so broken by his sin his guttural, throat-shredding cry was a vote for Jesus. I don’t care what you do to me, it said, I just cannot break my Lord’s heart!

What was Judas’ response? Yes, he repented (Matthew 27:3), but the word used to describe his condition three verses after Peter’s public display was “to feel remorse.” That’s a bit different from “wept bitterly” don’t you think? Judas, no doubt, cried and felt horrible about his sin of betrayal, but it only took him so far. He wanted the godforsaken process to stop which is why he returned to the Temple to give the money back, but it was too late.

Judas even confessed his sin (v4). Publicly! So, what’s the deal? Why is Judas in hell today and why did Jesus refer to him as the “son of perdition”? (John 17:12) According to Paul’s teaching about repentance, there must be remorse but only when it is “godly” (re: toward God) will it LEAD to repentance (2 Corinthians 7:10). Judas did not repent to God or, more specifically, go back to Jesus (God!) and express his sorrow and seek His forgiveness, but he felt an inner regret, a hopeless destiny, and right to the very end, called the shots of his own life by choosing to kill himself.

He had a serious case of “worldly sorrow” of which the fruits are hardness, despair, bitterness and death. Godly sorrow leading to repentance brings life, peace, hope and renewal. Fast-forward now and take a look at the flip-side disciple. Peter’s got the floor now, preaching his heart out on Pentecost Sunday, and thousands are repenting.

Less than two months earlier he was wailing, trembling, shaking and shouting violently. Look at him now: peaceful as a lamb, full of joy and the Spirit of God. Totally transformed.

Two men. Two choices. Two destinies.

Now how important do you think this matter of repentance really is?

I’ve been waiting for the question that hasn’t come. But it will, I’m sure of it. 

“Scott, aren’t you even a tad jealous that Kevin Everett will likely retrieve all his bodily functions and mobility after suffering a potentially grave spinal cord injury?”

This is going to sound weird, I know, but Kevin should be jealous of me.  Hear me out.  Kevin Everett is the tight end for the Buffalo Bills who sustained a near-crippling injury while making a tackle in Sunday’s NFL season opener.  He launched at his opponent, driving his helmet into the player’s chest and immediately crumpled to the ground.  Early indications were that he would be paralyzed for life, his career in football over in seconds.  Twenty-four hours later we were hearing he was voluntarily moving his arms and legs and his doctors were hopeful even of a full recovery and return to normal life.

Two roads, he and I, with two patently different outcomes.

When I blew a gust of relieved air with the rest of America, I steeled my mind on the truth of God’s sovereignty.  One man’s miracle is another man’s blessing.  Sure, the enemy was there with his typical suggestions: “…it’s not fair, is it, Scott?  You didn’t get the same break, did you?  God is so cruel!  I’ve been listening to your prayers for your own healing for almost 26 years now…and what?  Nothing.  Still stuck in that wheelchair!  And you’re a, what, preacher of the Gospel?  You’d think your Father would look out for you…” 

But I sit here, clacking away at these keys, a blessed man!

(Nice try, Slewfoot.)

The fact I am in a wheelchair does not mean I have not been healed.  Oh, I have, believe me!  My paralysis is a pathway to glory and I am resting in the knowledge that my Maker has set me apart for a privileged season in His sun.  He’s given me a break.  You want to know Me?  Your brokenness is the essential way.  The same Apostle who said his own suffering was working for him an eternal weight of glory, said that in the life to come some will shine like the sun, some like the moon and others like the stars in glory.  I’m after the former.

I am thrilled for Mr. Everett but I wouldn’t trade my journey for anything.  Years ago I picked up a copy of Jerry Bridges’ Trusting God Even When Life Hurts and found in its pages the answer to my soul’s questions and even now, years later, find myself referring to its basic tenets time and again.  Mr. Bridges says that God is sovereign, meaning He can do whatever He wants because He is God.  He says He is also all-wise and His children can draw comfort from the fact that while God can do whatever He wants, He knows exactly what He is doing.  Everything He does has purpose.  The third truth pouring from its pages is that God is all-loving.  Ah, this is the most comforting unguent of all!  While God does as He chooses, He always does it in view of His own glory, and always, always, for our eternal good.

This is the God of my life and I am determined to follow Him through every vale of sorrow, every mile of struggle, and every season of loss and despair.  I can do this because the broken road is the blessed road and my Savior walks it with me.  Had feeling been restored to me on October 3, 1981 (the day “after”) and the next 26 years been “normal” for me, I have some doubt whether I would have known the Lord as intimately as I do tonight.  Perhaps yes, perhaps no.  I leave even that to His sovereignty.

I praise the God who sits on the circle of the earth, over those who walk and those who don’t.  Over those who succumb to disease and those who get well.  Over those who serve Him and those who shake their fists at Him.  Makes no difference.  He is Lord.

One last thing.  There was a time when I could sit down (well, of course I’d be sitting!) and write song after song.  Interesting that it was in the early years of my disability and I probably wrote three dozen tunes.  One of the songs that flowed out of my belly pretty much sums up how I feel about these matters.  Mind you, the lyrics were written over 25 years ago and they show some youth, but they are just as real for me today as they were in the early 80′s.  To the praise of His glorious grace!  

HE KNOWS WHAT’S BEST FOR ME

I know I can’t walk around and at times it gets me down
But He knows and I’m kept by Jesus’ love
There’s so many things I’d like to do
Run a race and win one too
But He knows and that’s enough for me 

He knows how much my spirit can stand
He’s so concerned for my good
He is so wise and He hears all my cries
He knows what’s best for me

Sometimes it’s hard to pray when He seems so far away
But He’s there and He’s listening to my heart
He reaches down in love
From His heavenly throne above
‘Cause He knows what I need the very most

And when my life is done
And my crown of life is won
Then I’ll know my pain was worth it all…

It’s my guess that the question I’m still waiting for won’t come after you read this.  Oh, one more thing.  Please don’t think I am being haughty and patting myself on the back.  The truest thing I know is this: none of this comes from me.  Only God could take a broken man’s life and give it meaning and rhyme. 

And Father knows best.

–First century parable from the lips of Jesus

Long about noon on Saturday a father and son will meet in a giant bear hug far from the horizon that once separated them.  And Mom will be there too, just the right touch needed to make a three-corded strand.  Perceptive onlookers might catch a glimpse of something arcane and otherworldly in this simple tapestry: a family wrapped, cinched and secured in the keeping power of the Strong-Armed One.  I’d call that an unbreakable family bond.

The son is, at long last, coming home.  Gone will be the rags and fetters of the far country and, though the memories of depravity and hellishness will linger, the air will be gloriously cleared of the demons that enslaved and harrassed. 

I noticed a subtle nuance about that story this afternoon.  I found in my Bible, the NASB’s translation of Luke 15:32 to be, “this brother of yours was dead and has begun to live…”  The translators took the verb anazoo and made the distinction in it’s aorist tense that a process or action has begun that, if it continues, will certainly end in a completed action or effect. 

That’s pretty technical sounding so let me dumb it down for you and me.  When I have told others of our son’s return, I (a) do not refer to Graham as a “prodigal” because he no longer wears that moniker by the grace of our Lord, and (b) advise them not to expect our boy to exude an ethereal glow and matching halo.  The boy has begun to breathe again the new air of the liberty by which Christ has set him free.  He is just now beginning to lay hold of that for which Christ has taken hold of him. 

Like me (and you), he will not have “arrived”.  He might break our hearts again.  (I sure wish there was a verse 33 in that chapter so we could see how it plays out six weeks, six months or six years from the banquet!)  He might revert.  I pray not, for the scriptural phrase “a dog returning to its vomit” is not such a good thing.  It’s deadly, in fact. 

All we have is today. 

And 15:20.

And verse 32.

And that’s got Mom and me giddy from the word go.

And go we will.  To meet our son on a hillside of grace, restoration, reconciliation and…

JUBILEE!      

Finally, let me end with this captivating story found in Philip Yancey’s book, What’s So Amazing About Grace?  The details might not mirror ours exactly and while it is about a young girl rather than a teenaged boy, you’ll see why I’ve done it.

A young girl grows up on a cherry orchard just above Traverse City, Michigan. Her parents, a bit old- fashioned, tend to overreact to her nose ring, the music she listens to, and the length of her skirts. They ground her a few times, and she seethes inside. “I hate you!” she screams at her father when he knocks on the door of her room after an argument, and that night she acts on a plan she has mentally rehearsed scores of times. She runs away.

She has visited Detroit only once before, on a bus trip with her church youth group to watch the Tigers play. Because newspapers in Traverse City report in lurid detail the gangs, the drugs, and the violence in downtown Detroit, she concludes that is probably the last place her parents will look for her. California, maybe, or Florida, but not Detroit.

Her second day there she meets a man who drives the biggest car she’s ever seen. He offers her a ride, buys her lunch, arranges a place for her to stay. He gives her some pills that make her feel better than she’s ever felt before. She was right all along, she decides: her parents were keeping her from all the fun.

The good life continues for a month, two months, a year. The man with the big car–she calls him “Boss”– teaches her a few things that men like. She lives in a penthouse, and orders room service whenever she wants. Occasionally she thinks about the folks back home, but their lives now seem so boring and provincial that she can hardly believe she grew up there.

She has a brief scare when she sees her picture printed on the back of a milk carton with the headline “Have you seen this child?” But by now she has blond hair, and with all the makeup and body-piercing jewelry she wears, nobody would mistake her for a child. Besides, most of her friends are runaways, and nobody squeals in Detroit.

After a year the first sallow signs of illness appear, and it amazes her how fast the boss turns mean. “These days, we can’t mess around,” he growls, and before she knows it she’s out on the street without a penny to her name. When winter blows in she finds herself sleeping on metal grates outside the big department stores. “Sleeping” is the wrong word–a teenage girl at night in down town Detroit can never relax her guard. Dark bands circle her eyes. Her cough worsens.

One night as she lies awake listening for footsteps, all of a sudden everything about her life looks different. She no longer feels like a woman of the world. She feels like a little girl, lost in a cold and frightening city. She begins to whimper. Her pockets are empty and she’s hungry. She needs a fix. She pulls her legs tight underneath her and shivers under the newspapers she’s piled atop her coat. Something jolts a synapse of memory and a single image fills her mind: of May in Traverse City, when a million cherry trees bloom at once, with her golden retriever dashing through the rows and rows of blossomy trees in chase of a tennis ball.

God, why did I leave, she says to herself, and pain stabs at her heart. My dog back home eats better than I do now. She’s sobbing, and she knows in a flash that more than anything else in the world she wants to go home.Three straight phone calls, three straight connections with the answering machine. She hangs up without leaving a message the first two times, but the third time she says, “Dad, Mom, it’s me. I was wondering about maybe coming home. I’m catching a bus up your way, and it’ll get there about midnight tomorrow. If you’re not there, well, I guess I’ll just stay on the bus until it hits Canada.”

It takes about seven hours for a bus to make all the stops between Detroit and Traverse City, and during that time she realizes the flaws in her plan. What if her parents are out of town and miss the message? Shouldn’t she have waited another day or so until she could talk to them? And even if they are home, they probably wrote her off as dead long ago. She should have given them some time to overcome the shock.

Her thoughts bounce back and forth between those worries and the speech she is preparing for her father. “Dad, I’m sorry. I know I was wrong. It’s not your fault; it’s all mine. Dad, can you forgive me?” She says the words over and over, her throat tightening even as she rehearses them. She hasn’t apologized to anyone in years.

The bus has been driving with the lights on since Bay City. Tiny snowflakes hit the pavement rubbed worn by thousands of tires, and the asphalt steams. She’s forgotten how dark it gets at night out here. A deer darts across the road and the bus swerves. Every so often, a billboard. A sign posting the mileage to Traverse City. Oh, God.

When the bus finally rolls into the station, its air brakes hissing in protest, the driver announces in a crackly voice over the microphone, “Fifteen minutes, folks. That’s all we have here.” Fifteen minutes to decide her life. She checks herself in a compact mirror, smoothes her hair, and licks the lipstick off her teeth. She looks at the tobacco stains on her fingertips, and wonders if her parents will notice. If they’re there.

She walks into the terminal not knowing what to expect. Not one of the thousand scenes that have played out in her mind prepare her for what she sees. There, in the concrete-walls-and-plastic-chairs bus terminal in Traverse City, Michigan, stands a group of forty brothers and sisters and great-aunts and uncles and cousins and a grandmother and great-grandmother to boot. They’re all wearing goofy party hats and blowing noise-makers, and taped across the entire wall of the terminal is a computer-generated banner that reads “Welcome home!”

Out of the crowd of well-wishers breaks her dad. She stares out through the tears quivering in her eyes like hot mercury and begins the memorized speech, “Dad, I’m sorry. I know…”

He interrupts her. “Hush, child. We’ve got no time for that. No time for apologies. You’ll be late for the party. A banquet’s waiting for you at home.”  

Here’s to new beginnings, new hope (thanks, New Hope Academy!) and 15:20.