Today I propose we do a little what if-ing. Let’s “what-if?” the story that contains the prodigal son. It pretty much leaves us with some open-ended questions, I know.
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. Continue reading Father’s Day From A Prodigal’s Perspective
When Jesus entered Jerusalem amid the cries of “Liberate us! Rescue us! Now! Today!” He once again zigged when mob mentality preferred He zag and have done with it. Our Savior who was there when beasts of burden were created, gently nudged the animal on which He was riding to go right when all of the Passover throng urged Him left.
Had He gone left, the road would have taken Him to the Fortress of Antonias, the residence of Pilate who was then governor of Judea. You can almost imagine the egress of humanity as it parted to give their conquering king leeway to lead the revolution Rome-ward. Get Rome out of our Home! signs, if there were such, would say. The waving of palm branches and the rubbing of palms would intermingle buoyed by the hoots and hollers of antsy renegades long tired of Gentile occupation.
But He turned right instead.
“Wha–?”
“What the–?”
“Where’s He going? Jesus! Jesus! Wrong way!”
“Left!”
“Left, we say!”
But the butt end of a donkey spoke volumes. Its right flank told the fed-up malcontents that this King may not be their king after all. Where was He going?Oh wait, I know, some thought. Optimism rising: He’s gonna do a victory lap around the city BEFORE He rides into the jaws of Gentile dominion. But they were wrong.
Gently coaxing the beast onward through the thickening atmosphere of suspicion and burgeoning alarm, the Teacher wended His way past the curious and the quietened. Mouths were hanging open and palm branches drooped, tips touching the stone and sand of the city. Whispers carried over the tops of heads and more than a few voices raised in faltered protest, still not exactly sure what this quasi-king was up to.
The Temple. Oh, sure, He needs to go into the Temple for a blessing before He confronts the enemy. So they thought.
The outer court of the Temple proper was filled with turtledoves, pigeons, lambs and rams. Moneychangers had their booths set up all over the area and as Jesus dismounted, a strange and deadly fire billowed in His eyes. He looked upon the carnivalian sight with disgust and wasted little time finding some cords with which to fashion whips. If no one had been watching and wondering up until now, they were certainly doing just that in this moment. What was He going to do? Wait! The whips must be for the backs of the oppressors!
Hardly.
With zeal no one had seen until this time, the Christ’s arms flashed out tentacles of cord against the backs of the moneylenders and court shysters. The tips never touched animal flesh but how they snaked and bit into the cloth and skin of those who were turning this sacred ground into their operations of greed and blasphemy. How the Son of Man whirled in furious passion, a blur of blazing authority! Howling out protests agains such unrequited insolence, these merchants of mayhem ran for the exits and straight into the waiting arms of the planners of the carpenter’s demise.
Fast forward several days.
Pilate stands before the mob, irritated and incredulous at their fickleness. How could the same people who lauded and applauded this pitiful Man a few days earlier now want His blood to run down the sewers of the city? Can anyone figure out these lunatics? He called for a man named Jesus to be brought forward, a terrorist imprisoned for atrocities against Roman soldiers. Standing him beside another Man named Jesus, he said:
“Which Jesus do you want?”
You see, One Jesus had said to anyone who would listen for three years that He had come from His Father and most if not all knew exactly what He meant. He was saying quite literally He was the sent-One from God, God in human flesh, the One this nation had been waiting for, prophesied for centuries, and He was here, now.
The other Jesus was one who spoke their language and gave them exactly what they wanted. Few know his first name was Jesus but most know him as Bar-abbas, translated: the son of his father, and both stood side by side before the world, as it were, and, except for a shockingly small number, most chose the one who would give them immediate satisfaction. They wanted the freedom-fighter, not the Giver of Freedom. They wanted the one who whipped the Romans, not the Jews.
And so Jesus was tried, convicted and crucified. All because He turned right instead of left.
There are so many ways to take this but I want to submit that much of what is called the church today, had it been living in that era, would, I fear, blend into that fickle mob, choosing a left-turn Jesus rather than a right-turn Lord. Many do not want a Supreme King to reign over them but they are fired-up silly for a God who will give them what they want.
Peter himself, in a fit of schizonphrenia, told Jesus to turn left just weeks from Passion week, way up in the foothills of Mt. Hermon near Caesarea Philippi (see Matt. 16:21-22). Jesus told the disciples ahead of time which way He would turn, but Peter said, “NO! Not on my watch You won’t!” You see, Peter couldn’t stand the thought of Jesus dying—for a variety of reasons, some of them subtle, some not-so. I think that the impulsive fisherman innately knew Jesus’ death meant his own would surely follow.
That’s the church, or at least what passes for the church today. We want left, left, left! But Jesus is turning right. See Him? And if we are His people, we need to go that way too.
Must Jesus bear the cross alone And all the world go free? No, there’s a cross for everyone And there’s a cross for me.
The consecrated cross I’ll bear Till death shall set me free; And then go home my crown to wear For there’s a crown for me!
This post inspired by David Pawson’s teaching, “The Uniqueness of Christ”
So I was thinking all the way through south Georgia yesterday afternoon. Actually, the ghost of my “old man” spooked me a couple times this week. Earlier in the week someone close to me spoke a hard word into my life and my self went into self-defense mode immediately. I wouldn’t even take it to the Lord to see if this was Him. I knew it wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Not from this person. Flames shot from the orbs of my eyes and smoke billowed from flared nostrils. I told my wife about it and promptly opened the screen of my laptop intending to write them the mother of all emails.
“Don’t do it, Scott,” the Holy Spirit warned.
How strange that He looks a lot like Sandy, I thought to myself.
“If you can’t support me, then leave!” I commanded Him (her).
“I’m telling you, you’ll regret it.”
“No I won’t. Now leave me alone!”
Out she walked. I fumed. Pecking out a string of words, I could feel the evil rise up in me. A mirror of sorts materialized and I saw my old self grinning devilishly, egging me on. Oh, he’ll pay, it said. And you will feel so much better. That gave inspiration for another phrase or two and yet another niggling unsettledness prompting me to go “Pac-Man” on them with my backspace key. Y’ever get so mad you don’t know who you’re mad at? That’s the place I was in. Although I never sent the email my mirrored image was dying for me to send, my heart was wrong. And the anger only festered. Yeah, I ‘obeyed’ the Spirit, but there was no life in it. The Lord had me dead to rights and was setting me up.
I suppose that ire was bubbling away inside me still as I came upon the shaved-headed so-and-so in the red car outside of Tifton, Georgia yesterday afternoon. He was in the left lane and traveling slower than Christmas so I flashed him. Immediately I saw his fist go to the air and watched it sprout a middle digit. About this time, Sandy looked up from her book when she heard me snort. Just in time, I add ruefully, to see the middle finger and me hitched to his rear bumper. It was then she looked over at me and gave me the finger, albeit with her stare.
“What are you doing?”
“I want this…this…JERK to get out of the way. Can you believe him?” my voice shrilled, looking for sympathy from my beloved.
Alas, there was none.
“Stop it, Scott!”
“What?!?” I could see immediately it was going to be my issue.
“Slow down, you’re going to get us all killed!”
“All? I think this bozo needs to die.” The words came out like toothpaste from a tube. Too late.
Sandy went back to her book. I sulked. I fumed. God bided His time. No one was speaking, not for the longest time. I’d turn to God in my thoughts with a C’mon, give me a break! Can’t you see how crappy this week has been? And I’m the innocent one in all this, but I could feel Him looking down at whatever He was reading too.
A few hours ago, the Lord summoned me. They were the first words I’d heard Him speak in my direction for some time, so I was glad. What I didn’t know was He had opened the door to a woodshed and invited me in. I was so delighted with the attention I gaited merrily inside, thinking it’s about time. I opened my journal and began pouring out my heart to him, defending myself from the get go, reminding Him I was His man and this must be persecution and all that. Instantly, He went into silent mode again. I wasn’t listening. I was doing all the talking and defending, so He quietly shut the door behind Him and cleared His throat.
I stopped. Looking around, I could tell I didn’t like this room at all. Then I had the strange sensation I’d been here before. Many times. I sat still as a stone, knowing I’d best listen as what I was about to hear was going to be the answer to my cry for so long: Lord, whatever is in me that needs to die, painful as it is, do it. Do me, Lord!
The one thing about God, He doesn’t tap dance very often. Mostly, He gets right to the point.
“You were wrong, Scott.”
“You mean, the other day? Well, I know I was yesterday. But, Lord…”
“You were wrong. I sent My servant to tell you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“If you continue to reject his word, you reject Me.”
He told me I was to write this person, humiliating myself in the process, telling him I was wrong, he was right and (gulp) asking his forgiveness. He also told me what to say, no more, no less. But still I found a way to obey God and get an old man ‘dig’ in as well. That should do it, I thought somewhat satisfactorily. I wanted to save a little face at least, to hold onto some measure of dignity. Ah, but that’s the stuff of self.
(There you are, you old codger. I thought you were dead.)
“Take that out,” the Lord said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Yes, Lord.” And I took it out.
Did it hurt to do it? Oh my, and how. But I could never want to be on the other side of God’s holiness. The woodshed is as far as I want to ever go. Funny thing how it is also such a grace-filled room. There’s some real one-on-one attention in the woodshed, some real heart-to hearts in there.
Even still, I think I’ll steer clear of it for awhile, thank you very much.
