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all roads lead to jesus: an easter meditation

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. My theological sensibilities are well aware the title is misleading, but hear me out.

I was once in a coffee shop talking to someone who had a convoluted idea of religion. At one point he illustrated the road to salvation as being many. He waved his arm and said everyone sitting in the coffee shop at that time had come from different directions, on different roads, and by different means. “But we all got here just the same. It’s the same when it comes to ‘heaven’ (finger quotes). As long as our goal is to get to heaven, God will make sure we get there. And as long as the person is sincere and does good, no matter what religion or god they believe in, we all make it across the finish line. That’s how I see it.”

No, this post is not touting that. Not by a long shot.

Number one, our goal isn’t heaven, it’s Jesus. And it takes Jesus to get to Jesus. All roads may get you to Rome but only one gets us to the Savior.

Pssst…there is no number two.

This piece has more to do with the many kinds of struggles each of us have in our stories and, regardless of how deep and dark and devilish they may be, we can equally find the mercy of Christ that draws us to himself.

When you open Book 5 of the Psalms you immediately encounter a hymn to the steadfast love of God. It imagines a vast throng of the redeemed “gathered in” from all the cardinal points on a compass (Psa 107:3) to “their desired haven” (v30). It’s the only time “haven” is found in the Hebrew text, denoting a harbor or a safe place. We might call it a refuge.

They all come in curious ways. Some get there crawling, still more on hands and knees, many on their last gasp, and others with the stink of filth all over them. And how did they come to God’s encampment of grace? The *rest* (pun intended) of the chapter outlines it for us:

▪️ “Some wandered in from desert wastes” (v4)

Demoniac. Maniac. Boogeyman. He’s all kinds of crazy and you want nothing to do with him. Let him howl out there in the hinterlands, but make sure your doors are locked at night. Stories about him made children want to crawl into bed with their parents. He’s so bad the devil named him himself (Mark 5:9).

“Legion.”

One demon made him cut himself, another made him foam. Others made him curse and howl and rage against the light. Legion. Thousands. Who knows how many? Some of the demons gave him power to break his shackles. Stand clear of this, this…well, you couldn’t call him a man, could you? More like animal.

Easter comes for these guys too. There he stood, Light and Love, right in front of Legion. Walked right up to him. Sat down on a rock across from him. To everyone else, the creature was scary bad but to Jesus, he was a dying soul in need of a living Savior.

The power of the Man! No, not Legion. Jesus. The first thing he did was address the head demon; made him talk, tell him his name, beg for mercy. Think on this: the scariest demon inside this man crumpled at the voice of Jesus. Once he and his defeated army of demons left the pitiful creature, Jesus turned his attention to the man with eyes, undoubtedly, filled with compassion.

Just like that, the man was free.

Hear the gospel: no one, but no one – absolutely no one – is beyond the merciful reach of Jesus.

▪️ “Some…had been sitting in darkness and deep gloom” (Psa 107:10)

Mary Magdalene, the first witness of the Christ’s resurrection, came to the Easter story out of the dark dystopia of demonic possession (Luke 8:2). Seven demons crippled her soul and out of that gloomy dungeon of despair she found redemption and holy worth.

He brought [her] out of darkness and the shadow of death,
and burst [her] bonds apart.
(v14)

There was a day Jesus came to visit her at her tomb of despair and just before the first light of dawn on Sunday morning, she came to visit him at his. Mary wasn’t expecting to see what happened next, but she was the very first one to see it. She, a woman of questionable pedigree, was the first person to speak to newly-raised Messiah.

The event that was prophesied as early as Eden had an audience of one lone woman. Easter can sound pretty strange to the uninformed, but to the rest of us it makes all the sense in the world.

▪️ “Some were wrecked and ruined by a foolishly sinful life” (v17)

Jesus was being hosted at a dinner party (“party” being generous) when a woman stepped off the street and came into the dining area. Every man in the room sucked in air except Jesus. This unwashed woman was a known adulteress (Luke 7:39). Luke, who’s not disposed to hyperbole, used a label for her describing a whole other category of sinner. His particular word infers the woman has probably been condemned already by the synagogue and cast out, probably for adultery, or that she is perhaps a known prostitute.

Easter came early to her broken soul as Christ’s love resurrected her out of her corruption. The old hymn says,

“nothing in my hands I bring, simply to the cross I cling.“

This woman had nothing in her hands but she clung to the feet of Jesus, weeping with joy and gratitude and kissing his feet nonstop. She unbundled her hair and used her locks to dry the Savior’s feet.

Jesus didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed at the display. He remained in place, affording her the worship of humanly outlandish proportion. But it could never be enough for her lavishly forgiven heart. Love Incarnate elevated her to sit with him in heavenly places while pious Simon and his judgy buddies were left to deal with their own hardened and condemned hearts.

▪️ “Some because of desperate conditions and terrifying calamities” (Psa 107:23-27)

We call him “Blind Bartimaeus” (Mark 10:46). “Son of Timothy.” That’s like calling me “Tom Mitchell‘s crippled son.” There he was, just outside Jericho, fifteen miles from Jerusalem. He is sitting there with his begging blanket, the cloak used to catch coins tossed in his direction. Suddenly he hears a great noise, a crowd of people cheering and laughing. He’s blind and pathetic so he doesn’t know quite what’s going on but he’s making out some words from the onlookers.

Above the din, his voice is miraculously transported to the ears of Jesus.

“SON OF DAVID, HAVE MERCY ON ME!”

Jesus stopped dead in his tracks. Like the woman on an earlier road hemorrhaging blood, when Jesus knew someone in the crowd had touched him. Well, yeah, Master, everybody’s touching you! You are in a crowd of people pressing in on you! No, Jesus says, not everyone. Someone.

Here too, on this day, among a cacophony of voices, Jesus heard the one. A shipwrecked soul. A drowning man.

“Bring him to me.”

This had never happened to him before. Someone became interested in “blind son of Timothy.”

“He is calling for you.”

Not “son of Timothy” but you. You matter to him. You stopped him dead in his tracks. You will be his last miracle before the cross.

At once the man “sprang” from his prized beggar’s plot, leaving his cloak with coins behind him. Suddenly, Jesus became more important to him than those alms in his blanket. Nevertheless he left it all behind … simply because Jesus called for him (Mark 10:49-50).

Not all roads lead to eternal life. But all roads, especially the hard ones, can lead you to Jesus. It’s through Jesus, who is the Resurrection and the Life, we come to the end of our roads and finally make it home.

Some through the fire
Some through the flood
Some through great trials
But all through the blood.
Some through great sorrow
But God gives a song
In the night season and all day long.”

– George A. Young, God Leads Us Along, 1903

I’m reflecting this Easter season on the many paths of pain that have led me to Jesus. Not just disability, but a host of others. I’ve faced ruin and I’ve been broken up into pieces against the shore more than a few times.

There’s a lot of ugly in my story and things I’d rather not tell you about. Things that took me right up to the rabbit hole and might’ve pushed me over and disappeared me forever – save for the grace of God. I’ve dragged through trackless wastes and crawled on desert floors.

Fire, flood, great trials, you name it. There’ve been times I’ve made my own bed and had to sleep in it and times when the cards were stacked against me. But each and every time I’ve heard the rumor that Jesus is calling for me.

Turns out it was more than a rumor. And because of it,

I give thanks to the Lord
for he is good
and his steadfast love lasts forever (Psa 107:1).

Amen.

(Selah.)

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Still We Grieve and That’s Okay

I’m wondering, is there a statute of limitations on mourning?

(Asking for a friend.)

In the hurry-scurry bustle of Christmas the one thing you don’t plan on is burying your only child. That happened to us two Christmases ago.

On a cold December Sunday, in a driving rainstorm so bad we couldn’t even get out of our vehicle, Sandy and I could only watch through blurred windows as the workers lowered our 24-year-old son into the maw of earth. No minister. No ashes to ashes. No seated family as mourners filed by. No quiet assurances. No formal farewell.

There’d been the indoor service already but this was perversely anticlimactic. Sure, we’d had our private goodbyes in the viewing room before the lid was soundly shut, but this – this! – was morose. It was a scene straight out of Copperfield.

And with the caretaker’s back turned to us, busying himself with straps and pulleys, we unceremoniously drove away, leaving him to it. The surging rain protested even more loudly against the metal of the van as we pulled out into traffic.

• • • •

Someone quipped, “God gave us memories so we can have roses in December.” But what if December’s garden shears separate bloom from stem? What, then, is left?

In a single week Sandy felt ambushed by a doctor who suggested counseling (not a support group, mind you, but a shrink), a well-meaning associate (being kind) who bluntly chastised her for not letting it go, and someone even closer who wondered if it might not be time to move on. That was eleven months ago…when Graham had only been covered in earth for a year. A setback, but she powered through by grace.

I, too, have had my moments. Only recently, I had a horrible, terrible, very bad Thanksgiving Day, and, full disclosure, let me tell you why. It was the first holiday where Graham’s name was not mentioned at all by family and friends. But that’s not on them! It’s normal, it fits our patterns and protocols. Really, it’s almost been two years after all. I assure you, it didn’t take me to a dark place of bitterness against anyone, it just made me mindful of the too-soon (for us) end of an era.

Only, it’s not yet over for us, sorry. We’ll continue to keep our distance for awhile longer, but not because we’re loathe to move on. We just need space to grieve. And that’s okay – because in our mourning we’re becoming better worshippers.

Do I grieve for December 16, 2013 and how it all fell out on that day? Some, of course, but mostly what happens after that day. Not seeing Graham win over his demonic addictions and become my best friend through life, no family photos, no grandkids to spoil, no future milestones to celebrate. That’s why they call it losing a loved one, I suppose. There’s so much more you’re forced to give up than a person.

• • • •

When I shared with Sandy what I was going to say in this post, she balked at first. What if everyone thinks we’re depressed? What if they worry after us? Worse, what if they think we think they let us down? Egads, what if a council calls us in?

She said none of those things, of course, but they were hanging there still, unsaid, between us.

So I quickly cantered, explaining it’d be like one of David’s most depressing psalms: starts off all woeful, dark, and hopeless but lands where the Lord always shepherds the troubled who lean into Him real hard. With promise and praise.

No pity, please. We’re not sitting over here needing stroking and tons of cards. (But money, money’s okay.)

😊

We’re good. We’re so good. All is well. Promise.

And this is what we’ve learned so far on our short journey:

Closure is pure psychobabble. Grief is good, for the Lord is most tender with the broken-hearted and that’s a good thing to live with. He isn’t wanting to fix you, He wants to heal you. There’s a difference. One is mechanical, lacking artistry, the other is relational, a long-term, hands-on, intimate shaping process.
Every time you turn to Him for comfort and lay down your arms of accusation, or stiff-arm of inconsolability, He will show you more of Himself – and that will more than suffice even when you’re all too aware of what you’ve lost.
Life tends to shrink and become simpler when you’ve endured a greater loss than anything you’ve ever had to give up. When everyone gets up in arms over the news, or exasperatingly goes after the next new thing, the ones left standing in the wake of such loss – whether long ago or last year – prefer a saner, more quiet place of vigil. They turn to a truer reality. It’s the only thing that will get them through.
While those whose hope and stay is with the One who invented resurrection and life learns to gain a long-view of hope, it’s equally important to know that His Plan unfolds in tiny unimportant moments where you’ll miss heaven on earth if you’re not paying attention. Life is a mist, mortality is an exact science, and tomorrow is a year away. Suck all the marrow out of today. Shorten your pace, lower your arms, be present, and listen for the hum of the homeland in the right now.
Finally, not because it’s the end of our lessons, rather for the sake of your attention span, we’re learning to give people and their issues a wider berth, a more grace-filled response, and, because of our son’s story, refusing to concede too quickly their fate by writing them off. (Not naming names, but I need a lot more work in this area.)

These aren’t losses, but gains. And these are the greater blessings that come through our extended season of bereavement, so we’re not looking to end it too soon.

There’s sooo much more to learn.

And, so, we’ll soldier on, and we’ll still grieve.

And that’s okay.

He Owns The Night

Well, well, well.

As my son used to say, “lookee here, lookee here!”

A pretty cool reminder for those who think God has somehow checked out or relinquished the reins to all the crazies out there:

Psalms 74:16 –
“Yours is the day…

(Wait for it)

Yours also the night…”

(Mic drop)

Sorry, Batman. My God owns the night, not you, all do respect.

Night, by Elie Wiesel, is in my personal Top 25 of books that have most shaped me through my life. Elie, who survived both Auschwitz and Buchenwald during his teen years, having endured countless sadisms at the hands of Hitler’s Reich, wrote:

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed….Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never.”

It’s no wonder such a Jewish pogrom would lead many to question the Presence of God among His chosen people. On one occasion, men were hung in public view and remained so while their fellow captives were ordered to file past and allow their deaths to effectually haunt them.

Then came the march past the victims. The two men were no longer alive. Their tongues were hanging out, swollen and bluish. But the third rope was still moving: the child, too light, was still breathing…And so he remained for more than half an hour, lingering between life and death, writhing before our eyes.
And we were forced to look at him at close range. He was still alive when I passed him. His tongue was still red, his eyes not yet extinguished.
Behind me, I heard the same man asking:
“For God’s sake, where is God?”
And from within me, I heard a voice answer:
“Where He is? This is where–hanging here from this gallows…”
That night, the soup tasted of corpses.

There’s a line in the Gospels that could leave one as though stranded on a scary stretch of road in the most notoriously bad part of town in the middle of the night, exposed and alone, if not for the declaration which follows it.

John 13:30 ends the pre-narrative of Judas’ satanic role in the betrayal of Messiah Jesus with the refrain: “And it was night.”

That’s some chilling stuff, John.

A good story would leave go of a chapter with those four words just hanging there, suspended, leaving the reader with no choice but to turn the leaf in the book with haste.

If there were such a fresh new page, the (thankful) reader would find these opening words:

“Now the Son of Man is glorified.”

(Sigh of relief)

Read that again.

You catch it?

Now. I. Am. Glorified.

Now.

Smack in the dark heart of Witching Hour.

In one breath it’s as bad as it can get: an icy breeze hails from hades, the devil’s maw is twisted into a knowing grin, the disciples shiver, festivity is stilled…but in the next quick heartbeat we find God’s still got this. His agenda is not only unthwarted, it’s been made possible.

Oh, and it’s just getting good! Exactly one chapter (to the verse) later, THIS from the Son of Man:

The prince over this world is coming. HE HAS NO HOLD OVER ME.”
– John 14:30

I realize the Cross wasn’t a formality. Indeed, Jesus went through hell on His way to submitting to it in the Garden the night before, but all through the ordeal this resounding truth prevails from moment one:

No man, no devil, no ideology takes My life from Me. I lay it down all by Myself.”

Then He got some help on Resurrection Morning from the Other Two in the Godhead to eclipse eternal night. For good. Talk about your book with a major twist at the end!

Are you in a night?

Here’s what you should recite to your head and heart:

God’s got you. He’s as committed to you as He is the Son of Man.
He will splash all His Light and Glory across your night. Get ready.
There’s not a man or devil that will get in His way of redeeming you fully and finally.
Your story ends with resurrection, guaranteed. Tonight is Gethsemane and Golgotha, yes, but Sunday’ll be epic.

Selah, beloved.

I mean it.