I am Willing, Be Clean

Luke 5:12-16

To clean up, you need to get dirty.

I'll never forget my first day on the job as a janitor. I was a college student needing a little extra money and found a part time job helping to clean the residence halls. It was a warm sunny day and I was honestly in a good mood. I met the full time guy that was in charge of the building where I would be working, and he handed me a snow shovel.

Did I mention it was warm outside?

It turns out that we needed to empty the garbage rooms. Normally this would be a relatively easy task. Each room contains large bins that are wheeled out and tipped into the compactor. One can usually dispose of all the trash while minimizing any actual contact with the waste. However we had just finished a three day weekend and the bins had overflowed to such a degree that we had to literally dig a way out with them. We then refilled each bin twice with what was left on the floor.

By the time the day was done, I stunk of the refuse of college freshman. Not my best day.

We've all had our share of dirty jobs, and I'm sure if I asked around there are plenty of people that can come up with much better stories than me. My point is that to clean a mess of any significance, we often have to become immersed in the mess ourselves and in the end, we get dirty.

In my reading this week, Jesus came across a dirty person. Luke 5:12 tells us that this man was a leper, which meant he was dirty on multiple levels. He was dirty physically; leprosy is a disease that makes itself obvious, covering the body with sores and legions. Every time this man looked at his skin he would have been reminded of what was wrong with him.

He was dirty culturally. A disease that manifests on the skin cannot easily be hidden and he would have been shunned by his former friends and neighbors. Beyond that he was legally obligated to remove himself from society. If he were to encounter anyone he was to cover his face and shout "Unclean!" so people would know to stay away.

Finally he was dirty spiritually. Such a disease made him unclean according the laws of Moses. He was prohibited from participating in any religious activity. He could not go near the temple to worship. He could not present sacrifices. He was effectively cut off from God.

When we consider the context, the actions of this leper are downright shocking. He approached a Rabbi that was gaining respect in the community when he was obligated to avoid Him. Furthermore he had the audacity to actually ask this man for something!

"Lord, if you will, you can make me clean."

The proper response would have been for Jesus to turn his back on this man and abandon him before He himself became infected.

However that is not what Jesus does.

Jesus stretches out His hand and actually touches this physically, culturally, and spiritually dead man. He then speaks the words that this man will never forget.

"I will, be clean."

When Jesus touches this man an amazing thing happens. Not only does Jesus not become impure, but the man becomes clean. His skin is brand new. He is free to love his friends and family without the risk of defiling them. He can return to the temple, and present himself before the Lord.

Like this man, we are unclean. Our disease may not be as visible to the world as leprosy, but when we present ourselves to a holy God our impurity becomes evident. Our sin often damages us physically, destroys us culturally, and completely cuts us off from God. We have no more right to approach God than this man covered with rotting flesh.

However in Jesus God has stretched His hand out to us. Jesus entered our world, our mess, a situation far more out of control than that trash room in the dorm. Despite being immersed in this mess Jesus remained pure. Not only did He remain pure but by taking the consequence of our sin upon Himself He made us clean.

Now He invites us to receive the forgiveness that we never deserved, but He won for us anyway. We no longer need to fear our physical death. We are free to love as Jesus loved, not out of obligation, but out of thankfulness. We are free to approach our loving heavenly Father as the dear children He has always intended us to be.

God is willing, be clean.

Spit in the Face

"I fought for them, and they spat in my face."

The other day I saw a TV show that mentioned some of the Vietnam protest movements of the 1960s. I was reminded of how I grew up with a very different perspective of these movements than many people my age. Many portrayals paint them as idealistic crusaders trying to bring about a better world. I look at the events as an adult and I believe many of them were, however that has never been my first reaction when I see such stories.

I am the son of a Vietnam veteran who came home and became a police officer. At an early age I learned about the reception my father received upon his return. So as a boy growing up whenever I learned about the protestors, they weren't heroes to me.

They were the people who called my dad a baby killer and spat in his face.

Before I go forward know that I am not out to make a political statement, so stick with me…

I have often tried to understand just what my dad has felt all these years. Political opinions aside, he went to a foreign country with an attitude of genuine service and responsibility, underwent unimaginable hardships (we recently caught a shot of him on a History Channel documentary carrying a dead comrade) and returned home to be hated by the very people he had served.

As I read from the Gospel of Luke this week I was reminded of my father's story. After His baptism, Jesus proceeded into the desert where he engaged in an intense spiritual battle with Satan himself. In many ways the original temptation of the first humans is repeated, except this time the Son of God is standing in the place of humanity, resisting the temptation completely and fighting the powers of this world on our behalf. From here he proceeds to Galilee, where His reputation grew. Then He went to Nazareth, His home town, full of the people He has come to save. They reject Him, mock Him, and get ready to throw Him off a cliff.

I have to make a disclaimer here. I am in no way equating my father with Christ, or putting him anywhere close. If I were to do so both of us would have to visit the Emergency Room to have his boot surgically removed from my hindquarters.

The comparison I make is that as I read this, I felt the same disgust for the people of Nazareth as I felt for the people that called my dad a baby killer. Jesus was serving them, fighting for them, and preparing to die for them, and they were completely blind to what was happening.

He was their one hope, and they wanted to kill Him. What was wrong with these people?

However as I read honestly I have to ask the question, are we so different?

If we look closely at the text, we notice that the people were not immediately angry at Jesus. In fact, in Luke 4:22 it records that "all spoke well of him and marveled at the gracious words that were coming from His mouth." So what made them so angry? It was what Jesus said next.

And he said to them, "Doubtless you will quote to me this proverb, 'Physician, heal yourself.' What we have heard you did at Capernaum, do here in your hometown as well." And he said, "Truly, I say to you, no prophet is acceptable in his hometown." But in truth, I tell you, there were many widows in Israel in the days of Elijah, when the heavens were shut up three years and six months, and a great famine came over all the land, and Elijah was sent to none of them but only to Zarephath, in the land of Sidon, to a woman who was a widow.
And there were many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed, but only Naaman the Syrian."

At this point they are suddenly ready to kill Him. Why?

There are a few things here that we can easily miss if we don't read carefully. First from Jesus' initial comment about Capernaum, we can see that miracles seem to have been happening in other towns, but not in Nazareth. This is verified by Mark's account of the visit to Nazareth. What makes the whole thing a little ironic is that they are rejecting Jesus' essential message from Luke 4:18-19 and then asking for more miracles as if Jesus is a traveling magician.

The second thing we see in Jesus' words is that He mentions two events from the Old Testament, Elijah helping Zerephath, and Elisha healing Naaman. The reason this is so significant is that both Zerepath and Naaman were Gentiles (non-Jews). In the minds of these people at Nazareth, the Messiah was coming for the Jewish people and the Jewish people only. No Messiah of theirs would ever be interested in helping some filthy foreigners.

So often we consider the Gospel, that Jesus defeated death and the Devil by substituting His life for our life, and then say "Ok that's great, now when will He get me that promotion at work?" We may not always be so vocal about our hate for other people but do a great job of ignoring the ones that bother us and refusing to serve them. Are we any different than the people of Nazareth?

Every time we turn our backs on people we don't like, every time we become flippant about Jesus' sacrifice on the cross and demand that God do miracles on our own terms, we show ourselves to be just like the people of Nazareth.

We spit in the face of Jesus.

As I look honestly at my life, I realize that I am a man of Nazareth. I thank God that Jesus is a much better man than me. Jesus loves me and you so much that He gave up His life to forgive the very sins that I am talking about. He stood as our substitute in life, facing and defeating the temptations that destroy us. He hung on the cross as our substitute in death, accepting the punishment that should have condemned us.

We spit in His face, and He saves us anyway.

Reading

Growing up, I never knew how much it meant.

Bedtime approached, my brother and I brushed our teeth, crawled into bed, and listened to mom as she read a story. At the time it was part of the routine. I knew it was a part that I liked, I knew that when it didn't happen something just wasn't right, but beyond that I can't say that I thought much about it.

Later on I began to realize that something more was happening. I went off to college and became very involved with Christian groups on campus. As I began interacting with Christians from a number of different backgrounds, I was very surprised to discover that many of them, despite the fact that they had been far more involved in church youth groups and other religious activities than I was prior to college, knew very little of the Biblical stories. They knew a lot more one-verse quotes than I did, but the stories were oddly missing.

These Biblical stories occupied the majority of the content my mother read to us. She didn't have any devotion plan that she followed, she didn't spend a lot of time interpreting the text or drawing lessons from it. She just read the stories.

I began to realize that my mother had given me a great gift. She had given me Christianity, not as a moral system, not as a plan for life improvement, but as a story. A story of a God that loves His people. A God that did not exist off in the mists of myth but made Himself known in very real ways at very real points in history. As my understanding of God's Word and the faith that it delivers continues to grow, I realize more and more that I could not have been given any greater foundation than the one that was placed under me by my mother, as she read me stories.

If the gift ended there it would be a fantastic one, but it gets better.

As we planned my mother's funeral, we went through a long list of facts. I was still numb, so the whole process stirred about as much emotion as filling out a credit card application. Where she was born, where she went to school, who she worked for, what organizations she had joined. This is the sort of stuff they collect for the obituary. According to the next day's paper, this would be my mother's life in a nutshell. It felt woefully inadequate. When we came to the end of the standard questions, the woman from the funeral home asked, "Is there anything else?"

We all blanked.

What do you say about a woman who more than anything was defined by being a mother, a wife, a sister, and a daughter. A woman whose greatest acts were nothing that most people would consider newsworthy. Acts like changing diapers, doing laundry, visiting the nursing home and...

"She always read a..."

Suddenly I couldn't finish. Looking back it was the first time after her death I actually cried. The full impact of the gift my mother had given me became evident. It was more than an intellectual foundation for my world view, and so much more than a comfortable bedtime routine. She had given me what was most precious to her. She had given the story rooted in the past but so powerful that it is now a reality in my present.

This is the story of humanity, of our creation for greatness shattered by our rebellion. The story of a God revealing Himself through His chosen people only to be rejected by them again and again. It is the story that always alludes to a coming hero, one who could write our wrongs once and for all. It is the story of Jesus, God in the flesh, the sum and substance of all the stories that led to the climax of history as this hero laid down His life to pay for all the sin and hate and hurt that we bring upon ourselves and our world. It is the story of Him rising again, defeating death and proclaiming that His story be taken to the entire world.

This is the story that I know read to my daughter, and the gift that my mother gave me moves on.

Thanks again Mom.

Playing Catch

Many boys grow up playing catch with their dad. I have a great dad, he even coached my little league team, but in his heart he's always been a football/track guy. I grew up playing catch with my mom.

Mom grew up in softball country. When my grandpa was a young man the church softball team was the ultimate social occasion. These were not slow pitch church leagues where a few middle age, out of shape guys get together for a relaxing game. This was highly competitive, fast pitch softball. Games would attract hundreds of spectators. I know what you're thinking, these were small rural communities, of course it drew crowds, there was nothing better to do than watch those silly softball games!

That may be true, but what is sillier, gathering with friends and family to watch a bunch of farmers play softball, or spending $200 for one day at a professional ball park?

Growing up on a farm, in that community, with three brothers, it's no surprise that my mom got pretty good at softball. As an adult she played catcher in a women's fast-pitch league. I don't know a lot about this league, but since my mom's death I've started to catch wind of a few crazy stories that may be connected to this team!

So, a young man couldn't have had a better partner for playing catch than my mom. It became one of the greatest forms of connection between us. My little brother ended up not getting into baseball as much as me, making catch even more of a unique thing that mom and I shared.

As I grew older I started pitching, and my mom was more than willing to be my catcher. I don't know if it looked silly for a thirteen year old to hurl everything he had at a middle age woman, but for me that was just the way it was. When I entered high school I started growing and throwing a little harder. I even decided to try to start throwing a curve ball.

By the way, my curve ball sucked.

One day I put one into the dirt and directly off my mother's ankle. As she hobbled back to the house my dad met us and insisted I stop pitching to her. I didn't, but we did keep it to regular old catch when he was looking.

Those games of catch have given me a lot to remember about my mom. I remember that she was a farmgirl and a tomboy, and it would take someone like that to put up with a crazy hillbilly State Police Captain as a husband. I remember that she didn't mind a few bumps and bruises, and that sort of thing is going to come with the territory when I'm a parent. Most importantly, I remember that her greatest joy came from doing things with the people she loved. I remember that her life was so much bigger than herself.

So often I get caught up in the tasks. My job is ruled by a to-do list - fix this computer, create that lesson, update those websites. Sometimes I start to view my entire life as a big to-do list. Playing catch with my mom reminded me that it is not so much about the to-dos as the people for whom they are being done.

Thanks Mom.

Mom

Sometimes it's hard to believe that people like this have ever existed. Someone so loving, so selfless, so beautiful, doesn't belong in the real world. Someone like this belongs in a storybook or Hollywood celluloid. But this woman did exist, she lived in the real world. She was my mother.

Love One Another

Well at long last I am posting something here again. If you were reading before you may have noticed I started something with Titus but never finished it. I do have some of those notes and will still try to get some posts made out of that as soon as I can.

Anyway, it has been a while but I preached a sermon last Sunday. Comparing this one to sermons I have delivered in the past I can see that I have changed a lot in my content, which I think is a good thing. I will explain more of what I mean at another time.

For now have a listen! If you have a Bible handy turn it to John 15 as you follow along.

Love One Another

Introductions

Sometimes I get real tired of introductions.

I'm nearly to the home stretch of my graduate school career.  I remember attending my first class and thinking about how long a road was ahead of me.  Now as I look back I can't remember where the time went.  One reason things have moved so quickly is the fact that I didn't follow a traditional class schedule.  I have been working with a cohort of ten other students.  Our class has stayed together, taking one class at a time while every three to five weeks a new professor shows up for the next course.  Naturally, each new professor wants us to introduce ourselves. 

If I have to explain what kind of ice cream I would be if I were ice cream I'm going to start hating ice cream. 

I get tired of introductions, and I get tired of listening to people I already know introduce themselve.  Maybe this is why I have a habit of skipping the introduction sections when I read the Bible.

"Paul, a servant of God and.." blah blah blah.  I know, Paul is an apostle, he's an important guy, I've heard this before.  Can't I just skip to the actual content of the letter?

As I sat down to outline Paul's letter to Titus, I started to do just that.  I left a blank spot for the chunk on Paul's greeting and went about filling in the outline for everything else.  When I looked back I saw that blank spot and it was a little annoying so I decided I better put something in there.

I'm glad I did.

In his introduction, Paul not only identifies himself, but he explains what he is doing.  As I read the introduction, I came up with this diagram

Do you see something circular about Paul's introduction?  Everything Paul is and does is based on what was given to him.  What's really cool is that this introduction actually acts as a sort of outline for the rest of the letter.  Paul will go on to explain the character that is necessary for a leader in the church, how this character is used to build up the church, and finally how this character is actually a gift that was first given to them.

As tired as I am of introductions, I cannot deny their importance.  The next time you start to read a book of the Bible, consider the introduction.  Consider why this book was written, and who the particular writer was. 

Even in the most unlikely places, God's word always speaks volumes.