A Cautionary Tale

A short time ago I received some unexpected news: my uncle had passed away at the age of 75.  The surprise wasn’t so much in his passing, but rather in the timing.  Eldon was no stranger to health issues and his body seemed to battle several things on a daily basis, including diabetes.  He had been battling fairly well for so many years, it didn’t seem that now would be the time.

Knowing that my aunt would be inundated with calls and messages, I gave it a couple of days and then made the call.  When I found her, she was driving home from a granddaughter’s softball game – a much-needed break from the patterns of thought plaguing her at home.

As I strolled a sidewalk in the fading evening light, she related to me the events of the past several weeks.  She told me how one of his sons had come to Arizona to watch Spring Training baseball. How Eldon had gone to the games with him.  Not just a game here or there, but 14 games in close succession.  And in some very warm Arizona temperatures. 

A nurse herself, my aunt explained that fatigue combined with dehydration had created a dangerous complication with his diabetes, how once he had overcome that another situation arose, and then, ultimately, how pneumonia eventually took his life.  I heard the agony in her voice as she described the decision to remove him from life support.

Eldon was gone.  My aunt was heartbroken.  Children and grandchildren were grieving deeply.  As she laid out the memorial service arrangements, a question triggered in my mind: what story would be told in light of Eldon’s passing?  Clearly his demise had been avoidable if only he had used better judgment.  A whole lot of grief could have been spared if only some moderation had been employed. 

Knowing what I knew of Eldon – including his well-known stubbornness to heed the warnings of his doctors, his wife, or just about anyone else for that matter; his knack for eating the things that were explicitly laid out on the “No, you have diabetes” List; his penchant for doing what he wanted to do rather than what he should do, I arrived at what appeared to be a foregone conclusion.  Eldon’s story, told properly, would be, should be, a cautionary tale.

I was pretty sure I was right.  After all, there really wasn’t anything to challenge my thinking.  He had set the course of his own demise and it was something we could all learn from.

A few days later, I sat three pews from my aunt in a traditional Methodist church.  The memorial service was going just as I had envisioned.  A song, a welcome from the pastor, the funeral liturgy, another song.  And then it happened.  People – the people who knew Eldon best and loved him most – began to talk.  They told stories and shared memories.  Together they told a tale, but it was no cautionary tale of tragedy.  It was a tale of love.

Eldon was remembered – not reformulated or recreated, but remembered – as a man who consistently gave himself to others.  With his time, his talents, his joy, his humor, his smile, his touch, and, yes, his love of baseball, he had consistently given away what he had to share.  The more they spoke, the more I realized how right they were.

The pastor knew Eldon well through his involvement in the church choir and the singing of solos for special events, like weddings and funerals.  He spoke of Eldon’s dedication to the church and the ministry there.  How Eldon always took his calls.  How he could not remember a single instance of Eldon turning down a request to use his musical gifts at someone's special event.  How, despite his declining health through the years, Eldon always came.  First he came more slowly, then he came with a cane, then he had to sit during the singing, but still he came.

Over and over Eldon was remembered for what he routinely gave away – his time, his presence, his gifts, his love, a smile, an encouraging word, a piece of candy.  From what I gleaned, Eldon was never about guarding what he could keep to himself or for himself, but always about how he could bless someone else.

It was in those moments that I realized how well Eldon had actually lived.  Had he lived another way, he may have lived longer.  But while he lived, he had lived well.  And it became undeniably clear that he had also loved well.

It made me wonder… Are we too focused on our own life’s longevity?  And not enough on life’s brevity?  Could it be that we are ignoring Jesus’ advice rather than heeding it?  After all, it was Jesus who said that whoever tries to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life will save it. 

Eldon’s life was a cautionary tale all right.  It just wasn’t the caution I was expecting.  As near as I can tell, Eldon hadn’t spent much of his life trying to save it, but he had spent much of his life and he had spent it well.  

“It’s what you sow that multiplies, not what you keep in the barn.”

--Adrian Rogers

Guilt or Gift?

… I died to the law, so that I might live to God.  Gal 2:19

Paul speaks here of dying to the notion that we can please God through works of the law (i.e. obedience to a set of rules).  Also, of relieving oneself from the law as a taskmaster and, ultimately, a tool of death.

Living to God arises out of the realization that our standing before Him (and our ability to live unto Him) arises not out of our performance and obedience, but out of faith and grace.  Out of freedom, not force.

Through faith in Christ…

We are relieved from… striving… failure… guilt… bondage… condemnation… separation.

And invited into… rest… grace… peace… freedom… justification… communion.

A few verses later, Paul writes… “Are you so foolish? Having begun by the Spirit, are you now being perfected by the flesh?”  (Gal 3:3) 

How foolish we are sometimes! Trading confidence in the unchanging grace of God for dependence on our temperamental flesh.  Let us be fools for Christ, but never duped by the flesh.

Where are you living today?  In the guilt?  Or in the gift?

Where's My Miracle Part 2 - "A Greater Promise"

[An audio version of this blog post is also available - click here to listen]

And he said, “Where have you laid him?”
They said to him, “Lord, come and see.”

Jesus wept.

So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!”

But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of
the blind man also have kept this man from dying?”
John 11:34-37

There’s something interesting about family. Ok, rephrase that. There are a lot of interesting things about family. But I’m thinking of one in particular. Have you ever noticed that we often show less courtesy to our own family members than we do to total strangers? Is it just that familiarity breeds contempt or is something else at work?

On a lighter note, I sometimes joke about my brother’s version of a family discount – he’ll sell me anything for just 20% more than he would sell it to a total stranger. Maybe he just knows what he can get out of me. In any event, it’s something we can both laugh about.

Jesus had family, too. A family that was very human – they even mocked his ministry in the beginning. Jesus’ earthly family was probably a lot like ours – some were blood relatives and some of them were just so close that they felt like family.

Well, if anyone was close enough to Jesus to be called family, it was a pair of sisters – Mary and Martha. Mary and Martha lived with their brother Lazarus in a town called Bethany. It’s likely that their home was a frequent destination for Jesus. Hospitality was huge in the Jewish world at this time and it appears that this family had a special place in the heart of Jesus.

If anyone was in good standing with God in the flesh, it was this family. And that is what makes the death of Lazarus, the brother, such a huge question mark. We don’t know what he died of, but we know he was sick for a few days – plenty of time for Jesus to get there and prevent his death.

The Gospels are filled with Jesus healing total strangers of all kinds of debilitating diseases – blindness, paralysis, leprosy, you name it. You’d think he would rush to the scene when a good friend like Lazarus is at deaths’ door.

But he doesn’t.

It’s not that he doesn’t know. He does. (John 11:3)

And it’s not that he doesn’t care. He does. (John 11:5)

Yet he seemingly does nothing. (John 11:6)

Lazarus is slipping. People are praying. His sisters are crying. And where is Jesus? About 2 days away. Waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for Lazarus to die.

So, when does Jesus show up? After Mary and Martha have been mourning their brothers’ death and, I imagine, questioning Jesus’ compassion. After four days of mourning and questioning, Jesus finally shows up.

It is a painful scene – one many of us are all too familiar with. Tears come in streams. The sound of weeping fills the house as family members arrive to cry, to console, and to comfort. Each knock at the door brings another familiar face and another wave of emotion. The death of Lazarus is recounted and re-lived time and again.

An elephant looms large in the room. It is the question everyone is asking, just not out loud: “Where was your friend, Jesus? Where was your miracle?”

Mary and Martha are in the middle of this scene when word arrives that Jesus is coming down the road.

We see the pain in Mary’s response: she has no response - at least not outwardly. She simply remains in the house, resigned. What pulsed through her heart at that moment? Anger? Doubt? Betrayal? All three?

And then there is Martha. She bolts out the door and charges down the road. When she meets Jesus, we see no embrace. Instead we see a bit of a rebuke, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” In other words, “Where were you?!? Where was our miracle?!?”

It’s a perplexing question, really. Jesus healed total strangers and yet allowed his friend to die. Jesus even healed people that didn’t ask for it. Yet when his closest friends sent for help, he left them waiting. He left them wondering. And then he left them mourning.

For the record, I’m relieved that Jesus didn’t heal Lazarus when he was sick. Because it means that I am not the only follower of Christ who, like Mary and Martha, has watched and waited for Jesus to come, only to see someone I love take her last breath.

I’m grateful that Jesus didn’t heal Lazarus. Because it tells me that Jesus knows and Jesus cares – even if he doesn’t show up in the way we would like him to.

And I’m glad that the tomb of Lazarus’ reeked of decomposition by the time Jesus showed up. Because it gives proof of a greater promise.

A greater promise? Yes, a greater promise! You see, all those people who were healed eventually died. The paralytics, the lame, the blind, the lepers. They all died. And even those few that Jesus raised from the dead during his earthly ministry all eventually died again.

But Lazarus was a believer. Jesus wanted to give Lazarus and his closest friends a taste of the promise he really came to make. Jesus never promised his followers a life of comfort here and now. He never promised a life free from suffering, pain or loss. He never even promised a long life.

No. He promised that he would overcome this world, this life. That after this life of struggle, disappointment and heartache, something greater awaits those who trust in Jesus – even when he seems two days away.

You see, Lazarus’ death was no accident. It was to display the glory of God and deepen the faith of all who witnessed what would come next: the raising of Lazarus from the dead.

Notice that when Jesus showed up and faced Martha on the road that day, he didn’t define himself as “the healer.” No. He said, “I am the resurrection and the life.” And he wasn’t talking about this life. This life, the here and now, is important, but the ultimate promise – the greater promise – is in the life to come. A greater life than we will ever know here.

Mary and Martha and Lazarus were followers of Christ. They were in. They were family. And right now, at this very moment, they are experiencing the promise. A greater promise. An eternal promise.

A life that requires no mourning. A life that never disappoints. But a life that comes only in our death. It is a giving up of the temporary in order to obtain the eternal. Ahh, yes. Now that sounds like the promise of Jesus.

“I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live,
and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die.”

John 11:25-26