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The Quiet Miracle

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Today, I was listening to a podcast from Sally Lloyd-Jones, author of the Jesus Storybook Bible. She was conversing with Sir David Suchet, best known for his portrayal of Agatha Christie’s Poirot, about several topics of faith.

One topic of interest to me was when they talked about the miracle at Cana where Jesus turned the water into wine. David noted that one particular thing struck him about the miracle in that Jesus appeared to say or do nothing to bring it about. He didn’t offer a blessing. He didn’t wave His arms or lift up a prayer. He told the servants to fill up the large pitchers with water and when the taster got to them, the water had become wine.

It was a quiet miracle. Michael Card calls it the unmiraculous miracle. It’s notable that presumably no one at the wedding ever found out about the miracle except for the servants who poured the water. Not the wedding hosts or the guests. Not the bride or groom. Only the servants.

Jesus was quietly inaugurating His kingdom and only a few servants were in on it. I’m reminded of how the first people to witness the Incarnation were shepherds who had been out in the fields tending their flocks. The first witnesses of the resurrection were the same women whose testimony would not have counted in a court of law back in that day.

Again and again, Jesus chose the nobodies of the world to be the first to hear His good news. The gospel wasn’t given to the famous or the rich or the powerful at first, but to those discounted and outcast and disregarded by everyone else. But they were the ones Jesus chose.

Isn’t that how it works even now. To those who feel forgotten or left out, Jesus sees you. To those that nobody counts as worth anything, Jesus thought you were worth dying for. To those who sometimes feel like they’re taking up space in the world, Jesus has invited you to be a part of His Great Commission and to be His disciples. Even now, the gospel of Jesus is for you. Even you. Even me.

In A Little While

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“We are living in this ‘little while.’ We can live in it creatively when we live it out of solitude, that is, detached from the results of our work. And when we live it with care, that is, crying with those who weep and wail. But it is the expectation of his return which molds our solitude and care into a preparation for the day of great joy.

This is what we express when we take bread and wine in thanksgiving. We do not eat bread to still our hunger or drink wine to quench our thirst. We just eat a little bit of bread and drink a little bit of wine, in the realization that God’s presence is the presence of the One who came, but is still to come; who touched our hearts, but has not yet taken all our sadness away.

And so when we share some bread and wine together, we do this not as people who have arrived, but as men and women who can support each other in patient expectation until we see him again. And then our hearts will be full of joy, a joy that no one can take away from us” (Henri Nouwen, Out of Solitude).

“In a little while,
We’ll be with the father;
Cant you see him smile?
In a little while,
We’ll be home forever,
In a while
We’re just here to learn to love him
Well be home in just a little while” (Amy Grant / Brown Bannister / Gary Chapman / Shane Keister).

Yes, I’m thankful that in a little while all the hard and bad stuff will be over and only what’s good and true will remain. In a little while, our faith will be made sight and we’ll be reunited with all those we’ve loved and lost. In a little while, Jesus will come back and take us to our forever home.

Cup of Sorrow, Cup of Joy

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“When we are crushed like grapes, we cannot think of the wine we will become. The sorrow overwhelms us, makes us throw ourselves on the ground, facedown, and sweat drops of blood. Then we need to be reminded that our cup of sorrow is also our cup of joy and that one day we will be able to taste the joy as fully as we now taste the sorrow” (Henri Nouwen).

I love that imagery. I don’t necessarily think that we will at any point sweat drops of blood. That was something Jesus did in moments of extreme anxiety when facing the prospect of the cross. But I do think the sentiment about sorrow and joy is on point.

To think that as much as we taste sorrow now, we will one day taste joy is a joyful statement. As bad as some days are down here, they will be just as good up there. Actually, the worst we go through won’t be able to compete with the best that’s coming. Paul calls it a light and momentary affliction in contrast to the pure joy that awaits.

It’s easy to focus on the crushing and forget the wine that we will become. We can get caught up in how painful the refining process is and neglect that one day Jesus will see His pure reflection in us. What a day that will be. And even in the fire, God is with us.

My Rights

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For the record, I am not one of those teetotalers who are against everything remotely fun. I have no problem with those who have the occasional beer or glass of wine. I’m okay with dancing. Even the Macarena.

I have noticed a disturbing Facebook trend among people who profess to be believers. One post will be about how much they love Jesus and the next will be along the lines of “I’ll live my life however I want and don’t you dare judge me” and “It’s my right to do whatever I feel like because I know God will forgive me in the end.”

I love what my pastor said: no one will stand in front of Jesus with His nail-scarred hands and feet and argue about their rights. Anyone who truly follows Jesus has laid down their rights.

If anyone had the right to insist upon his rights, it would have been Jesus. Yet that very same Jesus didn’t insist on clinging to His equality with God or His heavenly authority. He laid all that down and emptied Himself, becoming an obedient slave willing to go through torture and death instead of claiming His own rights.

No one has the right to cause a brother or sister to stumble, like drinking a beer or a glass of wine in front of a fellow believer who struggles with addiction to alcohol. The Apostle Paul says that while everything may be permissible, not everything is beneficial or helpful.

The verse that always convicts me is the one that says that whatever isn’t done in faith is sin. For me, a non-drinker, there have been lots of times I’ve sinned by not acting in faith.

The question isn’t “Do I have the right?” The question is “How will this honor and glorify Jesus?”

Ultimately, I laid down my rights when I said yes to Jesus and decided to follow Him. I was bought with a price and Jesus owns me completely. That includes my rights.

My prayer is that my life will be my witness to how good God is and that there will be nothing in my life that impairs that witness in any way. I hope that’s your prayer, too.

PS I know that I am prone to a judgmental spirit at times, but I hope you’ve read these words from a perspective of grace. I know I’ve messed up way too much to ever condemn anyone else for anything. We all need Jesus every moment of every day.

Broken and Shared

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A friend of mine wrote these words: “Unless grapes and grain are broken there will be no bread and wine. Unless the broken are shared there will be no communion.”

Elisabeth Elliot wrote, “If my life is broken when given to Jesus, it may be because pieces will feed a multitude when a loaf would satisfy only a little boy.”

Sometimes, in order for God to use me, I have to be broken before I can be shared.

No, I take that back. EVERY time God gets ready to use me He starts first by breaking me. Every single time.

I don’t mean every time I completely fall apart and lose every possession and wind up destitute. I mean usually a dream of mine dies. Or a friend lets me down. Or I find myself overwhelmed by life.

It’s the day to day stuff that I stumble over most often. The big crises find me more calm and trusting in God’s strength and provision. But the small details get to me.

Dying to self isn’t always as grand and dramatic as taking a bullet for someone you love. It means dying a thousand times in a thousand small ways every day. It means dying to self-rights, to pride, to vanity, to my own way of seeing and doing things. Those are the hard deaths.

If you are going through brokenness, take comfort in this. God will bless so many more with your broken life than He could with your perfect life. Everything you’ve lost, God will restore a thousand fold, in the lives of a thousand people who find the hope of God’s provision in your story of ruin and redemption.

I still don’t like pain. I don’t like discomfort or inconvenience. I get impatient in front of the microwave, for crying out loud.

But I trust God’s leading. I trust His heart more than my own feelings, my own perceived need for comfort and safety and calm. Trusting that the bridge built with planks of thanksgiving and joy will hold up until I get all the way Home.