Tag: Mary

This Will Be A Sign To You

“This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

Luke 2:12

At our church we have what we call “Stations of Advent.” We ask our artists to create paintings or images of ten different scenes of Jesus’s birth narrative. Each piece of art is connected to a passage of scripture and is accompanied by reflection questions. As I slowly went through each station, taking in both the artwork and the scripture passages, I was struck by a few things.

First, for Mary and Joseph, Bethlehem was not the plan. They lived in Nazareth. Their whole world was in Nazareth, including their home where they had been making preparations for the new baby. Jesus’s room was being set up in Nazareth. The place where the birth was likely to happen was being prepared in their Nazareth home. Bethlehem was not their plan.

In fact, going to Bethlehem was the result of an oppressive, pagan Caesar wanting to take a census so that he could tax the people even more. They took the 90 mile walk from Nazareth to Bethlehem because of the greed of a pagan, Roman ruler. This was not the plan. This was unexpected. And the timing of this journey couldn’t have been worse. This was not a convenient trip. This was the result of having to “do what you are told” when you are Jewish and those doing the “telling” are Roman.

When they got to Bethlehem, the guest rooms of their family who lived there were all filled because of the census. They likely waited until the last possible moment to leave Nazareth, hoping that the baby would come early so Mary wouldn’t have to make the journey pregnant.

They were likely getting to Bethlehem late compared to their relatives. And just when it couldn’t get worse, Mary goes into labor. All of their plans for Nazareth were out the window. This baby was going to arrive in Bethlehem.

But Bethlehem was not ready for a baby. There was no delivery room ready. There was no baby room ready. The only ounce of privacy they could muster was to go out and be with the animals. Laying baby Jesus in an animal feeding trough post-delivery was not the plan. The manger was not the plan. It was the result of their poverty and the Roman Emperor’s greed.

What the Lord showed me was that the manger in Bethlehem was not Mary and Joseph’s original plan. It wasn’t even their backup plan. It was the result of oppression. It was the result of poverty. The manger was not a sign of some glorious birth. It was a sign of a lack of resources.

That is the story that Mary and Joseph would have experienced on the surface. But there was this whole other thing happening behind-the-scenes that they couldn’t see, that we couldn’t see, and that had to be revealed. It had to be highlighted to us by angels and prophetic words from the Old Testament. What seemed like a mistake — what seemed like a messy, inconvenient, ruining of plans — was actually God’s plan all along.

Angels showed up to shepherds and said that the sign that this little baby was in fact the long awaited Messiah and Savior of Israel was that he would be in a manger. On the surface, the manger was a sign of ruined plans, an overcrowded city, and economic hardship. But the angels showed us something different. God transformed this manger into a different kind of sign. It became a sign that Jesus was, in fact, the Messiah. (Luke 2:8-20)

God does the same with Bethlehem. While Bethlehem wasn’t Mary and Joseph’s original plan (and it seemed like just the bad idea of a greedy Roman Emperor), Bethlehem was God’s plan all along. When the Magi showed up and asked where the Jewish Messiah was supposed to be born (Matthew 2:1-12), the chief priests and teachers of the law all pointed to Bethlehem. The city of Bethlehem was transformed from “inconvenient, ruined plan” to the prophesied plan of God reaching hundreds of years back to the prophet Micah.

And God would continue to do this throughout Jesus’s life. The ultimate example of this is how God transformed the cross, a sign of Roman oppression and torture, into a sign of forgiveness, salvation, love and grace.

God has a way of taking our ruined plans and saying, “No, this was My plan all along.” God has a way of taking our signs of darkness and despair and saying, “No, this is a sign that points back to Me.”

In the New Testament, “signs and wonders” is a nickname for miracles. Miraculous events performed by Jesus and the disciples became signs pointing people to the reality that God’s Kingdom was breaking into the world and breaking out among us. But in the story of Jesus’s birth (though His birth itself was a miracle), we also see God use other things, ordinary things, even ruined things as signs pointing to the in-breaking of His Kingdom.

God uses all kinds of signs pointing to and revealing His Kingdom on earth. Whether it be a manger or a miraculous birth, a miracle or messed-up plans, all of these signs are used to point us back to Jesus and His Kingdom.

Can you see them in your own life? What signs are appearing right now in your life to point you back to Jesus? It could be something wondrous and miraculous. It also could be your ruined plans and less-than-perfect situation.

Can you see the signs? During this Advent season, these signs are all around us if we have eyes to see.

Saying Goodbye

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.

John 19:25-27

The following was not written by me but by the great Max Lucado in his book No Wonder They Call Him the Savior. Chapter 5 in that book is called “Leaving is Loving.” It was given to me half a lifetime ago when I was in college. I can’t remember who gave it to me, but I’ve kept a copy of it ever since. It’s one of the most powerful things I’ve ever read in regards to leaving.

As my family and I pack up our house and prepare leave a life we’ve loved for nearly two decades, setting out for a new adventure with God in Kansas City, these words resonate deeply with me. Many people have recently asked me how I’m doing or how I’m feeling. In this beautifully written chapter from Lucado are the word that most closely represent my best answer to those questions.

The gospel is full of rhetorical challenges that test our faith and buck against human nature.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

“For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it.”

“Only in his home town and in his own house is a prophet without honor.”

But no statement is as confusing or frightening as the one in Matthew 19:29. “And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.”

The part about leaving land and fields I can understand. It is the other part that causes me to cringe. It’s the part about leaving mom and dad, saying good-bye to brothers and sisters, placing a farewell kiss on a son or daughter. It is easy to parallel discipleship with poverty or public disgrace, but leaving my family? Why do I have to be willing to leave those I love? Can sacrifice get any more sacrificial than that?

“Woman, behold your son.”

Mary is older now. The hair at her temples is gray. Wrinkles have replaced her youthful skin. Her hands are callused. She has raised a houseful of children. And now she beholds the crucifixion of her firstborn.

One wonders what memories she conjures up as she witnesses his torture. The long ride to Bethlehem, perhaps. A baby’s bed made from cow’s hay. Fugitives in Egypt. At home in Nazareth. Panic in Jerusalem. “I thought he was with you!” Carpentry lessons. Dinner table laughter.

And then the morning Jesus came in from the shop early, his eyes firmer, his voice more direct. He had heard the news. “John is preaching in the desert.” Her son took off his nail apron, dusted off his hands, and with one last look said good-bye to his mother. They both knew it would never be the same again. In that last look they shared a secret, the full extent of which was too painful to say aloud.

Mary learned that day the heartache that comes from saying good-bye. From then on she was to love her son from a distance; on the edge of the crowd, outside of a packed house, on the shore of the sea. Maybe she was even there when the enigmatic promise was made, “Anyone who has left . . . mother . . . for my sake.”

Mary wasn’t the first one to be called to say good-bye to loved ones for sake of the kingdom. Joseph was called to be an orphan in Egypt. Jonah was called to be a foreigner in Nineveh. Hannah sent her firstborn son away to serve in the temple. Daniel was sent from Jerusalem to Babylon. Nehemiah was sent from Susa to Jerusalem. Abraham was sent to sacrifice his own son. Paul had to say good-bye to his heritage. The Bible is bound together with good-bye trails and stained with farewell tears.

In fact, it seems that good-bye is a word all too prevalent in the Christian’s vocabulary. Missionaries know it well. Those who send them know it too. The doctor who leaves the city to work in the jungle hospital has said it. So has the Bible translator who lives far from home. Those who feed the hungry, those who teach the lost, those who help the poor all know the word good-bye.

Airports. Luggage. Embraces. Taillights. “Wave to grandma.” Tears. Bus terminals. Ship docks. “Good-bye, Daddy.” Tight throats. Ticket counters. Misty eyes. “Write me!”

Question: What kind of God would put people through such agony? What kind of God would give you families and then ask you to leave them? What kind of God would give you friends and then ask you to say good-bye?

Answer: A God who knows that the deepest love is built not on passion and romance but on a common mission and sacrifice.

Answer: A God who knows that we are only pilgrims and that eternity is so close that any “Good-bye” is in reality a “See you tomorrow.”

Answer: A God who did it himself.

“Woman, behold your son.”

John fastened his arm around Mary a little tighter. Jesus was asking him to be the son that a mother needs and that in some ways he never was.

Jesus looked at Mary. His ache was from a pain far greater than that of the nails and thorns. In their silent glance they again shared a secret. And he said good-bye.

No Wonder They Call Him the Savior, Chapter 5, Max Lucado

I’m not under some illusion that I am making some great sacrifice for the Lord. I’m moving to the Overland Park area of Kansas which is consistently rated as one of the top 5 places in the country to raise a family. I’ve had good friends pick up everything, leave the comfort of the familiar, and go to Belize (The Zittles) and to Zambia (The Morreaus). I know there are Christians around the world who are persecuted and risking their very lives for the sake of the gospel.

Even with all that in mind, leaving is still hard. We’ve invested here for 19 years, so the roots run deep. Pulling up those roots in order to transplant them is very painful, even though the place we’re going is really good soil. We have so many blessings, promises, and prophetic words waiting to be fulfilled on the other side of this move. But right now we’re grieving the loss of so much. Yet, we’re choosing to see each loss not as something taken from us, but as something surrendered, something sacrificed to the only One who is worthy of such sacrifice.

Jesus, you left everything, the perfection of heaven, for our sake. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you left your hometown, your good friends, your family, your mom, to do ministry and usher in the Kingdom of God among us. And, finally, you even said goodbye to life itself as you surrendered yourself fully to the Father on the cross. You’ve left more than I will ever comprehend, and you did it for my sake. You’ve said painful goodbyes at a level I will never fully understand. Thank you that you never ask us to do anything you haven’t already done in greater measure. Thank you that you understand painful goodbyes. Thank you for the gift of roots even though it hurts to transplant them. Amen.