Does Jesus Love Me?

In 1993 John Fischer wrote Saint Ben, a novel about a ten-year-old pastor’s son. Ben was a curious combination of rebel and seeker.

His first Sunday at Colorado Avenue Standard Christian Church, Ben refused to sing any of the Sunday School songs. Ben didn’t sing the songs, he replied when questioned, because he didn’t like the songs, because they weren’t true. “Have you ever been on Jacob’s ladder?... I bet no one here has ever even seen Jacob’s ladder. It’s just a dream some guy had in the Bible. If we’re never going to see it or be on it, why are we singing about climbing it?” Ben, the rebel.

There was, however, one song Ben would sing: “Jesus Loves Me.” He sang it so clearly, so bell-like, so other-worldy, that all the other children and even the leaders stopped singing and stared at him. But he had changed the last words of the song. Yes, Jesus loves me, But I will tell me so.

When questioned about it months later by his best friend, Jonathan, Ben explained, “I don’t believe that Jesus loves me. Show me where the Bible says ‘Jesus loves you… Ben.’ I can’t find it anywhere. The song should really be ‘Jesus loves us.’.. He died for everybody. But I’m not everybody. I’m Ben Beamering. I get lost being a tiny part of everybody.” Ben was looking for his place in redemption and he couldn’t find it. Ben, the seeker.

Nor was he comforted by his father’s frequent allusions to the saying attributed to Blaise Pascal: “There is a God-shaped vacuum in every human heart” - an empty longing that only God could fill. The thought just seemed to aggravate his sense of lostness.

Months later, Ben wound up in the hospital, gravely ill with an infection in his defective heart. One morning he confided to his pastor-father that as he’d laid in his hospital bed the previous night, he’d heard from God. It was obvious that what he’d experienced had given him peace at last. But Jonathan never knew what God’s message had been until after Ben’s funeral, when he opened the worn piece of paper Ban had been clutching since the night he’d heard from God. On one side was the hospital menu. On the other, Ben had written:

Saturday, January 17, 1959
There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of Ben.
There is a Ben-shaped vacuum in the heart of God.

It’s not just the rebels and seekers who need to hear what Ben heard. Too many of us Christians believe that God loves everybody, no doubt about it - after all, He sent His Son to die for the world. But what about you and me personally? How do I figure in? How much do you matter to God?

The theologians tell us God is self-contained, perfectly sufficient in Himself, needing nothing. I’m sure that’s true… but He desperately wants something: Me. You. He created you. He doesn’t want to lose you. There is a place in Him that only you can fill.

It’s crucial that you grasp how much you personally matter to God. Otherwise, your heart, like Ben’s, will always get lost being a tiny part of everybody… and you’ll never truly be able to sing, "Yes, Jesus loves me."

Morning Questions

I was out of town this past weekend and haven’t yet listened to Sunday’s sermon on tape, so I’d like to share something else that came across my path this week…

Paul Heil, in his "Gospel Greats Weekly Newsletter," recently noted that John Wesley, co-founder of the Methodist movement, “developed an interesting list of thought-provoking questions, designed as a daily self-evaluation for Christians. Wesley published it in various forms throughout his lifetime”… Below are some of the questions he included. Perhaps they would be useful for challenging us at the start of each day, or as a once-a-week spiritual inventory…

• Do I give the Bible time to speak to me every day?
• Am I enjoying prayer? [I like Wesley’s word, “enjoying.” Doesn’t it make sense that fellowship with God should have an element of enjoyment?]
• Is Christ real to me?
• Am I jealous, impure, critical, irritable, touchy, or distrustful?
• How do I spend my spare time?
• Do I pray about the money I spend?
• Do I laugh at the mistakes of others, reveling in their errors or misfortunes?
• Do I insist on having my own way?
• Do I handle discouragement well or do I have to be coddled?
• Is there anyone whom I fear, dislike, disown, criticize, hold a resentment toward or disregard? If so, what am I doing about it?

And let’s add a couple more that might help us establish perspective at the start of a day:

• Have I given God this day as His to do as He pleases in it?
• Have I given Him myself as His servant?
• Is my desire and prayer that He be honored in the eyes of others through all I am and do today?
• Am I willing to be inconvenienced, stretched, demeaned, or tested for His purposes and glory?
• Am I entering this day with a pilgrim mindset, positive and persevering, looking forward to the promise of eternal life with Christ?

One caution – some of us are prone to go easy on ourselves; others of us beat ourselves up needlessly. Ask your questions prayerfully, and let the Holy Spirit answer them. After all, it’s His perspective that matters. Ask for His forgiveness when necessary; receive His commendation when you’ve done well. And then go into the day filled with God-confidence and God-sufficiency, for if God is for you, who can be against you?

It’s Me, O Lord

We teach children to pray with their eyes closed. Parents, Bible School leaders, and Sunday School teachers all do. I guess that’s because children are easily distracted otherwise, and besides, there’s nowhere to direct their attention outwardly because they are praying to a God who is not seen. So we instruct them to bow their heads and fold their hands (probably so they don’t pinch their neighbor) and shut their eyes and grow very quiet in preparation for prayer.

Now I know that they - and we adults - don’t really have to pray with eyes closed, but even if we don’t close them physically, there’s a good case for praying with the eyes of our heart closed tightly. Closed against the cares of our lives that are filling our field of vision. Closed against the distractions and temptations that vie for our time and attention. Closed against the terrifying mirages the enemy throws across our path. Not because we want to pretend everything’s perfect and life’s challenges aren’t real, but because we want – need – for a few moments to see what is more real and more powerful and more important – Jesus. And we need to see those challenges through His eyes.

If only the Pharisee in Sunday’s parable had done that! Instead, he saw himself magnified many times over, and felt compelled to describe what he saw to God and everyone within earshot. He saw the tax collector standing some distance away, and compared himself quite favorably with the unfortunate man. He saw the works he did as his justification before God.

I don’t know if the tax collector had his eyes closed, but I do know he wouldn’t lift them to heaven. He didn’t look God in the eye; he didn’t look at the Pharisee; he ignored the rest of the people in the temple. His inner eyes were closed to all that. It was just him, standing in the need of prayer… and God, who he knew to be gracious and merciful.

Again, it’s not a matter of physically shutting our eyes. It’s a matter of inwardly shutting out every other urgent voice and becoming totally present to God alone.

I wonder how much our prayer times would improve if we narrowed the focus to “God and me.” If we quit talking up what we’re doing for Him and comparing ourselves with others and excusing our shortcomings and failures. If we just bowed our hearts in His presence and received His mercy and grace to cover all our sin and all our need.

I think we might please the Lord, set an example for anyone watching our lives… and go Home justified.

Three Sons

I am a middle child.

I was well into my teens, I guess, when I learned that this is supposed to be a challenging position, that I am supposed to feel like a second class citizen, underloved, undernoticed, and undercelebrated.

On the contrary, I have generally found it to be quite a comfortable spot in the lineup. While the older child is trying everything first and enthusiastically accepting responsibilities (i.e., work), and the youngest is still requiring attention and assistance… the middle child can quite comfortably lay back and watch it all. Or step back and escape it all. I recall long treks in the woods with my dog (while my older sister was likely energetically cleaning the house) and happy hours circling the lawn on the riding mower (while she learned to cook and bake and sew). No mistake, I would be very reluctant to give up middlehood.

Maybe that’s why I envision another character in the Parable of the Prodigal Son. I know the father had only two sons, but in trying to identify with either of them I find that I am somewhere in the middle – and I think a lot of Christians today are with me on this.

We shrink from the elder brother. We respect our Father too much to protest the celebration of any prodigal’s return. We might shrug and mutter a bit – but not to the Father. We wouldn’t want to make a scene or throw cold water on His joy. So we don’t stay out on the porch or begrudge our transformed brother a fatted calf and a few hours of dancing.

But neither do we always rush to hug him and offer him a place beside us at the dinner table and take him to town to proclaim his return. We play the middle child, present in body but not in heart and soul. While we’re genuinely relieved that the Father’s long days of anguish are over, we’re content to step back to watch the festivities. Keep our reservations to ourselves. Maybe make an early exit to take care of duties, or just hide in the hay and contemplate the day’s events.

Middlehood. It might work if the Father didn’t know our hearts, but He does. In His family, there’s no escape. No carefree hours spent circling the issue while neglecting what He wants most of all – a heart like His, eyes that see every brother for what they are – prodigals every one, and ourselves first of all. Lips that welcome the wanderer home, arms that offer a grace-filled embrace, and feet that dance with the angels in heaven.

Now there’s a challenging position... but there’s no more comfortable spot in the lineup!