Begin Again

by Max Lucado

  And try as we might to walk as straight as we can, chances are a toe is going to get stubbed, and we are going to get hurt.

  Just ask Jairus. He is a man who has tried to walk as straight as he could. But Jairus is a man whose path has taken a sudden turn into a cave—a dark cave. And he doesn’t want to enter it alone.

  Jairus is the leader of the synagogue. That may not mean much to you and me, but in the days of Christ, the leader of the synagogue was the most important man in the community. The synagogue was the center of religion, education, leadership, and social activity. The leader of the synagogue was the senior religious leader, the highest-ranking professor, the mayor, and the best-known citizen all in one.

  Jairus has it all. Job security. A guaranteed welcome at the coffee shop. A pension plan. Golf every Thursday and an annual all-expenses-paid trip to the national convention.

  Who could ask for more? Yet Jairus does. He has to ask for more. In fact, he would trade the whole package of perks and privileges for just one assurance—that his daughter will live.

  The Jairus we see in this story is not the clear-sighted, black-frocked, nicely groomed civic leader. He is instead a blind man begging for a gift. He falls at Jesus’ feet, “saying again and again, ‘My daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so she will be healed and will live’” (Mark 5:23 NCV).

  He doesn’t barter with Jesus. (“You do me a favor, and I’ll see you are taken care of for life.”) He doesn’t negotiate with Jesus. (“The guys in Jerusalem are getting pretty testy about your antics. Tell you what, you handle this problem of mine, and I’ll make a few calls . . .”) He doesn’t make excuses. (“Normally I’m not this desperate, Jesus, but I’ve got a problem.”)

  He just pleads.

  There are times in life when everything you have to offer is nothing compared to what you are asking to receive. Jairus is at such a point. What could a man offer in exchange for his child’s life? So there are no games. No negotiations. No masquerades. The situation is starkly simple: Jairus is blind to the future, and Jesus knows the future. So Jairus asks for his help.

  And Jesus, who loves to give new beginnings, goes to give it.

  And God, who knows what it is like to lose a child, empowers his Son.

  But before Jesus and Jairus get very far, they are interrupted by emissaries from his house.

  “Your daughter is dead. There is no need to bother the teacher anymore” (v. 35 NCV).

  Get ready. Hang on to your hat. Here’s where the story gets moving. Jesus goes from being led to leading, from being convinced by Jairus to convincing Jairus. From being admired to being laughed at, from helping out the people to casting out the people.

  Here is where Jesus takes control.

  “But Jesus paid no attention to what they said . . .” (v. 36 NCV).

  I love that line! It describes the critical principle for seeing the unseen: Ignore what people say. Block them out. Turn them off. Close your ears. And, if you must, walk away.

  Ignore the ones who say it’s too late to begin again.

  Disregard those who say you’ll never amount to anything.

  Turn a deaf ear toward those who say you aren’t smart enough, fast enough, tall enough, or big enough—ignore them.

  Faith sometimes begins by stuffing your ears with cotton.

  Jesus turns immediately to Jairus and pleads: “Don’t be afraid; just believe” (v. 36 NCV).

  Jesus compels Jairus to see the unseen. When Jesus says, “Just believe . . . ,” he is imploring, “Don’t limit your possibilities to the visible. Don’t listen only for the audible. Don’t be controlled by the logical. Believe there is more to life than meets the eye!”

  “Trust me,” Jesus is pleading. “Don’t be afraid; just trust.”

  A father in the Bahamas cried out the same plea to his young son who was trapped in a burning house. The two-story structure was engulfed in flames, and the family—the father, mother, and several children—was on its way out when the smallest boy became terrified and ran back upstairs. His father, outside, shouted to him: “Jump, Son, jump! I’ll catch you.” The boy cried: “But, Daddy, I can’t see you.” “I know,” his father called, “but I can see you.”

  The father could see, even though the son could not.

  A similar example of faith was found on the wall of a concentration camp. On it a prisoner had carved these words:

  I believe in the sun, even though it doesn’t shine,

  I believe in love, even when it isn’t shown,

  I believe in God, even when he doesn’t speak.

  I try to imagine the person who etched those words. I try to envision the skeletal hand gripping the broken glass or stone that cut into the wall. I try to imagine eyes squinting through the darkness as each letter was carved. What hand could have cut such a conviction? What eyes could have seen good in such horror?

  There is only one answer: eyes that chose to see the unseen.

  As Paul wrote: “We set our eyes not on what we see but on what we cannot see. What we see will last only a short time, but what we cannot see will last forever” (2 Cor. 4:18 NCV).

  Jesus is asking Jairus to see the unseen. To make a choice. Either to live by the facts or to see by faith. When tragedy strikes, we, too, are left to choose what we see. We can see either the hurt or the Healer.

  The choice is ours.

  Jairus makes his choice. He opts for faith and Jesus, . . . and faith in Jesus leads him to his daughter.

  At the house Jesus and Jairus encounter a group of mourners. Jesus is troubled by their wailing. It bothers him that they express such anxiety over death. “Why are you crying and making so much noise? The child is not dead, only asleep” (Mark 5:39 NCV).

  That’s not a rhetorical question. It’s an honest one. From Jesus’ perspective the girl is not dead—she is only asleep. From God’s viewpoint death is not permanent. It is a necessary step for passing from this world to the next. It’s not an end; it’s a beginning.

  As a young boy I had two great loves—playing and eating. Summers were made for afternoons on the baseball diamond and meals at Mom’s dinner table. Mom had a rule, however. Dirty, sweaty boys could never eat at the table. Her first words to us as we came home were always “Go clean up, and take off those clothes if you want to eat.”

  Now no boy is fond of bathing and dressing, but I never once complained and defied my mom by saying, “I’d rather stink than eat!” In my economy a bath and a clean shirt were a small price to pay for a good meal.

  And from God’s perspective death is a small price to pay for the privilege of sitting at his table. “Flesh and blood cannot have a part in the kingdom of God. . . . This body that can be destroyed must clothe itself with something that can never be destroyed. And this body that dies must clothe itself with something that can never die” (1 Cor. 15:50, 53 NCV, emphasis added).

  God is even more insistent than my mom was. In order to sit at his table, a change of clothing must occur. And we must die for our body to be exchanged for a new one. So from God’s viewpoint death is not to be dreaded; it is to be welcomed.

  And when he sees people crying and mourning over death, he wants to know, “Why are you crying?” (Mark 5:39 NCV).

  When we see death, we see disaster. When Jesus sees death, he sees deliverance.

  That’s too much for the people to take. “They laughed at him” (v. 40 NCV). (The next time people mock you, you might remember they mocked him too.)

  Now look closely because you aren’t going to believe what Jesus does next. He throws the mourners out! That’s what the text says: “after throwing them out of the house . . .” (v. 40 NCV). He doesn’t just ask them to leave. He throws them out. He picks them up by collar and belt and sends them sailing. Jesus’ response is decisive and strong. In the original text the word used here is the same word used to describe what Jesus did to the money changers in the temple. It’s the same verb used thirty-eight times to describe what Jesus did to
the demons.

  Why? Why such force? Why such intolerance?

  Perhaps the answer is found by going back to that living-room experience with my children. After Jenna and Andrea had taken turns guiding each other through the den, I decided to add a diabolical twist. On the last trip I snuck up behind Jenna, who was walking with her eyes shut, and began whispering, “Don’t listen to her. Listen to me. I’ll take care of you.”

  Jenna stopped. She analyzed the situation and made her choice between the two voices. “Be quiet, Daddy,” she giggled and then continued in Andrea’s direction.

  Undeterred I grabbed the lid of a pan, held it next to her ear, and banged it with a spoon. She jumped and stopped, startled by the noise. Andrea, seeing that her pilgrim was frightened, did a great thing. She ran across the room and threw her arms around her sister and said, “Don’t worry. I’m right here.”

  She wasn’t about to let the noise distract Jenna from the journey.

  And God isn’t going to let the noise distract you from yours. He’s still busy casting out the critics and silencing the voices that could deter you.

  Some of his work you have seen. Most of it you haven’t. Only when you get home, will you know how many times he has protected you from disastrous decisions or a deadly illness.

  Mark it down: God knows you and I are blind. He knows living by faith and not by sight doesn’t come naturally. And I think that’s one reason he raised Jairus’s daughter from the dead. Not for her sake. She was better off in heaven. But for our sake—to teach us that heaven notices when we trust.

  One final thought from the seeing-with-your-eyes-closed experiment. I asked Jenna how she could hear Andrea’s voice guiding her across the room when I was trying to distract her by whispering in her ear.

  Her answer? “I just concentrated and listened as hard as I could.”

  chapter four

  Don’t Give Up

  I leave the past behind and with hands outstretched to whatever lies ahead I go straight for the goal.

  —PHILIPPIANS 3:13–14 (PHILLIPS)

  I have a distinct memory from the 1991 Super Bowl. I’m not a football junkie. Nor do I have extraordinary recall. Truth is, I don’t remember anything about the ’91 football season except this one detail. A headline. An observation prompted by Scott Norwood’s kick.

  He played for the Buffalo Bills. The city of Buffalo hadn’t won a major sports championship since 1965. But that night in Tampa Bay it appeared the ball would finally bounce the Bills’ way. They went back and forth with the New York Giants. With seconds to go they were a point down. They reached the Giants’ twenty-nine yard line. There was time for only one more play. They turned to their kicker, Scott Norwood. All-Pro. Leading scorer of the team. As predictable as snow in Buffalo. One season he made thirty-two of thirty-seven attempts. He’d scored from this distance five times during the season. He needed to do it a sixth time.

  The world watched as Norwood went through his prekick routine. He tuned out the crowd, selected a target line, got a feel for the timing, waited for the snap, and kicked the ball. He kept his head down and followed through. By the time he looked up, the ball was three-quarters of the way to the goal. That’s when he realized he’d missed.

  The wrong sideline erupted.

  All of Buffalo groaned.

  Norwood hung his head.

  The headline would read “Wide and to the right: The kick that will forever haunt Scott Norwood.”1

  No do-overs. No second chance. No reprieve. He couldn’t rewind the tape and create a different result. He had to live with the consequences.

  So did you.

  When you lost your job, flunked the exam, dropped out of school. When your marriage went south. When your business went broke. When you failed. The voices began to howl. Monkeys in a cage, they were, laughing at you. You heard them.

  And you joined them! You disqualified yourself, berated yourself, upbraided yourself. You sentenced yourself to a life of hard labor in the Leavenworth of poor self-worth.

  Oh, the voices of failure.

  Failure finds us all. Failure is so universal we must wonder why more self-help gurus don’t address it. Bookstores overflow with volumes on how to succeed. But you’ll look a long time before you find a section called “How to Succeed at Failing.”

  Maybe no one knows what to say. But God does. His book is written for failures. It is full of folks who were foul-ups and flops but got a second chance. David was a moral failure, yet he became a man after God’s own heart. Elijah was an emotional train wreck after Mount Carmel, but God used him to bring outpourings of God’s grace. Jonah was in the belly of a fish when he prayed his most honest prayer and then brought revival to Nineveh.

  Perfect people? No. Perfect messes? You bet. Yet God used them. A surprising and welcome discovery of the Bible is this: God uses failures.

  One stumble does not define or break a person. Though you failed, God’s love does not. Face your failures with faith in God’s goodness. He saw this collapse coming. When you stood on the eastern side of the Jordan, God could see the upcoming mishap of your Ai.

  Still, he tells you what he told Joshua: “Arise, go . . . , you and all this people, to the land which I am giving” (Josh. 1:2 NKJV). There is no condition in that covenant. No fine print. No performance language. God’s promised-land offer does not depend on your perfection. It depends on his.

  In God’s hands no defeat is a crushing defeat. “The steps of good men are directed by the Lord. He delights in each step they take. If they fall, it isn’t fatal, for the Lord holds them with his hand” (Ps. 37:23–24 TLB).

  How essential it is that you understand this. Miss this truth and miss your new beginning. You must believe that God’s grace is greater than your failures. Pitch your tent on promises like this one: “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus . . . who do not walk according to the flesh but according to the Spirit” (Rom. 8:1, 4 NASB).

  Everyone stumbles. The difference is in the response. Some stumble into the pit of guilt. Others tumble into the arms of God. Those who find grace do so because they “walk according . . . to the Spirit.” They hear God’s voice. They make a deliberate decision to stand up and lean into God’s grace.

  As God told Joshua, “Do not be afraid, nor . . . dismayed; . . . arise, go . . .” (Josh. 8:1 NKJV, emphasis added).

  The prodigal son did this. He resolved, “I will arise and go to my father” (Luke 15:18 NKJV).

  Remember his story? Just like you, he was given an inheritance; he was a member of the family. Perhaps just like you, he squandered it on wild living and bad choices. He lost every penny. His trail dead-ended in a pigpen. He fed hogs for a living.

  One day he was so hungry that the slop smelled like sirloin. He leaned over the trough, took a sniff, and drooled. He tied a napkin around his neck and pulled a fork out of his pocket and sprinkled salt on the slop. He was just about to dig in when something within him awoke. Wait a second. What am I doing wallowing in the mud, rubbing shoulders with the swine? Then he made a decision that changed his life forever. “I will arise and go to my father.”

  You can do that! Perhaps you can’t solve all your problems or disentangle all your knots. You can’t undo all the damage you’ve done. But you can arise and go to your Father.

  Landing in a pigpen stinks. But staying there is just plain stupid.

  Begin again. Rise up and step out. Fresh starts require a determined first step. Even the apostle Paul had to make this choice. “I leave the past behind and with hands outstretched to whatever lies ahead I go straight for the goal” (Phil. 3:13–14 PHILLIPS).

  There ain’t no future in the past. You can’t change yesterday, but you can do something about tomorrow. Put God’s plan in place.

  God told Joshua to revisit the place of failure. “Arise, go up to Ai. See, I have given into your hand the king of Ai, his people, his city, and his land” (Josh. 8:1 NKJV). In essence God told Joshua, “Let’s begin ag
ain. This time my way.”

  Joshua didn’t need to be told twice. He and his men made an early morning march from Gilgal to Ai, a distance of about fifteen miles. He positioned a crack commando unit behind the town.2 Behind this contingent was a corps of five thousand men (v. 12).

  Joshua then took another company of soldiers. They headed in the direction of the city. The plan was straight out of basic military tactics. Joshua would attack, then retreat, luring the soldiers of Ai away from their village. It worked.

  The king of Ai, still strutting from victory number one, set out for victory number two. He marched toward Joshua, leaving the town unprotected. The elite squad charged in and set fire to the city. And Joshua reversed his course, catching the army of Ai in the middle. The victory was complete.

  Contrast this attack with the first one. In the first, Joshua consulted spies; in the second, he listened to God. In the first, he stayed home. In the second, he led the way. The first attack involved a small unit. The second involved many more men. The first attack involved no tactics. The second was strategic and sophisticated.

  The point? God gave Joshua a new plan: Begin again, my way. When he followed God’s strategy, victory happened.

  Peter, too, discovered the wonder of God’s second chance. One day Jesus used his boat as a platform. The crowd on the beach was so great that Jesus needed a buffer. So he preached from Peter’s boat. Then he told Peter to take him fishing.

  The apostle-to-be had no interest. He was tired; he had fished all night. He was discouraged; he had caught nothing. He was dubious. What did Jesus know about catching fish? Peter was self-conscious. People packed the beach. Who wants to fail in public?

  But Jesus insisted. And Peter relented. “At Your word I will let down the net” (Luke 5:5 NKJV).

  This was a moment of truth for Peter. He was saying, “I will begin again, your way.” When he did, the catch of fish was so great the boat nearly sank. Sometimes we just need to begin again with Christ in the boat.