Category: Bible Studies

There is so much we don’t know about the life of Jesus. The gospels only record a tenth of it (Three years out of 33, and most of the focus of the gospels is on the last week!) What was Jesus like growing up? Luke describes his childhood: “And he went down with them and came to Nazareth and was submissive to them. And his mother treasured up all these things in her heart. And Jesus increased in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man” (Luke 2:51 – 52). Wouldn’t you like to know more?

I believe Jude, perhaps the youngest brother of Jesus, was going to do just that. He begins his short epistle: “Beloved, although I was very eager to write to you about our common salvation …” What is our “common salvation” if not Jesus? I think Jude was preparing to write a life of Jesus – a gospel – when something more important came up. He writes:

Beloved, although I was very eager to write to you about our common salvation, I found it necessary to write appealing to you to contend for the faith that was once for all delivered to the saints (verse 3).

Of course, contending for the faith doesn’t mean be contentious for the faith! I have noticed a strange phenomenon among the saints. We are required to be loving and kind to our brothers – even if we disagree on matters of opinion. However, it seems as if we can elevate our dispute to a point of doctrine, then our opponent becomes a heretic, and we can be as nasty as we like (or so they feel). That is manifestly not what Jude is teaching!

Jude’s little letter is carefully crafted in the form of a chiasm. The Greek letter Chi looks like an X, and a chiasm is an argument in the form ABBA. The first subject, A, is introduced, then the second subject, B. Then B’ is explained before returning to the original topic A. In Jude, A is an appeal to “contend for the faith.” B follows in verse 4, “For certain people have crept in unnoticed who long ago were designated for this condemnation, ungodly people, who pervert the grace of our God into sensuality and deny our only Master and Lord, Jesus Christ.” Now Jude expands B by explaining who these people are and what they are like (vv. 5 – 19). The conclusion, A repeated, describes how we are to contend for the faith (vv. 20 – 23):

But you, beloved, building yourselves up in your most holy faith and praying in the Holy Spirit, keep yourselves in the love of God, waiting for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ that leads to eternal life. And have mercy on those who doubt; save others by snatching them out of the fire; to others show mercy with fear, hating even the garment stained by the flesh.

Jude teaches us if you want to “contend for the faith” first, look to yourself! Build yourself up, pray in the Spirit, stay in the love of God, and wait for the mercy that leads to eternal life. Then you are ready to “have mercy on those who doubt” by showing “mercy with fear, hating even the garment stained by the flesh.”

Last year, I had to exchange some correspondence with a certain government agency. Writing the letter made me feel uncomfortable. “Dear IRS….” They didn’t feel dear to me. In fact, I felt just the opposite, but English convention dictates we open our letters with the greeting dear.

Every culture has a unique greeting reserved for correspondence. In Latin, we would wish them “Health!” In Hebrew, it is “Shalom” (“Peace.”). In Greek, they use the word “Chiro” (“Rejoice”).

James, the brother of Jesus, writing on behalf of the church in Jerusalem, begins that letter with the typical Greek greeting “Rejoice” in Acts 15:23. He also opens his epistle in the same way (James 1:1). A little later, Christians changed the spelling of the Greek salutation, “Chiro,” into the more appropriate prayer: “Charis,” Grace.

The Apostle Paul combines this greeting, “Grace,” with the Hebrew greeting “Peace” in most of his letters, as does John in the Revelation. John multiplies his greetings, adding mercy as Paul does in his letters to Timothy.

Jude, James’ younger brother, does something entirely different: “May mercy, peace, and love be multiplied to you” (Jude 2). Perhaps he isn’t as Greek as James, and I believe Jude is writing at a very early date, perhaps before “Rejoice” was modified to “Grace.” Instead, he chooses to share three grand attributes: mercy, peace, and love.

Mercy is supremely a quality of God, our merciful Father. Mercy differs from sympathy and compassion. We might feel for someone – even a fictitious character from a movie or a book – but mercy goes beyond feelings. It has been defined as “sympathy that is moved into action.” God not only feels for us but He is also moved to act on our behalf! That is a beautiful prayer for those we love: “May you receive God’s mercy.”

The Hebrew concept of “peace” is more than the absence of conflict. Two gun-toting Israeli soldiers may wish one another “shalom – peace.” Instead, the peace we are praying for means “God is in control.” Whatever is happening will turn out for the best because God is in control.

Finally, Jude understood the great blessing of Christ and Christianity is love. After looking at the Christian Triad – faith, hope, and love – Paul concluded: “the greatest of these is love.”

That is my prayer for you today: mercy, peace, and love!

It is a shame that most Christians all but ignore the little book of Jude. Like Philemon, it takes up barely a page or two in our Bible, but I believe good things come in small packages. Let’s spend some time together getting to know this book.

Jesus had four brothers: James, Simon, Joses, and Jude (Mark 6:3). While they followed Jesus at the beginning of his ministry, it wasn’t long before they abandoned him. After all, for whom would it have been more difficult to believe Jesus was the son of God than for his own family. They knew he was a good man, but it was too difficult for them to believe Jesus was the son of God until after the resurrection (1 Corinthians 15:7). I do hope there are re-runs in heaven! What a fantastic reunion that must have been!

Not only are James and Jude brothers of Jesus, but their writing styles are also very similar. They choose vivid illustrations and share very practical admonitions. James describes himself as “a servant of God and of the Lord Jesus Christ” (1:1), while Jude introduces himself as “a servant of Jesus Christ and brother of James” (Jude 1). Why don’t they say, “I am the brother of Jesus”? After their unbelief, while Jesus was alive and ministering, they probably didn’t feel worthy. James not only describes himself as a servant (literally a “slave”) of God but notice how he describes his relationship with Jesus, who is both “Lord” and “Christ.” (“Christ” means anointed – that is, “chosen by God.” “Messiah,” the Hebrew word, means the very same thing.) Jude, the youngest brother, identifies himself by his relationship with James and as “a servant of Jesus Christ” (Again, literally a slave of Jesus Christ).

How do you identify yourself? I am “John McKeel, the son of John McKeel, the son of John McKeel, the father of John McKeel, the grandfather of John McKeel.” That’s a lot of Johns, but mom, the mother of five children, observed, “You can never have enough Johns in a house.” Or we could identify ourselves by the hats we wear. I’m a preacher, a writer, a sailor, a photographer… but, frankly, the only thing that matters is being a child of God. That’s special, but I wonder if we ever think about ourselves like James and Jude? Are we slaves of Jesus Christ? Is he in total control of our lives? Are we seeking to please him or ourselves in what we do and say? How do we become faithful servants? The Apostle Paul said Jesus “emptied himself, by taking the form of a slave” (Philippians 2:7 NRSV). Therein is the key. Jesus “emptied himself.” James must have done the same when he became a “slave of God and of the Lord Jesus Christ.” So did Jude. We can do no less.

A rudder is a very small part of a boat. It is tiny compared to the tall sails and amounts to only a fraction of the size of the keel, but big things often come in small packages. 

As you just read, without a rudder, and with a storm bearing down on us, we were in serious trouble. We ended up in a little bay, thirty miles from the nearest village. It took two days to patch together a new rudder from hatch boards, duct tape, lashings, and a pair of aluminum oar handles. 

The rudder may be a very small part of your boat, but it has great power. James, the brother of Jesus, compared our tongues to the rudder of a boat: 

For we all stumble in many ways. And if anyone does not stumble in what he says, he is a perfect man, able also to bridle his whole body. If we put bits into the mouths of horses so that they obey us, we guide their whole bodies as well. Look at the ships also: though they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are guided by a very small rudder wherever the will of the pilot directs. So also the tongue is a small member, yet it boasts of great things. (James 3:2-5). 

Many people might have given up on sailing after an experience like ours, but together, Jan and I made it back to Puerto Penasco (“Rocky Point”). 

Since this was Jan’s first long trip, I was afraid it would be our last. (Not only did we lose the rudder, we lost two anchors and ended up hard aground in the middle of a giant mud flat at low tide!) Jan didn’t let it curb her enthusiasm. As we limped back to Rocky Point, she looked at me with a big smile and declared, “John, I love you, but we’re going to need a bigger boat.” 

It was time to start for home, but that was going to be a challenge. We had been blessed with strong winds blowing from the north to push us south on our journey, but now we needed to sail north—against the prevailing winds—to get home to San Diego. On top of that, with the cold California current running north south, we would have to fight that, too. It seemed like our best bet would be to use our tiny thirty- five-horse-power engine and scoot north during the night, after the winds had died down. 

Poor Jan was so excited that she didn’t manage to get any sleep at all the night before. So when I woke up at midnight, she was already awake. Ensenada had been a wonderful stopover. The people were so friendly and the food was delicious. A half moon had just risen when we untied from the dock. The water in the harbor was mirror calm. The dimly-lit green buoys were on our right, and the red buoys on the left marked our channel out into the bay. Once there, we were greeted with large, slow swells that had traveled from distant shores. The boat began to corkscrew uncomfortably. We couldn’t see the approaching swells. Back and forth. Up and down. Side to side. It grew darker and darker. The motion was nauseating. 

Dawn was welcome. It didn’t make much difference in the motion of the boat, but at least we could see what we were up against. It was going to be a slow bash northward. At one point, our speed dropped below two knots. “We’re walking to San Diego,” I complained. Jan was exhausted and I was green—very green. Soon, I had the opportunity to enjoy the fine fare of Ensenada over again—and again. 

We loved sailing, but not this part. I had to have a break from five hours at the helm. Somehow, Jan and I were able to trade positions behind the wheel, on the bucking bronco, without anyone going overboard. 

“I hate this,” Jan replied. 

I went below to check on the little diesel engine and try to find some relief. The way things were going, this was sure to be our last voyage! 

Suddenly, I heard Jan laughing and squealing like a little girl. I popped up on deck just in time to see “Sally,” a forty-five-foot blue whale. (I knew she was at least forty-five feet long because our little boat only measures forty feet from stem to stern!) She was just a “biscuit toss” away and keeping pace with us. (Yes, she had to slow way down.) 

“I’ve named her ‘Sally,’” Jan announced triumphantly. 

Sally rolled up on her side and looked us over before crossing our bow and swimming down the other side. She seemed to shake her head as if in wonder. “What are these crazy people doing?” and then she sounded. Her massive fluke swung high into the air, and she seemed to leave a hole in the ocean as she slipped beneath the waves. In one magic moment, everything had changed. All of our troubles were forgotten, and we were left with a sense of wonder and awe. 

I can’t help but think it will be that way for Christians when we meet Jesus. All our troubles will soon be forgotten. Maranatha — Come Lord! 

I had never worked so hard in my life. Jan and I had our beloved sailboat, Santa Teresa, hauled out and put in the boatyard, where we proceeded to strip off forty years of old paint to take her down to bare wood. The mahogany was magnificent, and it seemed a shame to cover up such beautiful wood, but once the inspections were over, we put on fresh paint and had her put back into the bay. The only problem was that the seams on a wooden boat are filled with “oakum,” a fibrous material that swells up to ten times its size when exposed to water. The swollen oakum then keeps the water out of the boat. 

After Santa Teresa had been sitting out of the water in the boatyard for three weeks, the seams had dried out. That meant when they lowered our boat back into the bay, water jetted through the seams! When I went below, it looked like the Bellagio Fountains inside. Water was shooting up through the seams between the planks, and the bilge was filling up fast! 

No problem, I thought, flipping the switch to turn on the bilge pump. But then, nothing happened. It was a brand-new bilge pump—the largest one the chandlery sold—and it didn’t work. I grabbed the pump handle for the manual pump and rushed up on deck to begin pumping furiously. Meanwhile, Jan and the cats were rolling with laughter, and videotaping the whole fiasco. Finally, I realized when I installed the new electric pump, I had installed a one-way valve backward—it allowed the water in, but not out. Equipped with a swim mask and a screwdriver, I jumped in the bilge and fixed the offending valve. Jan flipped the switch, and the problem was solved. The water went back into the ocean, where it belonged, and we were safe. A few hours later, after the oakum had soaked up enough water, the seams were sealed again. The only thing injured was my pride. 

That night, we drank a cup of hot tea and thought about the oakum. When it’s dry, it’s just so much frail fiber. For it to do its job, it needs to soak a while. Christians can be the same way. If we don’t take time to be with God—especially in worship—we dry out and become brittle. No wonder the Hebrew writer advised, “And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near” (Hebrews 10:24, 25). 

Raising children is not for the faint of heart. They seem to specialize in keeping us off balance, so the best advice I ever received on child rearing was to think about them like cats and dogs. 

When your children are young, they are like dogs. At home, in the parsonage, our little dog, Charlie, is a refugee from the pound. He’s part terrier and part dachshund with a dash of DNA from the far side of the gene pool. Be that as it may, Charlie loves me unconditionally. When I come through the door, his whole-body wiggles with excitement. He barks, races around me, and leads me to believe that I am the focus of his life. 

Preschoolers can be like that, too. “Daddy’s home!” Little legs pump furiously so they can wrap their tiny arms around my neck. Butterfly kisses and footy rides make life grand. Then one day, you come home, and everything has changed. 

I bought a tandem bike at a garage sale and decided to pick up my daughter, Charlotte, from junior high school on it. She was definitely not impressed. I don’t think she has ever forgiven me for forcing her to ride home on the back of it, in front of her friends. 

The advice? One day, sometime around a quarter to teen, your loving dog will turn into a cat. Cats love you, but on their terms. “You may pat me now. You may feed me now. You may have the privilege of cleaning my litter box now.” 

“What happened to my little girl? When was my joyful son turned into the troll who lives below the stairs?” Confusion confronts most parents until they realize their dog is now a cat. They still love you, just in a different way. 

The good news is, sometime after college, your cat will turn back into a dog, and it will be smooth sailing again. 

So how hard is it to steer a straight line? It’s actually much harder than you think! Our oldest granddaughter, Rachel, loves to steer, but she thinks it’s all about turning the wheel. Hang on! If Rachel is at the helm, everything is in chaos. 

Navigating, though, is mostly about holding a steady course. However, the wind, the waves, and the boat itself can conspire to work against you. Sail handlers will talk for hours about the different forces that react with the sails. There is the “center of effort,” “overlaps,” “exit angles,” and “aspect ratios.” Helmsmen talk about angles of attack and how to steer through a set of waves. Basically, what they are saying is, if your boat and sails aren’t balanced, you can’t steer a straight line. On an old cruising boat like Santa Teresa, with her long, deep keel, if you set the sails properly, you hardly need to touch the wheel at all. She’ll hold her course and you can relax and enjoy the ride. 

Likewise, people need balance in their lives. Some people are experts at organization and time management. They remind me of a well- organized hat rack. There they are, all the hats neatly arranged and on display. I can grab my daddy hat, my work hat, my husband hat, my social hat, my guy’s night out hat, and my church hat. They are all there. Unfortunately, I often have to wear several of them at the same time and that looks a bit silly. 

When I was a boy, I loved my bicycle. It gave me my first taste of freedom. I could ride to school, to a friend’s house, to the movies, and to deliver my newspapers. I loved my bike, but I also loved taking things apart to see how they worked. I remember one day, I completely disassembled my bicycle on the driveway. It was beautiful: carefully arranged with all the spokes in a neat row. The frame was there. The rims and the chain were there, carefully laid out side by side, along with the seat, the handlebars, and the pedals. It looked great, all laid out for inspection, but it was worthless. It couldn’t deliver papers or jump over garbage cans. I was stranded until it was all put back together. 

Some people are like that, too. Their lives are neat and in order, but really aren’t going anywhere. To do that, the spokes need to be firmly attached to the hub. There must be a center to your life. Just like sailing, if you are not going to be constantly making course corrections, there must be balance. 

So what—or better, who is the center of your life? What holds it all together? If it’s your job, what happens when you retire? If it is a person, what happens if that person leaves? Hobbies are too transient and causes are too nebulous. Only God is a worthy center. He gives my life meaning. God advises me not just about what is right and wrong, but also about what is good, better, and best. My faith isn’t just worth living for; it’s worth dying for. 

Jesus said, “I am the way, and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6). 

Be a Blessing!

Scientists who measure such things say the pain of childbirth and the pain of passing a kidney stone are equivalent. (What kind of a person measures such things?) So what is the difference? Give birth and people celebrate. They throw parties and give presents, but pass a kidney stone and all you get is relief. 

Some pain is debilitating. Who can enjoy life with a toothache or a migraine? But other pain simply confirms you are alive. Think about the pain you feel after dragging yourself up on the beach after a long swim—a couple of deep breaths, and you towel your hair as you stretch. There is pain, but it’s a good pain. 

One night, after evening church services, Jan came running into the auditorium, shouting, “John! Santa Teresa has broken free from her mooring and is headed for the rocks!” There was a terrible storm in San Diego that night. The winds and the waves were so bad that the harbor police recalled all of their boats. If you were in trouble, you were on your own. 

I didn’t bother changing clothes. Jan and I jumped into our car and raced to the beach. Even with the wipers going full speed, it was hard to see. The wind buffeted us as we crossed the Coronado Bridge, but we could see Santa Teresa just off the beach, heeled over on her side, with the surf pounding her! Jan called one of our neighbors. Stewart and I pushed our dinghy into the waves, and I rowed with all of my strength. It was a miracle that I could get aboard her at that crazy angle, with the foam crashing over the decks. 

The first task was to get an anchor over the stern to keep her from being pushed any farther onto the beach or into the rocks. I heard a shout and there was Stewart in his dinghy. I lowered the big bow anchor into his boat and he rowed as far as he could into the bay before dropping it over the side. A coast guard fast boat arrived, but they only rescue drowning people—they don’t rescue boats. They waited in the distance, but gave the harbor police (who showed up in a patrol car) a blow-by-blow description of what we were doing. Jan was in a harbor police patrol car, praying, and she heard them say, “We’ve never seen such seamanship!” Stewart was battling the waves in his tiny boat and I was cranking in the anchor line in, inch by painful inch. I was certain that the line would snap under the strain, but it didn’t. Slowly, and almost imperceivable, Santa Teresa began to move backward through the mud, sand, and rocks. I prayed that the hull was whole. 

Stewart climbed back on board and, together, exhausted, we continued to crank. Now we could feel it. She was fighting to get free of the death grip. We were moving! Proudly she righted herself, and I fired up the engine. We couldn’t raise the anchors, so I tied floats on them and cut them free. We were moving! We were sailing! We headed back to the mooring ball, but how could we catch it in these waves, and with this wind? Stewart made a lasso out of what was left of an anchor line and hung over the side. Santa Teresa was bucking like a wild animal as we approached. Twice we missed and three times I had to come around again. On the third try, Stewart looped the big, white ball and snubbed us to a stop. 

We were a mess, exhausted, soaked, and cold. Below, the cabin was a mess. There was an anchor from a boat Santa Teresa hit when she broke free. It was sitting on a bookshelf under a hole in the deck above. Who knew what other surprises were waiting? Was there a hole in the hull? Had the keel been cracked? The answers would have to wait until morning. I passed out towels and dry clothes, the teakettle whistled, as Stewart and I took stock. We were in pain, but it was a good pain. The kind of pain that tells you that you’re alive. 

So how can a Good God allow so much pain in his world? It seems the height of hubris for me to even try to answer that question, but I can make three observations. First, the same sensors that register pain can also register pleasure. The same nerves that shout, “The stove is hot!” also say, “Phoebe’s fur is soft.” Pain and pleasure are part of the same continuum. Second, pain becomes acceptable when it has meaning. The pain of childbirth is bearable because it has meaning. We tolerate the dentist’s drill because it will cure our toothache. I can accept the pain in my muscles because I know I’m getting stronger. Finally, pain can represent value. A painting is valued by how much someone is willing to sacrifice to obtain it. Stewart’s friendship is precious, because he was willing to endure so much pain and hardship just to help me. 

A final observation: God is not sadistic. He does not stand apart from our pain, but endures it with us. God is not unmoved by our grief and suffering. Do you remember the scripture that simply says, “Jesus wept”? (John 11:35) How much more does Jesus prove his love for us than by his willingness to die for us? Be a Blessing!

  
from my book, Changing Tacks: Lessons from an Old Wooden Boat

I love getting in our dinghy and rowing out away from our sailboat. I’m not trying to escape, but to gain perspective. I love to look at her sitting at anchor. She has classic lines from her long, beautiful bowsprit to the sweet upturn of her transom. 

The surprising thing is what you don’t see. If you don’t count the masts that hold the sails up in the air, there is much more sailboat below the water than above! The seven-foot keel sticks down into the ocean and weighs over 9,000 pounds. It stretches from the bow to the stern and her purpose is to keep us sailing upright. When the winds howl and threaten to turn us upside down, the keel fights back and keeps us on course. 

For a Christian, the Holy Spirit is the equivalent to a keel. Temptations and trials may threaten to turn us upside down, but the Holy Spirit keeps us upright and on course. While the Holy Spirit is quiet, lying there just below the surface, he gives stability to everything we do and helps us pass through every storm. 
Be a Blessing!

from my book, Changing Tacks: Lessons I’ve Learned from an Old Wooden Boat