At my previous job, I worked with a JW (I shall call him Jack) who didn’t believe in miracles. I felt great compassion for him.
Jack always looked lonely. When he spoke of his life, he had a disappointed tone; he wanted to be so much more–a musician, a husband, a success. After all, who dreams of valeting cars in your latter years?
When I told him about my Dad living through two brain aneurysms, he shook his head and said, “I know this is a sensitive subject for you, but God doesn’t still heal. That ended with the NT church.”
Imagine believing in a God who doesn’t use his power to restore the lives of hurting, dying people? I’d prefer to be an atheist.
“But listen, Jack. The medical expert over Dad told my mom point blank, ‘He won’t be the same man. He’s the most severely damaged someone can be neurologically.’ But our prayer overrode the doctor’s verdict; my Dad is back to teaching college classes.”
Jack looked at me with pity, as if to say, “This poor kid is believing a lie.”
But I looked at him with compassion. He wasn’t married and he knew he probably never would be; and his chances of landing a good job this late in life (without an outstanding resume) were slim.
Jack didn’t believe in miracles. But I witness them every day. Usually, they can’t be seen with the human eye, for they’re orchestrated by God’s spirit. The inner work that happens in a person is by far the greatest miracle.
It’s the greatest, and it’s most jaw dropping. One pastor I know used to deal drugs and use violent means to secure his deals. His encounter with Christ radically changed him. He’s now one of the most selfless men I’ve ever met, and he deeply cares for people.
But God doesn’t only extend his mighty hand to the killers and drug lords. He’s been faithful even to me.
I used to very bitter toward my parents for reasons I won’t disclose. All I can say is that certain disappoints fractured me, and I was too young to know how to react. Even when I wanted to forgive, I couldn’t.
I’d sit at the dinner table and not even look Dad in the eye. He’d come into my room to talk, and I’d ignore him. It was horrible, and I knew it, but something inside me wouldn’t let go. I was like a wounded soldier that wouldn’t let anyone close enough to help.
I still don’t know how He did it, but God slowly and delicately removed my bitterness like it was a piece of shrapnel. My bitter feelings were not overcome because I read a book or reasoned myself out of it; it was a supernatural act of God.
I could name plenty of other terrible things that God has pulled me out of, but that’s not my purpose here. My point is, God still does miracles–both visible and invisible.
Once, as Jack and I were waiting for the bus, we got to talking.
“You know, Gabe, I used to play guitar like you. I had dreams of being in a band, and I always wanted to be good with women. Neither ever panned out. Pretty unimpressive, huh?”
I really didn’t know what to say. So I tried to answer like Jesus answered people in the Gospels.
“You know Jack, lucky for us, our significance isn’t based on how successful we are in life. God judges our character. Most people tie their personal worth to their accomplishments. But that’s a terrible way to live, and you’ll never be satisfied. Although what we do is extremely important, ultimately it’s not about what we do, but who we are.”
Jack (as I have called you here), I wish you the best and hope you keep picking up the guitar. May you find what you’re looking for, the truth, and may it remind you that you’re deeply loved by Father God.
