'This time, he did not run away'

 I was listening to a great sermon by my pastor, Tim Kallem, from Acts chapter 11, where the church in Jerusalem hears of what is taking place in the city of Antioch and decides to send Barnabas, "a good man, full of the Holy Spirit and faith ..." Barnabas goes and sees that a great number of people are being brought to the Lord, so Barnabas goes to Tarsus "to look for Saul (Paul), and when he found him, he brought him to Antioch."

Barnabas and Saul (not yet Paul) preach and teach for a year, with a great number of people coming to faith in Christ.

Barnabas is also the man who stood up for Saul when Saul was first converted and went to Jerusalem to try to join the disciples. The disciples, aware of Saul's reputation and possibly even knowing of the events of the stoning of Stephen in which Saul participated, were afraid of Saul and did not believe he was really a disciple. In Acts 9:27 it says "But Barnabas took him (Saul) and brought him to the apostles. He told them how Saul on his journey had seen the Lord ..." It was Barnabas who apparently convinced the disciples that Saul's conversion was real, and that Saul should be allowed to join.

Here is what struck me: Barnabas was very encouraging and supportive of Saul. He stood up for him when the others were afraid. Barnabas repeatedly stuck his neck out for Saul, even to the point of recognizing that he, Barnabas, was probably not the man to lead the revival in Antioch and being humble enough to go get Saul, knowing this was Saul's gift.

A tremendous example of humility.

That leads me to John Mark.

John Mark is believed to be the author of the Gospel of Mark. Mark is believed to have assisted Peter, and his Gospel is based on the preaching of Peter as well as possibly Mark's own memory (more on that in a minute). I won't go into all the reasons for Mark's authorships - you can look it up - but Mark's story, while scattered through the New Testament, is remarkable in its own right and involves Barnabas.

Mark first appears, probably, at the end of the Gospel of Mark. There is a strange verse stuck in Mark 14, the recollection of Jesus' arrest in the garden. The soldiers come, Judas betrays him, and v. 51 says "A young man, wearing nothing but a linen garment, was following Jesus. When they seized him, he fled naked, leaving the garment behind."

This young man is believed to be Mark, because this is one of those details that is so odd and firsthand sounding and has no other significance. Certainly, I've never heard a sermon preached based on v. 51. 

We know Mark was from a family that was probably well off. In Acts 12:12 it talks of Mark's mother having a house in Jerusalem that served as a meeting place for believers. Some believe that the 'last supper' was in the upper room of Mark's family home, and that Mark was a young witness to much of Jesus' life and ministry, at least the last days.

In Acts 12:25 we see "When Barnabas and Saul had finished their mission, they returned from Jerusalem, taking with them John, also called Mark."

What we know next is in Acts 13:13, where Mark leaves Paul and Barnabas, a desertion that Paul takes very hard. Paul and Barnabas go on to finish their missionary journey, but then in Acts 15 Paul wants to go back to the towns they had preached in. Barnabas wants to take Mark, but Paul refused. 

We can take this as simply a "Paul says no" but the language suggests it's a very strong disagreement. Acts says "They had such a sharp disagreement that they parted company. Barnabas took Mark and sailed for Cyprus, but Paul chose Silas and left ..." to go to Syria and Cilicia.

Now get this: Here is Barnabas, whose name means "encouragement,'' who stood up for Paul and it could be argued made it possible for Paul to become the great missionary that he became, and yet whatever Mark did on that first trip is so angered Paul that he wanted nothing to do with Mark, to the point of splitting up the greatest missionary team of the early church.

This would likely have sent shock waves through the early church and made Mark something akin to Yoko Ono (the woman generally credited with breaking up the Beatles). Paul and Barnabas splitting up? It was like Tom Brady leaving the Patriots! 

And when Paul leaves with Silas, it is his journey that is "commended by the brothers'' (the other disciples), not Barnabas and Mark (who, by the way, were cousins).

Interesting that Paul would not listen to Barnabas in this matter, that whatever Mark did on that one journey so offended Paul that he would not give Mark a second chance, to the point of splitting up with a guy who had been so important to him and his ministry.

What happens to Mark? Somewhere along the way, obviously Mark and Paul make amends. Nearly 15 years later, in the letter to the Colossians, Paul writes, "My fellow prisoner Aristarchus sends his greetings, as does Mark, the cousin of Barnabas."

How did Mark get back in Paul's good graces? We don't know. We know Paul is writing from prison in Rome and Mark is with him. Paul even writes to the Colossians, "You have received instructions about him; if he comes to you, welcome him.'' (4:10).

Why would the church not welcome Mark? Maybe because he was branded as having been the disrupter of the early church, the kid who broke up the team of Paul and Barnabas. 

What we do know is that at some point Mark serves Peter, who writes in I Peter 5:13 of Mark as his "son." Scholars think Mark must have served with Peter for years, enough to absorb Peter's story enough to write one of the four Gospels. 

Yet toward the end of Paul's life, he writes in his second letter to Timothy, "Get Mark and bring him with you, because he is helpful to me in my ministry" (2 Timothy 4:11).

So Mark goes from fleeing the scene of Jesus' arrest (he wasn't the only one, of course) and being rejected so strongly by Paul that it causes a division between Paul and Barnabas, to Paul requesting Mark because Mark is "helpful." 

The early church historians say Mark eventually became bishop of Alexandria. He is credited with introducing Christianity to Africa. According to Coptic (Egyptian Christian) tradition, Mark in Alexandria annoyed the non-believers to the point they called him "the exterminator of the idols." We know that there was a wave of persecution that hit Alexandria, and Mark was killed. There is a tradition that people said of Mark upon his death, "This time he did not run away."

If that last statement is true, it likely means that Mark lived with the reputation of having run away - maybe from Jesus' arrest, but more likely from Paul and not being able to put up with the hardships of that first missionary journey, causing the split of Paul and Barnabas.

Mark went from being a spoiled baby who couldn't finish the trip with Paul and Barnabas to being a hero of the faith. Perhaps he was always remembered for his failure, but clearly, he overcame that and made something that lasted. After all, there are only four Gospels; Mark wrote one of them.

It may also speak volumes of Barnabas. We never hear about Barnabas again after that split in Acts, but if indeed Barnabas and Mark took a missionary journey, it's likely that Barnabas poured his life and wisdom into his young relative; mentored him. What an example for older men, to take younger men - particularly younger men who may have failed in some measure in their life - and encourage them, build them up, restore them.

Whatever we have done, whatever we have failed at, whatever we have run away from, we can look to Mark as an example that, as the saying goes, "if you're not dead, you're not done." God is not a God of second chances; he is a God of another chance. Not just second chances, but another and another and another ...

(Much of this comes from a man named Stephen Mansfield, who I had the chance to hear at a Man in the Mirror conference at Amelia Island and who talked passionately about Mark and 'second chances').

Outkicking your past

It’s a short passage in 1 Chronicles 4, and it became popular several years ago through a book called “The Prayer of Jabez.” The book comes across as awfully close to one of those “prosperity theology” prayers, the “name it and claim it” brand of religion - although I did read the book, and it has value if taken in the proper context.

But I was thinking more about this, trying to look beyond the verses the other day, and a couple things hit me.

Here is the passage: “Jabez was more honorable than his brothers. His mother had named him Jabez, saying, “I gave birth to him in pain.”  Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, “Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.” And God granted his request.”

First, here is Jabez. We don’t know much about him, yet we do.

He was more honorable than his brothers. Why is this line in there? We don’t know the names of his brothers; they aren’t named. But there was something about Jabez that the writer of Chronicles felt was important enough to mention: he was more honorable than his brothers. When the writer of this genealogy came to the name of Jabez, he remembered him for being "more honorable."

We’ll get back to that.

Then, his name: Jabez. Names meant something specific in those days, much as they have in other cultures. Native American names often had something to do with what happened on the day of their birth. “Wolf ran” or “owl perches in tree” or “running deer’’ … you get the idea. The name has to do with something that was seen as significant on the day they were born. 

If you remember your Bible stories, Isaacs’s name means “He will laugh,” reflecting the disbelief, if not outright laughing, that occurred when old Sara and Abraham were told they would have a son.

Jabez’ name reflects the amount of pain his mother experienced in childbirth. Think about that. She didn’t pick a name that reflected some hope for his future, or something of significance to the family, or a name to honor some relative. No, Jabez has to live every day of his life knowing he caused his mother an incredible amount of pain. Every time his name was called in school (if they did that back then); every time he was called to dinner; every time his friends picked him for a game of cow-tipping, he was reminded that he was literally a “pain.”

That makes me think his mother was bitter. I can hear her use his name as a way to remind him of her own suffering, of maybe even her own disappointment and somehow making him the embodiment of that disappointment.

And Jabez could have grown up living “down” to his name, to that disappointment. He could have grown up knowing life is hard, full of pain, and it would always be that way. Maybe his brothers had better names, family names, names that they could live up to. For Jabez, the bar was set pretty low.

Yet Jabez doesn’t settle. He wants something more for himself. He wants to get beyond the low expectations, the misery of his everyday existence.

He asks, “Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me …” He wants more than what is expected of him and, judging by the fact that his brothers are not mentioned, I’d assume he wants something more than his brothers even dreamed of.

Jabez asks for blessing, but surely realizes with that “enlarging of territory” there comes more responsibility, more work.

He ends with “… free me from pain.”

He could have been asking to be free from physical pain, or he could be asking to be free from the curse of his name: “pain.” It’s almost as if he’s asking, “free me from the burden of my past, from the ways this family attempts to keep me down.”

Too many people who are raised in bitterness and being put down live with bitterness and a sense that the world is against them. Often, they live in an emotional cowering, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the hammer to fall, for whatever disaster they know will befall them because that’s been their whole life. They can’t see that there is opportunity for something more.

Yet Jabez apparently does. Maybe he listens to the stories told around the campfires of the heroes of the nation of Israel, of Abraham and Moses and Joshua and Caleb; heroes that made him long for something better.

And God does it. Why? Apparently because Jabez was “more honorable than his brothers.” He realized, somehow, that he doesn’t have to live the way his brothers do, that he doesn’t have to be bound by the expectations others have for him, that he doesn’t have to be a source of pain.

Something in the stories he’d heard about, something that stirred within his heart made him cry out to God for something more, something greater, something beyond anything those around him could imagine. “Oh, that You would bless me…”

And he lived a life of honor that God blessed.

His brothers grew up in the same house, and no doubt heard the same stories. They had the same history, the same tribe, the same bloodline. Yet there is no record that they grabbed the vision and pursued something greater than what was expected of them.

I think we all have those things in our past that hold us back – the disappointments, the hurts, the failures. Maybe it’s not our fault; maybe we’re reminded by our families – as Jabez was – of those disappointments and low expectations.

But what we want is to rise up. To be better than our past. Or as Jabez might have said, “Bless me. Give me more responsibility. Free me from the curse of what is expected of me, the burden of the meaning of my name.”

Whatever situation we find ourselves in, we should live with honor, responding appropriately to the situations around us. We don’t wallow in self-pity or hide behind some disappointment from yesterday or from years ago.

Be more honorable than your brothers. Don’t be afraid to ask God for more, but remember to ask for the character to handle it, believe that God will give it to you despite the circumstances or situations you find yourself in.

That’s the lesson, to me, of Jabez.

Right in the middle of this passage of names and boring genealogy, it’s as if the writer came across the name “Jabez” and remembered there was something noteworthy about him, something unforgettable.

Be unforgettable.

Be honorable. 

(Much of what I do is read other people's work, then think about it and "riff" on what stuck with me. Much of this was a riff on a chapter in Stephen Mansfield's excellent book, "Mansfield's Book of Manly Men." I recommend it). 

The land, Scarlett, the land

I’m sitting on the porch, watching the sun rise over Lay Lake. Last night, it was a near-full moon reflecting on the water just beyond my back porch, and the sounds were those of frogs and the occasional squawk of a bird. It’s quiet, peaceful; I can see the stars and feel the breeze.

I’m in the country.

My mom grew up in the country - Powder Springs, Georgia, well before the time when Powder Springs joined the rest of North Georgia as part of the seemingly endless sprawl of suburb that Atlanta has become. It was rural, and she lived on a farm. My grandfather was a lumberman, but he apparently also raised crops and had a few animals; I don’t really know, because by the time I came along they’d left the farm and moved to East Point, back then a blue-collar town that was named because it was the eastern end of the Atlanta & West Point Rail Road (the western end being West Point, Ga.).

The way I remember the story (you know how family histories are) is that my mother couldn’t wait to leave the farm and move to the city and live a city lifestyle, whatever that meant to a girl in the 1930s. Honestly, I’m not sure of the timeline, but I know at some point my mother moved to Atlanta, got a job, went with a some of her girlfriends to attend the “Gone With The Wind” premier at the Lowe’s Theatre in Atlanta hoping to see Clark Gable.

Hers was always a desire to ‘better’ herself – to wear nicer clothes and eat in white-table cloth restaurants. I have a picture of her in my mind – the real one exists somewhere in a scrapbook – of her sitting at one of those restaurants, her long graceful fingers holding a cigarette, looking glamourous in a way she never would have if she’d stayed in Powder Springs.

She joined the Woman’s Auxiliary Volunteers in World War II, which was the women’s Navy (the WAVs). Her father was not happy about that, saying that was no place for a proper woman and he would disown her. Maybe “disowned’’ her is not accurate, but clearly my mom did not go in the direction he thought was appropriate.

She met my father, who was in the Navy (actually the Coast Guard), and both were stationed in Charleston, S.C. They married either within a few weeks or a few months, depending on which of my siblings tells the story. My father wanted to go back to the homestead in New Jersey where the Melicks had lived for over 200 years, but for all her desire for sophistication my mother was not going to leave the South (they’d lived, for a time, on Staten Island when my father was stationed there and apparently, she saw realized that a civilization without fried chicken, fried okra, grits and sweet tea was not a civilization she wanted to be part of).

And so, she spent the rest of her life living in the Atlanta area, working full time, putting up with her husband, and teaching her kids to read and dream and think and want a life beyond what we knew.

But when she got older, when she’d retired and all of the kids had left home, and she and my dad had spent a year in Liberia as missionaries and come back to find that her cancer had gotten worse, she often talked of wanting to go back to the farm.

There is that great line in “Gone with The Wind” when Scarlett O’Hara’s father, Gerald, admonishes her, saying “Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O’Hara, that Tara, that land, doesn’t mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin’ for, worth fightin’ for, worth dyin’ for, because it’s the only thing that lasts.”

My mom loved that movie. Certainly because of Clark Gable, but maybe because she recognized Scarlett’s desire to get off the plantation and live a life of “more,” whatever that meant. But I think the line about “that land” resonated with her as well. As she got older, mom talked often of moving to a place in the country, of finding a place to get back to the land, as if she were trying to go back to the farm.

She never did.

My wife, bless her heart, knows how that speech about “land” in Gone with The Wind resonated with me. Every time we looked at buying a house, I was always drawn to the one with the biggest yard, the most space, with “land.”

I never lived on a farm. I am smart enough to know that the reality of owning several hundred acres of pasture and/or forests requires more work than I’m inclined to give it. If I could buy a nice house in the middle of somebody else’s plantation and let them care for it while I just enjoyed the view, that would be ideal.

Yet a few years ago, we bought a place on Lay Lake, with a Wilsonville address even though it’s not really in the town limits of Wilsonville. We’re on a point, and the views from three sides of this house is of water or trees; on one side I have a neighbor, but the house was designed so that is not part of the routine view.

It’s quiet. At night, if I go out the front door, I hear the chorus of hundreds or maybe even thousands of frogs from the inlet across the street. If I go out the back and sit on the porch, I can see the moon rising and reflecting in the water, and hear the occasional screech of a bird. We have bunnies and turtles and frogs and lizards and all kinds of great birds.

It’s quiet, except for the early mornings when there is a fishing tournament and the boats are racing to their favorite spots and my end of the lake resembles the start of a Sunday race at Talladega.

I never thought I’d own a place at the lake. I never thought I’d really want a place at the lake. I always thought of myself as a “city boy.” I don’t hunt or fish or do those outdoorsy things that most of the guys of my age do. I certainly don’t farm, although I did plant and care for two blueberry bushes that produced a nice ‘crop’ of blueberries; and I don’t garden, although I did manage to keep a pretty bougainvillea alive for almost two years, until a summer storm broke it in half.

But perhaps there is that part of my mom still in me, that longs to return to the land, because maybe, as Gerald O’Hara said, it’s the only thing that lasts.