The Applause of Heaven - Max Lucado [20]
It's like the story of the barber who became an artist. When asked why he changed professions, he replied, "A canvas doesn't tell me how to make it beautiful."
Neither do the meek.
That's why the announcement went first to the shepherds. They didn't ask God if he was sure he knew what he was doing. Had the angel gone to the theologians, they would have first consulted their commentaries. Had he gone to the elite, they would have looked around to see if anyone was watching. Had he gone to the successful, they would have first looked at their calendars.
So he went to the shepherds. Men who didn't have a reputation to protect or an ax to grind or a ladder to climb. Men who didn't know enough to tell God that angels don't sing to sheep and that messiahs aren't found wrapped in rags and sleeping in a feed trough.
A small cathedral outside Bethlehem marks the supposed birthplace of Jesus. Behind a high altar in the church is a cave, a little cavern lit by silver lamps.
You can enter the main edifice and admire the ancient church. You can also enter the quiet cave where a star embedded in the floor recognizes the birth of the King. There is one stipulation, however. You have to stoop. The door is so low you can't go in standing up.
The same is true of the Christ. You can see the world standing tall, but to witness the Savior, you have to get on your knees.
So... while the theologians were sleeping and the elite were dreaming and the successful were snoring, the meek were kneeling.
They were kneeling before the One only the meek will see. They were kneeling in front of Jesus.
for they will inherit the earth.
CHAPTER 8
THE BANDIT OF JOY
He was a professional thief. His name stirred fear as the desert wind stirs tumbleweeds. He terrorized the Wells Fargo stage line for thirteen years, roaring like a tornado in and out of the Sierra Nevadas, spooking the most rugged frontiersmen. In journals from San Francisco to New York, his name became synonymous with the danger of the frontier.
During his reign of terror between 1875 and 1883, he is credited with stealing the bags and the breath away from twenty-nine different stagecoach crews. And he did it all without firing a shot.
His weapon was his reputation. His ammunition was intimidation.
A hood hid his face. No victim ever saw him. No artist ever sketched his features. No sheriff could ever track his trail. He never fired a shot or took a hostage.
He didn't have to. His presence was enough to paralyze.
Black Bart. A hooded bandit armed with a deadly weapon.
He reminds me of another thief-one who's still around. You know him. Oh you've never seen his face, either. You couldn't describe his voice or sketch his profile. But when he's near, you know it in a heartbeat.
If you've ever been in the hospital, you've felt the leathery brush of his hand against yours.
If you've ever sensed someone was following you, you've felt his cold breath down your neck.
If you've awakened late at night in a strange room, it was his husky whisper that stole your slumber.
You know him.
It was this thief who left your palms sweaty as you went for the job interview.
It was this con man who convinced you to swap your integrity for popularity.
And it was this scoundrel who whispered in your ear as you left the cemetery, "You may be next."
He's the Black Bart of the soul. He doesn't want your money. He doesn't want your diamonds. He won't go after your car. He wants something far more precious. He wants your peace of mind-your joy.
His name?
Fear.
His task is to take your courage and leave you timid and trembling. His modus operandi is to manipulate you with the mysterious, to taunt you with the unknown. Fear of death, fear of failure, fear of God, fear of tomorrow-his arsenal is vast. His goal? To create cowardly, joyless souls.
He doesn't