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TEMPORARY FIXES
#3
THE MEMORY OF A LAST DANCE
Have you ever had the opportunity to do a good deed
— but then sagged because of the obvious SMALLNESS, the temporary-ness
of its effect? You could give that panhandler a dollar, but it was clearly
going to go for booze. You could mentor a kid in math down at the elementary
school, but what chance was there, really, that your help would make any
difference? And so you passed by on the other side of the road, to borrow
a metaphor from the Good Samaritan parable told by Jesus.
I mentioned on Monday — speaking of Jesus — that even Christ Himself faced
situations where people He could help were only out to score temporary
benefits. He fed 5,000 people in one great miracle buffet; how many of
them paused to really accept salvation? The book of Luke, chapter 17,
tells about ten lepers who came to Him for healing. The moment they were
made well, nine of them just took off running down the road in celebration.
Did they pause to connect spiritually with Christ, or even to thank Him?
No, they were out of there.
And yet . . . He healed them anyway. And I find in that generosity a lesson
for each of us.
We mentioned on Monday a poignant story of a man whose mind was locked
up by a mysterious form of Parkinson's Disease. In the script, Awakenings,
penned by Steven Zaillian, who also wrote Schindler's List, this patient,
Leonard Lowe, is abruptly freed from the "(quote) space-time lock"
that had kept him frozen in a catatonic state for thirty agonizing years.
It's a story described in the classic medical book, The Man Who Mistook
His Wife for a Hat, by Dr. Oliver Sacks.
But the scene that steals the show involves a beautiful young girl named
Paula. She's the daughter of another patient who has also experienced
this miraculous "awakening," so day by day, she's there in the
hospital too. And for a brief time in this story, the eyes of this Leonard
fall on her. Now, he's just come out of the twilight of his frozen years.
He's like a child in his emotions, his abilities to walk and talk and
think and experience feelings. But in his sweet, innocent way, he endeavors
to woo this beautiful girl.
Now, it's plain to the observer on the sidelines that she is miles above
anything he could hope for. He's essentially a shy child, standing there
on the dance floor, nervously holding his rumpled hat in his hands. But
for whatever reason, she graciously permits just a bit of romance to flourish.
They dance together, and go on outings together, trips to the beach. But
you get the idea that in her generosity, she's simply "carrying"
the relationship. She's being kind; that's all.
And then, toward the end of the story, is the pain-filled falling away
we mentioned earlier. The L-Dopa fails to work. Increased dosages fail
to work. The muscle responses start to lock up again. And where this Leonard
was quite functional before, reasonably steady in controlling his speech
and his hands and limbs, now the tremors return with a vengeance.
And then all at once Paula stands there at the door again. Looking more
radiant than ever. And with just a glance, she knows what's happened.
After all, her own relative is fading away as well. And she can see that
Leonard is on his way back to the prison of full-blown Parkinson's. Another
week and he'll be completely catatonic again.
What should she do? Why waste time on a shell of a man who's nearly gone?
They could never have a life together, a marriage, a home, children. He's
just a few days away from the finish line. She might as well walk away.
But it's unforgettable what actually takes place. She goes over to him,
her smile brighter than ever. "Leonard! How are you?"
And he tries to answer, still with his child-like infatuation with this
goddess. "I . . . I . . . I'm not so good. I'm not . . . doing so
good."
And she quietly brushes it aside. "It's sure good to see you again."
She takes his hand; she visits with him. In her kindness, she makes these
last moments special, memorable. And then, right at the end, she asks
him: "Do you want to dance again? Like we did before?"
And Leonard shakes his head. "No . . . no. I don't . . . I don't
think I can." His whole body is shaking painfully now.
But Paula slowly stands up and pulls him to his feet as well. "You
can do it." Then she adds: "I LOVE dancing with you." And
as the music softly plays, and as he shakes, clumsily, the awkwardness
impossible to overcome, she holds his hand and gently leads him across
the floor. In her strength, she gives him this last moment of manhood,
of validity. And she says to him: "This is nice." He nods. "Yeah."
A few days later, he's gone. Not dead, but back in the wheelchair, locked
in a frozen stare. A stare that seems to onlookers to be blank, unknowing.
But, friend, who of us knows if Leonard Lowe might have been remembering
— for the rest of his LIFE — the tender sweetness of a pretty girl who
danced with him and made him feel like a valued, important friend?
And I see this kind of eloquent, perfect tenderness in the life of Jesus.
All around Him were people who had suffered their whole lives from a kind
of sleeping sickness. In a spiritual sense, everyone He knew down here
had Parkinson's. NOBODY was awake; the whole planet was afflicted, in
a catatonic state. In fact, a few times in the New Testament, when He
was speaking just to His closest 12 friends, they would shake their heads
and say: "Jesus, we don't get it. What are You talking about?"
And in those unguarded moments, He would say to them: "Are you still
so slow?" Or so dull? And then He would quietly explain the lesson
again, or the details to His parables. He basically CARRIED them through
the whole time of ministry together.
All through this three-and-a-half-year story described in the Gospels,
we find a portrait of this loving Savior who was generous in helping people
who didn't deserve it. In virtually every case, these moments of outreach
qualified under our series title: TEMPORARY FIXES. Feeding people who
wouldn't be converted. Healing the bodies of people who would then withhold
from Jesus their souls.
Probably the most exquisite example we can find is that of Judas. Right
at the end, when Jesus knows with absolute certainty that Judas has already
sold Him out, already made the deal to betray Him, Christ still treats
him with royal affection. He says nothing to the others; He doesn't belittle
him. In fact, there in the Upper Room, He strips down to a towel and performs
the act of a servant, washing Judas' feet!
And we ask: Why?! Why bother! Why waste time and energy and LOVE on this
traitorous enemy? Judas was a lost man: he knew it and Jesus knew it.
Why expend further energy on a moral zero, a lost cause?
Friend, simply because that was the nature, the holy, perfect heart of
Jesus. Yes, He came to this earth to save sinners from sin. It was His
ultimate purpose to see lost men and women safely into His eternal kingdom.
But for the others — the losers, the rejects (meaning those who rejected
Him), the rebels — it was also His purpose to brighten up and lift their
hearts as well. He didn't consider it waste. If He could give an eternity
of joy, He would. If they would only accept from Him a day of it, or an
hour, or just five seconds of a caress, a smile, a kind word, He would
do what He could.
We all know the story, the Calvary scene, where Roman soldiers viciously
drove the nails into His hands and feet. They picked up that wooden cross
and SLAMMED it into the ground. It had to be agony for Christ. But what
was His prayer at that very moment?
"Father, forgive them, for they do not know
what they are doing."
Now, did any of those stupid, thoughtless, cruel
men ever seek God and accept that forgiveness? I don't know that a single
one of them ever turned his eyes toward heaven. The Bible doesn't say.
They might have continued the rest of their lives in rebellion against
this King who was nailed to a tree and hanging there just inches away.
They might have rejected eternally this generous gift. But Jesus, in His
own agony, still reached out to them. As far as HE was concerned, He wanted
them to be given forgiveness, and the promise of eternity, and the guarantee
of the abundant life created by His own death. They could turn away; most
of them probably did. But He would give them all He could: a forever if
they chose, and at the very least the Friday afternoon moment, the realization:
"This Man cares. He forgives me."
How is it with us, then? Sure, we all want long-term results in our generosity.
We don't want to throw our charity dollars down a sinkhole; we don't want
our good deeds to be wasted. And so we keep our scorecards. People have
to qualify for OUR benevolence.
All well and good, except for the tattered, torn-up, ripped-up, shredded-up
scorecards we see fluttering down to the ground at the foot of the cross.
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