How will people remember you?  It’s a question that many of us ask ourselves as we seek to live our lives in accordance with God’s will, but keenly aware of our abundant shortcomings.

Pontius Pilate is a classic example of a man for whom a single incident over-shadowed a lifetime of service to the Roman Empire.  Decisions made over the course of only a couple of hours would ultimately define him.  When somebody mentions the name of Pontius Pilate, nobody mentions his standing in the Roman equestrian order, nobody remembers his likely notable family roots back in Italy and nobody references his relatively long tenure as the governor of Judea. We all remember him as the man who (at least in earthly terms) condemned Jesus to the cross.

Pilate, like any prefect or governor, was a politician.  His ability to maintain his role as governor required a careful balance between the forces of Rome and the local Jewish population.  If he leans too heavily towards Rome, the people revolt, and he fails.  If he leans too heavily towards the local Jewish population, Rome sees him as a traitor, and he fails.

Pilate was the 5^th Roman prefect of Judea to attempt this balance – following Coponius, Marcus Ambibulus (or my favorite alternative spelling for a politician: Ambivulus), Annius Rufus and Valerius Gratus.  The first three served roughly three years each, while Valerius Gratus and Pilate each served approximately eleven years.  Each of them worked with, but kept a tight reign over, the local leadership (Sanhedrin).  In fact, it was the Roman governor who appointed the high priest who led the Sanhedrin.

This relationship led to the potential for ‘conflicts of interest’ for the high priest as they sought to balance their responsibility to the Jewish people as both an administrative and religious leader, while at the same time keeping the Roman governor satisfied enough to maintain them in the position of high priest.  The high priests under Pilate’s predecessor were unable to maintain that balance.  Valerius Gratus went through several high priests before settling on Joseph Caiaphas in AD 18.  Caiaphas apparently learned from his predecessors mis-steps and managed to keep this role as high priest through the remainder of Valerius Gratus’ rule – and throughout the entirety of Pilate’s reign as prefect.  This is a significant length of time to serve as high priest and suggests a reasonably congenial relationship with the Roman government.

In fact, Caiaphas was only replaced after Pilate was recalled to Rome by Tiberius, likely due to Pilate’s mishandling of a revolt in Samaria.  Vitellius (Governor of Syria – under whom the rule of Judea fell) appointed his colleague Marcellus as a replacement for Pilate.  Marcellus in turn immediately replaced Caiaphas with Jonathan ben Ananus as high priest in order to wipe the slate clean.  The death of Tiberius ends the written record of Pilate as there is no indication of the disposition of his hearing, nor any further reliable record of his life.

Pilate was not known for running a clean administration and is often accused of collusion with Caiaphas to spend Temple treasury funds for projects outside their intended purpose.  He likely significantly mis-handled the sensitivities of the local population on at least three occasions, the last of which led to his recall to Rome.  His apparently cozy relationship with Caiaphas was ultimately not seen as a positive factor for either one of them.

But it is less than an hour or two of interaction with Jesus for which he is best known.  He came face to face with the human incarnation of God – but somehow managed the situation as just another task in a long list of tasks requiring his daily decisions.  He met Jesus for the first time early on Friday morning and by 9:00 a.m. Jesus was already being crucified (Mark 15).  Pilate likely went about his normal daily business for the rest of the day but was aware enough of the crucifixion timing to be surprised that Jesus was already dead when Joseph of Arimathea requested his body later that afternoon (Mark 15).  Pilate’s agreement to allow Joseph to take Christ’s body is the last Biblical record we have of Pilate.

All four gospel writers record Pilate’s role that day.  The Believer’s Prayer (Acts 4) also references Pilate’s actions.  Paul does the same in his sermon at Pisidian Antioch (Acts 13).  More contemporarily, Pilate’s deeds were incorporated as early as the eighth century into the version of the Apostle’s Creed that we know today.

Pilate was a man who believed that he had the power and authority to make decisions on his own accord (John 19).  I fear that he is very much like us in that regard.  We go about our lives pleading with God about the jobs we need, the healing we desire or the relationships we want created, ended or mended.  But we do so without the humility of Jesus’ addendum to his own pleadings “Yet, not as I will, but as You will” (Matthew 26).  We proceed without recalling the answer Paul received to his own supplications “My grace is sufficient for you” (II Corinthians 12).  Don’t get me wrong – God wishes to hear our prayers, but His answer will be within the context of God’s plan based on infinite love for us. 

Pilate’s interaction with the Savior of the world was limited in his view to the confines of his duties as Prefect of Judea.  He never allowed it to get any bigger than that.  He never permitted Jesus to become personal for him.

The final historical verdict for Pilate is somewhat mixed.  Some believe that he was convicted of crimes by Caligula (Tiberius’ successor) – perhaps even exiled or executed.  While others believe he may have taken his own life in remorse, or simply moved on to his next assignment, or just retired.  Some even treat him as a saint (e.g., Ethiopian Orthodox) and believe he and his wife eventually become Christians.

As we consider how we might be remembered, we should strive to leave no such ambiguity.  Our interactions with God should not be treated as distractions from the life we ARE leading.  They should be a continual reminder to repent of the life we WERE leading.  We should not try to place our exposure to the miraculous within the tidy box of our plans for the day.  It is an opportunity to unpack the box, examine each of the contents, and consider what should be kept and what should be thrown away. 

We should not make the same mistake that Pilate did in assuming that our interactions with Jesus fit within the confines of our world; rather we need to constantly remind ourselves that Jesus’ interaction with us has no such boundaries.

We often encounter Biblical characters at a crossroads, brought to our attention at a pivotal moment in which they either rise to God’s calling or fall to their own misgivings and fears.  These crossroads raise questions regarding the “right” decision or why we are in this situation at all.  I am often reminded of Mordecai’s advice to Queen Esther (Esther 4) when she struggled to handle a difficult situation (paraphrased) “Perhaps you have been placed in this position for such a time as this?”  Midwives Shiprah and Puah find themselves in just such a time when they are introduced in Exodus 1.

The profession of midwives is mentioned or indirectly referenced a few times throughout the Bible, with no explanation of its origin or how one came to be a midwife. The position is first mentioned in Genesis 35, describing the comfort that the midwife provided during Rachel’s difficult delivery of Benjamin.  It is mentioned again in Genesis 38 as the midwife tried to manage the identification of the first-born during Tamar’s delivery of twins.  These passing references suggest the midwife’s role was common and well-understood, with no need for further explanation. 

In contrast to these midwives whose decision-making was focused on a single pregnancy, Shiphrah and Puah, midwives to the Hebrews during the time of captivity in Egypt, were faced with a much greater decision. In fear of the growing Hebrew population within his borders, the King of Egypt ordered these midwives to kill all the male children upon birth.

Many have questioned the origins of these women (Hebrew or Egyptian?), their specific roles (were they actual midwives or supervisors of all the other midwives?), and even the depth of their theological understanding.  But what we can’t question is their resulting action.  Forced to choose between obedience to a direct order from the King and their desire to do what was right in the eyes of God, Shiphrah and Puah followed God’s leading.

Scripture does not dwell on the decision-making process, but one can imagine fervent discussions as Shiphrah and Puah weighed the potential consequences of disobeying the King—not only to themselves, but to their families, and to the other midwives and their families.

After making the decision and acting upon it, additional stress must have arisen from the subsequent summons to the king for some explanation as to their failure. The desperate search for a strategy that would placate the king sufficiently to spare their lives must have been a critical concern.  The King’s question “Why did you let the boys live?” was direct and confrontational.

Unlike other Biblical episodes in which bold proclamations of God’s guidance were used as a defense, Shiphrah and Puah settled on a less dramatic, but apparently equally effective, route. They simply blamed the continued survival of Hebrew male children on the vitality of their mothers.  In other words, it cannot be the midwives’ fault if Hebrew women give birth before the midwife can get there!

The impact of the midwives’ decision to let the male children live was extraordinary. Based upon Genesis 46, it is well understood that approximately 70 people (“Jacob and his descendants”) originally entered Egypt. Exodus 12 tells us that 430 years later 600,000 men left Egypt on foot when Moses led them out of bondage. The total number of men, women, and children is estimated to range from two to four million. What percentage owed their lives—either directly or indirectly—to the decision made by Shiphrah and Puah? Given that their actions occurred at least 80 years prior to the departure from Egypt, it is likely that each surviving male was responsible in part for three or four generations of Israelites marching through the Red Sea.

It is a pleasure to read this feel-good story and joyfully acknowledge how God saved a generation or even a nation—a nation that would ultimately become the source of our own salvation. The midwives and the Israelites received a happy ending.  Exodus tells us that the midwives’ decision was rewarded with an even greater increase in Hebrew population and, more specifically, the blessing of families of their own.

But not all prayers are answered this way. In fact, the King of Egypt later took a different tack, ordering all newborn Hebrew males to be thrown into the Nile River. This time there would be no reprieve. Moses was spared  (Exodus 2), but it is likely that most of the Hebrew male babies were not so fortunate. Were the prayers of their mothers any less passionate than those of Moses’ mother, or of the Hebrew mothers during the time of Shiphrah and Puah? Unlikely, yet there was a very different result. 

This is a reminder that we are simply called to live our lives by faith, following God’s leading. Although we may never be in a position to make life and death decisions, daily we address the ramifications of living a life subject to God’s will, rather than our own. The results are outside of our control, with potentially far-reaching consequences. Perhaps they won’t affect a nation—but they may affect our families, co-workers, neighbors, or friends. In some cases, our choices may be rewarded, confirming our decision to do the right thing. Other times, they lead to outcomes far from our liking; when this occurs, we must also stand firm in our decision to do what is right.

Shiphrah and Puah had to make a difficult decision, and they rose to the occasion. Faced with our own dilemmas, we should be reminded, like Queen Esther (paraphrased from Esther 4): “Perhaps we have been placed in this position for such a time as this.”

 

Want to hear more about Shiphrah and Puah? The Christian Missionary Alliance has included these two midwives in the CMA Core Values video series, as an example of taking a “faith-filled risk.”  Watch Faith Filled Risks now

Mentioned only five times in the Biblical record, Tychicus is indirectly responsible for the availability of at least two—and likely three—books of the New Testament. Unlike Paul, whose exploits are well chronicled, and Luke, who assured his renown by authoring some of the most documented accounts of the early church, Tychicus has no such name recognition—although he accompanied these well-known figures on all or most of Paul’s last two missionary journeys.

Tychicus never met Jesus. His knowledge of Christ came the same way ours does: someone shared it with him. His contributions to God’s plan were directed second-hand.  He had what we would call a “supporting role” in Paul’s ministry, but this did not prevent Tychicus from providing significant contributions to something much larger than he could have ever imagined.

We first encounter Tychicus as one of Paul’s companions on the third missionary journey, from Ephesus back to Jerusalem via Macedonia (Acts 20). Tychicus—and fellow traveler Trophimus—were initially described as coming from a province of Asia (Asia Minor). Trophimus was later identified more specifically as being from Ephesus (Acts 21), lending some credence to the theory that Tychicus was also from that city. If so, he may have been one of the original disciples greeted by Paul upon his arrival (Acts 19). Most certainly, Tychicus would have spent significant time with Paul, a firsthand witness to his ministry and the resulting successes—and near disasters—that marked Paul’s multi-year stay in Ephesus.

Whether he returned with Paul all the way to Jerusalem is not explicitly stated, but Tychicus was definitely with him at Crete and Rome towards the end of Paul’s ministry and life, a partner in the ministry. Describing Tychicus, Paul uses terms such as “dear brother,” “faithful servant,” and “faithful minister,” and he was one of two people considered as a replacement for Titus at Crete, so that Titus could rejoin Paul at Nicopolis (Titus 3).

Most interesting to me is the near certainty that Tychicus was responsible for delivering Paul’s letters to the churches at Ephesus and Colosse. He was most likely the courier for the letter to Philemon as well, accompanying Onesimus on the journey back to his former master at Colosse.

In the Biblical account, these journeys are mentioned almost in passing. Paul writes that he is sending Tychicus to them, a brief notation in each book, with little fanfare, about a journey from Rome to two cities in what is now Turkey. It is effectively a postscript, an administrative update. But the journey this suggests was in no way an insignificant undertaking.

The trip would have been nearly 1,100 miles, requiring one or two sailings and approximately 500 miles of walking. Gordon Franz, in his article Tychicus: On the Road Again, provided this contemporary U.S. example:

“This trip would be like getting on a sailboat at Halifax, Nova Scotia, and sailing down to New York Harbor, and then walking from New York City to Cleveland, Ohio. In other words, go to the George Washington Bridge; get on Route 80 and head west on foot! (It would probably take about a month to do the hike.)”

This was, of course, in addition to the journeys Tychicus had already taken with Paul, which probably encompassed another one to two thousand miles of travel. We can only imagine the bond that must have grown between them, traveling together over such long distances on foot and by boat, particularly at a time when travel was risky, accommodations uncertain, and safe return home more hoped for than expected.

Although not a perfect analogy, this brings to mind the 1,500-mile drive that I undertook in the immediate aftermath of 9/11—from Dallas, Texas, back home to New Jersey. During this period of uncertainty, I traveled with two colleagues from my company, relative strangers to me. Yet, over the course of that 24-hour drive, a bond was forged that has connected the three of us over the past twenty years. I suspect Tychicus had something much stronger with Paul and Onesimus.

I wonder if Tychicus had any idea of the importance of the letters he carried? They were, after all, relatively short communications from Paul to some small churches. I picture a rolled-up parchment stuffed in a bag, arriving at Ephesus significantly crumpled, torn at the edges, and slightly stained from the journey. Did Tychicus envision the impact of these letters over the following 2,000 years?

If we just consider the letter to the Ephesians, it was a document of only about 3,000 words.  However, an Amazon.com search today reveals over 1,000 books written about those words. Commentaries comprising hundreds of pages scrutinize a letter that, in my Bible, fills just over five pages. There are also sermons, study series, and PhD dissertations, all focused on this single letter.

It was a letter that needed to be delivered, not only for the Ephesians, but for the countless millions who have read its words down through the ages. It was God’s message, communicated through Paul’s writing—but it was Tychicus who delivered the goods.

Willingness to hold the ministry of Christ first in his life put Tychicus in position to be of service to God in ways he could not possibly have imagined. He was a companion, not the main event. He carried the letter, but did not compose its message. He did not receive top billing; instead, his name is buried in the credits. Despite this, the contributions of Tychicus were critical to the existence of the New Testament as we know it. 

Tychicus may have operated on the margins of our world, but he was a central figure in God’s plan, creating an impact that far surpassed what could have been reasonably expected from the simple delivery of a letter. This is a great reminder not to underestimate the importance of the tasks set before us.  Our life is a journey of uncertain length and unknown destinations that fits within the context of a heavenly itinerary far beyond our understanding.  Like Tychicus, we are unlikely to know the ultimate impact of each step of our journey.   

MARGINS OF MIRACULOUS – Bethlehem by: Shawn Blythe

Had we lived in Bethlehem at the time of Christ’s birth, it is quite likely we would have missed the entire event—or at least its significance. The ongoing census made Bethlehem a busy place, with travelers trying to meet basic needs for food and shelter. The birth—or death—of any single individual would not have distracted most people from more immediate concerns related to hungry children, tired spouses, and a place to spend the night.

Mary and Joseph were two weary travelers lost in a crowd of weary travelers. We envision them approaching an inn—only to be turned away—after which Mary immediately gives birth in a stable around back; yet the scriptures provide no such clarity. We only know for sure that the couple traveled to Bethlehem for the census, arrived safely, and “while they were there,” Mary gave birth.

Traveling alone would have been unwise, and certainly unsafe, so we might surmise they must have been accompanied to Bethlehem by fellow travelers. Perhaps they had made arrangements to stay with distant relatives, or with a friend’s family. Jesus’ birth could have occurred minutes, hours, or even days after their arrival. We really don’t know.

What we do know is that it was unlikely Mary and Joseph were turned away from an “inn”—as we understand the concept today. Childhood visions of an innkeeper closing the door to them fade quickly when we discover no such person exists in the scriptural record. In fact, one could argue that there was hardly an inn.

The term in Luke 2 that is translated as “inn” is the word “kataluma.” Its actual meaning is closer to “a place to stay” or “guestroom.” Inns, as we know them, likely did exist, for Luke used a very different word in his explanation of the place where the Samaritan left the injured man for recovery. In Luke 10, that place is described as “pandocheion,” which means something closer to “all received.”

So, it is much more likely that the accommodation referenced in the story of Jesus’ birth is best described as a guest house or room, which simply had no space to hold additional travelers; however, the manger would have been nearby. Animals—valuable commodities—were kept very close to the house, in a common area immediately outside the sheltered living quarters. The fact that there was no space in the residence suggests that it was full of people; therefore, the couple would not have been alone, and Mary probably had some assistance during her labor.

I often think of these first neighbors of the Savior. They could have been fellow travelers from the Nazareth area.  Alternatively, they could have come from other regions, perhaps connected to Mary and Joseph only by a common need to reach their ancestral home for the census. Regardless, a crying baby was likely not anyone’s first choice for a night of peace and quiet. It would not have made matters any better when the shepherds trudged in later that night, babbling on about angelic beings and a message from God. Whether or not the shepherds’ story was believable, surely it could wait until a more acceptable hour!

But of course, we are judging them because we know the outcome. We know the identity of the Child. We know the shepherds told the truth. We know the magi were coming. We know Simeon waited in Jerusalem to greet the Lord’s Christ.

The neighbors didn’t know any of this. They were oblivious—just like us, as we make our way through another day. We encounter circumstances or people, and we position them in our lives as facilitators or roadblocks to our objectives. We categorize and fit them into nice boxes that complement our childlike understanding of our world. What wonders have we missed? What glories have we overlooked because we were so busy surviving and thriving in this world that we have forgotten we are not of this world?

That there was no space in the guesthouse for Christ on the day of his birth is poignant enough. But it is even more sobering to think of the neighbors who were so close to the Savior—but never knew it, and perhaps never crossed paths with Him again.

It is interesting to note that the Greek word “kataluma” is only used twice in the entire New Testament.  Once to describe the place in which there was no space for Mary and Joseph (Luke 2:7) and the second time to describe the upper room (Mark 14:14, Luke 22:11). It seems somewhat fitting to me that the beginning and end of Jesus’ life would be associated with guest accommodations. He was, as we should be, transient in this world. We are temporary sojourners, visitors in a place that should not define us. 

The passing of time is one of the most mysterious sensations we experience. Have you ever said or felt: “I can’t believe so many years have passed since … ” or “It seems like only yesterday when … ?”

It should feel ordinary and natural that time passes as it does because we’ve been on the same time clock our whole lives. Certain events and experiences, however, surprise us when significant amounts of time have passed.

As I write the date “2018,” just the appearance of the numbers looks daunting. Then when we consider that next year’s New Year’s Eve celebration will be welcoming in the third decade of the century, “The ’20s,” it’s crazy!

Watching the Winter Olympics with our 10-year-old twins is one of the reminders of how quickly time passes. They are now intelligent young people who have been waiting for the games to begin and are intrigued by every event.

Last time, however, it was all new to them, and we had to explain it in language they could understand. The time before that they were babies, and the next time they’ll be teenagers.

Here’s why: “We were made for eternity.” Not our bodies, of course, but our “hearts,” the spiritual essence of who we are. Solomon the Wise tells us in Ecclesiastes 3:11: “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart.” 

Since God set eternity in our hearts, things that are temporal seem unusual or peculiar and sometimes hard with which to get comfortable. Ultimately, God desires for us to spend eternity with Him, but here in this life, we live under the “Tyranny of Chronology.”

The good news is that this is not a mistake. God has intentionally given us a limited amount of time to achieve a designated number of purposes. How do we know this? We look again to Solomon: “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

“A time for every purpose” means that each of the dots in the timeline of our lives has a specific purpose to be fulfilled. It makes it exciting to live out our days knowing that for each moment we live, God has plans for us to fulfill and purposes for us to achieve.

So, although I am still a bit uncomfortable with the rapid passing of time from year to year and decade to decade, I am also excited to discover God’s purposes for those times as each day begins.

My hope is to fulfill each one of them the best I can and to enjoy every passing moment along the way.