Welcome to Jesus, yesterday,
today, and forever. 2,000 years ago, the Son of the
Living God stepped down from heavenly glory, planted His feet
in earthly mud, and coursed through the streets and marketplaces
of ancient Israel on a passionate mission of redemptive love. Come,
join actor and author Bruce Marciano as He takes us back to those
streets and marketplaces with Jesus, giving us an intimate
peek into the deep places of His welcoming heart in this telling
of His most wondrous story, the greatest love story ever told,
Jesus, yesterday, today, and forever. Jesus, Yeshua, Joshua, Esau,
The name carries the same magnificent meaning no matter what tongue
or language, ancient or contemporary. God saves. Can you imagine what
it might have been like 2,000 years ago to look into salvation's
human eyes, the eyes of Jesus? It must have poured from his
every glance. It must have pulsated from his every touch and exploded
from his every smile. He saves. He saves. God saves. So come now. Hear the shofar's trumpet call
echoing across the hills and valleys of ancient Israel. There's
talk of a new prophet, you know. A carpenter from the town of
Nazareth in Galilee. And it is said that he speaks
with truth and he acts with compassion such as no one has ever imagined
before. Come. Sit in the temple courts
with him. Share a meal by his campfire.
Come. Laugh with him. Weep with him.
Feel the warmth of His embrace. Peek into His heart and glimpse
the salvation of your very soul. Jesus. What kind of a god would choose
to be born in a barn? What kind of a god would choose
a peasant girl for his mother, a blue-collar worker for his
father? What was it like that night 2,000
years ago? What was it really like? I think of Mary, this woman,
lying in the dirt, surrounded by the stench of livestock, strengthened
only by the remote promise that the explosions within her belly
are that of the Son of the Living God. I think of the sweat and
the dust clinging to her clothes, her mind, her emotions racing. Surely this is not the way Messiah
is born into the world. It's got to be true, though.
There's no other way. Help me, Lord. and Joseph. Can you imagine his frustration,
his sense of failure? Here he is facing his first big
challenge as a husband and he can't even put a roof over his
wife's head. And suddenly it's not just her,
it's this baby. This baby of whom he had been
told just months before he will be called the son of the Most
High. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever and his
kingdom will never end. This baby of whom the prophet
Isaiah had written centuries before that a virgin would give
birth to a son and call him God with us, Emmanuel. Birthed in
a barn. That's a dubious palace for one
who will reign over the house of Jacob. For one whose kingdom
will never end. laid in a feed trough. A dubious
throne for one who will be called the Son of the Most High. A dubious
throne for God with us. But this is Messiah, King of
Kings, Lord of Lords. Where's the majesty? Where's
the glory? This is my glory, my child. That
I love you so much, I gave my son. Whom I love so much. To be humbled. To be made nothing. For you. A barn. A peasant girl. A feed trove. Carpenter's son. For you. This is my glory, child. This is majesty. Justice. Joseph, Mary and the child would
spend the years following that night in exile, running from
a king's raging jealousy. Barely out of the womb and already
it had begun as King Herod gave orders to kill all the boys in
Bethlehem who were two years old and under. Many mothers would cry in the
streets as a result of those orders, their tears mixing in
the dirt with the blood of their slaughtered babies. He was the
son of the living God. And his first introduction to
the humanity he'd come to serve was murder, pride, fear and agony. And so his first steps are taken,
his first thoughts are formed as a refugee in the shadow of
Egypt's pagan gods. But eventually the jealous king
would die. And the boy and his family would return to the friendly
confines of the town his parents called home. He would meet his
cousins, his aunts and uncles. And when it came time for his
king training, he would not slip into a silken robe or take a
golden scepter into his hands. No, that's not what this king
or his kingdom was about. Rather, he would slip into a
tattered apron and take a hammer and chisel in his hand. That
apron would be his robe, that hammer his scepter. And for the
next 25 or so years, this insignificant town, this carpenter shop, would
be his royal court and his kingdom. And the child grew and became
strong. He was filled with wisdom, and
the grace of God was upon him. O sovereign Lord, my eyes have
seen your salvation which you have prepared in the sight of
all people, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory
to your people Israel. Jesus. Repent, for the kingdom of heaven
is near. They were words that he dreamed
of proclaiming from the mountain tops and street corners of ancient
Israel, night after restless night. But there was a perfection
of timing, a perfection of obedience, years, no, decades of shaping
and trying, of testing and forging that had to be waited upon. and
waited upon, and waited upon some more. There was a process,
a plan, a specific millisecond that had been ordained since
before the sand beneath his growingly calloused feet was formed into
tangible substance. But suddenly he was there, kissing
his mother goodbye, packing a modest satchel. walking away from every
companionship and security he'd ever known, trekking over mountain
high and valley low, and exploding like a rocket of magnificence
from the muddy waters of a Jordan baptism. Finally, glory like
we love glory, the very spirit of God himself descending like
a dub, a voice splitting the heavens. You are my son whom
I love. With you I am well pleased. At once, the spirit sent him
out into the desert. Forty days. It must have felt
like forty years. The pinnacle of his Holy Spirit
baptism visitation, the laughter of distant family and friends
both ringing afresh in his heart, and suddenly, alone. No food, no water, no shelter. alone. That same perfect will
that spilled such majesty upon him yesterday, it now spills
him into hell on earth today. Cold, wind, sweat, and time. Time to think, time to reflect. Time to long for the sweet warmth
of his Nazareth yesterday and tremble at the ordained horror
of his Golgotha tomorrow. Time to hunger, time to thirst.
Time to collapse at his father's feet and cry out for the strength
to make it through the next day. No, the next hour, the next five
minutes. Or he could easily kick the ground and the sweetest spring
of honey water in all the universe would burst from the dry, cracked
earth like a crystal fountain. He could easily take a stone
in his blistered hand and with one thought transform it into
the freshest of loaves, the choicest of meats. But no. The father says, wait my son. This is what I have for you today.
Wait. And so against the scream of
his every human desire, he waits. And when given the opportunity
to satisfy himself and deny the humanity that would spit in his
face just a few short years later and for generations upon generations,
he looks earthly goodness in the face and through the sand
wedged between his teeth, he triumphantly belts away from
me, Satan, for it is written, worship the Lord your God and
serve him only. It was then that the devil It
was then that the angels attended him. It was then that his father
smiled a smile that engulfed the very cosmos and whispered
what he'd longed to whisper for centuries upon centuries. Now! The Spirit of the Lord is upon
me. Repent! For the Kingdom of Heaven
is near! The Spirit of the Lord is upon
me. For the Lord has anointed me
Yes, the Lord has anointed me Oh, sweet liberation! When Jesus
finally stood in some Galilean marketplace to unleash his streams
of living water upon the world, he rose triumphantly to his feet
and smiled a smile that would shame the sun. He exploded with
all the holiness and joy and magnificence of the man he unquestionably
was, the Son of the Living God. Repent, for the kingdom of heaven
is near. Translation, come join the fun. Be free of all your sin. You
don't have to live like you live for one more hour. Oh, what a
marvelous day it must have been. And what a shockingly ordinary
day it must have been. I can't help but think of the
people who shook their heads and walked past his invitation
that morning, who laughed and thought, here comes another one. I can't help but think of Jesus
at the campfire that night. Tears in his eyes for his children
so blindly, so painfully lost. He pulls his cloak over his shoulder
and lies down to sleep. His eyes opened to gaze at the
star-speckled night sky that he alone knows was hand-hewn
by his own design. Jesus. Come dawn, he would make his
way into town and do it all again. He would stand in that same marketplace
or sit in that same synagogue and speak the same invitation
to the same people. He would not give up. And whether
his heart cry would be heard by one or by hundreds, whether
he would return to that campfire alone again or surrounded by
multitudes, he was born for this very purpose. And he would rise
and he would do it again and again and again. Repent, for
the kingdom of heaven is near. Well, eventually, one of those
mornings, someone, somehow, heard those words in the depth of his
or her heart and stopped. Maybe it was someone rushing
to work in the fields, or a child sitting next to his dad in a
donkey cart. Maybe it was a woman whose husband
had just handed her a certificate of divorce, or a cripple lying
helplessly in a puddle of street garbage. But whoever it was,
the day came, the heart opened, and the floodwaters of God's
grace began to breathe new life into hungry souls. And before
long, Jesus would look around his once lonely campfire and
see a ragtag team of absolute nobodies. A thief, a prostitute,
a couple of fishermen. a woman who would sit beneath
his cross and watch him die, and a man who would sell him
into that death for pocket change. For the next two or three years,
they would travel through the towns and villages of their tiny
country, tasting what prophets and righteous men had longed
to taste for generations upon generations. Jesus. They would sit at his feet in
Jerusalem's temple courts and sleep at his shoulder in Judea's
wilderness. They would share meals with him
on the shore of Galilee and shed tears alongside him in the streets
of Bethsaida. They would gaze into his eyes.
They would hang on the tenor of his voice. They would dance
to the joy song of his salvation and watch him single-handedly
alter the course of universal history forever, for always,
to eternity. Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali,
the way to the sea along the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles. The people living in darkness
have seen a great light. On those living in the land of
the shadow of death, a light has dawned. Jesus. How does one describe one who
is utterly indescribable? How does one describe Jesus?
Hundreds of years before his infant cry pierced the air of
a Bethlehem stable, King David puts a prophetic pen to parchment.
You are the most excellent of men, and your lips have been
anointed with grace. O mighty one in your majesty,
ride forth victoriously in behalf of truth, humility and righteousness. Therefore God, your God, has
set you above your companions by anointing you with the oil
of joy. Jesus! Can you imagine the absolutely
explosive human being he must have been 2,000 years ago? God
in the flesh! All the bigness and power, the
goodness and glory, the might, the majesty of the universe,
and then some, somehow incredibly wrapped up in the confines of
a human body. His were hands that had flung
the stars into the sky, lips that had kissed the moon into
being. He stood before the people and he joyously proclaimed, before
Abraham was born, I am. Here he is living earthly life
and earthly time. Walking among the throngs of
his most treasured creation. People. Laughing with him. Working with him. Crying over
him. On a mission of redemptive love. The liberation of their
lives unto the salvation of their souls. He alone knows the value
of those souls, the value of their lives, and the all-sufficiency
of his heart cry under their each and every need, their each
and every brokenness and lostness. Come to me. I'm gentle. I'm humble in my heart. And you'll
find rest for your soul. Jesus. Can you imagine what it must
have been like for the people 2,000 years ago? He turns, and
from all the way across the marketplace or the hillside, his eyes meet
yours in a tidal wave of acceptance. And they silently breathe. I know you. Mine are the hands
that created you. They formed you while you were
yet in your mother's womb. And I know you. He reaches a
hand, a strong, protective, tender hand. As every touch whispers
over and over, I love you. I love you. I love you. Jesus. How does one describe one who
is utterly indescribable? How does one describe Jesus?
Is there a word that means joy but is beyond joy? A word that
encompasses the thunder of every waterfall, the dance of every
brook, the laughter of every baby in the nestle of every daddy's
arms? Is there a word that means intimacy,
warmth? A word that bottles the softness
of every sunrise, the promise of every rainbow. Is there a
word that means love? A word that means kindness? A word that means power, humility,
purity? I know of only one such word.
It is the most awe-inspiring, breath-stealing, unequivocally
magnificent word in this language or any other. It is the word
of words. It is the single word that every
human life, right along with its every human hope and struggle,
is answered by and resolved in, if only given the chance. It
is the beginning. It is the end. It is the fullness
of life, the gateway to eternity, the hope of the ages. Jesus. Have you never read, from the
lips of children and infants, you have ordained praise? The
people came to Jesus' children 2,000 years ago, made children
by their twisted bodies, their desperate hearts, their empty
purses, their hungry spirits. They came as children, and he
healed them. It is a startling truth, trumpeted
from the lungs of the Son of the Living God himself, It's
a shocking definition of spiritual maturity. Whoever humbles himself
like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And
so 2,000 years ago, grasping that truth in the gut of her
desperation, a woman crawls through the dirt, chasing the hem of
a stranger's robe. The soldier kneels before the
same stranger on behalf of a dying child. A thief scampers into
a fig tree to catch a glimpse of him passing by. A man blind
from birth dances before the religious authority. A prostitute
bathes his feet in the tears of her brokenness. And all the
host of heavenly glory leap for joy as their precious lamb upon
the throne dances upon that throne and exclaims, yes, for the kingdom
of heaven belongs to such as these. I think of the paralytic
man whom Jesus healed 2,000 years ago. A man, living, breathing,
not unlike any other man yesterday or today. Full of hopes for his
life, dreams of a wife and family, a thriving career at whatever
trade or talent bubbled in his heart. Assuming his body wasn't
bent from birth, I think of him as a boy. Perhaps sitting on
the shore of Galilee, watching the fishing boats come in. I
want to fish, he whispers to himself. I want to live my life
on the sea. Maybe he's skipping through the
marketplace, spying the exotic linens and spices, the finely
adorned camels on whose backs they were carried from distant
lands. Oh, I want to be a merchant. The boy's imagination soars.
I want to travel and taste the farthest kingdoms of the world. Then comes the day when the boy's
limbs dry and wither. His dreams ride along with them.
An accident, perhaps. A disease, maybe. I don't know.
But his legs cease. They turn to stone. And in the
imprisonment of a functionless body, his ambitions change. He dreams no longer of a prize-winning
catch of fish, but of somehow clutching a single chunk of fish,
somehow lifting it to his mouth and feeding himself. He stares
at the wall opposite and his imagination drifts not to lands
far away, but to the six steps that it would take to cross the
room and touch that wall. Oh, the tears he shed night after
night, thinking about that wall, what he'd give to just once touch
that wall. Yes, there are times when life
gets reduced to its most basic. And so like a child, the man
begs anyone close enough to see the desperation in his tears.
Take me to Jesus. Oh, sweet desperation. The fervent
prayer of a righteous man. Lord, help me. Lord, have mercy
on my son if only I touch his cloak. Yes, it was in their desperation
that Jesus met the people. For it is in that place where
the tough become tender. The sophisticated plead and beg
and the much too grown up throw all of their togetherness away
for the simple heart of a child. And standing among them erupting
in joy, Jesus thrusts his arms toward the heavens above and
he belts from the deepest recesses of his divinity. I praise you,
Father, because you have hidden these things from the wise and
learned and revealed them to little children. And then he
turns a sun-shaming smile to that paralytic man and everyone
like him from 2,000 years ago to today and tomorrow. He lifts
the face. He wipes the tear. He looks deep
into the eyes and he breathes his peace. Take heart, son. Take heart, daughter. Be freed
from your suffering. Your sins are forgiven. Yes, they came to him in their
pain. Crawling through the dirt, lying on a mat, begging in the
street, torn, rejected, used, afraid, ashamed. They came and
he healed them. He reached a divine hand deep
into their filthiest wounds. He threw a divine embrace strong
around their naked shoulders. He wept a thousand divine tears
over their broken lives, their sin-crushed souls and he healed
them. Jesus. There were others who were blind,
others who were crippled, whose sons and daughters were demon-bound
or dead or languishing in pits of the worst kind of poverty.
Yet they would choose that blindness, that lameness, that death, rather
than bend a single knee or shed a single tear in his presence.
You see, there is a blindness far worse than not being able
to see. There is a paralysis far worse
than legs that are bent and twisted, a death far beyond the tomb,
a demon possession far beyond fits of lunacy. There's a poverty
far more devastating than starvation. It is a disease that Jesus longed
to liberate his children from more than any other 2,000 years
ago and more than any other today. It is the filth of filths. Pride. Self-righteousness. Self-justification. Self-pursuit. Self. And so one priest calls him a
devil. You are a devil. Another calls him illegitimate.
The lawyer meets his offer of love with riddles. A wealthy
man walks away. And the religious esteemed drag
a helpless girl through the temple courts with rocks in their hands
and murder in their hearts. From that time on, Jesus began
to explain to his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer
many things. O Jerusalem, Jerusalem How I long to gather you to me
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem Messiah wept for you So should we not He loved them as well. The Pharisees,
the teachers of the law, the religious authorities that would
attack him, mock him and do all they could to destroy him. But
it is not the Father's will that one should be lost. And so with
their spit dripping down his face and their laughter ringing
in his ears, and full knowledge that they would soon rejoice
at the smell of his blood draining in the sand, his heart breaks
for their lostness and he begs them to be found. I have shown
you many great miracles from the Father. For which of these
do you stone me? Oh, the heartbreak of such lostness!
These men, entrusted by God to shepherd his children, instead
they adorn themselves in flamboyant displays of presumed holiness,
strutting among the people like heaven's own peacocks, sitting
proudly in the front row seats of first-century Israel, pontificating
and dissertating on what they thought was the law with such
jot-and-tittle precision that they missed the law completely,
though they longed probably more than anyone else. to look into
his eyes and to lay their crowns at his feet. Well, they did look
into his eyes. At 12 years old, slipping into
the temple courts of Jerusalem, Jesus chose to go to them first. And some 20 years later, slipping
into the synagogues of Galilee, he again went to them first,
and he would keep going to them. He would continue to reveal himself
to them. You would beg them with tears
in confrontation, to turn from their petty displays, to dive
to their knees, and from the bottom of their hearts, crave
authentic righteousness, kingdom faithfulness, and praise that
comes from God, not men. Blind Pharisee. First clean the
inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be
clean. But they missed it. They opted
for stubborn pride, and they missed it. For with all of his
true and evident magnificence, magnificence of the heart, Jesus
just wasn't who they wanted Messiah to be. They wanted worldly splendor,
earthly thrones, politics, rules, regulations. And the fact that
Jesus was more interested in people than pageantry and goodness
than glory, the fact that he was more interested in salvation
than Sabbath and righteousness than rightness, It was undoubtedly
his greatest offense of all. And so their only salvation,
the answer to all of their prayers and all of their forefathers'
prayers, collapses in the temple courts under the weight of having
done everything he possibly could, and he sobs for the lostness
of their souls. Oh, Jerusalem, how often have
I longed to gather your children together as a hen gathers her
chicks under her wings. It was his last-ditch effort.
He had answered their every challenge. He had reasoned with them, explained
himself to them, invited them, rebuked them. He had displayed
the wonders of his father's glory in front of their eyes time and
time again. He pled with them to know him
and know his father time and time again. But the Passover
to end all Passovers was a mere two days away. The clock had
all but run out. Within 48 hours, those whose
souls he'd just wept for would assemble and plot their final
arrangements, thrusting him into fulfillment of the very prophecies
they denied he was the fulfillment of. But not during the feast,
where there may be a riot among the people. One of his closest
companions would assist them in those arrangements. What are
you willing to give me if I hand him over to you? One of his dearest
friends would swear on oath that he never knew him. Before the
rooster crows, you will disown me. Three times. The thousands who'd praised him
just the day before would cry out for his murder. Let his blood
be on us and on our children. And being the lamb bred to be
slaughtered, who would hang between heaven and earth and perform
his greatest miracle ever. The hour has come. Look. The son of man is betrayed into
the hands of sinners. He is worthy of death. It was a simple declaration,
unmistakable in its intent. Five words given voice in the
black of night as Jesus stood before the religious authority,
bound by chains he could have melted with but a thought. It
was a declaration so incredibly, so blatantly wrong. The fact
that it was ever uttered is as astounding as Lazarus stepping
out of his grave. I often think of the man who
dared to speak it, Undoubtedly, there had been times when he
sat in the marketplace or the synagogue listening and watching.
Undoubtedly, he'd seen Jesus weeping tears for people's pain
and recognized in the hope of his heart, this has to be the
way. Undoubtedly, he'd heard Jesus speak words from the throne
room of heaven itself and sensed in the pit of his gut, this has
to be the truth. Undoubtedly, he'd witnessed Jesus
giving sight to dead eyes and breath to dead bones, and known
in the very depth of his creation, this man has to be the life. But unfathomably, the words still
leak from his mortally mistaken lips. He is worthy of death. The words leak, and the horror
begins. Many bulls surround me. Strong
bulls of Bashan encircle me. They hurl insults, shaking their
heads. The Lord looks down from heaven
to see if there are any who understand, any who seek God. But I am a
worm. I'm not a man. Dogs have surrounded me. A band
of evil men is encircling. They have pierced my hands and my feet. I'm poured out like
water. My bones are out of joint. My heart... has turned to wax. My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me? Blow by blow. Lash by lash. Nail by nail. Horror to end all
horrors. The spit flew. The hammer fell. The blood flowed. And you and
I were born again. Jesus. Here for you. Here for me, here for free. Jesus, He's the love of God. His story would not end on that
ugly mound outside Jerusalem's wall that day. Little did anyone
among those who looked on, those who laughed or those who cried,
even begin to suspect what was so humanly unsuspectable, so
divinely foregone. It was only just beginning. Can
you imagine the moment in the darkness of the tomb? Heaven's
clock ticks past that last ordained second and hell's jubilee is
yanked to a screeching halt. How does life re-enter a corpse?
What happens first? In my imagination I see engulfing
blackness. And silence. The silence of death. The flesh lies limp. Still. So incredibly still. Then in suddenness beyond suddenness,
with a sound like a megaton implosion of atmosphere rushing into a
sealed vacuum, the chest heaves heavenward in a massive back-arching
thrust as the breath of life re-enters and blasts anew, exploding
through the lungs with all the resurrection force of heaven
and earth. Like a rush of waters ripping
outward from the chest to the limbs, muscles slam to attention. Veins pop and ripple, bulging
against the skin. The left hand tenses, grips.
The right follows suit. And in one monumentally sweeping
motion, the body hoists itself erect and rises to its feet,
arms thrusting skyward like two mighty pistons in an unbridled
explosion of magnificence beyond magnificence, joy beyond joy,
victory beyond victory. He lives. He lives. He is Jesus,
and he lives. Remarkably, throughout Galilee
and Judea and all of the ancient world, it would appear a day
much like any other, the third day. Much like the day as infant
cry first pierced the air of a Bethlehem stable. Farmers dragged
their plows into the fields. Children ran giggling through
the streets and alleyways. Wives and mothers gathered at
the river to scrub yesterday's dirt off of tomorrow's clothes.
and the Son of the Living God rose from the dead. There would be no earthly hoopla.
There would be no victory parade or triumphant reception. There
would be no announcing himself to the world that slew him. Instead,
Jesus would play it all so shockingly subtle, so shockingly gentle,
so shockingly without guile. He would quietly visit his family
and friends, He would talk to them, show them his wounds. He'd
cook for them, he'd eat with them, he'd help them in their
work. He would assure them, he'd counsel them, point them to the
future. And in keeping with every moment
he'd spent with them in the previous couple of years, he would quite
simply and breathtakingly And when he was confident they
could stand on their own feet and march forward into the adventures
he'd been preparing them for all along, he would leave them. He would tell them to no longer
cling to him, but to turn their hearts toward the next part of
his father's plan, his spirit in theirs, filling them, cleansing
them, equipping them, guiding them, being him to them and for
them, within them. He would lead them up a mountain
peak where they had probably sat at his feet countless times.
He would share a final word. Take what I've given you and
change the world. He would look each of them deeply
in the soul, one long last look. He would smile at each of them
deeply in their hearts, one huge loving smile. He would lift his
gaze toward his father. and before their very eyes he
would disappear behind the clouds and into the eternity from which
he most assuredly came. Peace, I leave with you. My peace I give you. Do not let
your hearts be troubled. Do not be afraid. remain in my
love. And surely, I am with you always,
to the very end of the age. Jesus.