Christ: the One and Only Ruler . . . claims to be the One and Only Revealer. “No one truly knows the Son except the Father, and no one truly knows the Father except the Son” (Matt. 11:27 NLT).
Jesus enjoys an intimacy with God, a mutuality shared only in the Trinity.
Married couples know something of this. They finish each other’s sentences, anticipate each other’s actions. Some even begin to look like each other (a possibility that deeply troubles my wife).
Denalyn and I are closing in on four decades as a married couple. We no longer converse; we communicate in code. She walks into the kitchen while I’m making a sandwich.
“Denalyn?” I ask.
“No, I don’t want one.”
I’ll open the fridge and stare for a few moments. “Denalyn?”
She’ll look at my sandwich preparations and answer, “Mayo on the top shelf. Pickles in the door.”
She knows what I’ll say before I say it. Consequently, she can speak on my behalf with the highest credibility. If she says, “Max would prefer a different color” or “Max would approve this idea,” listen to her. She knows what she’s talking about. She qualifies as my proxy like no one else.
How much more does Jesus qualify as God’s! Jesus “who exists at the very heart of the Father, has made him plain as day” (John 1:18 THE MESSAGE).
When Jesus says, “In My Father’s house are many mansions” (John 14:2 NKJV), count on it. He knows. He has walked in them.
When he says, “You are worth more than many sparrows” (Matt. 10:31), trust him. Jesus knows. He knows the value of every creature.
When Christ declares, “Your Father knows what you need before you ask him” (Matt. 6:8 NABRE), believe it. After all, “He was in the beginning with God” (John 1:2 NABRE).
Jesus claims to be, not a top theologian, an accomplished theologian, or even the Supreme Theologian, but rather the Only Theologian. “No one truly knows the Father except the Son.” He does not say, “No one truly knows the Father like the Son” or “in the fashion of the Son.” But rather, “No one truly knows the Father except the Son.”
Heaven’s door has one key, and Jesus holds it. Think of it this way. You’re a fifth grader studying astronomy. The day you read about the first mission to the moon you and your classmates pepper the teacher with space-travel questions.
“What does moondust feel like?”
“Can you swallow when there’s no gravity?”
“What about going to the bathroom?”
The teacher does the best she can but prefaces most replies with “I would guess . . .” or “I think . . .” or “Perhaps . . .”
How could she know? She’s never been there. But the next day she brings a guest who has. Buzz Aldrin enters the room. Yes, the astronaut who left footprints on the surface of the moon.
“Now ask your questions,” the teacher invites. And Aldrin answers each with certainty. He knows the moon; he’s walked on it. No speculation or hesitation. He speaks with conviction.
So did Jesus. “He was teaching them as one who had authority” (Matt. 7:29 ESV). Jesus knows the dimensions of God’s throne room, the fragrance of its incense, the favorite songs of the unceasing choir. He has a unique, one-of-a-kind, unrivaled knowledge of God and wants to share his knowledge with you. “No one truly knows the Father except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him” (Matt. 11:27 NLT).
Jesus doesn’t boast about his knowledge; he shares it. He doesn’t gloat; he gives. He doesn’t revel; he reveals. He reveals to us the secrets of eternity.
And he shares them, not just with the top brass or purebred, but with the hungry and needy. In the very next line Jesus invites: “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (vv. 28–29 NLT).
Do yourself a favor. Find the brightest highlighter manufactured and the darkest ink produced. Underscore, underline, and accept his invitation: “Let me teach you . . .”
God is not a God of confusion, and wherever he sees sincere seekers with confused hearts, you can bet your sweet December that he will do whatever it takes to help them see his will.
One of my Boy Scout assignments was to build a kite. One of my blessings as a Boy Scout was a kite-building dad. He built a lot of things: scooters on skates, go-carts. He even built our house. A kite to him was like stick figures to Van Gogh. He could handle them in his sleep.
With wood glue, poles, and newspaper, we fashioned a sky-dancing masterpiece: red, white, and blue and shaped like a box. We launched our creation on the back of a March wind. But after some minutes my kite caught a downdraft and plunged. I tightened the string, raced in reverse, and did all I could to maintain elevation. But it was too late. She Hindenburged earthward.
Envision a redheaded, heartsick twelve-year-old standing over his collapsed kite. That was me. Envision a square-bodied man with ruddy skin and coveralls placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. That was my kite-making dad. He surveyed the heap of sticks and paper and assured me, “It’s okay. We can fix this.” I believed him. Why not? He spoke with authority.
So does Christ. To all whose lives feel like a crashed kite, he says, “We can fix this. Let me teach you. Let me teach you how to handle your money, long Mondays, and cranky in-laws. Let me teach you why people fight, death comes, and forgiveness counts. But most of all let me teach you why on earth you are on this earth.”
Don’t we need to learn? We know so much, and yet we know so little. The age of information is the age of confusion. There is much know-how but hardly any know-why. We need answers. Jesus offers them.
But can we trust him? Only one way to know. Seek him out. Lift up your eyes and set your sights on Jesus. No passing glances or occasional glimpses. Enroll in his school. “Let me teach you . . .”
Make him your polestar, your point of reference. Search the crowded streets and shadow-casting roofs until you spot his face, and then set your sights on him.