Alive in Us

It is no longer I who live, but it is Christ Who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, Who loved me and gave Himself for me. (Galatians 2.20) 

Easter Faith

Before you go to Easter service—before you don your Easter finery and review your holiday plans—pack up your rational mind and set it aside. Logic and common sense will be of no use to you today. You’re about to have a sacred encounter of the most mysterious kind. It will require you to leap headlong into pure faith. Life as you know it will bear no resemblance to the life you’ll discover in the hymns and texts, prayers and sermons, in the electrifying proclamation that death has been defeated, justice has prevailed, and triumphant new life has burst forth from the dark bowels of a chilly tomb. None of what you hear, see, do, sing, or say will make any sense. Yet every fiber of your being will galvanize you with stubborn assurance that all of it is true.

Easter faith is unlike any other type of faith, in that its power solely resides in mystery. Every question it raises—and they are legion—resists explanation. The Gospel accounts, as well as subsequent references to Christ’s resurrection, insist we take its legitimacy at face value. Jesus died on Friday. The world went dark until early Sunday morning, when He got up and walked out of the grave. That’s it. How it happened, the changes Jesus underwent, exactly what transpired while He was dead, and every other question we may have goes unanswered. Either you believe it or you don’t. Which makes Easter faith the best kind of faith, because it expects us to stop making sense and start believing with boldness and clarity that transcend sense-making. Easter is life. That’s all there is to it. Life is. Easter is. The Easter equation worked out is 1+1 =1. Now you get what I mean when I say, “pack up your rational mind.”

Are We Alive?

Oddly enough, the Easter questions we need to consider don’t come from us. They’re put to us. And chief among them is “How do we make Easter come alive in us?” What that really asks is “Is Jesus truly alive in our lives?” Can we truthfully say, like Paul, in Galatians 2.20: “It is no longer I who live, but it is Christ Who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, Who loved me and gave Himself for me”? Does the resurrected Christ live and move and breathe through us?

This is a question each of us can only answer for ourselves, as the living Christ we embody collectively is expressed uniquely in our individualism. Not one of us is exactly the same, which means not one of us believes, behaves, or bears witness to the Resurrection in identical ways. The common attitudes and aspirations we share as followers of Jesus are stepping-off points for each of us to bring Christ to life in us—in our daily thoughts, actions, attempts, and responses. So we must ask ourselves, when we say, “Jesus lives in me,” what does that mean? Or better yet, what do we mean? Or even better, what does that mean to you? What does that mean to me? And that raises an ever bigger, tougher, and more confounding question that Easter invites us to ponder: Are we alive? Not in the biological sense as animate organisms—but in the spiritual sense of being alive to the resurrected possibilities Jesus makes available to us. 

Using Paul’s construct, how do we transform lives we “now live in the flesh” into ones lived “by faith in the Son of God,” Who loved us and gave Himself for us? The questions Easter puts to us are much more demanding and important than any we can ever ask about it. The Resurrection’s mechanics and historical accuracy fall by the wayside very quickly. Whether we interpret the empty tomb as a reality, metaphor, myth, legend, or folk tale—whether our literal-bound, rational minds accept Easter as an actual event or they reject it as naturally inconceivable—doesn’t matter. The Christ of Easter asks something far more compelling of us, something we must answer if we’re to follow Christ’s way. Are we alive? And in our living, do we bring life to those no longer alive—to people who’ve settled for survival rather than knowing the joy of life?

The Most Important Easter Question

Easter reverses death’s terrifying tide and launches Christ’s promise of everyday resurrection into a dying world. One need not be a theologian or Bible scholar to recognize Jesus’s central message is life. Jesus promises the woman at the well “living water.” (John 4.10) In John 6, He calls Himself “the Bread of Life,” and in the next chapter, He declares, “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.” (7.38) In John 10.10, He says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” All of Jesus’s teachings point to life. They instruct us how to love one another so that we’re not infected with hatred, resentment, anger, and so many other deadly diseases. They retrain our responses to threat, conflict, and confusion to ensure new life will grow out of despair. They enlighten our awareness of what’s truly vital so that we don’t succumb to life-defeating temptations and desires. The entire corpus of Jesus’s lessons and the power He exemplified come together in the dazzling display of life that we call Easter. This is life unlike any ever known—life that refutes death’s fears and disproves its formulas once and for all. Easter is life. Easter is. Life is. 1+1=1.

So in the midst of our rejoicing that Jesus would not submit to death, let us answer the questions Easter puts to us by doing the same. Let our resurrection anthems be manifestoes of defiance that echo Psalm 118.17: “I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD.” Let our questions about the Resurrection give way to bold certainty that Jesus lives in us. John 1.3-4 tells us, “What has come into being in Him was life, and the life was the light of all people.” Out of humiliating death, triumphant life. Out of entombed darkness, vibrant light. From One to all. Our rational minds will never get it. But every fiber in our being knows it to be true. Jesus is alive in us. It’s a truth of such overpowering magnitude that it raises the most important Easter question of all: How do we live with that?

Easter reverses death’s terrifying tide and launches Christ’s promise of everyday resurrection into a dying world.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/04/07/alive-in-us/.

A Fate Worse than Death

Things that cause people to stumble are bound to come, but woe to anyone through whom they come. It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble. So watch yourselves. (Luke 17.1-3)

Howling for Help

In the US, 2011 opened with a week of sorrows that went from lamentable to tragic to horrifying. On Monday, the 112^th Congress convened, with Republicans assuming leadership in the House of Representatives. The new majority swiftly dashed any hope it would comport itself in a manner befitting gracious victors by pegging repeal of healthcare reform as its first order of business. The bile that poisoned the last Congress and 2010 elections will spill into this session, it seems. The second go-‘round is all the more nauseating since it’s basically a juvenile stunt. The lower house’s bloviating and bluster won’t help the repeal clear Senate approval and Presidential veto hurdles, and those who concocted the scheme—gussied up as a “symbolic gesture”—know it. What they don’t get, what they’ve never got, however, is shelving healthcare to show contempt for the opposition reveals utter contempt for poor children. Tramping over them to kick the governing party’s shins is a sad, sorry sight indeed.

Contempt for children—and the fate befalling a society that abides it—became the week’s theme. On Wednesday, Bill Zeller, a 27-year-old doctoral student at Princeton who dazzled the world with his Web programming genius, killed himself. He left a 4,000-word note explaining what drove him to choose death over life. If you’ve not yet read the letter, which has been widely published, you must. (Honoring his request that it be presented entirely intact, you can find it here.) It’s one of the most painful accounts I’ve ever read, as Zeller relives unrelenting torment in the clutches of childhood abuse. Paragraph after paragraph documents symptoms and behaviors howling for help—all of them ignored or answered with contempt. At one point, he describes feeling an evil within compelling him to kill. Fear that he might take another’s life is the main reason for ending his. And while we tried to reconcile Zeller’s humanity with the fiendish inhumanity he endured, we had no idea 2400 miles away another young man was losing his battle with similar compulsions.

With little about his past available at present, we can’t say whether childhood abuse factors into the mental storm that descended on Jared Lee Loughner, the 22-year-old would-be assassin of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords. Yet this child—also adept at the computer keys—strung the Web with howls for help. Ten days ago, his MySpace page read, “I’m searching. Today! With every concern, my shot is now ready for aim. The hunt, a mighty thought of mine.” If anyone heard him, if anyone spotted madness in his youtube ramblings, no one cared about quelling his troubles. Media coverage of the murders he committed, including that of a nine-year-old girl, categorized Loughner as an oddball whose cryptic cries didn’t merit notice. Statements from far and wide reviled his actions, and rightly so. But it was startling how many explicitly called for him to be held in public contempt. The hideousness of his crime has masked the horror of his existence. There will be no help for Jared Lee Loughner.

The Lingering Question

Cases like Zeller’s and Loughner’s—as well as untold others, where contempt for innocence breeds horrific tragedy—inevitably raise the lingering question: how do we prevent these things from happening? The wisdom we’re searching for will never be found, though, because we’ll never be that wise. Our limited capacity should lead us to seek divine wisdom, which hides in plain sight in Luke 17, where Jesus candidly addresses this. But since His answer isn’t the one we’re looking for, we resist it. He says there is no solution to eradicate the abuse of innocents. “Things that cause people to stumble are bound to come,” He explains. (v1) Forces that pervert politicians’ compassion, warp predators’ minds, and blunt attentiveness to pleas for help cannot be destroyed. They feed on deadly desires for power and profit. They’re seductively shortsighted and irrational, making easy prey of anyone vexed by fears of impermanence and insignificance. We don’t want to believe this, despite knowing it’s true.

The lingering question asks the wrong question. Jesus puts another question to us instead: are you watching yourselves? Are you taking every precaution against contempt for those liable to stumble? Are you serving your interests with no concern for theirs? Are you unwittingly abetting forces that prey on the weak and defenseless? “Woe to anyone through whom they come,” Jesus warns. “It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble. So watch yourselves.” (v1-3) The answer isn’t prevention. It’s accountability. Jesus calls each of us to lives of vigilance that encompasses everything we can possibly do to strengthen the weak ones in our lives, to defend the powerless, and to help straighten the paths of those who’ve lost their way. Implicit in His warning that we not cause anyone to stumble is His mandate that we take them in our arms to steady their balance and secure their steps.

Under the Sea

The sea is never friendly when mentioned in Scripture—or, for that matter, any ancient text. It’s a mysterious, unforgiving entity that deceives the eye with a glistening surface that conceals riptides and squalls. Dangers inexplicably, suddenly arise at sea and it swallows everyone who falls into its depths, never to return. In many ways, the sea is to Jesus’s time what outer space is to ours. For all they know about it, they’re aware how little they actually understand it. So when Jesus tells the disciples causing an innocent to stumble is worse than being thrown into the sea with millstones tied to their necks, He describes a fate worse than inescapable death. Then, He takes a sharp turn to discuss forgiveness. “If someone sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them,” He says. (v3) All of it together—accountability for others, courage to confront those who wrong us, and grace to forgive them when they repent—overwhelms the disciples. But their response in verse 5 couldn’t be more perfect: “Increase our faith!”

Fulfilling our duties to protect innocents, rebuke wrongdoers, and forgive them when asked—regardless if they change their ways—is beyond our means. That’s why there’s no political argument or social uprising strong enough to defeat evil desires. Faith, the irrevocable belief that obedience to Christ’s commands has the power to change the world, is our only hope. It drives us to exceed what’s reasonable to achieve the impossible. We will never control the forces beyond our control. Yet by faith, we can keep those around us—and us—from buckling to evil. One shudders to imagine the millstones and suffocating shame worn by those who contemptuously tuned out Bill Zeller and Jared Lee Loughner’s howls for help. In a week marked by death, we’ve witnessed a fate worse than death. Yes, Lord, please increase our faith!

Contempt and indifference for those at risk of stumbling will end in agony that surpasses death by drowning.

Run Out and Run Down

Elijah was afraid and ran for his life… He came to a broom tree, sat down under it and prayed that he might die. “I have had enough, LORD,” he said. (1 Kings 19.3-4)

The Yahweh Alone Movement

The Great Transformation: The Beginning of Our Religious Traditions, by Karen Armstrong, is a must-read for any believer eager to understand the roots of our faith. Ms. Armstrong, a former nun, now theological historian par excellence, tracks the near-simultaneous evolution of Western and Eastern creeds during the Axial Age (900-200 BCE), when the advent of horsepower, farming, and centralized government gave rise to communal beliefs meant to counteract violence and injustice. Overall, her book is stunning in how it parallels the ways ancient religions independently arrived at irrefutably similar conclusions. Christians, of course, find its chronicle of Judaism’s early years especially intriguing—often breathtaking, as Ms. Armstrong documents many lost details that were well known to the Old Testament’s first readers. With these facts restored, it’s fairly obvious why they’ve gone missing. They’re terribly inconvenient to anyone seeking a clean-cut, eternally established theological through-line. Judaism, like the people to whom it was given, took a while to get its bearings. Reintroducing that side of the story mucks the whole thing up.

Chapter one delivers the first wallop by verifying the Jews weren't inherently monotheistic. At first, like their neighbors, they revere and pray to numerous gods, many borrowed from other cultures. The major departure lay in Israel’s belief in a God (Yahweh) above and apart from other gods that vacates any need for intricate myths about multiple deities. Thus, when God declares, “You shall have no other gods before me,” (Exodus 20.3) Israel hears something unlike what we hear today. The First Commandment acknowledges other gods by setting the celestial house in order. Then, to maintain order, the Second bans depiction of other gods to prevent idolatrous cults from challenging God’s supremacy. The “Yahweh Alone Movement”—as scholars refer to the reformation that discarded all but one God, and worshiped Him as All-in-All—doesn’t emerge until 700 years after Moses. It peaks at a crucial time, when devotion splits between Yahweh and Baal, a lesser deity preferred by Israel’s foreign-born queen, Jezebel. To the average Hebrew, Baal’s ascent isn’t a big deal; the god has been a fixture in Jewish life longer than anyone can recall. Elijah, a prophet on the cusp of the Movement, won’t tolerate the tilt to Baal, however. And he’s not a guy who moans privately to friends about what has to change. He’s a first-rate crusader who makes a lot of racket and causes a lot of trouble—not only for Jezebel and her allies, but also for him.

Quit Running and Hiding

Jezebel’s got her eye on Elijah. Yet his office as God’s anointed messenger vests him with divine say-so that trumps her husband, Ahab’s, royal clout. It vexes her that she can't do anything about this One-True-God zealot who won’t get with her program. Then, when draught hits the nation and her pro-Baal following starts to slip, Elijah proves his God’s superiority in an over-the-top demonstration that gets out of hand. He incites a nationwide manhunt for Baal’s prophets and slaughters them. Although God honors Elijah’s faithfulness and pours rain down on Israel, the prophet knows this time he’s gone too far. The gruesome genocide garners him no support and hands Jezebel cause for his execution. (If their rivalry played out today, we could hear Jezebel’s ads: “Elijah insists we obey the First Commandment his way by abandoning Baal for Yahweh. But what about the Sixth Commandment: ‘You shall not murder?’ That one doesn’t matter to him. Is this the kind of prophet we need?”)

Elijah behaves like most publically disgraced figures. He disappears. He’s run out of answers and run down from the struggle. The rush of triumph is long gone. He lost the surge of support he should have won by exposing his intolerance and pride. The race is over, the Movement finished. There’ll be no change. Jezebel’s people will eventually find him and that will be that. He heads into the desert and sits under a broom tree—an oversized bush that offers protection from sun but no fruit or moisture to sustain him. Elijah confesses, “I’ve had enough, Lord,” adding, “Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.” (1 Kings 19.4) Or, “I’ve been this loud-mouthed leader of a Movement that says You control everything. Yet I've acted like I’m so threatened by other gods I have to kill anyone who serves them. At heart, I’m just another old-school polytheist.” He goes to sleep. Twice, an angel visits Elijah under the tree with food and water. The second time, the angel tells him, “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” (v7) Elijah starts a 40-day trek that ends in a cave—still on the run, still hiding out. But God finds him again, instructing him to quit running and hiding. “You’ve got a lot more work to do,” He says to Elijah, “new prophets to groom and a Movement to lead. You’re not alone. You’re not defeated. Right now, there are 7,000 in Israel who’ve not bowed their knees to Baal.” (v15-18)

Under the Broom Tree

If we’ve not yet been to the broom tree, we’ll get there sooner or later. At some point, personal convictions and confidence in God will compel us to cry out for change. We’ll see situations tilt away from what He desires. We’ll feel attitudes resist the move of His Spirit. We’ll observe people we love and live with embrace traditions and myths that steal their devotion to Him. We’ll act, and God will honor our faithfulness. But in the moment of triumph, we must be very mindful not to let zeal and pride run away with us. God controls everything. He doesn’t need us to rout His enemies. They’re no threat to Him. All He asks is we prove Who He is. He’ll handle the rest. And if, like Elijah, we stumble over our confidence and land under the broom tree, we take heart. Our loss becomes our lesson. God’s grace will provide what we need. We’re not alone. We’re not defeated. Change we seek will happen. Just when we say, “I’ve had enough, Lord. I’m no better than anybody else,” He says, “Not so. Quit running and hiding. Get up. You’ve got a lot more to do because there’s a lot more to come.”

In our zeal for change, we take care not to stumble over our confidence and land under the broom tree. But if we do—and we all do at some time or another—God’s grace provides what we need to get up and keep going.

Praise Looks Good on You

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners… to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. (Isaiah 61.1, 3)

Bounce Back

So, after eight seasons of stalwart resistance, I succumbed to “American Idol” contagion. I’ve got it bad, too. Unlike the raft of knock-offs that leave me cold, it’s the real deal. The contestants are wildly talented and sincere. There’s no fake backstage drama to goose our interest; it all hinges on weekly performances in which a poor song choice or sour arrangement can be the decisive factor. In the prelims, the losses aren’t so painful, because the emotions are disbursed across several contestants. When the field narrows to 12 finalists, however, with one sent home each week, the losses really hurt. Now here’s the worst of it: when the elimination is revealed, the loser watches a recap of his/her “Idol” experience (scored with Will Young’s “Leave Right Now,” no less) before taking the show off the air with one final performance.

What troupers these kids are! Their dream is shattered. They’ve literally watched their professional lives (thus far) flash before their eyes. Devastated fans, friends, and family weep for them. Then, with the conductor’s downbeat, they bounce back, giving their swansong everything they’ve got. Just that fast, they shed their grief and don the demeanor of seasoned pros. It’s downright uncanny. At first, I was appalled the show’s producers would ask this of them. But I eventually caught on why it was the kindest, wisest thing to do. Sending losers home on a wave of sympathetic applause would only magnify their sorrow. This last lesson teaches them why it’s so important to reach for joy in times of despair. Having got this far, their future success is assured. Yet if they don’t discover their power to summon joy out of despair, they’re doomed. That got me thinking about us, and how we so often accept defeat and abide dismay when the power to summon joy resides within us. And before we start making excuses why we don’t tap into our power to bounce back let’s underscore one fact that nullifies every excuse in the book. Joy is not a trait we possess or a disposition we develop. It’s a gift we receive. Dozens of times the Bible explicitly says Jesus came to give us joy.

Redressing

In Luke 4 we read of Jesus’s first sermon in His hometown, Nazareth. He opens the Scripture to Isaiah 61, reads it, and resumes His seat. Luke only excerpts the first verse and half of the second: “The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor.” It ends there because Christ’s proclaiming a new era of divine grace is a thumping Messianic claim. (It also explains why His friends and neighbors become so outraged they run Him out of town.) But the quote captures less than half of a very long sentence. The larger portion announces Christ’s mission “to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” Without this segment, the prophecy is incomplete.

When we examine the full text, we’re intrigued by how cleverly it balances its declaration of liberty with its endowment of joy. The “good news” announces freedom from internal heartbreak, captivity, and darkness, while “comfort to all” expunges external expressions of grief: ashes, mourning, and despair. It’s abundantly clear Christ’s transformative power goes further than freeing us from turmoil, compulsions, and doubt. It includes redressing our affect, how we convey profound changes in our hearts, minds, and spirits. Ancient Jews responded to devastating events by stripping away all adornments in exchange for scratchy burlap tunics. In public repentance for sins that caused their misfortunes, they sank into a mound of ashes and didn’t budge. The longer they sat, the filthier and more miserable they looked. Isaiah’s prophecy foretells the end of this custom and Jesus’s Nazareth sermon confirms it. He came to crown us with beauty, anoint us with gladness, and clothe us in praise. In short, He came to give us joy.

Open the Closet

Times of despair still send many of us scrambling for sackcloth and ashes. When our dreams shatter, our lives flash before our eyes, and friends and families weep for our woes, our first impulse is to sink into angst and self-recrimination. Instead of bouncing back, we put everything on hold while we grow more miserable by the minute in hopes a wave of sympathy will hoist us to our feet. This is remedial behavior, unworthy of anyone who’s experienced the transformative power of Christ, who knows He’s a Healer of broken hearts, a Liberator of captive minds, and an Illuminator of darkened spirits. Instead of outing ourselves as failures and dwelling on our mistakes, we open the closet and reach for His crown of beauty, His oil of gladness, and His garment of praise. This is precisely what the author of Psalm 42 does. He writes: “Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.” (v11) He won’t wait until his inner turmoil ceases before offering praise. He opens the closet and puts on his garment of praise. Wearing his joy brings him joy.

No matter how dreary the situation gets and how you’re tempted to sink into despair, always remember praise looks good on you. It lifts you out of the ashes. Once you’re wrapped in praise, you can’t help accessorizing it with crowning beauty and fragrant gladness. Praise feels good—much better than the scratchy burlap woven from despondency and self-condemnation. Finally, when you’re clothed in praise, you’re covered in God’s goodness and love, mercy and protection. You see yourself as you really are—in Him. And once you recognize that, you find praise not only looks good on you. It’s good for you.

When we’re in despair, we reach for the garment of praise. Praise not only looks good on us. It’s good for us.

Deceit in the Desert

They gathered around Aaron and said, “Come, make us gods who will go before us. As for this fellow Moses who brought us up out of Egypt, we don’t know what has happened to him.” (Exodus 32.1)

Something to See

It’s close to impossible for those of us “of a certain age” to read about the golden calf without flashing back on Cecil B. DeMille’s over-the-top orgy in The Ten Commandments. By the time Moses descends Mt. Sinai with the engraved tablets in hand, the Israelites have cast a stunning Art Nouveau idol and lost their minds in pagan abandon. Moses, whose hair and beard have grown markedly longer and turned white—apparently he’s been gone quite awhile—can’t believe his eyes. The frenzy looks closer to Mardi Gras than an ancient worship ritual. In the movie version, the calf is almost irrelevant; it’s little more than an excuse for a bunch of frustrated people to let loose.

According to Scripture, the Israelites are frustrated and Moses has been gone too long. But they’re not taking advantage of his absence to throw a wild party, as kids do when their parents leave town. They’re afraid harm has come to Moses and he’s never coming back. As Israel’s sole prophet and protector, they’re lost without him. Once it seems unlikely he’ll return, they approach Moses’s brother, Aaron, and say, “Come, make us gods who will go before us. As for this fellow Moses who brought us up out of Egypt, we don’t know what has happened to him.” The Israelites desperately need something to see, a figure to follow. Since it’s inconceivable anyone else can assume Moses’s role, they resort to Egyptian methods and invent a god. They don’t know God is issuing a law that forbids idolatry even as they embrace it. Thus, when Moses reappears, his inside information causes him to rush to judgment. In his fury, he breaks the tablets to bits. He sees rebellion and sin, when he’s most likely looking at fear and panic.

Less Than Best

This is one of those times when a more balanced, factual reading skews the truth, however. Despite the Israelites’ ignorance of God’s new anti-idolatry edict, they’ve still broken the pact between God and their forefather, Abraham. Up to this point, He’s primarily known as “the Most High God” and “the Creator,” which suggests Israel retains a modicum of belief in lesser deities. Yet God’s vow to raise a mighty nation from Abraham’s offspring lifts Him to supreme importance. It’s assumed His relationship with Israel is exclusive. This is what entitles the Israelites to unique standing as God’s people. It’s why He freed them to claim the land He promised their fathers. And though they’re unaware of God’s latest laws, there’s still no excuse for replacing Him. It angers Moses how readily they let fear to incite them to settle for less than best. He smashes God’s commandments because he doesn’t think Israel is worthy of them.

Weakness is everywhere in this story. Israel’s ties to its heritage are frayed by decades of slavery. Its identity has been diluted by Egyptian customs and beliefs. Its loyalty to God can’t bear pressures created by total trust in His promises. Aaron—who stood with Moses before Pharaoh and witnessed God’s miraculous power—hasn’t the fortitude to deny the request for an idol. Indeed, not a soul in the camp has enough backbone to protest this or urge Israel to be patient and trust God. Then there’s Moses, who loses control and literally destroys what he’s called to the mountain to receive. A pattern appears. Once weakness deceives us to settle for less than best, we’re no longer at our best. We’re not whom God wants us to be. We’re not confident who we are. We’re not driven by faith, even though we’ve experienced its power. We’re not in control of our feelings. And we’re not able to accomplish what God asks us to do.

Careful

We know there’s deceit in the desert based on Christ’s experiences there. He wanders for weeks without food, water, or shelter, and when He’s at His most fragile, the Tempter tries to trick Him into false worship. Jesus refuses to be deceived. And while this serves as the epitome of resisting temptation, the narrative suffers, I think, by having Christ as its central character. Of course, Jesus defeats the Tempter—He’s Jesus. The Exodus story offers a better picture of how easily fear and panic can deceive us into yielding to temptation. Any time we become disoriented, even disenchanted, probability we’ll give in to weakness increases. Instead of waiting on God’s guidance, we’re apt to settle for less than best. We probably realize it opposes everything we know by faith and have seen in the past. Yet weakness convinces us less than best is our best alternative.

During a discussion of Israel’s numerous desert deceptions, Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 10.11-12: “These things happened to them as examples and were written down as warnings for us... So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don’t fall!” We defeat our weaknesses—and their deceits—by knowing what they are and recognizing they’re in the desert because we’re there. They’ll stir fears of failure and loss, and if we’re not careful, our insecurities will persuade us falling to them is the only way to stand firm. But we know this isn’t so. Fear never ends in strength. All it does is reduce us. Having been at our best and seen God at His best, we can dismiss temptation out-of-hand, since everything about it is less than best.

It looks like a party, but it’s really the picture of fearful people settling for less than best.

Postscript: You Are God Alone

“That’s just the way it is,” the song says. Everything else pales by comparison. “You Are God Alone,” by Phillips, Craig, and Dean.

Too Much for the Man

Village life in Israel ceased, ceased until I, Deborah, arose, arose a mother in Israel. (Judges 5.7)

Ready to Reach

The story of Deborah takes place during Israel’s transitional epoch between Moses and Joshua’s leadership and Saul’s monarchy. It has yet to formalize a government with a standing army and basically occupies the territory as squatters. A succession of judges oversees internal affairs and organizes counterstrikes against hostile forces. And the Jews are nearly always under attack, because they’re trapped in a cycle of dysfunction. They fight off one enemy, get peace and safety restored, grow lax in their obedience to God’s statutes, and—sure enough—another foe besets them, starting the cycle all over again. These conflicts involve years of maneuvering that drain Israel of forward momentum. Deborah is one of the judges caught in this cycle.

More than gender differentiates Deborah from her predecessors. She’s a prophetess. Yet her uniquely feminine worldview definitely filters her perceptions and how she works. She takes office during the most oppressive period to date in Israel’s history. Rather than seize Israel’s holdings, the Canaanite king has chosen to destroy Jewish life with relentless fear. His general, Sisera, parks 900 chariots on the border as a visible threat of total annihilation if Israel attempts to break the siege. A male prophet would confront his people with their wrongdoing and rally them to repent in hopes of regaining God’s favor. But Deborah realizes guilt would only weaken their morale further—possibly beyond the breaking point. She knows Israel will come to its senses and turn to God. Judges 4.3 says, because Canaan’s king “cruelly oppressed the Israelites for twenty years, they cried to the LORD for help.” Deborah understands God can’t help us until we’re ready to reach for Him.

Conditioned by Fear

She summons Barak, a rising warrior, and tells him God commands he muster 10,000 men from two tribes, Naphtali and Zebulun. He’s to lead them to Mount Tabor while God lures Sisera to the Kishon River, a stream threading through Israel’s mountains. When Barak’s forces descend on Sisera, he’ll be unable to use his chariots effectively. The plan is too easy to seem feasible to Barak. It may be he also detects a strategic flaw. Naphtali isn’t a highly regarded tribe and Zebulun is best known for its penmanship. These aren’t the kinds of soldiers who can defeat a heavily armed opponent. Furthermore, Barak has lived most of his life under Canaanite oppression. He’s conditioned by fear to expect defeat. Trusting God to hand Sisera to him in such a way proves too much for the man.

“I’ll go if you go with me,” Barak says. “If not, I’m not going.” It’s a sad confession. Barak wants Deborah beside him because he doesn’t believe he warrants God’s protection without her. She agrees to accompany him, but cautions, “Because of the way you are going about this, the honor will not be yours, for the LORD will hand Sisera over to a woman.” (Judges 4.9) The battle plays out as predicted. Barak’s troops massacre the Canaanites, but Sisera vanishes into the desert. He shows up, parched and exhausted, at the tent of a tribesman allied with Canaan. Jael, the tribesman’s wife, serves Sisera milk and puts him to bed. Once he’s asleep, she drives a tent peg through his temple. The Canaanite threat is no more.

Village Life

Deborah and Barak gather the nation to render a customary song of jubilation. But their war anthem rings differently than most. It’s distinctively inclusive. They’re quick to share praise with others and express empathy for their foes. It strikes this note from the start: “When the princes in Israel take the lead, when the people willingly offer themselves—praise the LORD!” (Judges 5.2) After reciting Israel’s woes, Deborah casts herself as the restorer of its culture and traditions: “Village life in Israel ceased, ceased until I, Deborah, arose, arose a mother in Israel.” (v7,9) The song pays homage to tribes that rose to the occasion, chides those that didn’t, and concludes with two portraits: a rousing tribute to Sisera’s assassin, Jael, “most blessed of tent-dwelling women” (v24), and then a poignant image of the general’s mother as she watches for his return, wondering why he’s delayed. “She keeps saying to herself, ‘Are they not finding and dividing the spoils; a girl or two for each man, colorful garments as plunder for Sisera?” (v29-30) The image is devastating. Sisera isn’t ever coming home.

Offhand, I can think of only two or three Old Testament sagas more brutal than Deborah’s tale. Yet its violence is couched in surpassing tenderness, a gentle acknowledgement of how quickly simple things God asks us to do can seem like too much. What’s most notable, of course, is the men—Barak and Sisera—end up the fragile figures, while Deborah, Jael, and Sisera’s mother display genuine ferocity of spirit. Despite this, I’m not convinced gender reversal is the theme here. Deborah’s story teaches how detrimental surrendering to fear can be. When we allow by threats of power and violence to intimidate us, we sacrifice our sense of self-worth. We lose confidence in how much God values us. So often His solutions for problems that besiege us appear too easy to be feasible. They involve people we don’t ordinarily rely on and methods we dismiss as too risky. Constant fear has persuaded us we don't warrant his protection.

Acquiescence to fear destroys village life. It disrupts relationships, disturbs peace, and stalls progress. Until we’re ready to reach for God’s help, it won’t come. But once we do, we must also be ready to trust His plan. He’ll position us above our tormentors. When we can’t conceive how He’ll give us victory, he’ll raise up unlikely allies to defend us. While we rejoice, those awaiting news of our ruin will wait in vain. “When the princes in Israel take the lead, when the people willingly offer themselves—praise the LORD!” Deborah sang. That’s the moral of her story. That’s the answer to fear and intimidation. That’s what keeps our villages and lives safe and free.

Deborah was keenly aware of fear’s detrimental effects on daily life. Her story teaches us willingness to trust God’s plan is how we defeat fear.

(Next: Dog Days)

No Point in Defeat

What gain is there in my destruction, in my going down into the pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it proclaim your faithfulness? (Psalm 30.9)

Impossible Odds

As some of you know, I earn my keep developing and directing corporate sales events. Especially during periods of economic uncertainty—i.e., today’s environment—sales leaders beat the bushes to find someone whose story of defying impossible odds will inspire their people. Seldom are these speakers connected to the company’s business or the sales profession. Over the years, I’ve worked with intrepid mountaineers, prisoners of war, imperiled astronauts, AIDS activists, deep-sea explorers, dedicated teachers, quadriplegic artists, and more sports legends than I can remember. Despite each account’s unique twists and turns, it always reaches the same conclusion. Had the speaker given in to defeat, there’d be no point in telling the story.

The will to survive is a force of nature, while the drive to succeed reinforces our determination to survive. Most of the time, their combined strengths provide ample power to withstand defeat. But ever so often life throws us a curve unlike anything we’ve experienced. Crises like sudden tragedy, financial ruin, prolonged illness, and unprovoked violence overwhelm us. Our trust in God and self-confidence teeter on collapse. We deny faith’s reality to accept fear’s reasoning. Waiting for answers increases our comfort level with living in defeat. We discount Christ’s promise: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16.33) Instead, we overestimate Nietzsche’s premise: “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Granted, faith ignores all natural instinct, drive, and logic. But faith’s most unnatural extreme can’t rival Nietzsche’s absurd notion. How does settling for failure give rise to strength? Why would enduring defeat ever end in victory? All this gets us are feelings of inferiority—the sense we’re too weak to conquer defeat.

Lost in the Dust

In Psalm 30, David tells us there’s no point in defeat. “What gain is there in my destruction, in my going down into the pit?” he asks. “Will the dust praise you? Will it proclaim your faithfulness?” Ah, now we get it. If we spend our lives rationalizing our insecurities and ignoring our Creator’s existence, Nietzsche's logic makes sense. In contrast, if, like David, we ignore our insecurities and anchor our existence on faith in our Creator, we understand why defeat is not an option. If we lose, God loses. Sinking into defeats leaves His praise lost in the dust. The moment we meet impossible odds, He begins strengthening us to rise above them for His glory. What did Jesus say? “Take heart! I have overcome the world.” Our powerlessness gives Him occasion to prove His power.

Though the latest crisis looks more impossible than any we’ve seen, it’s wise to consider a few things before doubting we can survive it. First, nothing we face in life is new. Our circumstances may be unique, but their underlying cause isn’t. Solomon tells us, “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1.9) Because of this, we realize God’s seen our crisis play out in every conceivable way. There’s not a thing we can do to shock or worry God. Regardless how difficult we make things by panicking, questioning, and interfering with what He wants to do, He already knows how to fix us so He can fix our problem. In 1 Corinthians 10.13 we read: “No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.” God finds no glory when we lie down in despair. Getting us back on our feet is how He gets praise. There’s no point in defeat.

Strength to Survive and Succeed

Overcoming impossibilities won’t always mean solving the crisis that creates them. Sometimes God receives higher praise by teaching us to live with our problems and still refuse defeat. Contrary to Nietzsche, our weaknesses—not our crises—give us strength to survive and succeed. Paul lived with an unidentified, tormenting problem until he died. He begged God to remove it. But God refused, telling him, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12.9a) Many times God gains greater glory when we—and others around us—know we’ve got a serious problem that can’t defeat us because we invest total trust in God’s faithfulness and strength. Once Paul got this, his crisis became his crown. He writes, “I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” (v9b)

Instead of fretting over his weaknesses, Paul gladly boasts in them. David does likewise in Psalm 30. After seeing no point in defeat, he distances himself from the problem to make room for God. “O LORD, be my help.” (v10) With that, he too is overcome with gladness. “You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” (v11) Did God fix the problem? David doesn’t say. But He certainly fixed David’s feelings about it. The poem closes with a vow: “O LORD my God, I will give you thanks forever.” (v12) Praise is the point in every struggle we face. And since there’s no praise in defeat, there’s no point in it either.

Getting us back on our feet is how God gets praise. He finds no glory when we lie down in defeat.

(Tomorrow: Keeping Track)