Remembering to Forget

The eyes of the LORD are on the righteous, and God’s ears are open to their cry. The face of the LORD is against evildoers, to cut off the remembrance of them from the earth. (Psalm 34.15-16)

Emotional Landfill

Although Lent’s wilderness is a metaphor, if we pursue the experience properly, much of what happens to us reflects a desert existence. The journey’s demands foster a kind of primal instinct that seeks to conserve energy by eliminating unnecessary burdens. Many have compared Lent to a refiner’s fire, suggesting the desert’s heat and sandblasts burn off impurities so that we stand pure and unmasked before the cross. I believe this is true. There are moments during every Lent—whether it’s our first or fiftieth—when we become aware that we’ve been relieved of detrimental thoughts and habits by force of nature. But if Lent is nothing more than voluntary exposure to the elements, our participation in the process becomes incidental. If all we must do is show up and allow Lent to work on us, then what do we learn?

I prefer to think of Lent as a parallel process during which the Spirit does Its work on us, while we also work through various conflicts and cycles to discover what we no longer need. I see it as a seasonal adjustment that rejuvenates our growth, so that we can leave the desert stronger, healthier, and freer. Without a doubt, the Lent pilgrim quickly discovers her/his trek will require dropping things along the way. The journey is too arduous for excess baggage, and by all means, we should travel light. Yet the wilderness is, above everything else, a wasteland—a place where we can consciously discard encumbrances that impede our future progress. Some things we can carry into Lent with the express purpose of walking away from them. We might think of these burdens as emotional landfill. And, though it may sound unkind to put it like this, much of what we need to lose revolves around people and relationships that weaken our lives.

Tainted and Deadening

We’ve heard so much about “toxic” relationships and people that we give the notion little thought. “Toxic” has become a sort of grab bag we keep handy for tossing away what we don’t like. How many of us have friends who abandoned relationships before they even got off the ground, saying, “He was toxic,” or “She was deadly? We’ve become such efficient toxicity diagnosticians that we objectify who and what’s going on in our lives as if we’re daytime TV therapists. Maybe I’m just blessed to be an exception to the rule. But my dealings with authentically toxic people and deadly relationships have been few and far between. What I’ve come across more often have been tainted people and deadening relationships—people whose negativity and warped views make me toxic, relationships whose chemistry numbs me to God’s touch and the gentle flow of human affection. While I would never judge folks who trigger these responses as “evil,” what they do to me most certainly is evil and, in the end, I am accountable for allowing that to happen.

It’s the fabled frog-and-scorpion scenario, isn’t it? Our desire to show kindness exposes us to risks of getting stung. And when we ask those who sting us why they did it, their only answer is, “It’s my nature.” If we’re wise, we’ll recognize that these people—and the relationships they draw us into—do evil to us. Not because they hate us, necessarily; indeed, we’re more likely to be harmed out of twisted love than outright hate. Not because they take pleasure in hurting us; indeed, most people who habitually infect others with poisonous ideas and emotions live in states of perpetual remorse. Not because they’re morally bankrupt; indeed, most people who visit evil on the world act out of a sense of moral superiority. (Does “love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin” ring a bell?) Yet our awareness that much of the pain and sorrow we endure comes from tainted people and deadening relationships that unintentionally wound us doesn’t change the fact that the harm they do is evil. And Psalm 34 can teach us a valuable lesson—as well as offer us invaluable advise for our Lent journey—if we recognize evildoing that poisons and numbs us.

We Can’t Quite Cut the Cords

In verses 15 and 16 we read, “The eyes of the LORD are on the righteous, and God’s ears are open to their cry. The face of the LORD is against evildoers, to cut off the remembrance of them from the earth.” God is watching us, all of us, good and bad. God sees that our goodness creates vulnerabilities to others’ diseases. God hears our cries of pain and heartbreak. These situations and symptoms are commonplace in Spirit-led lives. In verse 17-19, the psalmist says, “When the righteous cry for help, the LORD hears, and rescues them from their troubles. The LORD is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the LORD rescues them from them all.” We accept that good we do will sometimes be returned with evil, and we look to God for rescue and relief when that happens. But it fascinates me that before the psalmist expounds on God’s care for us, he pauses in verse 16 to remind us of God’s response to those who do harm. God turns away from them, the poet says, and cuts off their memory. Before seeing about us, God remembers to forget those who’ve injured us. That doesn’t mean God no longer loves them. It doesn’t say God’s decided they’re not worth saving. It means as long as they persist in their tainted, deadening ways, God pays them no mind.

Lent opens us to the possibility of leaving tainted people and deadening relationships in the wasteland. It’s as much about remembering what we must forget as what we must always keep in mind. There are tainted people who make us toxic. They are how they are and will remain so if they choose not to repent. There are deadening relationships that numb us to God’s presence. They will continue to do so as long as they survive without God’s intervention. Many times we detach ourselves from unhealthy people and relationships, yet we can’t quite cut the cords of memory. But we must. If God can do it, so can we. Remembering to forget is part of God’s rescue protocol. If we’re earnest about traveling Lent’s desert in search of God’s ways, we should remember to forget anything that poisons and anesthetizes us to God’s guidance.

Lent enables to us bring unhealthy relationships and people into the desert with us for the sole purpose of leaving them behind.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/28/remembering-to-forget/.

Postscript: Question 6

Pop psychologists like to talk about “addictions” to “toxic relationships”—but I think the question is more basic (and hence more complex) than that. What compels us to think we must indulge poisonous personalities and situations to prove we love someone? Are we trying to prove we’re stronger than they? Or are we stronger when we remember to forget unhealthy individuals and relationships?

Authority and Accountability

They were all amazed, and kept on asking one another, “What is this? A new teaching—with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey Him.” (Mark 1.27)

Shameful—or Shameless?

Hull House, Chicago’s legendary haven of social progress, closed its doors on Friday. Rumors that financial duress might shut down the landmark, co-founded in 1889 by Jane Addams and Ellen Gates Starr, have been floating for a while. Those who cared about its survival waited for a big push to keep it alive. None came. Instead, Hull House just ceased to be. No one could explain how it could suffer such an ignoble fate. Who dropped the ball? Less than a mile away, the same question arose in our city morgue, backlogged with indigent corpses denied burial because of flagrant mismanagement. While Chicagoans grappled with these abominable situations, two states over—at the University of Michigan—President Obama cited poor administration as the chief reason why spiraling education costs now generate more personal debt than credit cards. The rudeness of these realities struck very real nerves in a society already scraped raw by the widening gap between haves and have-nots. We’re hard-pressed to hold someone accountable for these and other misdeeds, even though identifying villains at this late date won’t undo the harms afflicting us.

The ruder reality we won’t face is this: accountability rests with us. Our neglect permitted these problems to reach crisis level. Contentment to authorize self-serving and incompetent officials is what got us here. And we’re so far beyond fixing the system it’s time we own up to the rudest reality of all. If we don’t change our laissez-faire attitude about the least among us, sorely needed change for the benefit of all is a lifeless dream. Systemic failures on every front attest to the shameful—or is it shameless?—apathy of everyone in the system. None of us is without blame. And Sunday’s readings (Deuteronomy 18.15-20; Psalm 111, 1 Corinthians 8.1-13, and Mark 1.21-28) come along just in time to re-teach us what accountability means and how authority works.

The Delicate Balance

Stepping through the texts, we see sharp indicators of malaise—all of them wanting for greater care and courage. In Deuteronomy 18, Moses prepares Israel to move forward in his absence, telling them to anticipate a new prophet whose authority will be evidenced by his credibility. Moses quotes God directly in verses 19 and 20, warning, “Anyone who does not heed the words that the prophet shall speak in My name, I Myself will hold accountable. But any prophet who speaks in the name of other gods, or who presumes to speak in My name a word that I have not commanded the prophet to speak—that prophet shall die.” Psalm 111 goes one step further, tying credibility to performance: “The works of God’s hands are faithful and just; all God’s precepts are trustworthy.” (v7) But the psalmist also shifts the focus back to us. In verse 10, we read, “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom; all those who practice it have a good understanding.” Knowing what’s right requires us to do what’s right in a specific way. Proof we heed Christ’s teachings is found in thoughtful care we take to live out Christ’s principles.

This idea reemerges in 1 Corinthians 8, where Paul invokes the doctrine of uniform priesthood, which authorizes every believer to speak God’s Word and vests us with responsibility to demonstrate God’s precepts in action. Addressing an Early Church controversy about diet (explored in an earlier post, Watch What You Eat), Paul calls us to balance Christian authority to overturn Mosaic Law with accountability for how we exercise our freedom. If rightful taking of faith’s liberty causes others to doubt, Paul says we’re doing it wrong. It’s not about what God’s grace allows us to do, but the grace we exemplify in doing it. Relief in knowing Christ freed us from arcane Old Testament edicts doesn’t relieve our duty to act responsibly for the sake of those who’ve not accepted freedoms we enjoy. The delicate balance between authority and accountability becomes the focal point in Sunday’s Gospel, where Jesus models how both are handled.

In the Raw

The curtain rises on Capernaum, a progressive community that welcomes Jesus. It’s the Sabbath. He enters the synagogue and Mark 1.22 says the people are “astounded at His teaching, for He taught them as One having authority, and not as the scribes.” Jesus’s unorthodox approach sidesteps traditional methods of breaking down religious legalese in order to reveal divine principles in the raw. His manner conveys godly authority, and the congregants respond in keeping with Deuteronomy 18 and Psalm 111’s expectations. When the truth of Christ’s message resonates with them, they accept it. Then something unexpected occurs to ratify their trust.

A man tormented by an unclean spirit bolts out of the crowd, howling, “What have You to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have You come to destroy us? I know Who You are, the Holy One of God.” (v24) Before observing Jesus’s response, we note four key details. The man’s presence speaks to the congregation’s openness. Most synagogues would ban him—and be legally and politically correct in doing so. But the Capernaum faith community opens its arms to him. Second, for his sake, it also overlooks the edict prohibiting work on the Sabbath; opposition Jesus encounters elsewhere when working miracles on the Lord’s Day isn’t raised in Capernaum. Third, the raw force of Christ’s message vexes harmful impulses holding the man captive. They hear threats, not hope, and instantly become confrontational. Finally, the man’s cry rings out in two voices: one of fear and resistance, spoken in schizophrenic plurality (“us”), and another that confesses faith and wholeness (“I know Who You are”).

Jesus immediately shuts the paranoid delusions down. “Be silent, and come out of him!” He commands. (v25) They don’t go quietly; Mark reports the man is seized with convulsions before they depart. But the melodramatic tantrum is no match for Christ’s power. Jesus’s accountability for the man’s welfare—despite his condition labeling him “undesirable”—reaffirms His authority to speak truth to power. Verse 27 reads, “They were all amazed, and they kept on asking one another, ‘What is this? A new teaching—with authority! He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey Him.’” We have to love that Jesus doesn’t exploit the chance to show off. He doesn’t make a case for ignoring Sabbath traditions to justify His actions. He doesn’t question the man’s right to be there. He doesn’t turn to the crowd and say, “Watch this.” He simply speaks the truth God gives Him and then acts on it. And the people are amazed.

“Why Should I Be Bound?”

Taking authority over the world’s evils—including those that seek to torment us—demands taking responsibility for the least among us. Arguing legalities and logic with those they hold captive only proves we’re not yet free to speak truth to power. Sure, it’s awfully convenient to shut out undesirables who disrupt our lives with foul thoughts and attitudes. Yet if we keep them away, how will they find help? And how will our witness prove true? Freedom in Christ doesn’t give us the right to show off. It entitles us to lift those enslaved by fear and doubt out of captivity. Today’s Gospel teaches freedom is a privilege best served by setting people free. It authorizes us by expanding our accountability beyond what’s best for us, so others may experience liberating faith and wholeness.

“The fear of the LORD” that Psalm 111 mentions is nothing to be afraid of. It’s the canny understanding that we’ve received the raw truth of the Gospel, and with it the raw power of freedom in Christ. A late friend and songwriter put it like this: “Why should I be bound, when Christ has set me free?” That’s the burning question at the bottom of our moral and political decay. Not, “Who dropped the ball?” But, “Why aren’t we changing the game?”

Teach us, O God, to weigh the delicate balance of embracing Christian authority and accountability for our deeds. Stir in us authentic passion to exercise faith’s freedoms by setting people free. Grant us audacity not only to speak truth to power, but also to act on it. Amen.

We've been given authority over evil in order to lift those enslaved by fear and doubt. Through Christ, we have the power to change the game.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/01/28/authority-and-accountability/

Ours for the Sharing

So deeply do we care for you that we are determined to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves, because you have become very dear to us. (1 Thessalonians 2.8)

Turnarounds and Transitions

Standing amid Sunday’s selected texts, one feels like Dorothy Gale soon after landing in Oz. People come and go so quickly here! Obviously or obliquely, the readings describe turnarounds and transitions. Deuteronomy 34.1-12 records the death of Moses and Joshua’s succession as Israel’s leader. Psalm 90 ponders the passage of time, both on Creation’s grand scale and the human scale of daily life. In 1 Thessalonians 2.1-8, Paul fondly recalls his recent visit with the church, while also responding to reports his teaching has come under fire there. He makes two things very clear: he’s a trustworthy Apostle and the Thessalonians are very precious to him.

Yet Sunday’s Gospel (Matthew 22.34-46) unequivocally overshadows the companion texts, for in it Jesus fuses two Mosaic edicts—love God with all your heart, mind, and soul (Deuteronomy 6.5), and love your neighbor as yourself (Leviticus 19.18)—into the Great Commandment, on which, He says, “hang all the law and prophets.” (v39) As Christians, we revere this text as our spiritual and ethical mother lode. Virtually every choice we make in relationship to God and one another traces back to it. For the Pharisees, who actually hear Jesus issue His commandment, it’s a stunning turnaround, however. Perhaps facetiously—or perhaps not—one of them asks Jesus to identify which law He considers the greatest of all. The only acceptable answer in Pharisaical terms would be, “None is greater than the rest. They all must be obeyed to the letter.” The expected reply sets Jesus up, though, because He has a long history of setting aside religious mandates that impede His determination to care for anyone in need. Meanwhile, singling out one above the rest constitutes heresy. Jesus ingeniously neutralizes the question by citing two laws and vesting them jointly with final authority as Judaism’s preeminent principle.

In essence, the Pharisees get a legally correct answer. But Jesus packages it in revolutionary language that tells the Pharisees they’ve got it backwards. He asserts God’s edicts are given to engender love, not fear—commitment, not conformity. The sheer thought shocks the Pharisees speechless. They can’t wrap their heads around Jesus’s answer, let alone how it works. (Being religious practitioners, as opposed to practicing divine principles, what and how are all that matters to them. Why holds little to no interest.) While they balk at His turnaround, Jesus indicates the entirety of their belief is in transition. He foresees what they can’t possibly perceive: soon-coming events will reestablish God’s law on God’s terms—forever rescinding legalistic inequities and exclusion by redefining the prophetic import of God’s covenant to include all of humankind.

Chasing a Fantasy

Much like we accept the Great Commandment without objection, Jesus puts a question to the Pharisees that sounds benignly academic to us—no more than a standard-issue Socratic supposition to spark learned debate. Not so. His question rattles the Pharisees so thoroughly verse 46 says, “No one was able to give Him an answer, nor from that day did anyone dare to ask Him any more questions.” Jesus asks, “What do you think of the Messiah? Whose son is he?” (v42) The premise is fraught with cognitive and emotional complexity for the Pharisees. Their answer, saying the Messiah is the “son of David,” upholds Israel’s core belief in itself as God’s Chosen People and its sustaining hope for a Deliverer to end its perpetual cycle of pagan oppression. As a Jew steeped in Messianic prophecy, Jesus surely holds sacred the inner strength and longing their answer conveys. Nonetheless, He refutes its validity by quoting Psalm 110, where David refers to the Messiah as “my Lord” instead of “my son.”

A great deal more than solving a theological riddle is at stake here. If the Messiah is “the Lord”—i.e., God’s Son, hence Ruler of All Creation—Israel is chasing a fantasy. Its doggedly nationalistic, religiously egocentric bubble bursts. The Messiah destroys walls that divide beneficiaries of God’s grace and acceptance into “haves” and “have-nots.” Inequality and intolerance of any kind are taboo. A new covenant replacing God’s covenant with Israel launches global access to God’s love. Erasure of all differences between and among us changes everything. Previously admissible excuses for hatred, prejudice, and violence no longer exist. Every person one encounters must be embraced, treated, and loved as a neighbor no less worthy or acceptable than oneself. This is precisely what Jesus infers by posing His seemingly benign question—and why the Pharisees are shaken so terribly when they can’t answer. They don’t disengage Him from further discussions because He’s part of the lunatic fringe. He’s frightened them beyond reason. In just two steps, He’s totally dismantled their theology, politics, and history. He’s left them no mooring from which to fight Him off.

Disruptive Force

Let’s pause to contemplate how radically improbable what Jesus implicitly describes sounds to us, even though it supposedly drives our faith and cultural ideals. Merely scratching its surface would permanently disrupt our way of life. Modern tendency to focus on what and how would prove useless in a world revolving around why. Self-serving ideologies couldn’t survive the pressures of selfless love and commitment’s sacrosanct principles. Yet this overwhelming vision rests in the heart of Christ’s Gospel. It’s what makes our faith supremely powerful. It’s why love and commitment to God and our neighbors comprise the greatest, most disruptive force we’ll ever know. And it’s why we frighten people beyond reason and they disengage from further conversation with us. They have no answer when we question their claim to exclusive favor with God and superior social standing, because none exists.

This is a lot to absorb—too much, in fact. Thus, Jesus commands our commitment to love God without restraint and our neighbors as equals. He calls us away from all that we think we know to discover two preeminent truths: His Gospel is trustworthy and every life we touch is precious. “So deeply do we care for you that we are determined to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own selves, because you have become very dear to us,” Paul writes in 1 Thessalonians 2.8. The Gospel that reestablishes God’s laws of love and redefines the prophetic import of God’s covenant reestablishes and redefines us. Its power defies human theology, politics, and history by ordering turnarounds and transitions on the grand scale of Creation. Its message and promises aren’t only ours for the taking. They’re ours for the sharing. So deeply do we care for those around us that we’re determined to share with them not only the Gospel, but also our own selves. In doing so, we barely scratch the surface. Yet it’s enough to disrupt the way of the world and witness Christ’s power and presence to a profoundly troubled, spiritually disengaged planet.

O Christ, we heed Your command to love God unequivocally and our neighbors unconditionally. Sharpen our will and wits to scratch the surface of what You’ve entrusted to us. Reestablish and redefine us as the supremely powerful, disruptive force You desire us to be. Amen.

The revolutionary power of Christ’s law of love and vision of a world that honors it entrusts us with the supremely potent, disruptive ability to reorder life as we know it.

Not Thinking Ahead

Nabal answered David’s servants, “Who is David? Who is the son of Jesse? There are many servants today who are breaking away from their masters. Shall I take my bread and my water and the meat that I have butchered for my shearers, and give it to men who come from I do not know where?” (1 Samuel 25.10-11)

A Timely Tale Seldom Told

Today’s Old Testament reading (1 Samuel 25.1-22) takes a chapter from the married life of Nabal and Abigail. In light of sweeping financial crises and subsequent political turmoil that presently set the world on edge, it’s a timely tale seldom told. Its placement in the biblical narrative is also unsettling because it steals the spotlight from one of the most devastating losses in Israel’s history. In an oddly matter-of-fact tone, verse 1 informs us, “Now Samuel died; and all Israel assembled and mourned for him. They buried him at his home in Ramah. Then David got up and went down to the wilderness of Paran.” And that’s it. No funeral coverage, no in-depth analysis of how losing the prophet who ushered the Hebrews into nationhood affects Israel, no transcript of David’s eulogy—just, “Samuel dies. The people mourn. They bury him and David goes off to the wilderness of Paran.” Without so much as a transition, verse 2 begins the story of Nabal and Abigail.

Hang on. Before we dive into that drama, the mention of Paran tantalizes us with the prospect the writer has reason to include it. And he/she does. Paran is a vast desert extending SSE from Jerusalem’s outer perimeter to the Sinai. In Jewish mythology, it’s “where God dawns” and judgment originates. Most often, it’s associated with safety and survival, the place where the rejected find sanctuary and the lost sojourn while awaiting guidance. After they’re banished from Abraham’s house, Hagar and Ishmael settle in Paran. It’s where God’s presence, manifest as a cloud, leads the Hebrews to camp before undertaking the last leg of their journey. Thus, David’s venture into Paran fills in a lot of blanks. Samuel’s death deprives him of the rudder he’s relied on. The prophet’s integrity as God’s spokesperson was the critical link ensuring the nation’s health and prosperity. Without him, David doesn’t know what to do. So he goes to Paran, the Source, where God begins, judges, and shelters those without ties or direction.

A Favor

While David’s away, his herdsmen tend his flocks, though apparently not as well as when he’s there. From his desert retreat he dispatches 10 young men to call on Nabal, a rich rancher—a bona fide “job creator”—who’s shearing his flocks and due for an influx of cash. David tells them to approach Nabal in peace, reminding him their herds have shared pasture with his and they’ve never abused his shepherds or stolen his sheep. As king and neighbor, David appeals for a favor: could Nabal provide for David’s herdsmen until he returns? It’s little to ask. And given who’s asking, as well as the unfortunate circumstances behind the request, one would think he’d go out of his way be helpful. Think again.

Nabal’s reputation hangs on his wealth, smart and beautiful spouse, Abigail (trophy wife?), and nasty disposition. The text describes him as “surly and mean” (v4), but after seeing his response to David’s men, add miserly, self-important, uncaring, arrogant, imprudent, shortsighted, and disrespectful to the list—in short, a total buffoon. Once they tender the king’s request, Nabal replies, “Who is David? Who is the son of Jesse? There are many servants today who are breaking away from their masters. Shall I take my bread and my water and the meat that I have butchered for my shearers, and give it to men who come from I do not know where?” (v10-11)

Is he out of his mind? He’s just insulted his king—when David is grieving an irreplaceable loss and unsure of what to do, no less. His trumped-up excuse (the men might be impostors—might be) is a slap to the monarch’s face, implying David’s such a nobody that no one would think twice about using his name to con a rich man out of a few groceries. Nabal’s head is so swollen with greedy meanness there’s no room to entertain the possibility the request is legit, the men are legit, the need is legit, and his chance to reap rewards that money can’t buy is legit. His reasoning is so lame it’s bogus. “I’m not going to help because there are a lot of people abusing the good-neighbor system these days.” What if there are? The question Nabal needs to consider is, “What if I’m wrong?” And here’s the worst of it: Nabal knows he’s wrong, because he’s seen these men tending David’s sheep! He has no excuse. But selfishness won’t let him think that far, and next we see what comes from not thinking ahead. (Spoiler alert: the end, slated for tomorrow’s reading, is revealed.)

David explodes. He assembles a small army and heads for Nabal’s ranch. One of the miser’s shepherds gets to Abigail and tells her what happened. She can’t believe Nabal could be so stupid. She throws together as many supplies as she can gather and rushes to stop David before he strikes. She falls at his feet and begs his mercy. David won’t be deterred. “Pay no attention to that wicked man Nabal,” she pleads. “He is just like his name—his name means Fool and folly goes with him. And as for me, your servant, I did not see the men my lord sent.” (v25) She urges David not to resort to bloodshed because of her husband’s idiocy and presents her offerings as an apology. “You fight the LORD’s battles,” she stresses, cleverly hinting this a personal matter, therefore beneath him, and appeals to his integrity as a righteous king and leader. One can almost read David’s mind. She is smart. She is beautiful. And she is convincing. It’s senseless to slaughter Nabal’s household and make a widow of Abigail because of his foolishness. David relents. Abigail goes home, where Nabal is throwing a party fit for a king! He’s drunk and full of himself. The next morning, when she explains what almost became of him and his wealth, he has a stroke. In 10 days’ time, he’s dead. If you know anything about David, you see the final twist coming: he marries Abigail.

Excuses

A sea of present-day Nabals has overtaken us. It floods the airwaves, boils over in blogs and pollutes our social media. Nabals poison office water coolers and soak backyard barbecues in bile. Their response to the world condition is inexcusable and they know that, yet their selfishness doesn’t allow them to think that far. So they keep tossing out lame excuses that offer no help and flout their civic duty and moral responsibility. Request their help and generosity and they turn the tables. Their capacity to fix problems gets spun into why those who appeal for their help are con artists. Their swollen heads leave them no room to consider what befalls those who stare truth in the eye and insist it’s not true.

They know the crises confronting us are real. They know their surly indifference and meanness won’t solve anything. In their hearts they’re aware their greed and self-centeredness not only create many of our problems; they intensify them. They sense our grief and despondence. We’ve lost our rudder and can’t discern where to go or what’s next. They don’t care. They’re content with not thinking ahead. While they’re throwing parties fit for kings, drunk and full of themselves for having defied their consciences and leaders, comeuppance marches out of the desert, where God dawns, judgment originates, and the forsaken and lost take haven.

As disaster nears, we must become Abigails and throw ourselves on God’s mercy, interceding for innocent lives that will be destroyed by a full-scale outpouring of vengeance. This is a personal matter we beseech God to judge personally. The Nabals must be stopped, and when God’s judgment is levied, they will. It will come quickly, decisively, and finally—a just end for those whose names have come to mean Fool and whose folly goes with them.

Save us, O God, from the Nabals of our day. Deal with them swiftly and justly as You will and spare us greater grief from being swept up in their evil tide and the wrath it brings. Amen.

Surliness, meanness, greed—they’re all symptomatic of swollen heads that have no room to entertain the legitimacy of need or what befalls those who don’t think ahead.

Fortresses and Façades

Because they lead my people astray, saying, “Peace,” when there is no peace, and because, when a flimsy wall is built, they cover it with whitewash, therefore tell those who cover it with whitewash that it is going to fall. (Ezekiel 13.10-11)

Midnight of the Soul

On this date, 150 years ago, Confederate soldiers sweep into Charleston Harbor and attack US troops stationed at Fort Sumter. Their gunfire rings in America’s midnight of the soul—an hour whose darkness grows so impenetrable it hovers above us still. It was destined to happen, of course, this violent reckoning with contradictions the Founders naïvely entrust future generations to reconcile. Democratic ideals like personal freedom and social equality are too rich for our pragmatically capitalist blood. While a federal government ensuring states’ rights works in principle, it’s stubbornly impracticable. The revolutionary pledge to promote such inalienable human rights as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness only holds for male landowners of European descent. The Founders aren’t so naïve they don’t notice potential cloud chambers pocking their Great Experiment’s fortress of freedom. They see where its walls are flimsy, its joints weak. As Founders, their first duty is laying solid groundwork for upcoming architects and builders to refine their original design and shore up its initially patched-together construction. In this, they’re utterly magnificent.

Their faith that future Americans will heed their precedent of revering national unity above political ideology and personal ambition is naïve to the point of foolishness, however. Succeeding generations find choosing sides far less demanding than compromise. Greased palms feel friendlier than hands calloused from tireless labor to build an increasingly great nation. Instead of bolstering the Founders’ beacon against clouds that dim its brilliance, they settle for slapping on a fresh coat of red, white, and blue from time to time in the name of “patriotism.” Then April 12, 1861 arrives. Before God’s sun rises, our midnight lands in a blaze of artillery. America’s bastion of liberty all but implodes as nearly a century of pent-up bickering and neglect eclipse the horizon.

Naturally Superior and Morally Bound

We’re well versed in mounting conflicts that erupt into Civil War. We’re taught the South’s agrarian economy can’t survive without slave labor; the real issue is states’ rights, not slavery; slave trade has become such a fixture in Southern culture few who benefit from it question its justice. Yet when we envision hundreds of gray-clad youths stealing into position to slaughter their fellow countrymen, we can’t discern what they hope to gain by use of violence. What’s in it for the wealthy elite—plantation owners and merchants reaping huge profits at human expense—is too apparent to refute. Nor is it sane to suggest anything but wealth and favor motivates toadying politicians and preachers who hawk distorted ideology and diabolical doctrines of racial inequality. Confederate military command is decidedly upper crust, either ardent slave owners or their sons. But the faceless troops—hardscrabble farmers, day laborers, millworkers, and miners whose misery mirrors slavery more closely than the privileged manner they volunteer to die for—what’s in it for them?

The standard answer: they fight to protect their way of life, a laughable conclusion about an average Confederate soldier with neither means nor need to own slaves. No, these men risk their lives because they’re seduced to believe they’re inherently superior to slaves and morally bound to murder anyone opposed to their belief. (Sidebar: how is it we Americans harshly reproach Germans who tumbled for Hitler’s evil while sentimentalizing our very same dance with the Devil?) Without a morally sound foundation on which to build, the Confederacy’s architects erect a façade that mimics America’s freedom fortress. Borrowing from their recently disavowed compatriots’ playbook, they mask their rickety structure in red, white, and blue patriotism—cleverly sticking to stars and bars and all that goes with inflaming unwary American minds to hate, wound, and kill for “love of country,” rather than defending their nation’s ideals. (Remember: that’s really hard work to be avoided at all cost—“cost” being the operative term.)

Thus, in the first instance of what would become a deadly habit, decades of lazy politics and poor citizenship lead America to equip enemies of freedom and equality. The young Rebels have absolutely nothing to gain by killing and maiming their brothers. If anything, the slavery crisis provides their generation’s best reason for uniting to remedy a fundamental flaw in the Founders’ plan—to make the freedom’s fortress sturdier, more impregnable to threats of tyranny, corruption, and senseless violence. With neither side having witnessed this, though, taking up arms seems logical to both; a lifetime wasted on watching paint dry conditions North and South alike to turn a blind eye to their civic duty to uphold moral principles and social justice. When midnight descends on the American soul, the Union stumbles and staggers in search of a way out. Meanwhile, the Rebels can’t see they’ve elected to be slaves to slave-owner wealth and power. Lives across the divide are cheapened past the price of the cheapest slave—and debt our nation accrues in the process has yet to be cleared. April 12, 1861’s toll on racial harmony, equal rights, and personal freedoms may never go away.

Addicted to Whitewash

Inattentive upkeep of fortresses and fondness for façades are neither recent phenomena nor uniquely American. They’re common to a universal tale as old as time. Ezekiel’s prophecy addresses a nation born in bondage and nurtured in freedom, only to be divided into two kingdoms, north and south, that turn on each other and consequently fall captive to Babylon. (Their 70-year exile is lamented to this day as the midnight of the Jewish soul.) The prophet is a captive through whom God charges the people with apathy that accounts for their demise. Content to watch paint dry, they disregard the hard work of building their nation. Convenient ignorance evolves into a crippling habit they can’t break. In Ezekiel 13.10-12 we see an oft-repeated pattern throughout the prophecy. God cites leaders for abusing their nation’s trust but ultimately indicts the people for letting them get by with it: “Because they lead my people astray, saying, ‘Peace,’ when there is no peace, and because, when a flimsy wall is built, they cover it with whitewash, therefore tell those who cover it with whitewash that it is going to fall. Rain will come in torrents, and I will send hailstones hurtling down, and violent winds will burst forth. When the wall collapses, will not people ask you, ‘Where is the whitewash you covered it with?’”

America has become addicted to whitewash. No sooner do we kick the habit than we permit leaders to seduce us with fresh paint. Our resistance weakens with each relapse. Cycling up to deadly overdoses takes less time: 80 years to the Civil War; 60 tolerating robber barons and political graft before crashing into Depression; 40 excusing paranoid propaganda and moral hypocrisy before the Sixties unleash a tsunami of unrest and violence; 25 pretending not to see the Religious Right creeping into bed with neoconservatives and big business; 15 tuning out cautions that rampant materialism and media overload will be our undoing. And every cycle cheapens lives past the cheapest slave’s price.

Every time our walls cave, we grab the whitewash and leave freedom’s trowels and hammers to somebody else—somebody who doesn’t exist, never did, and never will. Out of the mouth of God we’re warned that whitewashed walls will surely fall. The most patriotic façade is still a façade. It cannot endure. Fortresses require constant attention and fortitude to strengthen ramparts, seal cloud chambers, and mend moral decay. As believers who know the ways of justice and righteousness, we have no excuse for not speaking out against moral apathy or conveniently ignoring flaws we can remedy. If no one else pitches in, with God’s help we can do the hard work of liberty and equality. We can break the whitewash habit and kill our contentment to watch paint dry. May it be so.

On April 12, 1861, eight decades of convenient ignorance erupted in a blaze of brother-on-brother violence. Since that day, our whitewash addiction has escalated into increasingly shorter cycles between calamitous overdoses.

What's in a Name?

If you suffer as a Christian, do not be ashamed, but praise God that you bear that name. For it is time for judgment to begin with the family of God. (1 Peter 4.16-17)

Netherworld

I’ve not taken time to think much or write about Anne Rice’s disavowal of Christianity because I’m not a fan of her novels. I am, however, an admirer of her individualism. She is one intrepid lady. She merits respect for risking popularity to challenge readers to reconsider their views on timely and controversial topics—even though her eccentric persona often seems as calculated and pretentious as her prose. Rice’s knack for shock appeal ranks her with Madonna, Prince, and Lady Gaga. (She’s a rock star trapped in a writer’s body.) Yet despite her mannerisms and methods, I usually trust her motives are sincere. This most recent tempest gives me pause, though. Whatever her intentions are, she’s in over her head with this one.

Rice’s decision to no longer identify as a Christian while continuing to abide by Christ’s teaching traps her in a netherworld not unlike that of her most famous vampire, Lestat. He’s not dead, but he’s not alive. Rice’s situation is no less bizarre. She’s abandoning the Body of Christ while hanging on to Its Head. It’s a double severance—her from It, It from Him. This may be a marketable premise for a novel, where paranormal constructs build suspense. In terms of faith, it’s a perilous position. It accedes powerlessness (or unwillingness) to forgive, a thing so alien to Christ one can’t conceive how Rice’s proposition possibly works.

Suffering and Shame

In the rush of comments, many gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Well, she’s leaving the Church, not the faith” they said. That sounds reasonable, since Rice castigated her chosen denomination as “anti-gay,” “anti-feminist,” and “anti-birth control.” But, by her confession, she didn’t quit the Church or her church. She quit being a Christian. That’s profoundly different, as she should know from a decade of writing extensively about her faith and early Christianity. It’s also too glaring a blunder for someone who earns a fortune with words. If she didn’t mean it, why did she type it? First Peter 4.16-17 solves the mystery better than anything I’ve come across. “If you suffer as a Christian, do not be ashamed,” it says, “but praise God that you bear that name. For it is time for judgment to begin with the family of God.” It’s not the Church, her church, Christianity, or Christ that Anne Rice wants to escape. It’s being called “a Christian.” She’s trying to elude the suffering and shame that comes from being numbered with a people that dishonors itself by its disobedience to Christ, disregard for others, and disrespect for God’s creation. We can empathize with her feelings. But is her move sensible and scripturally sound?

Rice has done exactly what Peter teaches not to do. The rashness of her action reinforces the attitudes of millions who cite the Body of Christ’s iniquity as justification for staying away. But isn’t naïve to believe Christianity and the Church would be ideal were it not for the heretics, hypocrites, and demagogues? Christ and His teachings are perfect because they’re divine. The religion and institution built on them are manmade and therefore never were nor ever will be perfect. When the Apostles recognized this, they fervently urged us to strive for perfection. Perfect Christianity and a perfect Church imply full knowledge and understanding, which obviates their purpose—i.e., increasing our knowledge and understanding. In 1 Corinthians 13.9-10, Paul says, “For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.” The perfection we long for will come, and learning to forgive and tolerate one another's imperfections is what leads us to it. In light of this, Rice's defection seems either premature or immature, or possibly both.

Peter instructs us to praise God for suffering and shame that comes “when you bear that name.” Saying “I’m a Christian” confesses weakness and imperfection. It embraces every believer’s imperfections—even the failures and enthusiasms that contradict what we believe Jesus taught and exemplified. “I’m a Christian” tells everyone, “Yes, I belong to that unruly, conflicted family that constantly embarrasses itself and the Savior it follows.” We can’t admit this without suffering and shame. But we praise God for the grace to do it, because acknowledging our brothers and sisters’ faults as integral to their faith teaches us why our faults and failures are so integral to our beliefs. It’s why condemnation and ambivalence have no place in Christianity or the Church.

The Forgiveness Quotient

Could it be Christians who inflict suffering and shame are given to us so we can learn to love, forgive, and accept them before attempting to do so for non-Christians? In Matthew 18, Peter asks how often must he forgive his brother, suggesting seven as a reasonable quota. Jesus takes Peter’s figure, squares it, and multiplies it by 10: “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy times seven.” (v22) Before we conclude our duty to forgive expires with Sin #490, we should note the numbers’ symbolic weight. Seven represents perfection. Seven squared totals absolute perfection—i.e., God’s nature. Ten signifies completeness. The forgiveness quotient is perfection X perfection X completeness. Ergo, there is nothing a Christian can do, say, or suggest that we mustn’t forgive. Rice’s reasoning is flawed because it concedes we haven’t power to forgive and tolerate imperfections found in the Body of Christ.

What would Peter’s comment be if he caught Rice’s announcement about rejecting the Christian name. He might ask: Whom does this benefit? Does severing your family ties help them? Can you influence their thinking and behavior in absentia? How can you convey God’s love and acceptance to the world if you can’t tolerate us? “For it is time for judgment to begin with the family of God,” Peter tells us. Everywhere in God’s household, we find imperfections—in us, others, our leaders, our dogma—everywhere. If we’re not present, doing our family duty by wrestling with our failures forgiving one another, as living proof of God’s grace and mercy, nothing will change. Christianity has no interest in what others do against us. It's only focus is what we do for them. We’re Christians. We make change happen. What’s in a name? If it’s “Christian,” there’s love, forgiveness, acceptance, integrity, humility, and power. For all the suffering and shame that comes with it, it’s an honor both to be a Christian and called one. We pray Anne Rice and anyone else deceived to think otherwise will grow to understand this.

Peter tells us to praise God for the privilege of being called “Christian”—despite the suffering and shame our failures impose on all who bear the name.

Moving On

The people there did not welcome him, because he was heading for Jerusalem. When the disciples James and John saw this, they asked, “Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven and destroy them?” But Jesus turned and rebuked them, and they went to another village. (Luke 9.53-56)

Transitional Passages

From time to time we come upon transitional passages in the Gospels—brief accounts of going from here to there, with something that seems relatively minor happening along the way. We tend to scoot by these to get to the good stuff, and some of them feel so incidental we may wonder why they’re included at all. Every now and then, though, what takes place borders on monumental, and if we glance over these quick bits we miss why the writers considered them essential. Luke 9.51-56 is an excellent case in point.

Peter, James and John have just witnessed Christ’s transfiguration, the event that initiates the Passover journey to Jerusalem, where Jesus will be tried, executed, and resurrected. The magnitude of the disciples’ experience instills in them a sense of authority unlike anything they’ve known. For Peter, it confirms his confession that Jesus is The Christ. For James and John, whom Jesus calls “the sons of thunder,” it dazzles them with power. They go overboard in holy swagger. First, John hastens to inform Jesus they found a man driving out demons in Christ’s name. “We tried to stop him,” he tells the Lord, “because he is not one of us.” (Luke 9.49) Jesus corrects John’s impetuosity. “Don’t stop him,” He says. “For whoever is not against you is for you.” (v50) It’s pretty much a “mind your own business” scolding. But the Thunder Boys can’t help themselves. Next, Jesus sends messengers ahead to a Samaritan village that He and the disciples will pass through en route to Jerusalem. He intends to rest there. But the Samaritans aren’t eager to accommodate a Jewish prophet and entourage—which makes sense, since they're not welcome in Jerusalem at Passover. So here come the Thunder Boys, feisty as ever, asking, “Should we call down fire from heaven and destroy them?” As if Jesus would countenance such a thing. As if they could actually do it. They’re in a transitional passage of a different kind without knowing it—the steep pass we all must climb to discover true power is evidenced by self-containment and tolerance.

Saving Lives

Once again, Jesus scolds them. Most manuscripts simply note, “Jesus turned and rebuked them.” But some texts also quote Christ directly, saying, “You do not know what kind of spirit you are of, for the Son of Man did not come to destroy men’s lives, but to save them.” (v55) The expanded text stresses nothing—including religious rejection—entitles us to wish destruction on anyone. That’s an archaic mentality, based on Old Testament yarns about God wiping out Israel’s adversaries. It’s completely out of keeping with Christ’s spirit and message. And any time we sink to the level of even imagining vengeance, like James and John, we betray our ignorance. We are not born of a spirit of destruction, but one of life and love. The only fire we should be concerned with is the flame burning inside us, the fervor that burns up our impure desires and lights the way to mercy and acceptance. If we truly follow Christ, our main impetus is saving lives, not destroying them.

Punishment is none of our concern. Contemplating ill that might befall someone who harms or disrespects us isn’t worthy of us. Yet it’s also often the case that those who wish us no good will not receive us. How then do we go about “saving them?” This passage answers that question with such simplicity we may be dumbfounded. After Jesus rebukes the Sons of Thunder, the story ends: “And they went to another village.” (v56) This sheds enormous light on what Jesus means by “saving lives.” We tend to think of it in the most grandiose terms—i.e., changing lives. We fret about not being heard or welcomed into a place where we can show those who reject us a better way. We presume if we were there to lead them, they would change. This won’t always be so. Some people have no desire to change. What we tell or show them won’t be anything they’ve not heard or seen. In this context, saving lives means sparing them—praying for their good, their health, and their success despite the harm they intend to do to us. This aligns with Christ’s teaching in Luke 6.27-28: “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.” Often, saving lives is more about changing us than them.

The Journey’s Beauty

When Jesus realizes He isn’t welcome in the Samaritan village, He moves on. There’s no recrimination toward the villagers. In fact, there’s no mention of them at all. More important things lay ahead. James and John don’t know this is Christ’s last journey to Jerusalem. They want to show off their newfound sense of power and righteousness. Jesus realizes time is of the essence. There are villages ahead that want Him, people who need Him, and believers waiting to minister to Him. Fighting prejudicial resistance will mar the journey’s beauty.

Sometimes moving on is our only option. We have to accept that. We also have to realize others don’t define our value and worthiness. No one needs to be brought low so we can be lifted. Indeed, fantasies of vengeance and retribution reduce us. They pull us down to a level that’s beneath Christ. Instead, we lower ourselves by letting go and moving on. James 4.10 says, “Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.” Earlier in Luke 9, Jesus teaches us, “If people do not welcome you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave their town, as a testimony against them.” (v5) Move on. The fact that we’re not around speaks for itself. We don’t have time to linger over destructive thoughts. There are places that want us, people who need us, and others waiting to minister to us. Our journey is too beautiful and sacred to be marred by rejection.

We don’t have time to stick around where we’re not wanted. There are better things ahead. Praying for adversaries’ destruction only mars the beauty of our journey.

When Worlds Collide

When he saw Jesus from a distance, he ran and fell on his knees in front of him. He shouted at the top of his voice, “What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? Swear to God that you won’t torture me!” (Mark 5.6-7)

The Guise of Goodness

Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods ends with the fairy-tale characters summing up what they learned during their forest forays. Red Riding Hood—the least likable personality in the show—figures caution is best when strangers (like the wolf) turn on the charm. After the wolf devours her grandmother and nearly makes a meal out of her, Red concludes, “Nice is different than good.” How true this is—and how difficult for believers to absorb. On its surface, it totally contradicts what Jesus teaches about kindness. Because the type of charity we practice is genuine, we assume it’s genuine all-around. Much of the time it is, but not always.

Many who mean us no good are exceedingly adept at assuming the guise of goodness. They entice us with kindness, win our trust, and then, once our guard is lowered, reveal their appetite for vicious, often violent cruelty and condemnation. Paul warns us to watch out for these types, saying, “For Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. It is not surprising, then, if his servants masquerade as servants of righteousness.” (2 Corinthians 11.14-15) But do we want to second-guess every kind act shown to us? No. That raises our risk of rewarding true kindness with disrespect and ingratitude. That’s why 1 John 4.1 tells us to “test the spirits and see whether they are from God.” How do we do that? Looking back to 1 John 3.10, we read: “Anyone who does not do what is right is not a child of God; nor is anyone who does not love his brother.” The instant we detect false motives, prejudice, or injustice, we know what we're dealing with—deceptive niceness, not genuine goodness.

Different Worlds

Recognizing counterfeit niceness as “kindness” that potentially kills is fairly straightforward. Yet even when it’s tendered in bad faith, we’re compelled by Christ’s laws of love to offer genuine kindness in return. This does not mean we’re bound to indulge it, however. Just as “nice is different than good,” tolerance is different than permission. And this is where things get murky for us, because we tend to do the “nice thing,” forgetting spiritually guided people and carnally driven ones inhabit different worlds. The goals, mindsets, and success measures aimed at achieving earthly status and favor don’t apply to us. As Paul explains in Colossians 2.20: “Since you died with Christ to the basic principles of this world, why, as though you still belonged to it, do you submit to its rules?” Common customs, like “playing nice,” are foreign to us, because they lead to ruinous compromise and subject us to dangerous influences and environments. Most of all, they sidetrack our attention toward pleasing others and ourselves, which often results in displeasing God.

Paul writes in Romans 12.2, “Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.” There they are again: test and good. A transformed mind discerns what is authentically good, pleasing, and compliant to God’s perfect will versus what is not. In 1 Corinthians 2.12, Paul asserts this isn’t a skill we acquire, but a gift we’re given: “We have not received the spirit of the world but the Spirit who is from God, that we may understand what God has freely given us.” When we embrace new life in Christ through His Spirit, distinguishing between “nice” and “good” is governed by our desire to please God.

Close Proximity

Mark 5 provides a superb example of what happens when our world and other worlds collide. Christ and his disciples have just sailed across the Sea of Galilee, when their path crosses that of a seriously troubled man. He’s vexed by an evil spirit and lives in the tombs, where he’s least likely to harm others or himself. He sees Jesus and rushes to meet Him. Once He gets in close proximity to Christ, the spirit that controls him cries out, “What do you want with me, Jesus? Swear you won’t torture me!”

Let’s look at this. Jesus is in the first stages of His mission. He’s new to the area, and already its most problematic resident is making a scene. The evil in the man’s mind convinces him Jesus has come to attack him. The nice thing to do would be to calm his fears so he can return whence he came and Jesus can move on. But that’s not the good thing—the right thing. Despite the spirit’s protests, something in the man knows Jesus can help him. Leaving him in his current state is unacceptable. Jesus speaks to his problem: “Come out of this man, you evil spirit!” (Mark 5.6) The spirit resists at first. Jesus asks for the man’s name, but the spirit answers instead. “Legion,” it says, “for we are many.” The demon begs permission to infiltrate a nearby herd of swine. Jesus assents, and the pigs—about 2,000 of them, Mark says—immediately dive into the sea.

It’s unlikely we’ll ever clash with evil in this manner or on this scale. Yet dismissing this as a “miracle story” without personal relevance is unwise. The same Spirit Who embodies Jesus lives in us. And when our world collides with worlds where evil runs rampant, it’s expected those vexed by its power will seek us out. Yet when they reach close proximity to the Spirit in us, it’s also possible a scene will develop. In their world, this is enough for anyone unaffected by its influences to move on politely and quickly. But in our world, we see what’s really happening. They need help. In kindness, we speak to their turmoil. The goodness we portray shows them their consuming thoughts and actions are unworthy of them—and everyone around them. They may resist us. They may opt for life in the tombs over life in full. But when our worlds collide, we have an opportunity to present what life in our world can be. They now have a choice. That’s why nice is different than good, and good is better than nice.

Although we occupy the same planet, followers of Christ and those driven by harmful thoughts inhabit different worlds. When they collide, we speak to their problems and show them a better way.

Postscript: If I Can Help Somebody

A riveting arrangement of the gospel classic, “If I Can Help Somebody,” performed by the Morgan State College Choir, featuring a stunning turn by the finest male soprano I’ve ever heard, Earnest Saunders.

IF I CAN HELP SOMEBODY

If I can help somebody as I pass along

If I can cheer somebody with a word or song

If I can show somebody that he's traveling wrong

Then my living shall not be in vain

If I can do my duty as a Christian ought

If I can bring them beauty to a world up-wrought

I can spread the message that the Master taught

Then my living shall not be in vain

Then my living shall not be in vain

Then my living shall be in vain

If I can help somebody as I pass along

Then my living shall not be in vain

Help Wanted

Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help… But you, O LORD, be not far off; O my Strength, come quickly to help me. (Psalm 22.11, 19)

In the Bunker

There will be times when we feel unduly beleaguered. A pending problem bears down on us, confusing our minds and draining our spirits until we can’t see or respond to anything else clearly. At other times, “little things” go awry. Everything we hope for gets put on hold, shows up late, or doesn’t work out in a way we’d prefer. The most frustrating aspect of these periods is our sense of being held in abeyance. Nothing moves as swiftly or favorably as we’d like. Stumbling around and staring at the horizon only taxes us further. It’s time to hide away in prayer.

Psalm 27.5 reads, “For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle.” Taking sanctuary in prayer is very much like stealing away in a bunker. We go there to find peace and safety the from real-time battle that continues while we retreat. It’s a strategic move to reconstruct our resolve and return to the front. But we should also be aware the bunker has certain drawbacks. It’s being a peaceful place doesn’t necessarily make it a happy one. It’s often lonely there. Our removal from the action may add anxiety about what’s happening outside. Lastly, because the bunker’s built to withstand heavy attacks, it sounds like our prayers bounce off the ceiling. An overwhelming sense of futility accompanies the solitude and safety we find. What’s the use of praying, we think, if our prayers don’t appear to reach God?

Stuck in the Middle

Psalm 22 is composed in a bunker. David opens with the most anguished cry in Scripture—the exact words Christ calls out on the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He elaborates on his angst about not feeling confident that God hears him in verse 2: “O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent.” Anyone who’s spent time in the bunker understands David’s anxiety. With our prayers echoing back at us, it’s easy to assume we’re the first ones who’ve ever felt total isolation from God. David blames himself. He recalls how many times God heard his forefathers’ prayers. “In you they trusted and were not disappointed. But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by men and despised by the people,” he says. (v5-6) Wherever he looks David sees people shaking their heads. “He trusts in the LORD; let the LORD rescue him. Let him deliver him, since he delights in him,” they jeer. (v8)

With all the negativity surrounding us, it doesn’t take long for the sanctuary we sought to feel like a prison we can’t escape. We sink into David’s mindset, comparing our present circumstances with examples of how God intervened for others in the past—often bringing them out of situations many times more threatening than what drove us into hiding. We forget we’re looking at them in retrospect, and stories of divine deliverance tend to short-shift the agony of feeling defeated to get to the triumphant ending. Nothing looks good when we’re stuck in the middle of conflict and uncertainty, which is why it’s vital we realize where we are affects what we see. Psalm 22 is jammed with gruesome imagery. Bulls and dogs encircle David. Lions bare their teeth. He feels as weak as water, disjointed, his courage melting like wax. Everybody stares and laughs at him.

We Need Help

These and similar realities might be taken as reasons to stay out of the bunker. But David’s poem explains why hiding away in prayer is the most strategically sound thing to do. Temporarily removing ourselves from conflict brings clarity to our prayers. We cease asking for concrete answers and humble ourselves to admit we need help. Our sights turn from waving banners of victory to hanging out a “Help Wanted” sign.

The great spiritual also rings out of the bunker: “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus.” That’s where David is in verse 11: “Trouble is near and there is no one to help.” And then, after a few verses of describing how close trouble appears to bear down on him, David comes to his senses and explicitly asks for help: “But you, O LORD, be not far off; O my Strength, come quickly to help me.” Stark periods of duress inevitably find us trying to describe our emotions to others. Many respond in love and kindness, “I know exactly what you’re going through.” Bless them for trying, their comfort lands with a thud. How can they possibly know?

Stealing away in prayer brings us to the place of knowing nobody knows but Jesus. And there’s no denying He knows. In that moment, the picture of Christ in Hebrews 4.15 comes to life: “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin.” Our Strength comes quickly to help us. When we leave prayer’s bunker, it’s not atypical to come out with many questions still unanswered. But they no longer trouble and weaken us, because we’ve found an answer all its own. Psalm 46.1 puts it like this: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” He knows. He is our help. He is our Answer.

Prayer is often like a bunker—a safe retreat from conflict. Though we may not come out with answers we want, we leave with help we need.

(Tomorrow: Debt Resolution)