Keep Building

“You expected much, but see, it turned out to be little. What you brought home, I blew away. Why?” declares the LORD Almighty. “Because of my house, which remains a ruin, while each of you is busy with your own house.” (Haggai 1.9)

12 Angry Men

Our obsession with organization cheats us sometimes. This is certainly the case with the Minor Prophets—12 short books at the back of the Old Testament. The grouping and placement of these books are unfortunate; brevity and discontinuity make them feel more like appendices than vital components of the canon. All told, these prophets span centuries in Israel’s history. And because each of them speaks to his time, lack of context cripples our interest. How can we relate to what God says through them if the text doesn’t amply identify whom He’s speaking to, what He’s talking about, and why it needs to be said? As a rule, the Minor Prophets require homework.

But our second challenge with them is tougher, as a surface reading of the Minor Prophets depicts 12 angry men. To a one, their messages confront sinful societies—usually Israel, but also other nations and cities—and predict harsh judgment if they don’t repent. Without background research into what they address, their prophecies easily sound like harangues: you’ve messed up and if you don’t straighten up, you’ll be sorry. Although seven of 12 end with pledges of restoration, not knowing the urgency behind their messages plays up the gloom and doom. Haggai is a great example of how a little investigation goes a long way with the Minor Prophets. A handful of context, found in the book of Ezra, harvests a bounty of beauty.

Tough and Tentative Times

Ezra informs us Haggai is given the unenviable task of shepherding the Jews through tough and tentative times. He (and his colleague, Zechariah) shows up after the Babylonian captivity ends. Over 40,000 Jewish hostages—many of them born in exile—stream into a country decimated and shell-shocked from seven decades of foreign occupation. Actually, the land is still occupied, taken over by the Persians, who recently conquered Babylonia and acquired Judah (Israel’s southern counterpart) in the process. The Persians prove far more benevolent, appointing a Jewish governor to oversee Judah’s reconstruction. Rebuilding the Jerusalem Temple the Babylonians destroyed becomes the recovery’s centerpiece. But the endeavor is politically fraught. A faction of leaders dismisses the idea as unfeasible and impractical. Local Samaritans—who consider themselves “the lost Hebrew tribe”—offer to help. When they’re declined, they fuel suspicions the Jews’ solidarity around the Temple project may escalate into an uprising against Persia. New Temple construction is suspended.

This grieves many, particularly the returned hostages who’ve assumed the lion’s share of the work. But fear of a Persian backlash as bad or worse than the Babylonian siege convinces the majority to wait. Meanwhile, there’s more than enough work to get the country up and running. Attending to that makes political and common sense. The problem is it’s not what God wants. Judah enters a period of wheel spinning. It replants its farms; they don’t yield profitable harvests. It rebuilds its cities; they don’t prosper. It restores its homes; their residents don’t flourish. Submitting to fear wrought by attempts to frustrate their unified purpose—building a new house where God can reside among them—leads to frustrations on every front. They don’t see this, though, until God raises Haggai to explain it. “'You expected much, but see, it turned out to be little. What you brought home, I blew away. Why?' declares the LORD Almighty. 'Because of my house, which remains a ruin, while each of you is busy with your own house.'” (Haggai 1.9) Judah heeds the prophet and throws its energy into completing the Temple. Once the foundation is laid, Haggai returns with a new word from God: “From this day on I will bless you.” (Haggai 2.19)

Honoring Our Pledge

We pray a prayer—many of us, daily: “Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Each time we say it, whether or not we consciously realize it, we tell God, “What You desire matters most. What You want done is what I want to do.” As long as there are no conflicts and interferences to make us afraid, we have no problem honoring our pledge. But too often, when opposition arises, we fall into the same trap that snared Judah. Past losses cause us to fear future ones. We stop building God’s place in our lives to wait for the controversy to settle. In the meantime, we find plenty to do in other areas of our lives—ground to cultivate, enterprises to pursue, and personal matters to address. When our efforts yield dismal results, we’re even more frustrated and disillusioned.

The work God calls us to do must be done without delay. No matter what or who tries to impede our progress, we keep building. And as we build God’s residence in us, we remember that Jesus tells us to anticipate costs associated with what we’re building. In Luke 14.28-30—after stressing true discipleship requires willingness to lose everything, including our loved ones and our lives—He says: “Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. Won’t you first sit down and estimate the cost to see if you have enough money to complete it? For if you lay the foundation and are not able to finish it, everyone who sees it will ridicule you, saying, ‘This person began to build and wasn’t able to finish.’”

Abandoned, unfinished construction holds no value for anyone. It’s a sad monument to wasted investment and space. When we honor our pledge and build God’s home in us at all costs, we have no cause to fear. What we’re afraid of losing or not achieving will be taken care of. “Seek first [God’s] kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” Jesus promises in Matthew 6.33. Once the foundation is laid, God says, “From this day on I will bless you.” Put God’s will first. Don’t delay. Don’t quit. Keep building.

Abandoned, unfinished construction holds no value for anyone. That’s why we keep building God’s residence in us at all costs.

Think Thanks

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God… If anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. (Philippians 4.8,10)

Miners

It’s tempting to visualize Christianity’s formative years the way movies like The Robe (1953) and Ben-Hur (1959) did—as a time when well-mannered, clean-cut idealists were singled out for persecution by a corrupt totalitarian regime. But those pictures were less concerned with Church history than post-WWII mores. (It’s no surprise that audiences easily equated imperialism with fascism or Anglo-American matinee idols like Robert Taylor, Richard Burton, and Charlton Heston played the films’ Jewish and Roman heroes.) A better reflection of the Early Church exists in today’s small-to-midsized churches, where working-class people make up the majority and Christianity’s vast diversity is less evident. Thus, when reading Paul’s letters, a few facts about the churches that receive them are very useful. Beside the Roman and Corinthian epistles’ erudite readers, he (and later disciples signing letters in his name) writes to congregations with fairly limited views and means. Colossians addresses believers in a once-prosperous town fallen on hard times—a place much like today’s dying Rust Belt cities—adding a poignant touch to Paul’s concern about their vulnerability to false teachers. The Ephesian church, based in the second-largest city of its day, compares with urban churches dealing with the same issue: maintaining unity among believers with varying backgrounds and needs.

Based on historical information and the text, there’s little doubt the Philippians are the most homogenous, best-loved congregation Paul writes to—though their lack of diversity and his unabashed admiration aren’t linked. Philippi is a mining town yet to boom. Like those in Appalachia, Wales, and other mineral-rich areas, its miners are industrious but impoverished. Next to none of the gold underfoot falls into their pockets; survival above and below ground demands hard digging. Working for foreign management—in this case, the Romans—generates deep resentment and fear of outsiders that results in clannish insularity. Yet once a foreigner proves him/herself, as Paul does by saving the local jailer from ruin after an earthquake frees his prisoners (Acts 16), the Philippians’ loyalty knows no bounds. Despite poverty and powerlessness, they found Europe’s first church and win Paul’s heart by generously supporting him and many others who spread the Gospel—often to people far better heeled and positioned than they.

Amazing Faith and Fortitude

Keeping these details in mind while reading Philippians brings the letter to life. We envision a faith community that more closely resembles those currently dotting West Virginia’s back roads than Hollywood’s glossed-up first-century Christians. We see care-creased faces, patched clothing, young widows surrounded by children, and men who look twice their age after sacrificing health and happiness to the mines. But our look also reveals people of amazing faith and fortitude whose charity flows freely beyond their walls. Seeing the Philippians in this way heightens our ability to hear and appreciate Paul’s concern for them.

He knows these people, distinguishing this epistle with a sense he pictures faces and recalls names as he writes. “I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now,” he says. (Philippians 1.3-5) Being under house arrest in Rome, not resolving doctrinal disputes, prompts his letter. “Don’t worry,” he assures them. “I’ll be fine.” He goes on to magnify the Philippians’ strengths, encouraging them to continue in humility and harmony. Still, he keeps circling back, insisting they mustn’t worry about what may happen to him—even though their experience with Roman injustice gives them every reason to fear. We swell with admiration for these wonderful souls, as every time Paul tells them he’s okay we’re reminded even in their hardships, they find it in themselves to care about him. “Rejoice in the Lord always,” he urges as he brings his letter to a close. (4.4) “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” (v6) If you do this, Paul says, “The peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” (v7)

A Four-Step Process

Don’t worry? Be thankful for problems that seize our minds and require God’s attention? Then, while waiting for answers, rely on His incomprehensible peace for emotional and psychological safety? That’s a lot to ask—maybe too much, especially for poor, hardworking people without political clout and public support to improve their situation or Paul’s. If we were Philippians, living on very little, laboring for less than we deserve, and faced with possibly losing our leader, what would we think? Paul anticipates this reaction. He immediately follows it with guidelines on how (not what) to think. In verse 8, he counsels his beloved friends to focus their thoughts on what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, and admirable, adding, “If anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

It’s impossible to overemphasize the importance of learning to think thanks. It’s a crucial skill every believer should have on call at all times. Displacing personal anxieties to worry about others is a generous gesture. But worry is still worry and its harms are the same whether its motives are selfish or selfless. Paul’s letter to the Philippians teaches us to defeat anxiety before bringing problems to God by training our minds to mine gold from worry’s darkness. When we think thanks, we discard lies for the truth, disgrace for nobility, wrong for right, filth for purity, ugliness for beauty, and shame for honor. Digging out excellence and praise demands great concentration and stamina. It’s hard work. Yet each nugget we retrieve increases our capacity to detect grace and goodness buried in hardship. We come to God with confidence He’ll extract the wealth and wisdom we fail to find in our hardships. Thankfulness He’s there shields us with inexplicable peace. It’s a four-step process: Think thanks. Don’t worry. Give thanks. Find peace.

Being thankful begins with thinking thanks—disciplining our thoughts to mine gold from worry’s darkness.

All Good

For everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer. (1 Timothy 4.4-5)

Fear of Blessings

I’m not a regular primetime TV viewer. When I turn on the television, I’m looking for diversion—something to draw my thoughts into a hermetically sealed, neatly programmed world, where mysteries get solved, justice is served, and foibles are funny. Then, about 15 minutes in, the local station runs its 30-second newscast promo. Between the top story and weather, there’s always a scare-your-pants-off squib about an item or habit that, according to “experts,” may lead to disaster: “Your dishwasher is a deathtrap!” “Scientists find a disturbing link between stewed carrots and autism!” “Research reveals showering before dawn reduces lifespan!” The newsbreak’s sponsor is often a prescription drug that couches promises of wellness in a slew of possible side effects nobody would voluntarily suffer. (My favorite: anti-anxiety drugs that list potential nightmares and suicidal urges among its secondary complications.) Many times, I turn off the TV and flee back to my study—stopping, of course, to wash my hands, as new data say the remote control is the filthiest, most germ-ridden object in the house.

For most of us, the constant barrage of warnings amounts to no more than a nuisance. The media’s obsession with hyping dangers, however, constitutes a danger of its own by fomenting a culture of suspicion. If mundane objects and activities can wreak such harm and damage, why trust one another? Worse still, why believe goodness exists at all? There is in many of us a fear of blessings—an inchoate expectation that good things can’t last and may very well lead to greater pain and sorrow. We pray for happy relationships. When we’re blessed with them, suspicions they’re too good to be true provoke us to subvert them. We ask for increase. When it comes, we’re terrified of losing it; we refuse to share what we’re given and the flow of blessings dries up. We long for more faith. When tests arrive to build our confidence, we submit to doubt and cynicism. These self-defeating behaviors are sparked by greeting goodness tentatively, cautiously, even fearfully. Thus, thanksgiving is vital when blessings appear, not only because we should be grateful for God’s goodness, but also because it counteracts fears that arise from mistrusting what we’ve received.

Excessive Freedom

With the Bible and Church largely associated with “Do’s and Don’ts,” it shocks many to learn first-century suspicions of Christianity centered on its excessive freedom. Its Founder—a self-taught, provincial miracle worker—preached freedom and even professed God anointed Him “to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free.” (Luke 4.18) After He died (or flew away, depending on who told the story), freedom became His disciples’ hue and cry. Their leader, a fisherman named Simon Peter, and chief theologian, a radicalized Pharisee known as Paul, constantly touted freedom from discriminatory barriers like race, class, and gender, as well as freedom from religious taboos. As they told it, Jesus liberated humanity from sacrificial ritual by opening direct access to God through faith. They flipped the equation common to all traditions of their day—which revolved around rigorously scripted rites to win divine favor—by teaching God’s love and mercy are gifts, not rewards. We freely receive them by believing, not doing, they said. And because they’re given unconditionally, codes and restrictions attached to ritual-oriented, performance-based systems were now obsolete.

Those clinging to time-honored beliefs shrugged off such ideas as nonsense. A New Order? A groundbreaking revelation? Please. Ironically, the struggle to embrace Christ’s freedom resided in the Church. The concept was so alien to them, many first-century Christians feared it. It seemed too easy, too good, too impossible. So they did what we often do when God’s goodness enters our lives. Instead of accepting it thankfully, they fueled suspicions of freedom by reverting to old behaviors. Everywhere the Apostles turned, outdated doctrines popped up forbidding everything from mixed marriages to unrestricted diets. It’s no stretch to say the Early Church’s biggest challenge involved grasping what freedom is, with gratitude for it a close second. In 1 Timothy 4.4-5, Paul explains the fallacy of excessive freedom, saying selectively applied liberty is simply reduced restriction. “Everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer,” he writes. Everything. It’s all good.

Holy Gifts

Fear of freedom—indeed, fear of blessings in general—plagues the Church and millions of believers to this day. The debates and controversies sound more like opinions of outsiders who’ve never experienced the all-encompassing extent of God’s love and acceptance. It’s as though the mere idea is so marvelous it can’t be trusted. So we fix that with conditional amendments. Faith takes a back seat to archaic rituals and performance criteria. “Free to all” gets reframed as “Free to anyone, provided he/she does this or doesn’t do that.” The problem runs deeper than surface contradiction of Christ’s teaching and apostolic doctrine. It wrongfully transfers our responsibility for freedom to those who seek it. “Nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving,” Paul stresses.

It’s our duty to welcome strangers, embrace idiosyncrasies, and respect differences as blessings we freely accept with thanksgiving. Gratitude for what we may not agree with or understand illuminates genuine love for one another. “Anyone who loves their brother and sister lives in the light, and there is nothing in them to make them stumble,” 1 John 2.10 reads. What we find disagreeable between us becomes irrelevant, because we’re thankful for freedom to love one another as equals, all of us handmade by God, cherishing everything He created as good. His Word and prayer consecrate our bond. We are holy gifts to one another, blessings of goodness too precious to ruin with obsolete suspicions and fears. As we enter a new Thanksgiving season, perhaps we should start with gratitude for freedom to embrace who and what we don’t agree with or understand. God made everything. It’s all good.

Thanksgiving opens our eyes to God’s goodness and removes our fears of what we don’t agree with or understand.

Wait for It

For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay. (Habakkuk 2.3)

Letting the Teller Tell the Tale

Much to my chagrin, as I get older, I find myself responding to certain “younger” traits very similarly to how my parents reacted to mine. Being a bit of a language nut, I’m not overly fond of new slang and euphemisms. They just sound silly and shallow to me. “BFF,” for example, “best friend forever”—that’s a big deal in my estimation, and not something to be dashed off with an acronym or blithely tossed around. On the other hand, there are many new phrases and conventions I find delightful, including one that today’s reading from Habakkuk brings to mind.

I’m often fortunate to hang around articulate, witty younger people who really know how to pull off anecdotes. When stories start flying around, the listeners sense where they're headed and jump in to beat the tellers to the punch. A confident, master storyteller will keep them at bay by saying, “Wait for it!” Everyone settles down to hear the end of the tale. The teller’s insistence implies more than “Let me finish.” It promises the conclusion will be bigger and better than expected. With the flip of a switch, the listeners shut down impatience to prove how clever they are in eager anticipation to find out where the story leads. Once the punch is delivered, a chorus of “I thought you were going to say” and “See, I didn’t get that part” follows. Letting the teller tell the tale is always worth it.

The Oracle

We know less about Habakkuk than any named biblical author. He confides no personal information and his historical allusions are too broad to date his writing accurately. The free-verse style suggests he may belong to a caste of Temple prophets who frame their messages in musical settings. The vocational tone in his chapter 2 opening—“I will stand at my watch and station myself on the ramparts; I will look to see what he will say to me, and what answer I am to give to this complaint.” (v1)—and the third chapter’s oblique music cues back this up. Indeed, the book’s very first verse, “The oracle that Habakkuk the prophet received,” reads more like a memo than urgently needed prophecy. The book’s subdued format and its author’s modesty are misleading, however. Habakkuk and Israel are greatly distressed. Change is in the air and it doesn’t look good.

The oracle addresses Habakkuk’s exasperation in chapter 1. He complains of feeling abandoned at time when his country’s stalled and anger is on the rise. “Why do you make me look at injustice? Why do you tolerate wrong?” he beseeches God. “Destruction and violence are before me; there is strife, and conflict abounds.” (v3) He says, “the law is paralyzed” and “the wicked hem in the righteous, so that justice is perverted.” (v4) God provides no consolation. In fact, it’s worse than the prophet or his nation suspects. Setbacks due to internal conflicts have weakened Israel. And this time, God’s displeasure with the world is so intense it provokes Him to side against His people. “What I’m about to do is so unlike Me you wouldn’t believe it if anyone else told you,” He says, explaining in 6: “I am raising up the Babylonians, that ruthless and impetuous people, who sweep across the whole earth to seize dwelling places not their own.”

Even hearing it first-hand, Habakkuk can’t believe his ears. “You hate evil,” he reminds God. “How can You favor it? Why sanction actions that will destroy Your work and people?” He reaches out for hope and gets slapped down with inevitability. He’s so disheartened his decision to “stand my watch and station myself at the ramparts” admits he wants no part of this news. God understands the reluctance. He returns with the same message, but He raises Habakkuk’s perspective to gain a more holistic view of what He’s doing. Before doling out details, He stresses a bigger, better story’s unfolding here: “For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.” (2.3) If we stripped away the biblical varnish to recast verse 3 in current vernacular, it would read, “Don’t get ahead of Me, Habakkuk. It’s going to take a while to play this out. Just remember I’m telling this story. Wait for it.”

Reliving Habakkuk’s Time

Once Habakkuk sets aside his Doomsday clock and takes a deep breath, he learns God’s dual purpose in favoring Babylon. On the home front, divisiveness caused by perversion of justice, political strife, and haughty self-regard has to be remedied. Since Israel refuses to end its internal wars, God intends to unite it against an enemy that will subject the entire nation to injustice, impotence, and humiliation. Meanwhile, He sides with Babylon to teach it (and, by example, the world) He will not tolerate any nation’s violence and greed. “You have plotted the ruin of many peoples,” God charges, “shaming your own house and forfeiting your life.” (v10) He ends by declaring: you’re in My house and you will behave! “But the LORD is in his holy temple; let all the earth be silent before him.” (v20)

Here in the US, we’re in the closing hours of the most malicious midterm elections any American can recall. Civil war rages in Iraq. France is a cauldron of discontent. Israel and its neighbors teeter on disaster. Terror threats plague the planet. Crimes against humanity occur around the clock. Cities are battlefields. Hatred and prejudice rend the Body of Christ. Social justice stalls in courts. Financial setbacks and intolerance disintegrate families. Human rights and welfare are lost ideals. Violence and greed rule the day. We plead with God to do something, never pausing to consider He’s already at work.

We’ve brought suffering on ourselves. Though it’s not what we want, refusal to self-correct makes it necessary. We’re reliving Habakkuk’s time. We can benefit from his experience. As Jon Stewart put it at yesterday’s Rally to Restore Sanity, “These aren’t end times. They’re hard times.” When God works, things end up bigger and better than before. Because this is His house, He’ll do what’s needed to see we behave. In our weariness and despondency, let’s not get ahead of God. Let’s let the Teller tell the tale. “The revelation awaits,” He says. It “will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.”

But the Lord is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before Him.

(Clockwise from upper left: a US midterm ad; a car bombing in Iraq; French strikers; an Israeli-Palestinian face-off; a Ugandan evangelical campaign for antigay laws; a street shooting in Monterrey, Mexico; Sudanese children; US Christians espousing hate; a Canadian poster for homeless teens.)

Running Ahead to Rise Above

He wanted to see who Jesus was, but being a short man he could not, because of the crowd. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way. (Luke 19.3-4)

Climber of a Different Sort

All we know of Zacchaeus, the tax collector who scampers up a tree, is squeezed into 10 verses from Luke 19. We don’t know why his story doesn’t appear in other gospels. Perhaps the writers deem it non-essential—one of so many life-changing encounters with Christ that occur on His travels—or they’re squeamish about reporting it because it’s politically loaded. That Matthew, a former tax collector, omits it leans toward the latter explanation. Today, this little tale of a little man endears us. Children especially love Zacchaeus; they relate to his vertical challenges. And if we first hear of him when we're little, lifelong fondness for him makes us reticent to plow under the storybook sheen to dig out ugly bits Luke plants to justify its inclusion. What we have to work at uncovering in the tale ancient readers automatically grasp. The situation is highly charged for them, making Zacchaeus’s stature a minor detail explaining why he’s up a tree. Whether he’s four-six or six-four, they see him as a climber of a different sort—a politically wired, morally bankrupt, social deviant with no right even attempting to mix among faith seekers. He’s a huge problem his community can’t eliminate, as he typifies one of many irreligious, insensitive policies Rome shoves down its conquests’ throats.

Little Big Man

Luke’s deft peeling of layered information results in a masterwork of suspense. He intentionally plays on his readers’ prejudices so they’ll blindly follow him down a path that ends in two startling twists sure to test their perceptions of Jesus and Zacchaeus. He starts with the scriptural equivalent of “It was a sunny day in Spain:” “Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through.” (v1) All is calm and quiet. No Pharisees and lawyers confront Christ at the gates. No demoniacs or lepers rush Him. He has no agenda. Jesus is just passing through. We assume there’s a crowd, since one always forms wherever Jesus goes. But letting us infer this suggests it’s unremarkable. Then verse 2 indicates trouble afoot when Luke spots Zacchaeus, a wealthy chief tax collector. What’s so unusual about that? Jesus often draws tax collectors, social outcasts, and religious pariahs. He even hangs out with them. “Chief” is the tip-off. Zacchaeus isn’t your garden-variety traitor breaking his countrymen’s backs with Roman taxes while lining his pockets with overcharges. He’s the boss, a political appointee. And since Jericho’s a big town, height notwithstanding, he’s a big man who brings home a big paycheck. One doesn’t land a lucrative job like his without serious connections and cunning—which Luke confirms straightaway.

What brings the little big man out of his corner office? “He wanted to see who Jesus was.” (v3) Christ’s reputation precedes Him as a Friend to all and Zacchaeus is very interested in this rabbi who bucks popular opinion. He doesn’t need anything from Jesus. He wants to gauge Christ’s usefulness to him. Now is when Luke discloses Zacchaeus’s diminutive size. It’s a perverse joke—the pipsqueak publican sizing up the supreme Savior—and Luke pays it off after reinforcing his readers’ disdain for the tax man’s shameless cunning: “So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see Him.” (v4) Zacchaeus runs ahead to get ahead. He climbs the tree because he’s a climber. He’s unconcerned how he’s seen as long as he can see.

Zacchaeus discovers Jesus sees him unlike everyone else. Before he can explore whether or not knowing the famous Preacher is useful to him, Jesus calls him by name and orders him out of the tree for His benefit. “I must stay at your house today,” Jesus says. (v5) The joke's on Zacchaeus. The climber comes down. The political beast heels. And the berated pariah watches in awe as his surprise Houseguest brushes off criticism to socialize with an undesirable. Every prejudice against Zacchaeus is debunked. The short man reduces his tall fortune by half, with the balance going to the poor. And on the chance he’s cheated anyone—which is unlikely, given his position and pay—he promises to quadruple repayment. The story ends with a truly uplifting coda. Jesus restores Zacchaeus’s status as a valuable member of society and reveals why finding the little big man in the tree caused Him to stop: “Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.” (v9-10)

Our Best Option

It’s a neat little story for kids because their lesson is easy: you’re never too small. But when we read it as adults, the neatness goes away and it’s not at all easy. Luke constructs it to require two readings. On the first go-round, he lures us into the popular mindset to view Zacchaeus as he’s seen. Then, after showing how Jesus sees Zacchaeus—that is, as he truly is—we reread the story and realize how quickly we misjudged him. What looked like cunning is resourcefulness. What appeared to be calculated ambition is intuitive courage. Zacchaeus could have leveraged his status to reach the front of the crowd; a big reason why they hate him is for holding that kind of power. Being part of the crowd, however, isn’t useful to him. He just wants to see Jesus. So he runs ahead of the rest to rise above them. It looks silly to others. But their opinions are irrelevant. His needs are what matter. His honesty—if you will, his shamelessness—recommends him.

Those of us misjudged as problems in our communities can learn from Zacchaeus. Being part of the crowd isn’t the objective. Seeing Jesus and being seen by Him are the goals. Running ahead to rise above those who disdain us is our best option. We advance our knowledge of Christ through His Word, not leveraging influence to access Him. We don’t wait for the crowd to part. By the time they come to understand Christ is a Friend to all, we’re there. Prayer is our tree. It lifts us to see the Living Word and positions us to answer His call. He knows us by name. He needs us. When we lower ourselves to honor His desire to reside with us, He makes the truth of who we are evident. We are valuable to society. We are vital to Him. Jesus came to seek and save us. Running ahead of the crowd to rise above it is how we're found and redeemed.

Running ahead to discover Jesus through His Word and lifting ourselves in prayer may look silly to those who disdain us. But that’s how we're found and redeemed.

Postscript: Sunday School Nostalgia

In a previous Zacchaeus post, Out on a Limb, I mentioned a Sunday school ditty many of us learned to seal his story in memory. One comment and a couple emails remarked on it as well and I imagine some of us reading today’s post felt a twinge of Sunday school nostalgia. So, here’s the song, delightfully rendered by Reuel.

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.

Left Hanging

Now Absalom happened to meet David’s men. He was riding his mule, and as the mule went under the thick branches of a large oak, Absalom’s head got caught in the tree. He was left hanging in midair, while the mule he was riding kept on going. (2 Samuel 18.9)

A Regrettable Mistake

Nowhere in Scripture is a father’s grief more heartbreaking than when David wails, “O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you—O Absalom, my son, my son!” (2 Samuel 18.33) Word that his third son has been killed in a freak accident crushes Israel’s greatest king and warrior on such a profound level he never fully recovers from the loss. In the tragedy’s immediate context, David’s gut-wrenching sorrow comes as something of a surprise. The son he mourns is his arch-nemesis. At the time of his death, Absalom is leading a full-scale revolt against his father in his ultimate ploy to usurp the throne. This isn’t a political coup. It’s an extremely personal vendetta and Absalom’s sole objective in mounting an insurgency is assassinating his father. Were Absalom not David's son, news of his demise would be cause for rejoicing. But hearing his child died before they could reconcile their differences—and in such an undignified manner, getting himself tangled in the branches of an oak tree—is, for David, a fate worse than death.

David’s charisma on the battlefield and throne don’t surface at home. He’s a terrible father. Although he’ll correct this with his youngest son, Solomon, rampant neglect of his older children deals him disastrous results. His eldest son, Amnon, rapes his half-sister, Tamar. When David learns of it, he’s furious. But he does nothing to avenge Tamar and his irresponsibility provokes Absalom, her full brother, to take action. He kills Amnon. Absalom sees David’s grief as a sign the king cares nothing about Tamar and him. Fearing for his life, he flees the country, putting himself out of reach. It’s a regrettable mistake that results in a regrettable life. Once David recovers from his loss, 2 Samuel 13.39 tells us, “The spirit of the king longed to go to Absalom, for he was consoled concerning Amnon’s death.”

An Extraordinarily Charismatic Guy

Five years separate Amnon’s murder and Absalom’s reunion with David, with the son’s hatred for his father festering by the day. By the time he returns, Absalom is eaten up with venom and paranoia. His raison d’être focuses exclusively on David’s downfall. He never realizes he craves revenge for a crime David doesn’t commit. It’s he, Absalom, who severs their ties and wedges distance between them. He projects his own weaknesses on his father and judges him guilty before the fact, giving David no benefit of the doubt or chance to offer love and forgiveness to his son. Staying out of reach and remaining aloof after his return denies Absalom any glimpse into David’s change of heart. He’s stuck in the past, which deceives his sight at present, and feeds delusions about the future.

Absalom has no problem rallying allies, as he’s an extraordinarily charismatic guy, a master politician with incredibly good looks. We read in 2 Samuel 14.25: “In all Israel there was not a man so highly praised for his handsome appearance as Absalom. From the top of his head to the sole of his foot there was no blemish in him.” Long, thick hair is his defining feature; when it grows too heavy, he cuts it and the sheared weight totals five pounds. People support him to be seen with him. They’re the biblical equivalent of groupies, hangers-on eager to experience what sociologists call “the halo effect.” While he knows this, hatred goads Absalom to trade on their vanity. He tries to resolve his internal conflicts by waging actual war. Other than he, no one on either side has any gripes to settle. This is Absalom’s battle. One gasps to imagine the carnage and heartache that would have come of his engaging hundreds of troops to play it out. In one of the Bible’s most just reversals, however, Absalom’s crowning asset becomes a deadly liability. As he advances toward David’s troops, his hair twists around an oak’s branches. His mule rides out from under him and he’s left hanging. One of David’s captains finds him and finishes him off with three javelins. When the king hears of Absalom’s end, he’s overwrought—as any parent would be—by a sense of failure. What more could he have done to save his son?

A Tragedy We Can Avoid

When we look at Absalom, we ask a related question: how could someone so rightly outraged by abuse and neglect go so horribly wrong? Since he’s infamous for his bizarre death, it’s nigh unto impossible to view him sympathetically. Yet, for a moment, let’s forget how the tale ends and step into his place. (Otherwise, the story has no point.) Imagine David is our father—the most revered, best loved man in the land, God’s handpicked, anointed surrogate, and the greatest sacred poet of all time. Now let’s see him at home, when the crown comes off and the crowds go away. He’s an inveterate womanizer with kids by several wives, none of whom he pays much attention to. He only seems to care about our oldest half-brother, the heir, and when the scoundrel rapes our sister, all Dad does is get mad. He doesn’t punish him, nor does he show any concern for our sister. Basically, he ignores the problem to make it go away. Would we hate him? Absolutely. Could we resist the urge to retaliate? Absolutely not.

Absalom goes wrong where so many with deep-seated resentments go wrong. He removes himself, refuses to forgive, and rules out hope things will change. How often do we this? How often are we so obsessed with our side of the story we forget it’s not the whole story? We forget it doesn’t end when we decide we’re through. Other players continue to wrestle with it, for better or worse, while we’re stuck in the past, blind to the present, and deluded about the future. Instead of seeking peace, we fuel conflict, trading on our gifts to persuade people to rally to our cause. In growing bolder and more self-righteousness, we also grow more venomous and paranoid. We marshal troops and hoist flags, anticipating a decisive showdown when we’ll finally be vindicated. But confrontations seldom play out in life like in theory. As a rule, they deepen rifts and wound many innocents dragged into the fray. The very talents we employ to mount our campaigns serve our undoing. Our greatest pride gets tangled up in God’s mercy for those we’ll harm. The confidence we ride on vanishes beneath us. We’re left hanging, vulnerable for our enemies to finish off. Had Absalom let go his hatred and sought grace for healing, his relationship with David would have been restored and he likely would have reached the throne he tried to seize. His is a tragedy we can avoid.

Absalom teaches when we allow resentments—even those we can justify—to overtake our lives, gifts we use to fuel conflict may very well destroy us. (Albert Weisgerber: Absalom.)