When Love and Faithfulness Meet

Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other. Faithfulness will spring up from the ground, and righteousness will look down from the sky. (Psalm 85.10-11)

Reading the psalms often feels like stumbling on a private conversation in midstream. It’s hard to say exactly what prompted the discussion. But the closer one listens the keener one’s sense that something’s happened and the poets are working things out with God. Sometimes the verses burst with gratitude and praise, leaving little doubt that God has done a wonderful, altogether unexpected—and perhaps undeserved—favor for God’s people. Then again, there are psalms that appear to be composed after the relationship with God has completely fallen apart. The writers’ pens bleed with remorse and pleas for forgiveness.

The conversation—the side we hear, that is—in Psalm 85 sounds like a follow-up to a prior one in which the people begged God to forgive their infidelity. With the repentance taken care of, the poet seeks God’s help in getting things back on track. “You forgave the iniquity of Your people; You pardoned all their sin,” he reminds God. (v2) Yet he’s not quite sure if God’s ready to pick up the pieces and start over, causing us to suspect something very serious caused this latest flare-up in Israel’s perpetual on-again, off-again love affair with God. The psalmist beseeches his Maker with the tremulousness of a faithless suitor hoping to return to his lover’s good graces. “Will You be angry with us forever? Will You prolong Your anger to all generations?” he asks. (v5)

What’s more, he and those he writes for are exhausted. The longing to put the entire nasty episode behind them thrums in the writer’s panic: “Will You not revive us again, so that Your people may rejoice in You? Show us Your steadfast love, O LORD, and grant us Your salvation.” (v6-7) The real question, of course, is, “Is God through with us?” (Massage the lyric slightly, put a steel guitar under it, and you’ve got a country-western let’s-give-it-one-more-try hit single.)

As if to silence his audience’s sobs, the poet says, “Let me hear what God the LORD will speak, for the Lord will speak peace to God’s people.” (v8) He goes on to assure his listeners that God will restore them to right relationship. The closing stanza swells with hope. “Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other. Faithfulness will spring up from the ground, and righteousness will look down from the sky.”

If this conversation sounds familiar, it should. For five weeks now, we’ve trudged across Lent’s desert, wrestling with our failures, praying God’s forgiveness, and trusting God’s mercy and grace will find us. Confronting weakness is an exhausting process. We’re desperate to feel the security of God’s love. By this stage of the journey, we’re liable to panic, wondering why God would stay with us. But God is ever faithful. All the inner turmoil that Lent stirs up will be calmed. God will speak peace. “Surely God’s salvation is at hand for those who fear God,” verse 9 promises.

Unknowingly, the psalmist provides a glimpse of where our journey leads. When love and faithfulness meet, when righteousness and peace kiss each other, faithfulness will spring up from ground in the form of a rugged cross. And righteousness will look down from the sky, brimming from the tender eyes of our Savior. Is God through with us? Hardly. Is God ready to give it one more try? Oh yes. Always. This conversation that began in anguish weeks ago will end with the most forgiving kiss we'll ever know.

Love Among the Ruins

Jesus wept. Then the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” (John 11.35-37)

People of Substance

A lot has changed in the three years or so since Jesus found Peter and Andrew on the seashore and began assembling a core group of followers. For one thing, the need to recruit disciples has long passed. Jesus is an established Rabbi known for His provocative preaching and miracles. There’s always a show when He comes to town. People drop everything and flock to Him. Although it sounds crass, the comparison seems accurate: Jesus is a celebrity activist akin to Bono or Oprah—Someone Who wields His fame to change lives. That broadens His appeal significantly. By the second year, many people of substance actively court Jesus. They invite Him to banquets, prevail on Him to heal their sick, and ask to join His entourage. Since wealth and status don’t impress Him, He rebuffs those whose self-interest is obvious. Yet we’re given more than a few instances when Jesus befriends people who don’t fit the downtrodden mold. Besides, assuming Jesus confines His interest to the outcast and impoverished contradicts His message of radical inclusion in John 6.37: “All those the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never drive away.”

It should be noted, however, the better advantaged of Jesus’s followers are exceptions to their class. Unlike Bono, Oprah, and their ilk, Jesus never obtains the kind of superstar glamour that swings wide the gates to upper crust society. That’s why when we see Him dining in finer homes, clusters of unhappy neighbors gather in protest. It’s why Nicodemus, the highly regarded Pharisee, sneaks off in the night to visit Jesus. It’s also why the disciples balk when He decides to return to Bethany—the Jerusalem suburb where his dear friends Martha, Mary, and Lazarus live—after He learns Lazarus is gravely ill. The last time they visited that part of the country, its residents tried to stone Him.

Completely Out of Character

Although John’s Gospel doesn’t explicitly say so, Jesus appears to share the disciples’ concern. Something’s amiss—that we know. News of Lazarus’s sickness reaches Him and He reacts completely out of character. He’s indecisive and hesitant. It takes two days to make up His mind to go see about His friend. In retrospect, we realize Lazarus couldn’t have got sick at a worse time. Jesus’s arrest and execution will occur in a matter of weeks. Returning to Bethany puts Him within two miles of enemies conspiring against Him. His sense of foreboding must be unbearable, as must knowing His friends need Him desperately. Lazarus, Mary, and Martha never hesitate to welcome Jesus to their home. The sisters lavish Him with care, feeding and housing Him in grand style. On one occasion, Mary empties an expensive box of perfume on Jesus to signify how dearly He’s loved. Yet Jesus waits. He waits so long by the time He tells the disciples they’re going to Bethany He’s confident Lazarus is already dead.

John, whose main purpose for writing his Gospel is deifying Jesus as “the Word made flesh” (1.14), gives the impression Jesus lingers on purpose to set the stage for a final, unprecedented miracle that foreshadows His own death and resurrection. He confides to the disciples, “For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe.” (11.14) But if we accept that, we also accept that Jesus delays coming to His friends’ aid for heartlessly selfish reasons. What could be crueler than ignoring their urgent request for help—to allow Lazarus to die, while his sisters cope with undue stress wondering why Jesus hasn’t shown up? Clearly, Mary and Martha are wounded when Jesus arrives. Mary stays at home and lets Martha go out to greet Him as He nears the town. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died,” she says. (v21) Jesus doesn’t acknowledge her grief, however. He promises Lazarus will be revived, saying, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.” (v25) When he asks about Mary, Martha brings her to Him and she says exactly what Martha said: “If You had been here…” Again, Jesus overlooks her sorrow, asking, “Where have you laid him?” (v33) Mary leads Him to Lazarus’s grave, with a gaggle of neighbors trailing after them. At the tomb, the weight of the entire ordeal buries Jesus. His disconcerting detachment vanishes. In the presence of beloved friends and cynical onlookers, He weeps.

A Horrible Situation

What is Jesus feeling? The episode is so fraught with conflicted emotions and behaviors attributing His grief to any of them amounts to speculation. Mourning Lazarus doesn’t prompt His tears; in mere minutes, He will restore His friend’s life. We want to agree with neighbors who say, “See how He loved him!” (v36) Then again, the cynics have a point when they counter, “Could not He Who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” (v37) John’s reason for Jesus’s delay is moot when we observe how it affects Mary and Martha. The purest of intentions don’t change the fact Jesus walks into a horrible situation of His own making. Is that what we’re meant to see? Should we even question why Jesus falters? Perhaps the most obvious answer is the best one.

When Jesus reaches the graveside, regret, confusion, disappointment, and every other feeling we associate with human frailty engulf Him. He weeps because His hesitance incited His friends to doubt Him. His tearstained face conveys love among the ruins. He summons all of His power not only to speak life into Lazarus’s hollow shell, but also to revive the faith and trust of those He loves. What we’re looking at is precisely what Hebrews 4.15 describes: “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin.”

We all have uncomfortable moments when hesitance, fear, and every other imaginable internal conflict threaten the ruin of relationships with people who dearly love us and we dearly love. We cause grief and confusion about where we are and why we don’t respond sooner. When we realize what we've done, we weep. But there is life in us, because there is love in us—life we can speak that brings lost friends out of their graves and heals the pain of disillusioned loved ones. Accounting for shambles we create is never pleasant. Walking into situations where we’ve let people down is nothing we want to do, even though we know we must. At Lazarus’s graveside Jesus demonstrates the power of love among the ruins.

The humanity we witness in Jesus’s tears expresses the regret, confusion, disappointment, and every other feeling we associate with frailty.

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.)

Time on the Wheel

I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him. (Jeremiah 18.3-4)

Shaped by Weaknesses

My cousin and I were having a heart-to-heart discussion about past mistakes we’d not been comfortable sharing when we were younger. We marveled at how essential our foolishness became to our growth and maturity. The feeling no one understood planted in us a calling to understand. The fear our mistakes were unforgivable taught us why forgiveness is such a gift—not in terms of being forgiven, but in being able to forgive. The pain and isolation we suffered heightened our compassion for those suffering pain and isolation. Would we do things differently? Probably. We would be better for it? Perhaps not.

We were astounded by how much we’re shaped by weaknesses. Remorse is a powerful motivator and sorrow often steers us to happier places. How we’re affected by our failure indubitably affects our response to failure around us. As we talked on about this “shaping” business, our thoughts turned to the Jeremiah passage about the potter. And we noticed something that neither of us ever considered before—something that may have changed us both forever.

The First Half of the Story

“I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel,” Jeremiah says. When he enters, the potter's been at the wheel quite a while. He doesn’t say what’s gone into getting the clay this far. But it's clear Jeremiah only observes the back half of the story. The clay has already taken the shape of a pot—a vessel. Even at this late stage, there are issues. “The pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him,” we’re told. (Jeremiah 18.4) The pressure of the molding causes the potter to start over again. The process has reached a point where his sole concern is the vessel. The metaphor is very clear. We are clay in our Potter's hands and He patiently works at the wheel, molding and remaking us until we're shaped to His pleasure. Still there’s more to this than shaping a vessel. The first half of the story is buried in the clay.

Jeremiah doesn’t see the potter dig the clay out of a pit, or how he holds it in his hands, warming it to his touch. He kneads it to make it more malleable. Once he’s confident this inert lump can become something useful, he puts it on the wheel. As the clay revolves, flaws and impurities come to the surface. Some are inherent to the clay. Some are imbedded by the carelessness of others—shards of glass, cast-off paper and twine, bent nails, etc. With each spin, the potter meticulously pulls these unworthy bits from the clay. He smoothes out the flaws and reinforces the weak spots. As he continues, the clay falters. Forces at work cause it to buckle and collapse. The potter knows he’s working with an unwieldy medium. It’s sticky and resistant. So he introduces water to increase its pliability. He’s prepared to refine his approach, recalibrating his touch until the clay becomes the vessel he envisions. This is the part of the story Jeremiah witnesses—the reshaping of the pot. But what he misses—what we miss—is the time on the wheel that makes the clay useful.

Clay Beginnings

We are vessels with clay beginnings. Our Potter doesn’t take us off a shelf of prefabricated pots. He digs us out of the pit. He sees in our raw material something He can use. And long before we achieve any recognizable form as His vessels of honor, He works with us, removing our impurities, smoothing out our flaws, reinforcing our weak spots. The water of His Spirit makes us pliable and easier to work with.

Rather than lament past failures due to inherent flaws and impurities imbedded in us by others’ carelessness, we rejoice. All those “lost” times were not lost at all. They comprise the first half of our story—the time on the wheel needed to make our clay useful. We’re not pretty during this phase of our shaping. It’s a messy, messy experience. The beauty comes later, when the vessel becomes a recognizable product of the Potter’s patience. But even then the vessel’s value is in the clay—its strength to withstand future heat and pressure because of its time on the wheel.

We waste too much worry trying to escape or explain our past, when we should embrace it (in all its messiness) as essential to our making. Battles with guilt and resentment are futile relics of a time before we discovered our Potter held us in hands all along. “Being confident of this,” Philippians 1.6 encourages us, “that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” The good work in us began long, long ago, long before being aware we were clay in the Potter’s hands, long before we responded to His touch, long before we believed we could become honorable vessels. We’ve been on the wheel longer than we realize. And yes, we've got a long way yet to go. But once we recognize how much the Potter's already done with us on the wheel, trusting His care and judgement become part of the process.

Long before we take shape as worthy vessels, the Potter works with our clay.

Asking Too Much

Jesus looked at him and loved him. “One thing you lack,” he said. “Go sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” At this the man’s face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth.

                        Mark 10.21-22

I Just Can’t

Some of life’s toughest moments come when someone we love or admire asks for something we’re terrified of. The request can seem minor to them, but it’s monumental to us—as my partner discovered our first time together at an amusement park. Right out of the turnstile, he headed for the biggest roller coaster, not knowing an awful experience as a boy ended my coaster career. He pleaded until I got in line with him. But with each step, I grew tenser and when our turn arrived, I couldn’t do it. Saying, “I just can’t do this” took all I had, making me feel miserable and small. When the request is major and beyond our ability—a request to borrow more than we can loan, for instance—the regret and sorrow are many times greater. Wishing we could but knowing we can’t puts us in an awful spot. How we’d love to say, “Yes, of course!” Having to say no humbles us, but it doesn’t help anyone, either the individual who asks or us.

Mark’s account of the rich young man captures this unfortunate mix of emotions. He publicly kneels before Jesus and asks, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Mark 10.17) Jesus tells him, “You know the commandments: ‘Don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal, don’t lie, don’t cheat, and respect your parents.” The wealthy man says he’s abided by them all of his life. At that, Mark tells us Jesus looks at him and loves him. The man’s sincerity moves Him. Yet it also quickens Jesus’s sensitivity to obstacles the young man will need to conquer to remain pure and sincere. So He asks him to do the one thing that terrifies him most: “Sell all your possessions and give the proceeds away. Then follow me.” Mark writes, “He went away sad, because he had great wealth.”

Thorny Patches

It’s easy to be troubled by this story. Watching it from the young rich man’s perspective, Jesus’s responses seem patently unfair. The man asks for what Jesus came to give—eternal life. Yet He assigns a price to it: obey the Law. This, too, strikes us as out of character, since He lists six of the Ten Commandments, rather than those He cites as the greatest ones: love God completely and your neighbor as yourself. (Matthew 22.37-40) When the young man says he’s complied with the Law his entire life, why does Jesus raise the ante? Despite what Mark says, this looks less like love than calculated rejection. Turning the telescope to see the story from Christ’s viewpoint, however, we gain an altogether different understanding of what’s going on.

Jesus knows He’s asking too much. That’s why He asks it. If the man can’t part with his riches now, he’ll never be free of them. Holding on to them will become a bigger hurdle the older he gets, causing his desire to please God to fade. In Matthew 13.22, Jesus explains this syndrome in His parable of a man sowing seed, some of which lands in thorny patches: “The seed that fell among the thorns is the man who hears the word, but the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth choke it, making it unfruitful.” In telling the rich young man to sacrifice his wealth for the good of others, Jesus is really asking him to clear the thorny patch that will destroy his potential for spiritual productivity. The young man doesn’t get it, but if we extend our empathy beyond feeling sorry for his sadness, we understand he and Jesus aren’t on the same page from the start.

Asking What We Need

The rich young man asks to inherit eternal life. Either he’s too proud or self-sufficient to accept it as a gift. In a way, he wants to buy God’s favor with works the same way he buys earthly advantages with money. Jesus shrewdly adopts the man’s mindset and opens the bid at an affordable price. When the young man assumes it’s a done deal, Jesus raises the bid to include the one thing he lacks—spiritual foresight. He tells the man to stop looking at his bank balance here and invest his treasure in Heaven. This demand isn't unique to the rich young man; it's a recurrent theme in Christ's ministry. Very early in the Sermon on the Mount, He warns us, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6.19-21)

Our hearts lay with our treasures. If what we value most is limited to this life, then we’re not free to follow Jesus as He commands. He asks we love God with all our heart, mind, soul, and strength, to love our neighbors with the same mercy and acceptance we ask for us. Anything that prevents us from honoring Christ’s principles—whether actual wealth or relationships, ambitions, attitudes, or habits—will eventually become too thorny for successful growth. It’s hard not to think the rich young man’s heart doesn’t realize Christ wants him to turn his worldview upside down. When we come to Christ, He requires no less of us. We lay our prized possessions before Him to offer Him our hearts. If, like the rich young man, we can’t raise our understanding of why we must do this, we’ll walk away sad. But if we truly desire to lead productive lives, we’ll follow Jesus’s direction. We’ll understand He’s not asking too much. He’s asking what we need.

If what we value most is limited to this life, then we’re not free to follow Jesus as He commands.

(Tomorrow: Dew Point)

Anger Issues

A hot-tempered man must pay the penalty; if you rescue him, you will have to do it again.

                        Proverbs 19.19 

Mad at the World

The comedian Katt Williams talks about people “who are hard all the time, from the time they wake up until they go to bed.” Paraphrasing slightly to tidy up his fondness for volatile euphemisms, he says, “They’re mad before they eat breakfast. [You want to say] ‘What’s wrong with you? It’s 7 o’clock in the morning and you’re bangin’ on bacon?’” The line gets big laughs of recognition at how ridiculous anger can get. Second to hate, anger is the most malignant emotion we know. It enters our hearts on the heels of injury (actual or perceived) and creeps through our system until it seizes our thoughts, feelings, and physiology. Angry responses are inevitable; they’re part of our emotional palette. Though this may surprise some, we get angry because our Creator gets angry. For example, 1 Kings 11.9 tells us, “The LORD became angry with Solomon because his heart had turned away from the LORD.” The difference between God and many of us, however, is we nurse anger while He quickly releases it to find a better way. In Exodus 32.14 we read: “Then the LORD relented and did not bring on his people the disaster he had threatened.”

Flashes of anger are understandable. Sustained anger has no reason. It searches for new targets to justify its existence. Our neighbor does something that makes us mad. To stay mad, we’ve got to get mad at something else he/she does, and then something else. When that source runs dry, we start noticing other things to be angry about—maybe a spouse or third neighbor who knows why we’re mad but doesn’t take our side. Before long, we’re angry with everyone who doesn’t get mad with us. Eventually, we’re mad at the world--we're bangin' on bacon--which ends with us being angry with ourselves most of all.

Anger Is Costly

Strangely enough, Solomon—whose behavior enraged God—captures the price of sustained anger. “A hot-tempered man must pay the penalty.” Anger is costly. It creates enormous debts in relationships, many of which we can never fully satisfy with later regret and apologies. But it also exacts a tremendous toll on us. Constantly angry people wind up horribly lonely. No one wants to be subjected to endless flows of poisonous, erratic behavior. Anger makes people unhealthy, and unhealthy to be around. They’re unreasonable, selfish, and sad. It doesn’t take long to realize nothing will make them happy, because they’re hell-bent on being miserable. And even the most patient people remove themselves to invest their energy and optimism in others who’ll appreciate and benefit from them.

What’s most intriguing about Solomon’s counsel is his decision to pair wisdom about hotheads with sound advice for those around them. “If you rescue him once, you will have to do it again.” Anger’s greatest expense is the trouble it causes. Angry partners set fires of humiliation and despondency in those committed to love them for life. Angry parents etch scars of fear and hostility in their children’s hearts. Angry children crush parental confidence and fulfillment. Although specific outcomes vary, all who suffer uncontrolled wrath and struggle unsuccessfully to rescue the angry person share one common emotion—lost hope. The bitterness of failure never fades entirely, nor trepidation about trusting others. Only God can say how many deserving relationships are undone by the ripple effects of foolishly nursed rage.

Power Struggles

Anger issues are basically power struggles. They’re fed by subterranean wells of fear and perceived worthlessness. Think about what makes us angry: suspicions no one notices or cares what happens to us; feeling useless or rejected; disrespect, deceit, and disregard. We give way to anger to reassert our value. Behaviors and situations that don’t challenge our insecurities may annoy us, but they don’t make us mad. Only those tapping into hidden anxieties bring anger to the surface. Outbursts of rage are primitive attempts to regain control—to conquer fear by inflicting it on others, to increase our value by slicing into anyone unfortunately within range. But anger never delivers on its promise. Never in human history has it produced a desirable effect. And frankly, if we actually believe persistent anger can change things for the better, we’re mad fools.

Solomon offers the key to overcoming power struggles brought on by personal insults and injuries. In Proverbs 16.32, he writes, “He who is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he who rules his spirit than he who takes a city.”  (NKJV) Control of situations triggering rage comes by taking control of our anger. Meanness is not might, nor intimidation a show of power. Anger exposes weakness and impotence. It validates the very things it means to disprove. Cruel, vengeful people will do and say everything possible to enrage us, playing us like self-destructive puppets for their personal pleasure. We have two options. We can allow them to string us up and, in doing so, ruin our lives and dozens we touch. Or we can defeat their intentions by letting anger pass and, like our Father, find a better way to resolve our issues. Here’s Solomon’s suggestion in Proverbs 15.1: “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” His wisdom cuts both ways; gentleness halts anger in others and in us.

Anger never delivers on its promise. Never in human history has it produced a desirable effect.

(Tomorrow: Homeward Bound)

Learning as We Go

He guides the humble in what is right and teaches them his way.

                        Psalm 25.9

Shaking Stereotypes

Few feelings are more vexing, I think, than behaving stereotypically without being able to shake it. Years ago, while staying in Paris, Walt and I scooted off to London. He’d never been and I’d not returned since college. Walking out of Victoria Station into a bustling hurly-burly, I instantly saw my memory of the place had been lacquered with Dickensian sentimentality. It remained a labyrinth of streets, but the traffic and crowds diluted the charm I recalled. One evening, we headed into West End clutching a list of plays, planning to see the first we found with available seats. The cab dropped us at The Lion King. It was sold out. So, map in one hand, list in the other, with the clock ticking, we looked for another. No matter which way we went, we’d turn the corner and find ourselves back at The Lion King. “Ask somebody,” Walt pleaded. But something in me couldn’t abide the idea. “There’s no need,” I insisted. “We’ll find something.” The night ended with us eating overpriced curry in Soho, sullen and silent. He was angry at my stubbornness, but nowhere as much as I.

Not asking for directions was such a man thing—the stuff of sitcoms and New Yorker cartoons. What was my problem? The more I thought about it, the worse my regret and deeper my shame at putting myself in the way of what I truly desired. I wanted to share the London I knew and loved with Walt. Somewhere in the middle of that, though, my pride entered the mix. I couldn’t bear to admit I no longer knew London very well. Stumbling through the West End, I kept bumping into me and I couldn’t shake the stereotype of the willful, self-absorbed husband. Pretending I knew the right way led me wrong. Unwillingness to own up to my ignorance taught me the value of learning as we go. It was a costly lesson. It pretty much killed Walt’s interest in London. We’ve not gone back since.

Going With What We Know

If there’s a stereotype David struggles hardest to shake, it’s the “man thing” of not stopping for directions. His notorious scheme to marry Bathsheba is a case in point. He spots her from his palace roof, is totally smitten, and inquires who she is. Learning she’s the wife of Uriah, David hatches a plan to woo him. He invites Uriah to the palace, gives him fancy gifts, and wines and dines him. Once he wins Uriah’s trust, David sends him into battle, where he’s killed. His death crushes Bathsheba. Yet her pain doesn’t faze David, who, given his sensitivity to godly things, surely sees the stupidity of pursuing his plan. Still, he cagily waits until Bathsheba recovers, marries her, and they have a son. According to 2 Samuel 11.27, “The thing David had done displeased the LORD.”

God sends His prophet, Nathan, to charge the king with adultery. Instead of sentencing David to death—the legal penalty for sleeping with another man’s wife—Nathan prophesies the son’s death. No matter which way he turns, David bumps into his pride in thinking he could pull off such a dastardly deed without paying for his deceit of Uriah and Bathsheba. He begs God to spare his son’s life to no avail. Coming to grips with his pride turns into a costly lesson. Perhaps for the first time in life, David experiences the sorrow that befalls us by arrogantly going with what we know instead of humbling ourselves to learn as we go. Had he paused to seek God’s guidance, he would have abandoned his circuitous path and saved himself the humiliation of learning he deceived himself worst of all.

Running on Empty

Since we have no records pinpointing when David composed each of his psalms, we can’t place Psalm 25 before or after his debacle with Bathsheba. But it surely carries the weight of getting lost in pride-inflicted misery. “No one whose hope is in you will ever be put to shame, but they will be put to shame who are treacherous without excuse,” David writes in verse 3, calling on God in verses 4 and 5 to “show me your ways, O LORD, teach me your paths; guide me in your truth and teach me.” In verse 7, He pleads, “Remember not the sins of my youth and my rebellious ways,” which in verses 15-20 he attributes to causing numerous problems—feeling trapped, lonely, anguished, hated, and humiliated. This is a man running on empty. Nonetheless, his sensibilities rally. He recognizes what has to happen to get back on course. Before even itemizing his woes, he announces what he’s learned from his mistakes: “Good and upright is the LORD; therefore he instructs sinners in his ways. He guides the humble in what is right and teaches them his way… Who, then, is the man that fears the LORD? He will instruct him in the way chosen for him.” (v8-9; 12).

Presuming we’re smart and experienced enough to go with what we know is a stereotype we all need to shake. Christ’s path is too narrow for ego-driven stubbornness and too straight for circuitous schemes. Going our way infers we know where we’re headed and we don’t. When we follow Jesus, we cast off prior knowledge and sense of direction. He maps our course. We humbly accept this. Isaiah 42.16 says, “I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth.” The smarter and more experienced we become, the humbler and more dependent on God’s guidance we are. We stop worrying about dark stretches and bumpy spots. Our Leader turns darkness into light and smoothes out rough roads. We learn the only way to get where we’re going is by learning as we go.

Going on what we know leads to some humiliating places. Better to humble ourselves and learn as we go.

(Tomorrow: Plugged In)

Crisis at Cana

“Dear woman, why do you involve me?” Jesus replied, “My time has not yet come.”

                        John 2.4

Our Living Example

We’re more apt to see Jesus as God than one of us. But one of His main purposes in taking on human flesh was to become human. The marvel of His sacrifice is seen in God’s lowering Himself to bear the sins of humanity. The wonder of His life, however, comes from His willingness to be born, to mature, and live an ordinary existence like ours. Philippians 2.8 explains it thusly: “[Christ] made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness.” As our living example, Jesus deals with situations we all deal with—family, friends, financial pressures, housing issues, social and religious obligations, prejudice, personal loss, emotional conflicts, etc. Indeed, Hebrews 4.15 tells us He was “tempted in every way, just as we are.”

We remember the wedding at Cana most notably as the occasion of His first miracle, when He turns water into wine—in other words, as a “God” moment. Yet the circumstances leading up to His feat also reveal a very human moment in His life—a turning point, actually. While running out of wine at a party hardly can be viewed as a crisis (it might even be a good thing, if the guests have been over-served), there is a crisis at Cana we can learn from.

Unanticipated Need

You know the story. Jesus and His disciples escort His mother to a wedding. Over the course of the festivities the wine stops flowing. This concerns Mary, most likely out of embarrassment for the hosts, who’ll be criticized for not sufficiently providing for their guests. She turns to her Son, telling Him, “They’ve run out of wine.” Today, of course, we’d volunteer to dash to the local liquor store and pick up a few bottles. In Jesus’s time, though, wine is a commodity, much like gold or fuel. It’s part of each household’s financial reserve and not readily available for purchase. This fact exacerbates the situation, because the hosts’ inadequate supply also exposes their lack of wealth. Mary wants Jesus to do something not to keep the party going, but to spare the kind people who invited them any undue humiliation. Their crisis leads to a personal crisis for Him.

“What am I supposed to do?” Jesus asks Mary. “You know my time hasn’t come yet.” I love this, because it suggests the intimate relationship between Jesus and Mary continues into His adulthood. He’s confided God’s plan for Him. She’s tracking the moment for Him to reveal His miraculous gifts. She knows her request is premature. But here we also see parental maturity in action. Mary’s aware not stepping in to show compassion for His hosts will be something her Son will regret. Adhering to a timeline takes second place behind ministering to unanticipated need. Despite Jesus’s reluctance, she instructs the servants, “Do whatever He tells you.” She forces Jesus into a dilemma. Does He disrespect His mother in public—an added thing He’ll be ashamed of—or does He jump-start His ministry on His hosts’ behalf? He spies six 20-30 gallon jars ordinarily used for bathing and dishwashing. He orders the servants to fill them with water. When their contents are decanted, they’ve been transformed into fine wine. The guests are floored, the hosts proud, and both crises—theirs and Jesus’s—averted.

Ready or Not

So often we view Christian formation as a timetable akin to secular education. We regard spiritual development in gradual stages, thinking some expressions of faith are appropriate for us while others are too “advanced.” For example, we may be at a point where everyday kindness comes easily, but we’ve got much more growing to do before we can fully forgive deep-seated wrongs against us. This perspective is not wrong. In fact, it’s a wise approach to take, as some believers make the mistake of attempting too much, too soon. We’re counseled in 1 Peter 2.1, “Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation.” Like my own mother often reminds new Christians, “Learn to crawl before you walk, and walk before you run.”

During our growth, though, we also happen on unanticipated needs we feel inadequately mature to address. We find ourselves facing a crisis at Cana. Our initial response may echo Jesus’s. “What am I supposed to do? My time hasn’t come.” Yet not doing what we can risks regret for having done nothing at all. Ready or not, we respond by faith, knowing the impossible for us permits God to prove what’s possible for Him. Forget presentation. All Jesus had to work with were kitchen jars. The immediate need left no time to impress the guests with fancy packaging. The pivotal moment comes at the story’s end.: “He thus revealed his glory, and his disciples put their faith in him.” (John 2.11) Cana crises can be intimidating. But if we rise to the need, God honors our willingness to serve. His glory is revealed in us, encouraging others to trust our witness.

We may not feel ready for what we’re asked to do, but God honors our willingness and reveals His glory in us. (Giusto de’ Manaboui: Marriage at Cana: 1376-78)

(Tomorrow: Stripes)

Repost: Lamenting and Laughing

A time to weep and a time to laugh…

            Ecclesiastes 3.4

Bridges

How is it that we can toss off some things like water under the bridge and others make us want to throw ourselves off the bridge? Do we know for certain which mistakes should be laughed at and which should cause us to weep sorrowfully? Are we confident we can discern trivial slips from serious sins? In fact, are we actually capable or qualified to evaluate the scale and consequences of any mistake we make, intentional or accidental? Here’s the reality of it: the gravity of our mistakes is measured in the eyes of their beholders. It’s not ours to say which are laughable and which are lamentable. Even when our intentions seem innocuous—a good-natured rib about someone’s taste, for example—he/she may view it as a searing personal attack, the latest in a lifelong series of battering insults. On the other hand, we may underestimate another’s self-assurance, and condemn ourselves for a slight that, from their perspective, holds no importance. Before we rashly decide on our own which bridge to take—the lamenting bridge or the laughing bridge—we should sensitize ourselves to the response and signals of others. They’ll tell us what time it is.

The Art of Listening

“My dear brothers, take note of this,” James 1.19 says, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry,” adding in verse 26, “If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not keep a tight rein on his tongue, he deceives himself and his religion is worthless.” The art of listening is the believer’s finest skill. It places others’ feelings and opinions first, thereby fulfilling Christ’s law to love our neighbors as ourselves. It validates their importance not only to us, but also to the world at large. When we gloss over how others react to things we do and say by rushing to explain ourselves, we minimize their sense of personal value. This is always lamentable, regardless of how laughable our original misstep was.

James insists, “The tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.” (James 3.5) Miscalculating the impact of what we say from our perspective instead of those we speak to is one of the surest ways to turn laughing moments into weeping times, some of which can last for years. We’ve all experienced this phenomenon on both sides. We’ve all seen random sparks escalate into raging fires that leave wide gulfs of scorched earth between people. Knowing this potential exists keeps us alert to discipline our tongues from shooting off sparks.

Living Words

As children, we countered nasty insults with a smug little proverb: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” What a load that is! The wounding pain of words hangs on long after physical injuries mend. Here’s why: our words are eternal. They’re propelled and borne by our breath—the very same breath God used to inspire our beings and set us apart from all other creation. Once they’re released, they assume lives of their own. They can’t be taken back. They can’t be controlled. Where they travel and whom they reach can’t be managed. We speak living words that can’t die because they’re driven by God’s power.

We can never speak for God, but we must always be aware we speak like Him. Knowing this, we strive to see everyone we meet as He does—unique reflections of His love, power, and majesty. In other words, we address one another with profound awe and respect, considering another's' pleasure and wellbeing above our own. And when we discipline ourselves to communicate His principles and nature—in word and deed—we create times to laugh. Indulging selfishness and pride increases the frequency of times we weep.

The wisdom with which we control what we say determines if our words are lamentable or laughable.

(Tomorrow: Regretting and Rejoicing)

No Regret

Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death.

                        2 Corinthians 7.10

Two Sorrows

The ability to distinguish great preaching from routine sermonizing is a knack you acquire being reared in a pastor’s home. You learn to look for signs indicating the strength of what the preacher’s about to deliver much like a poker player watches for “tells” indicating whether his/her opponents are betting or bluffing. When a guest preacher at my parents’ church began by following the sermon’s subject with its definition, my brother and I slunk into our seats in anticipation of being bored silly. So I start today’s post in the same manner with wincing reluctance. Yet grasping the truth in 2 Corinthians 7.10 requires us to remember “sorrow” has two vastly different, if closely related, meanings.

The Random House Dictionary defines it as: 1) distress caused by loss, affliction, disappointment, etc., and 2) a cause or occasion of grief or regret. Paul’s use of modifiers (“godly” and “worldly”) explicitly tells us he’s writing about two sorrows here. But which is which? Obviously, godly sorrow is better; it “leads to salvation and leaves no regret,” whereas worldly sorrow “brings death.” Indeed, Paul’s comparative usage of a single word to explain two conditions urges us to embrace the first kind of sorrow to escape the second. In emotional terms, though, both sorrows are basically the same, a feeling of sadness and remorse. How then do we know when sorrow is good and not bad? Here the dictionary becomes a friend, since Paul isn’t discussing sorrow as an emotional response but the thing itself.

Where, Not What

What causes sorrow? Random House ends its list of contributing factors with “etc.,” which we can lump together as mistakes and misfortunes. Thus, it’s fair to assume godly and worldly sorrows spring from similarly, sometimes identically, regrettable circumstances. Yet Paul’s take is radically astute. He’s less concerned with what leads to sorrow than where it leads. And he implies we decide if our sorrow will be godly or worldly, if it will lead to salvation or death. Type I sorrow—distress caused by mistakes and misfortunes—is the lethal, worldly strain. It feeds a victim mentality that produces self-pity and apathy. Either we adopt a woe-is-me attitude or we resign ourselves to accept our sad fate without question. We neither admit to past failures that generate sadness nor do we change how we think and act to avoid future sorrow. On the other hand, Type II godly sorrow is an occasion of grief and regret. It’s the moment we repent from old attitudes and behaviors that created sorrow for us to pursue healthier lives. It leads to salvation and leaves regret behind.

True Repentance

Salvation only comes with true repentance—abject sorrow for all we’ve lost and suffered because of our sin. This is more than telling God we’re sorry we’ve displeased Him. It’s realizing our need to change and trusting His grace to help us overcome thoughts and desires that foster sin. In 1 Chronicles 7.14, God lays out a multi-step protocol for repentance: “If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin.” If we pair this with Paul’s advocacy of godly sorrow, we see repentance begins by humbling ourselves to admit our errors. Regretting wrongs we’ve committed against God, our neighbors, and us kindles urgency to seek His forgiveness, which He readily offers. 1 John 1.9 promises, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” What John glides over, however, is God’s expectation that we’ll truly repent—that we’ll turn from our sinful ways.

Forgiveness for sin remains open and available for every time we fall short. Yet we can’t misconstrue this as a license to ill. “Shall we go on sinning so that grace my increase?” Paul asks in Romans 6.1, answering, “By no means! We died to sin; how can we live in it any longer?” Godly sorrow kills our desire to sin. Worldly sorrow, on the other hand, lives with the distress sin causes. It allows regret to linger, slowing leeching the love, faith, and hope that make life worth living. It leads to death. Godly sorrow works entirely to the opposite. It’s initiated by profound regret, yet it moves us away from regrettable errors, leading us toward salvation and ultimately leaving us with no regret. It draws our focus from past mistakes to see a future bright with hope. In the end, it makes us glad.

Regret for wrongdoing brings true repentance--turning away from sin--that leads to salvation and leaves no regret.

(Tomorrow: Deadly Lies)