Awestruck

I am fearfully and wonderfully made. (Psalm 139.14)

The psalmist ponders the care and thought God invested in creating him and he’s awestruck. “I am fearfully made!” he sings. The utter genius of his physiology and all of its functions flabbergast him. But it’s more than that. It’s how his body has been shaped to house the mind and spirit God placed in him. We are God’s finest creation—God’s ultimate masterpiece. And each of us is all of a piece. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God, and that you are not your own?” Paul asks in 1 Corinthians 6.19. We must know that. And we must respect the truth of our making, accepting who we are and what we’ve been given. We are fearfully—perfectly—made so that we can witness our awesome God’s perfection in the world. We are made to love, to bless, to honor, to serve God and our neighbors. We are not broken, incomplete, or misshapen in any way. We are mirrors of our Maker: awesome, perfect, miraculous, and complete. Everything about us is fearfully made.

Cause for Praise

We’ll spend most of this week sitting with one verse, Psalm 139.14:

I praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are Your works.

Our making is cause for praise. The intricate pride of detail with which God has shaped us is a wonder to behold. God’s work in each of us is specific to us. And that is cause for praise. While we share the same humanity, each of us is uniquely human. That is cause for praise. We have no reason to be ashamed of who we are, what we feel, or the path each of us follows. What makes us different is why we are precious and indispensible to God. God crafts each of us to reflect God in a certain ways as only we can. Each of us has meaning. Each of us has a place in God’s world. Each of us serves a purpose that no one else can fill. This is a truth we cannot deny. And we praise God for such love and care to afford us the privilege of a life unlike any other. We don't lament or reject our uniqueness—including the struggles that derive from honoring and protecting it. Our making is cause for praise.

Nodding Off

If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it. (Genesis 4.7)

Worthiness Issues

How telling that Scripture’s first recorded human conflict isn’t a power struggle. It’s not about money. It’s not sex-related. Although it ends in murder, it’s got nothing to do with one party threatening the other’s wellbeing and survival. In fact, differing opinions, clashing personalities, or—as many presume—sibling rivalry don’t enter the equation. God’s acceptance is the problem, and the conflict resides entirely in one man. Cain, notoriously immortalized as the Bible’s first killer, is undone when disregard of his worship raises worthiness issues.

The story, as told in Genesis 4, doesn’t say what’s wrong with Cain’s offering. Here’s all we’re told. Cain is Adam and Eve’s oldest son. And it’s important to keep that top of mind, because he retains singular status as humanity’s first-born. He’s the first to discover how growing up works, even as his folks figure out how to raise him. We who’ve been first children or first-time parents know well the anxieties of learning by trial and error, despite caring people who helped us get through it. Cain and his parents manage without any practical advice and emotional support. There’s no one to assure them their concerns are typical. No one consoles them when naïve mistakes trigger profound regret. No trusted relatives and friends take their hands and say, “It’s not the end of the world.”

Although Adam and Eve benefit from experience when their next child, Abel, comes along, everything Cain encounters in life is new to him. He basically invents agriculture by learning to cultivate crops. Abel grows up to be history’s first rancher, herding sheep rather than working the soil. It’s a hard life for both men, as each gradually masters the mysteries of nature’s cycles and setbacks. It is Cain who first offers God a portion of his crop in gratitude for God’s goodness. Abel follows suit, giving God a sample of his new lambs. And here’s where the trouble starts. God honors Abel’s offering, yet disregards Cain’s. God doesn’t say at first why Cain’s gift isn’t accepted and not knowing the reason uncorks a deadly potion of rage, devastation, and self-hatred. The best Cain comes up with is he must lack something Abel possesses. He’s somehow inferior in God’s eyes, and since he and Abel are the first to worship God with giving, there’s no one to suggest God’s apparent disregard may have a higher purpose. Could it be that God wants to teach Cain an invaluable lesson he’s missed?

Regaining Control

So we add another “first” to Cain’s list. As well as Scripture’s first human offspring, farmer, and murderer, he’s its first person to feel blindsided by divine prerogative. Genesis 4.5 tells us he “was very angry, and his countenance fell”—reactions we relate to, as we’ve all felt angry and crestfallen when it seemed like God disregarded us, ignored our intentions, or unfairly favored others. And though the drastic measures he takes to rectify his situation turns his story into a cautionary tale, we still owe Cain a debt of gratitude, because his inner turmoil occasions another critical first. This is the first time we witness God reach for us when fears of inferiority and rejection overtake our thoughts and emotions.

We have no idea what comes of God’s regard for Abel’s offering. Whatever transpires between them doesn’t interest the Genesis writer, whose fascination with Cain alerts us there’s something highly significant in his saga. While we lock on his lame attempt to brush off Abel’s murder—the infamous “Am I my brother’s keeper” moment—I’m convinced the big message appears before the crime, in verse 7, when God urges him to wake up to his self-destructive impulses. “If you do well, will you not be accepted?” God asks, before warning, “And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it.”

The problem isn’t Cain’s offering, and the issue isn’t his inferiority or God favoring Abel over him. It’s his reluctance to master ideas and emotions that give rise to flawed beliefs and behaviors. The question isn’t whether God finds Cain worthy. It’s whether Cain’s thoughts and actions are worthy of him. His fear of rejection is rooted in his refusal to reject temptations that endanger him and others. “Do right and you’ll be accepted,” God says. “Control your urges or they’ll do you in.” It sounds so simple. Yet Cain proves how hard regaining control can be when we’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. Nothing he’s told stirs him. He lures Abel into a field, kills him, and pretends nothing happened. Then he finds out that disregard for God’s guidance leads to irrevocable loss. He’s not rejected. He’s dismissed. God sentences him to a fugitive life among people who may want to kill him, yet refrain because he’s cursed with a “hands-off” mark. He ends up living in fear, in a land called Nod, far from God’s presence and everything he knows.

Nothing to Do with God

God’s love is unconditional—too priceless to earn and too pure to deserve. Knowing that moots the question of God’s acceptance. How would a Creator Who goes to inconceivable lengths to embody love—and then die for it—conceivably reject anyone? Doing so would undo all that Jesus achieved and, in John 6.37-38, He flatly says that’s not going to happen: “Everything that God gives Me will come to Me, and anyone who comes to Me I will never drive away; for I have come down from heaven, not to do My own will, but the will of the One Who sent Me.” So our debates and anxieties about who is or isn’t acceptable to God—who’s worthy of grace and who’s not—who’s saved and who isn’t—have nothing to do with God. It’s the same tiresome fear that consumes Cain and ultimately destroys two lives, the oldest human conflict in the Book. While we’re nodding off, conjuring reasons why God accepts some and rejects others, God’s already put the matter to rest with a question and caution that couldn’t be plainer: “If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is lurking at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it.”

Claiming our Scriptural right to active worship and participation in Christ’s body begins by honoring God’s desire that our lives reflect principles that please God. In Romans 12.1-2, Paul writes, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” It’s Genesis 4.7 all over again, isn’t it? Do well and you’ll be accepted; present yourself as a living sacrifice. Master harmful urges; renew your mind.

Although Cain’s fields produced healthy crops, his life was unfruitful, and that corrupted his offering, which in turn loosed doubt in God’s justice and his self-worth. If only he’d woke up when God nudged him. If only he’d cleared away the clutter of dead-end attitudes and unproductive pursuits. If only he’d renewed his mind. Then he’d have known what God wants us to know. The matter of God’s acceptance has been settled since the dawn of time. Feeling inferior and fearing rejection are nothing more than symptoms of unhealthy thinking.

Wake us, O God. Bring us face-to-face with self-destructive attitudes and pursuits that destroy confidence in Your acceptance and our worth. Heighten our awareness that unhealthy temptations want to do us in. And give us boldness to defy them by renewing our minds in keeping with Your principles. Amen.

While we nod off, conjuring silly reasons why God should accept some and reject others, God’s already put the matter to rest.

Podcast link: Nodding Off

No Place Like Home

Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting You are God. (Psalm 90.1-2)

Get Up Everybody and Sing

Was I really 20 when Sister Sledge released “We Are Family”? It’s one of those tunes you feel like you’ve known your entire life. Even after you Google it and learn it was released in 1979—despite reminding yourself it’s a disco hit that, at the very earliest, wouldn’t have run the charts until the late 70s—you’re apt to scratch your head. How can that be? As far as disco tunes go, “We Are Family” was remarkably tame; the beat and the music laid back and the four Sledge sisters stepped forward to sing:

We are family

I got all my sisters and me

We are family

Get up everybody and sing!

Their song celebrated their family, not the human family or the “circle of life” or other grandiose concepts so big they get away from us before the singing ends. If you remember the lyrics (and I’ll bet you do), rerun them in your head. It’s about them. The image of family unity they presented was worth singing about. It touched us on a primal level, reminding us family, by nature, should foster togetherness and accord. “We’re like birds of a feather,” they sang. “We're giving love in a family dose.” In some ways their song counterbalanced Carly Simon’s hit, “The Way I Always Heard It Should Be,” which portrayed misgivings about the whole marriage-and-children thing based on her own family’s dysfunction. When Kim, Debbie, Joni, and Kathy Sledge rejoiced, “We are family!” they told the world, “This family idea works!” No wonder their song spoke to us in a timeless fashion.

Alive and Together

Millennia before “We Are Family,” Moses also composed a timeless hit about family, Psalm 90. “Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations,” he sings in the first verse, going on to praise God’s faithfulness and the enduring nature of God’s people in the midst of constant change. And Moses immediately announces that this realization touches a primal nerve by predating our existence: “Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting You are God,” verse 2 observes, as the poem goes on to contemplate the brevity of life and how each of us fits in the ongoing epic of familial longevity. “We’re like grass,” Moses says. “We sprout in the morning. By evening, we wither away.” Yet his metaphor for transience doesn’t dismay him in the least. Thrumming beneath his adoration of the eternal God, one senses undiluted family joy of being alive and together. Moses says, “Look at us, tiny blades of grass closely rooted beside each other, growing and thriving!”

Moses is the last Bible hero we’d expect to write a song that rhapsodizes God’s faithfulness, and rejoices about family and rootedness. He’s the Old Testament’s poster foster child. He’s born into a loving family of Hebrew slaves, only to be ripped from its bosom before he can walk and grows up as an Egyptian prince. That he’s not related to Pharaoh’s family by blood is apparent from his first glance in a mirror. We don’t know if anyone ever told Moses how he came to live in the palace. Yet it must be disconcerting for a privileged child to recognize a closer familial resemblance to his slave nurse (and true mother) than those claiming to be his elders and siblings.

The identity crisis that surfaces in a persistent stammer and lifelong insecurity surely begins there. Just when he’s poised to come into his own, a desperate attempt to reclaim his ethnic roots makes him a fugitive. Wanted for killing an Egyptian who abuses a Hebrew slave, Moses flees to the outback, where he’s adopted again—giving him three families in all before starting his own. Then, once he settles into life as a husband and father, God sends him back into the mess he managed to escape. The Hebrew slaves distrust him. His Egyptian family can’t believe the gall to demand freedom for captives that form the backbone of their economy. And whom does God assign to compensate for Moses’s inadequacies? His blood brother, Aaron—a stranger with no cause to help Moses! None of this sounds like the way Moses (or anyone swept up in his saga) “heard it should be,” let alone something to sing about. Nor does it get better as the story goes.

Securing the slaves’ freedom tasks Moses with leading thousands of legitimately anxious people he’s never met in search of a Promised Land. He has no map or timetable. For 40 years, he pushes them to keep moving. Two generations are born and two generations buried in the wild. By the end, impermanence is all that most of them know. Yet along the way, Moses teaches them his song about God’s faithfulness and human frailty and rootedness—a song about family. Despite every reason why it shouldn’t, the song resonates. It’s a big hit, an instant classic, they sing over and over. It survives Moses. It survives them. It’s a song we sing and generations after us will, too. God is our dwelling place. We’re rooted in God. For the brief time we’re alive, we grow up together in God. We flourish, fade, and a new generation takes root to replace us. We are family.

One Roof

We can regard “God is our dwelling place” as poetic metaphor and leave it at that. But in doing so, we drain Moses’s song of its power to make the metaphor real. If God truly is our Home—if, as Paul testifies in Acts 17.28, “we live and move and have our being” in God—what does that say about us? It seems fairly obvious. As people of God, we share one Roof with all people of God. Sheer size of our family precludes knowing most of them personally, and diversity of backgrounds alone advises against assuming we should like, agree with, and relate to every member of the family. Merely by the millions of ways we come to God, we can rid ourselves of expecting we’ll blend into some kind of homogenized, harmonious “Brady Bunch” dwelling in a spacious, suburban comfort. Residing in God makes for overcrowded, tumultuous conditions. We are, by nature, a family on the move. Impermanence is all we know. New infants are born into our family and beloved elders pass on. Our only sustenance comes from God. We have no map or timetable. It should neither amaze nor alarm us to encounter family members with radically different notions about where we’re going or how we’ll get there. It’s no surprise when far removed relations adamantly refute our claim as kin. We’ve done it; why shouldn’t they?

Yet for all our jostling and anxiety and skepticism, the constant transitions and uncertainties of our pilgrim lifestyle, we celebrate our common roots in God. We rejoice in the gift of growing side-by-side, alive and together, flourishing as individuals under one roof. “Teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart,” Moses’s song prays (v12), concluding with an entreaty that summarizes what dwelling in God is ultimately about: “Let Your work be manifest to your servants, and Your glorious power to their children. Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper for us the work of our hands—O prosper the work of our hands!” (v16-17) The work we do and legacy we leave behind are most important. It makes us anxious to concede many we find so disagreeable, and vice versa, are kin with whom we share a common dwelling. That’s not the way we always heard it should be. Nonetheless, that’s the way it is. We are family. Puts a new spin on “No place like home,” doesn’t it?

O God, as You’ve always been and forever will be, You are our dwelling place. Endow us with courage to overlook differences so we may celebrate our common roots in You. Prosper for us the work of our hands—O prosper the work of our hands. Amen.

With God as our dwelling place, we share one roof with all God’s people. Sure, our Home is overcrowded and our family stays on the move. Yet we’re closely rooted, alive and together.

Postscript: “We Are Family”

Just in case you couldn’t recall all the words…

Mattering

I ask you, not as though I were writing you a new commandment, but one we have had from the beginning, let us love another. And this is love, that we walk according to God's commandments. (2 John.1.5-6)

Crusaders

Last weekend hurled us into a haze of cognitive dissonance. We knew what we saw and heard was factual. Yet as we processed the news, we couldn’t shake the feeling it might not be real. Norway. Could there be a more benign place on Earth? On hearing of last Friday’s two-fisted attack on its government offices and a youth camp, the brutality of it didn’t compute, because Norway didn’t make sense. These were public servants and young people, bright of mind and rich of promise, ripped from the human tapestry by a deranged “Christian crusader” prosecuting a delusional war on multiculturalism. As with all terrorists, demonizers, and ideologues, only the crusade mattered to him. Nearly 100 lives randomly destroyed, countless relatives and friends forever marred by irreplaceable loss, an entire nation shattered, and a world stunned beyond speech—they mattered not.

This idea of “mattering” haunts me. In addition to the Norway coverage, the US debt-ceiling farce got plenty of play, as did the premature death of pop diva Amy Whitehouse, ongoing violence in Syria, escalating famine in drought-plagued East Africa, and continuing fall-out from the British tabloid scandal. The rhetoric and actions swirling around these stories were rife with insinuations that a select few matter, but the majority doesn’t. And the more I contemplate the heaviness of this useless burden I’m more convinced mattering is why love matters.

Why Love?

Jesus taught us many things—instilling in us humility, tolerance, self-sacrifice, joy, trust, and so on. But He commanded us to love. Heeding Him without question would seem the right thing to do. Still, there must be a reason why love is paramount, why we’re taught all that is right and good in us begins there. What makes love the linchpin? Why not faith or hope or truth? Why love? The answer is so obvious many look it in the eye and never recognize it. Loving others in obedience to Christ—as much as we love ourselves, with all the concern, patience, and understanding we desire for ourselves—is how we tell those who come into our lives, “You matter.” Not, “You matter to us.” Or, “You matter as much as us.” Simply, you matter.

Love confirms we see them. We hear them. And we value them as they are. We honor them because they reflect our Creator. Our mutual origins in the hands of God, Whose breath brings all of us to life, forge a love-bond calling for basic respect and selfless concern. And the only way we convey how much others matter is by loving them without condition or expectation. Loving them is all about them, only them, because Christ’s commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves isn't meant gratify or ennoble us. (That it often does is irrelevant.) Jesus instructs us to love others because every one of us matters to God.

The Vast Jigsaw Puzzle

That’s all love is: reassurance we matter. No one is inconsequential. None is worthless. Each of us exists as an essential piece in the vast jigsaw puzzle that, when properly assembled, portrays God’s perfect image. It’s when we mangle pieces with hatred, prejudice, ridicule, violence, and cruelty that God’s beauty and perfection are lost. It’s when we refuse to love one another as Christ commands that we lose consciousness of how much each of us matters. It’s when we make love hard with reasons and opinions asserting those we must love don’t matter that we become mangled by hatred and resentment. But, ah, when we do love—ratifying the value of those around us—the rest flows unrestrained.

Over and over we hear the Apostles echo Jesus’s love commandment, because people who courageously value those around them naturally coalesce into a community where harmony, peace, nurture, and joy thrive. Conscious awareness that everyone matters constantly reminds us of what really matters—and why what seems important may not be so important after all. In his second letter to the Church, John writes, “I ask you, not as though I were writing you a new commandment, but one we have had from the beginning, let us love another. And this is love, that we walk according to his commandments.” (2 John 1.5-6) This is nothing new, he says. We’ve been talking about it since we started. It's incumbent on him to remind his flock that loving one another is imperative for the sake of its stability and unity as a community. It’s essential they know they each possess unique worth vital to the whole.

Going All the Way

In saying, “I love you,” we take care to understand what we’re saying and what’s expected of us by saying it. If we speak love, we must be committed to do love exactly as Christ commands—to make love happen by going all the way. Indeed, the central message of John’s first letter emphasizes there’s no use professing love if we’re unwilling to prove it. He’s so determined we get the gravity of love’s demands he doesn’t sugarcoat the topic or leave the door open for any exceptions. Here’s the Reader’s Digest edition of 1 John:

“Whoever says, 'I have come to know God,' but does not obey God’s commandments, is a liar, and in such a person the truth does not exist; but whoever obeys God’s word, truly in this person the love of God has reached perfection. (2.4-5) Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. And by this we will know that we are from the truth and will reassure our hearts before God whenever our hearts condemn us; for God is greater than our hearts. (3.18-20) Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love. Those who say, 'I love God,' and hate their brothers and sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother sister whom they have seen cannot love God Whom they have not seen. (4.7-8; 20) Everyone who loves the Parent loves the child. By this we know that we love the children of God and obey God’s commandments. And God’s commandments are not burdensome, for whatever is born of God conquers the world. And this is the victory that conquers the world, our faith.” (5.1; 3-4)

This is the discussion John references when he says, “This is nothing new,” in his second letter. Obedience to God and love for others aren’t linked; they’re one and the same. Lip-service love gives slip to the lie that we truly love God and our faith is real. In an age when no news is good news, every day conspires to prove how little we matter. Which is why true love that goes all the way—that happens on the ground, touching every life that touches us—has never been more crucial. Mattering is what love’s all about. In saying, “I love you,” and showing we mean it, we transmit healing and self-worth to people in desperate need of knowing they matter.

Most loving God, grip us with an understanding of why You command us to love truly, without condition. Create in us a gnawing desire to say, “I love you,” and mean it. We confess mixed results in our struggle against the idea that some matter and others don’t. When fear and doubt tempt us to stray, deal with us as You alone can, firmly and gently. Teach us to love Parent and child—every child—equally and lavishly. Amen.

It’s a brave thing we do, insisting everyone matters and proving it with love.

Glow

See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the LORD rises upon you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn… Then you will look and be radiant, your heart will throb and swell with joy. (Isaiah 60.2-3,5)

Arise and Shine Now

Yesterday I spent a priceless half-hour on the phone with a young hip-hop artist diagnosed with a debilitating condition. I entered the conversation in my capacity as a healthcare writer inquiring about his progress on a treatment my client manufactures. But our talk soon surpassed his resurgence after starting medication. Despite setbacks and sorrows—his crowd rapidly thinned once it became apparent getting his health restored would delay his success—he kept returning to a theme: “It taught me a lot about my circle, my family and friends, and me.” With his career back on-track, I asked if he had a message for younger fans with similar illnesses. “I want to tell them this is the first of many challenges they’ll face,” he answered. “But if they learn from it, they’ll wake up grateful for each day, just like me. It will keep them glowing.” Not “going." Glowing.

After the call, I closed my notes to find my browser open to Isaiah 60. I’d had the passage up for some time without getting to it. The first few verses took my breath. “Arise, shine, for your light has come,” verse one reads, “and the glory of the LORD rises upon you.” That’s the verse we know—the one we sing and recite at this time of year—God’s glistening promise to restore Jerusalem’s glory after decades of debilitation. Yet revisiting the text in the wake my conversation startled me. Its message is not a forecast. It’s an invitation to arise and shine now. Its promise hinges on courage to defy circumstances—to keep glowing: “See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but LORD rises upon you. Nations will come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn,” verses 2 and 3 say. Verse 5 declares, “Then you will look and be radiant, your heart will throb and swell with joy; the wealth on the seas will be brought to you, to you the riches of the nations will come.” Just as the musician’s attitude chastens us for nursing self-pity and pessimism when life takes a cruel turn, Isaiah challenges our belief that light and joy are contingent on God’s blessings and goodness. Both insist we’ve got it backwards. Blessings, healing, and deliverance don’t make us shine. We don’t wait for brighter days before stirring from our stupor. First we glow, and then we grow.

Taking Back the Night

We jump on Advent’s juggernaut, hurtling through darkness with eyes trained ahead. Salvation is coming. We long to be there when it appears. We ache once more to see nascent glimmers of redemption in Christ’s newborn eyes. Finding our hope cradled in Bethlehem’s manger, we instinctively raise our sights to Calvary’s cross. The moment hums with excitement about the future: this changes everything. In our forward-focused enthusiasm, however, we can’t forget there’s more to Christmas than a new dawning. It’s also about taking back the night. Fears and dangers that left us scrambling for shadowy corners or trembling behind bolted doors can torment us no more. Injuries and injustices that haunted us shrivel under our radiance. That’s right, our radiance—the glory of God that rises upon us in darkness. The Christ-Child is our light. John 1.4 tells us in Jesus “was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.” Christ’s gift of redemption pivots on enabling us to perfect God’s reflection in our lives and world. We are created to glow. The glory rising over us gives us power to destroy darkness in our present, future, and our past.

Now we have a choice. Either we treat this metaphorically, which puts it with other prophetic poetry we unpack at Advent. Or we embrace it as a real thing—a phenomenon we experience and practice all year. What does that mean? As far as we run from our pasts, our pasts are never far from us. I suspect most of us seldom finish a day without bumping into a reminder of fears and losses that vexed our nights before Christ illuminated our lives. Holidays and homecomings are notorious for plunging those of us who’ve escaped unhealthy pasts into dizzying darkness. We timidly enter these scenes, needlessly availing ourselves to prejudices and pressures by dimming our lights. But we weren’t created for low light. God made us to glow. We shine because light has come to restore what we lost. Whether darkness invades our minds with a passing memory or surrounds us in settings we’ve outgrown, we keep glowing, never faltering in our quest to take back the night.

No Posturing Needed

But, realistically, how do we manage this? Should we act like memories and night haunts don’t menace us? We’re talking about incredibly mean stuff here. We’ve got scars that brushes with the past repeatedly rip open, wounds that never completely heal. All it takes sometimes is a word, a look, a voice—even a room or smell—to hurl us into the blackest of nights. Are we supposed to adopt an impervious posture to keep glowing? Can we even do that? Here’s where faith in God’s promises becomes critical. Remember Isaiah 60.5? “You will look and be radiant.” Who we were when we lived in darkness is not who we are now. God’s glory has risen on us, shattering our night. Our light has come. We found it in a manger. It changed us forever, enabling us reroute our future and empowering us to reclaim our past. No posturing is needed. We simply have to be. We look radiant when we reencounter darkness because we are radiant. It's that simple. Darkness holds us no longer. And we have only one lesson to retain from its meanness: when we glow its power fails. Through this season and always, be radiant. Glow.

God’s glory rises on us and we glow. Our radiance defeats our darkness. It’s not a posture or pretense. It’s who we are.

Postscript: “Walk in the Light”

I mentioned in an earlier post how this Advent keeps sending me down well-trod musical paths from my youth. As I worked on today’s reflection, I couldn’t shake this glorious rendition of the classic hymn, “Walk in the Light,” by a treasured late friend and musical genius, Thomas Whitfield. I slapped together a quick video, but the beauty—the triumph—is in the song!

WALK IN THE LIGHT

Walk in the light, beautiful light

Come where the dewdrops of mercy shine bright

Oh, shine all around us by day and by night

Jesus is, Jesus is

The Light of the world.

No need to worry, no need to fret

All of my needs Jesus has met

His love protects me from hurt and from harm

Jesus is, Jesus is

The Light of the world.

If the Gospel be hid, It's hid from the lost

Jesus is waiting to look past your faults

Arise and shine, your light has come

Jesus is, Jesus is

The Light of the world.

Jesus is the Light of the world

Jesus is the Light of the world

Jesus is the Light of the world

He's ever shining in my soul

Never Again

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery. (Galatians 5.1)

Captivated by Captivity

Giving due respect to other ministers in my past, present, and future, the one who nurtured my faith for 10 years in L.A. will always be my pastor. Beyond his erudite mastery of the Word, Bishop Charles Blake has a rare genius for distilling Biblical principles into concise phrases that remain with you forever. For example, his sermon on the Annunciation is as fresh and vivid today as when I heard it nearly 30 years ago. His text came after the fact, when Elizabeth hails Mary: “Blessed is she that believed: for there shall be a performance of those things which were told her from the Lord.” (Luke 1.45) After leading us through a detailed recap of Mary’s story and drawing parallels to our own lives, he anchored our confidence in God’s faithfulness with one unimpeachable sentence: We serve a God Who performs. I’ve never forgot—or doubted—it since.

A new nugget surfaced during the webcast of last Sunday’s service. Preaching from Psalm 25.15 (“Mine eyes are ever toward the LORD; for he shall pluck my feet out of the net.”), Bishop Blake noted it’s easy to become captivated by captivity. We allow dilemmas that ensnare us to define us, making them our life’s work. “We fix our eyes on the net, when they should be turned toward God,” he said. When I heard “captivated by captivity,” I knew exactly what it meant. Too frequently I’ve fought with nets I could have escaped much sooner had I stopped looking at everyone and everything else (including me) and set my sights exclusively on God. Then my thoughts turned to countless people I know who are desperate to break free of homophobic and sexist religiosity, childhood trauma, damaged relationships, addictions, and numerous other nets. Bishop Blake’s message reminded me how hard it can be to let go of issues that won’t let go of us. At the same time, though, when we become captivated by captivity, we're voluntary prisoners of our problems.

Net-Life

I'm convinced the severity of our problems is directly linked to our propensity to turn them into unfriendly fascinations. We can’t resist thinking about them, why they were sent our way, and how we could have avoided them. We seek out friends, literature, and groups that might possibly explain our problems. Now we’re caught in a web of opinions and advice that pull our attention further from God’s power to save. While it all makes sense, nothing provides a definitive solution to our dilemma. We become slaves to the questions. They own us and define us, and our reliance on them steadily seduces us into believing there is no real answer. Our lives become endless choruses of “If Only”. I could be at peace if only… I would be healthier if only… I would be a better [fill in the blank] if only… By this point, we’re not merely captives of our woes, we’re captivated by them. We’ve embraced them as our raison d’être. Every thought and action, longing and limitation is colored by the problem that enthralls us. It’s all in the net.

Some of us find net-life pleasing. But it doesn’t please our Maker. Nor does it fulfill Christ’s purpose. In John 10.9-10, He says, “I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. He will come in and go out, and find pasture… I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” Come in and go out. Find pasture. Have life to the full. These are not qualities found in net-life. But they’re why Christ came. Our freedom from fear, guilt, doubt, pain, and every other unfriendly fascination is inextricably wound into His life, teaching, sacrifice, and resurrection. In Luke 4.18, Jesus emphatically announces He was sent “to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed.” Isn’t it interesting how He wedges “recovery of sight” between “freedom” and “release”? Escaping net-life to enjoy new life occurs when we stop focusing on the net and start looking to God.

Staying Free

“If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed,” Jesus says in John 8.36. After we fix our eyes on Him and He releases us from our nets, staying free is up to us. That’s what Paul means in Galatians 5.1: “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” We claim our liberty from net-life by declaring, “Never again!” We need to brace ourselves, however, because our pledge will be constantly tested. Living net-free doesn’t remove the net—it defies our fascination with it. And any time newness of free life presents uncertainties—which are inevitable—we’ll grope for the net. It’s what we know best. We’ve invented all sorts of labels for this weakness: codependency, battered wife syndrome, victim mentality, low self-esteem, etc. (Bishop Blake describes it as "going back to Egypt.") Call it what you will, it’s relapsed captivation with captivity.

Christ gave His life to set us free. We commit ours to staying free. Never again means never again. We may have been tangled in hurts and resentments due to hatred and rejection. Never again. We may have been hopelessly bound by extreme cruelty and abuse. Never again. We may have been trapped by self-doubt and impossible questions. Never again. We stand firm, resisting every urge to relapse. Because Christ set us free, freedom is now our reason to live. There's nothing in the nets we want or need. There’s not one good reason to glance their way. Our eyes are ever toward the Lord.

Unless we stand firm, we'll relapse into fascination with net-life and forget freedom in Christ is why we live.

Postscript: Amazing Grace/My Chains Are Gone

Turning our eyes to God overwhelms us with grace. Captivity loses all fascination and power to capture our minds. A medley of “Amazing Grace” and “My Chains Are Gone” by Chris Tomlin.

Dog Days

Jesus answered, “Woman you have great faith! Your request is granted.” (Matthew 15.28)

A Message We Should Hear

Serendipity can be a lovely thing. While working on the Great of Women in Scripture series, at Rev. Anthony Venn-Brown’s urging, I reengaged with our Australian family at freedom2be, a lively discussion forum for GLBT believers. In conversation there I referred to Bishop Yvette Flunder, founder and pastor of San Francisco’s radically inclusive City of Refuge. That triggered a search for video of her, which turned up an amazing—and highly provocative—sermon (see below) about the Phoenician woman, whose story unfolds in Mark 7 and Matthew 15. As I watched Bishop Flunder, a “Eureka!” moment occurred. The Phoenician woman was the perfect closer for the series, because if there were a patron saint for rejected and disenfranchised Christians, she would be it.

We’ve discussed her before, in an October 2009 post, Crumbs. But Bishop Flunder's take challenges us to look at Jesus’s response to her in harshly realistic, perhaps even unflattering light in order to comprehend the dynamic that exists between traditional Christians and marginalized believers today. This will be difficult for some of us. Yet it drives home a message we should hear. And setting the stage is most important, as what happens just prior to the Phoenician woman’s encounter with Christ indubitably contributes to His response.

Clean and Unclean

Her story begins with Jesus coming off another confrontation with Jewish legalists, who condemn His disciples for not practicing traditional hygiene. It seems they don’t wash up before dinner. Clearly, the legalists are splitting hairs here to trap Jesus in a web of controversy. Instead of answering their charges, He counters with another example of how they misuse Scripture to criticize. If someone decided money he’d ordinarily give to his mother and father should go to God’s work, you’d say he disobeyed the commandment to honor his parents, He says. “Thus you nullify the word of God for the sake of your tradition.” (Matthew 15.7) Jesus indicts this mentality by quoting Isaiah 29.13: “These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are but rules taught by men.” He tells the crowd: “Listen and understand. What goes into a man’s mouth does not make him ‘unclean,’ but what comes out of his mouth, that is what makes him ‘unclean.’” (v10) This offends Jesus’s critics, which exasperates Him. He more or less says to the disciples, “Let’s get away from all this.” They head into pagan country, far from the legalist rabble. No sooner do they arrive than the Phoenician woman shows up and essentially forces Jesus to eat His own words.

Scraping, but Scrappy

It’s not one of Jesus’s finer hours. He’s tired of arguing. His defenses are up. He’s not in a good mood, and He knows it. Taking a break where He’s not widely known among people who aren’t that interested in Him is a smart move. Then the mother of a deeply disturbed daughter hears the famous Healer is in town and rushes to Him. Jesus ignores her, but the woman persists. The disciples urge Him to send her away. Jesus can’t be bothered. “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel,” He says. (v24) The woman throws herself in front of Jesus and pleads, “Lord, help me!” She knows she’s scraping—begging for favor and getting on His nerves. She scrapes because she’s scrappy. She’s like a mongrel that won’t stop scratching at the door until his master feeds him.

Jesus is annoyed. He says, “It’s not right to take the children’s bread and toss it their dogs.” (v26) Did Jesus just call a fiercely devoted mother asking Him to help her daughter a dog? Yes. Did He declare her unworthy of His attention? Yes. After comparing Israel to “sheep” and “children,” can we dismiss the racism in the epithet? No. And since He just blasted legalists for taking simplistic traditional stances in ethically fraught situations, can we overlook His reply is “unclean”? No. We can spin His comment every which way: He’s testing the woman’s faith; He’s impersonating hypocrisy for the disciples’ (and our) sake; He’s just tired after a bad day. Yet there’s a nagging aspect to the story we can’t bypass. Jesus is less shocked by His insult than the woman's insistence. Being called a dog—by a visitor, in the presence of her neighbors—is her least concern. She needs Jesus. “Yes, Lord,” she says, “but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” (v27) Now Jesus is stunned, as if a light goes off in His head. She’s no better or worse than anyone else. And why? Her needs are no different than anyone else’s. “Woman you have great faith! Your request is granted,” He says. With this pronouncement, her daughter is cured instantly and we understand. The Phoenician woman is a dog. She’s relentless in her quest to be heard, regardless how she’s seen. Rather than lick her wounds of rejection, she persists. She makes noise and risks her pride, and her dog-like tenacity makes her legitimate.

Sheep are lovely, but mindless. Dogs protect sheep, not the other way around. To fulfill their purpose in the fold, they bark and scratch to alert shepherds their needs are no different than a sheep’s. If the woman had waited to be recognized, she would never have caused a scene that ultimately confirms Christ’s doctrine of inclusion. Untold millions would have been lost as a result. In the spirit of the Phoenician woman, we must embrace our responsibility to the sheep and Shepherd by owning the “dog” tag. We live in dog days. People of faith are being ignored and vilified because they don’t fit the traditional mold. For reasons no one can explain, shepherds have pushed the dogs aside and let sheep run amok. For their sake—and for all the abandoned dogs who need care and feeding—we need to make noise. We’re foolish to hang by in the case the sheep invite us to join them. That’s never going to happen because we intimidate them. They’re blind to dangers we see; that’s why we belong in the fold. And if we have to scrape a few nerves and beg for scraps to get there, we should. We have great faith. Our request will be granted.

The Church needs dogs. They protect the sheep from danger and prove Christ’s doctrine of inclusion.

(Next: Made Whole)

Postscript: Bishop Yvette Flunder

There are few ministers I admire as much as Bishop Yvette Flunder. Her work for Christian inclusion has raised her to the forefront of the Christian and GLBT communities. And her accomplishment in the Word is second to none. On top of these attributes, she’s just a sharp lady with a lot of class! For those of you who might be interested in her sermon on the Phoenician woman, here is Part One. (Links to Parts Two and Three can be found in the "related videos.") If you take the time to listen to her message, you’ll never hear anyone say “Bow Wow Wow” again without smiling quietly to yourself!

Too Much for the Man

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

Ready to Reach

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

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

Conditioned by Fear

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

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

Village Life

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

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

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

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

(Next: Dog Days)

Postscript: "Through My Eyes"

Several weeks ago, I posted a preview to a feature documentary called "Through My Eyes." Produced by the Gay Christian Network, the film uses a superbly effective, straightforward style to capture the anxieties, passions, and heartaches of young gay Christians who struggle with reconciling their faith and their identity. The movie is notable because there are no third-person experts or commentators, no "b-roll" segments of homophobic Christians or gay-hostile preachers; there's no pulling at Scriptures and hauling out statistics.

"Through My Eyes" is all about lives--young people either raised to believe in Christ as their Savior or who found Him at an early age. The film opens with their witnesses of faith. As I watched this, I couldn't help thinking, "How many youth pastors would be full of pride if these kids were part of their group?" Then, the movie segues into how they came to recognize and understand their sexual orientation, followed by the inevitable--trying to figure out why knowing and accepting their identities suddenly turned everything they trusted and believed into something foreign and untrue for them. Watch this young man's account and you'll understand how nuanced and tragic this moment can be--and how amazing the young gay believer's faith must be:

Find out more about this amazing film at: http://www.ThroughMyEyesDVD.com/.

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)

Shear Seduction

Then she called, “Samson, the Philistines are upon you!” He awoke from his sleep and thought, “I’ll go out as before and shake myself free.” But he did not know that the LORD had left him.

                        Judges 16.20

Playing Games

If Samson were a star in Hollywood’s golden era, he’d have been called a “hot-blooded male”—more of a sinewy, quick-witted Burt Lancaster sort than the heavy-lidded, he-man Victor Mature played in Samson and Delilah. Lancaster’s athleticism made the world easily negotiable for his characters. Although men liked him for his unprepossessing superiority, intimidation also tinged their respect. (Get this guy mad and he’ll put a real hurt on you.) But men weren’t Lancaster’s problem. He made a career of sexy, smart guys who fell for the wrong types: sly minxes, frustrated wives, and bitter spinsters. Often at his enemies’ instigation, they viewed him as a mountain. Realizing they’d never conquer him, they toppled him. Many a picture ended with Lancaster crushed to bits. This is Samson’s story.

Samson is a Nazrite, part of a sect that practices sexual and alcoholic abstinence and bans haircuts. By his teens, he’s exceedingly bright and strong. He kills a lion bare-handedly. He ties torches to 300 foxes and sets them loose to burn up enemy fields. He wields a donkey’s jawbone to destroy 1,000 men. When a prostitute catches his eye, her city locks him outside its gates; he rips them off their hinges. But Samson’s wit and prowess also foster weakness for playing games. He taunts adversaries with clever riddles about his strength. His fondness for the ladies puts him at a disadvantage. His enemies send them to tease the answers out of Samson. The first time, his parents save him by annulling his marriage to a Philistine. The next time, he’s not so lucky. When Delilah shows up, he meets his match.

Playing to Win

Delilah’s perfect for Samson. She likes games, too. The couple’s pillow talk revolves around Delilah using her wiles to trick Samson into disclosing the source of his strength. He parlays her curiosity into a series of kinky games. He’s too caught up in naughty pursuits to perceive Delilah’s playing a different game. And she’s playing to win fabulous prize money the Philistines offer for Samson’s secret. After he says he’ll be weak as water if Delilah ties him up with seven bowstrings, she hides his enemies in their room, trusses him up, and, pretending to play his game, yells, “Look out, Samson! Here come the Philistines!” He snaps the bowstrings like twine. Delilah pouts. “You lied to me!” she says. “Now, tell me your secret for real.” Samson suggests another tie-me-up scenario. The same thing happens; she pouts some more.

At this point, Samson’s really into these mild S&M games. He dreams up a third scene edging uncomfortably close to his true secret. If Delilah weaves his hair into unfinished fabric on a loom, he’ll be powerless. She follows his directions while he sleeps and startles him awake. No luck. So Delilah pulls out the stops. “How can you say, ‘I love you,’ when you won’t trust me?” she whines. Her nagging wears Samson down. He tells her everything: “If my head were shaved, my strength would leave me, and I would become as weak as any other man.” (Judges 16.17) Sure she’s got the truth, she invites the Philistines back after she shaves Samson’s head. When she wakes him, he doesn’t realize his hair’s been cut. As verse 20 explains, losing his hair causes him to lose God's power: "He did not know that the LORD had left him." His foes seize him, gouge out his eyes, and yoke him to a gristmill. He trudges in blind circles the rest of his life.

Nothing to Play With

Samson’s story illustrates how easily we slip into an inflated sense of self by taking our talents and gifts for granted. Since he’s always been smart and strong, Samson presumes he’ll always be smart and strong. Instead of honoring his vows to live apart from the world, Samson believes he’s immune to the world’s ways. He puts trust in his hair, not the obedience it signifies. Before his enemies take his sight, Samson’s self-regard blinds him to his sacred obligations. He distances himself from God’s ways and people to play games with an unwholesome, envious crowd that fears him. They’re happy to play along, savvy enough to see Samson will stay in the game until he loses everything.

“Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall,” Proverbs 16.18 reads. The moment we mistake God’s power for our strength, His wisdom for our intelligence, we request a rude awakening. People who mean us no good and enticements to show off are nothing to play with. Winning arguments and eluding temptation on our own never pleases God or honors us. 1 Corinthians 15.57 assures us staying true to Christ is how we win: “Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” The longer we’re exposed to harmful influences, the less we respect the Source of our strength. In other words, we eventually tell those who fear our confidence and ability how to destroy us. They shear off our strength, steal our vision, and lock us into a grind of going in circles.

Samson’s hair grows back while he mills around in misery. The Philistines throw a victory party and string him up to jeer at his sorry condition. He prays for new strength. With just enough to bring the place down, he crushes his enemies in one fell blow. Tragically, he dies as well, lost in the ruins of an arena where he sought his own glory, one of many who never live to tell of his mightiest exploit. Playing games sounds fun. Experiments in pleasure are tempting. But they significantly increase our odds of going too far. We can get so comfortable with harmful people and places we don’t find out we’ve lost what we treasure most until it’s too late. Succumbing to shear seduction always ends in sheer defeat.

Ask Samson. Ask Britney. Excessive pride and self-confidence lead to losing sense and strength… and often looking strange.

(Tomorrow: Conscience Cleanser)