Falling

I was pushed so hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me. The LORD is my strength and my might; God has become my salvation… I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD. (Psalm 118.13-14,17)

Today is a turning point, a chance to recalibrate our heading. The dastardly violence visited on the US and world at large on 9/11/01 came so unexpectedly we had no time to consider how best to respond. But we’ve been given 10 years—3,652 days—to wrestle with all the justified emotions and irrational behaviors the tragedy unleashed. While its memory will forever be stamped in our hearts and minds, it’s time to let go the fear and ugliness it produced.

We’ve spent the last decade dying a slow death, knotted up in worst-case scenarios, shrinking in terror every time a lunatic whispers, “Boo!” and blaming whoever's handy for all that’s gone wrong since that horrible day. We’ve turned from a hated people into a hateful one, and we insist on pretending we don’t notice or care how far we’ve fallen. Plummeting in 9/11's spectral shadows has robbed us of the joy, hope, and trust in one another that warmed our days and stilled our nights.

We would do well to use this moment to embrace the Psalmist’s declaration: “I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD.” (Psalm 118.17)

It's a stunning vow, given the circumstances. The writer’s rise to an enviable position of authority enraged his adversaries. He doesn’t speculate what stoked their hostility. It may have been jealousy, ethnic hostility, or a strategically devised preemptive strike. The nature of the conflict is secondary. It's most important we understand the poet's been blind-sided. He tells us his foes engulfed him, swarmed him like bees, and blazed like burning thorns. Things got real ugly real fast. He countered the attack with decisive force. “In the name of the LORD, I cut them off!” he says—not once, but three times, as though he can’t believe it. Then we discover why his reaction and success seem incredible to him.

“I was pushed so hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me,” the psalmist confesses. (v13) Falling. The pressure sends him spiraling. He’s losing his grip. Yet God mercifully catches him before he tumbles over the precipice. And rather than depend on his own abilities, he puts his trust in his Maker. “The LORD is my strength and my might; God has become my salvation,” he exclaims in verse 14. [So convinced is he that God’s faithfulness is the deciding factor that earlier in the poem he states, “With the LORD on my side I do not fear. What can mortals do to me?” (v6)] The psalmist’s steadiness is not of his doing. God saves him. Acute awareness of God’s mercy turns him around. While the people rejoice in his triumph, he triumphs in the realization he won’t die. He will live. And he embraces a very specific reason for living: to “recount the deeds of the LORD.”

Instead of falling, the poet soars.

*****

The terrorists who conceived and executed 9/11 were a cunning, barbaric lot. Thugs they were—naïvely heartless people seduced by a jury-rigged promise of immortality. They brooked no concern about the unjust hatred and prejudice their deeds would heap on millions of upright people who shared their ethnic and faith heritage. They deluded themselves with the fantasy they were courageous avengers waging an undeclared holy war with no place or purpose in the modern world. They were simpletons.

I can’t accept one of them was bright enough to say, “You know, when all is said and done, we will have bruised the American character past all recognition.” Their medieval mindset proves they lacked the sophistication to foresee the impact their evil would have on our culture and politics. They wanted to make us afraid of them. But somehow, through none of their doing, we turned their malevolence inside out. We became afraid and suspicious of each other.

Nine-eleven launched a cold civil war with both sides rising up in alarm at every turn, convinced anyone unlike them was scheming to overthrow the nation. We’ve devoted an entire decade to calling one another Fascists, Anarchists, Socialists, Communists, Luddites, Militants, Opportunists, Racists, Misogynists, Homophobes, Atheists, Fanatics, Hypocrites—and, yes, Terrorists—as well as only God knows how many other vicious names, including many unfit for a faith-forward blog.

Not since Pearl Harbor had Americans united in such defiance of evil and selfless compassion for our wounded. Indeed, the extraordinary solidarity spilled from our shores and overflowed the world. From every corner of the planet cries went up: “We are all Americans!” Our venal enemies placed that magnificent gift right there, in the palm of our hand.

And we let it go.

*****

Nobody says, “We’re Americans!” these days—nobody who means it in the broadest sense, that is. “Extremists,” another label frequently heard in the wake of 9/11, has also faded from use. And little wonder why. We’re now a land overrun with extremists. The priceless middle ground on which our country rose has imploded. Moderates are wastes of space, unworthy of attention. Even the middle-class—the backbone of our economy and culture—is dwindling to dust. In an atmosphere that literally banks on overkill, anything less than reckless and ridiculous has no value. We’ll defend blatant stupidity to the death if it’s extreme. We’ll tune in and listen to anyone, as long as what he says and how she says it are extreme.

We’ve got fat to the point of stupor on a non-stop diet of flagrant animosity and ignorance. The post-9/11 gallery of pop and political icons resembles a nuthouse run amok: haters, conspiracy theorists, ne’er-do-wells, self-aggrandizing analysts, and shameless enablers in every arena have captivated our attention. Flip from ““The Real Housewives” to cable news to a conspiracy theory “documentary.” The subject and style vary, but the underlying message is the same: somebody wants to hurt me!

Just once, wouldn’t it be refreshing for someone say, “Squabbling makes no sense. Let’s compromise.” Such a statement would open fascinating dialogue. But we’re not interested in dialogue. We want to be entertained—provoked by and dragged into contrived dramas that invariably manifest themselves in emotional (in some cases, physical) violence. If it’s not extreme, we’re not buying.

And that’s the problem with compromise and common sense. Neither is ever extreme. They don’t hurt anyone beyond reason, nor do they help anyone beyond measure. In short, they neutralize the victim-and-villain charade—and that’s what we’re all about these days, feeling hurt and hurting feelings.

*****

Is it remotely possible the terrorists foresaw we’d take a liking to victim mentality? If we went back to September 10, 2001, stopped any American on any street, and told him/her, “After tomorrow, you’ll view yourself as a victim,” we’d get cussed out.

In the immediate wake of 9/11, we ponied up like true American cowboys, vowing to hunt down the villains and bring them to justice. “Nobody messes with us and gets by with it!” Then it slowly dawned on us that we were dealing with something we didn’t understand. “Where is Osama bin Laden?” turned into a punch line. And once we rounded up those we suspected of abetting his cause, justice became a joke. Retribution and punishment were the names of the game—one that permitted us to change the rules and invent new ones as we went.

Meanwhile, voluntary victimization surfaced in the Blame Game, the domestic version of our preoccupation with nefarious conspirators abroad. More things gone wrong gave us more people to blame. When the richest among us started whining about their mistreatment, the Blame Game ballooned into absurdist farce. In grand titan fashion, they deployed media henchmen to waft their high-end Eau de Victim through the media and—sure enough—tens of thousands struggling from paycheck to paycheck picked up the scent. The truly put-upon avidly defended the hardly put-upon for one reason: they both blamed the same people for their unhappiness. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, they say.

*****

No nation backslides from its hard-won reputation as an industrious, prodigiously capable people to become a multitude of mewlers and malingerers without its consent.

There was a time Americans had to be warned, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." We were innovators, tinkerers, and renovators who couldn’t leave well enough alone. We sauntered next door when we saw a neighbor working on his car, skipped an afternoon at the beach to make cupcakes for a charity bake sale, and knocked on a needy family’s door with a bag of groceries to tide them over. We turned barn raising and harvests into festivals, moving days into parties. Offering help before you were asked was the American way.

We witnessed that spirit at its highest after 9/11. People quit their jobs to clean up the ruins and get New Yorkers and Washingtonians back on their feet. We've caught glimpses of it after devastating natural disasters. But it's rarely sighted in our political and community lives. Now we distance ourselves from opportunities to help until the needs grow too big to handle and we blame everyone else for not doing what we wouldn't be bothered with.

But how can you blame someone else for your sad estate when you’ve done nothing to prevent it? What convinced us that 9/11 freed us of all responsibilities for our actions? Why do we think blaming somebody else gets us off the hook and magically mitigates problems we actively or passively—mostly passively—allowed to escalate?

My partner, Walt, insists there are no victims, only volunteers. While I don’t agree that’s true across-the-board, the post-9/11 American character certainly fits the profile.

*****

A few weeks ago, I turned on a local midday newscast just as the anchor tossed to commercial. The story slated after the break was about power outages due to a storm earlier that week. Residents were naturally frustrated that their lights weren’t back on. “We’ll tell you all about it,” the anchor said, “and who’s to blame.”

And she smiled—not maliciously, as if she relished pinning down the slackers who left families in the dark. No, she smiled in that annoying, news anchor way, suggesting she didn’t give the Blame Game a second thought. She might as well have said, “We’ll tell you all about it, and then we’ll play Duck-Duck-Goose.” She was just that oblivious to how blaming anyone for the situation didn’t remedy it. And who could blame her? She looked no older than 25. All she’s known her entire adult life is confusing blame with justice and, worse yet, progress. I would have been furious had I not been thoroughly chilled.

That’s the biggest calamity of 9/11’s aftermath. We’ve invested ten years nurturing a woe-is-me, be-very-afraid culture with not the slightest concern an entire generation has come of age believing that self-pity, paranoia, and helplessness are the American way of life. If the 1980s were the “Me” Decade, the 2000s will be remembered as the “Them” Decade—as in, “It’s their fault,” “It’s their duty,” and “It’s their neglect.”

Whose fault is that?

*****

In America, we pledge allegiance to “one nation under God.” We tender currency emblazoned with our trust in God. Whether or not we’re comfortable with how these and other legislated mentions of faith blur the lines between church and state, this is who we say we are and what we say we do. Yet we’ve permitted 9/11’s impact to divide us and we’ve exploited God’s name as a wedge that incites fear, the enemy of trust. God’s mercy and goodness to us—the strength and might God placed in us, without which our greatness as a people seems unlikely at best—have no prominence in the national dialogue, neither overtly nor implicitly. As believers, however, we know God has been unduly merciful and good to us, before and after 9/11. To acknowledge that would require us to shut down the Blame Game. It would mean living, not dying—praising, not accusing.

We let one awful morning rewire our minds. We decided there’s nothing good to say about or to one another. Consequently God’s deeds have gone unreported. And as we’ve gone down this path of retaliation and rudeness, we’ve created fewer opportunities for gratitude. What you say is what you get.

*****

Psalm 118 is a thanksgiving processional sung as priests approach the altar to offer sacrifices of praise. Its opening line invokes gratitude: “O give thanks to the LORD, for God is good; God’s steadfast love endures forever!” (v1) All the angst and violence the poet recounts comes in the next two stanzas to remind worshipers how close to falling he came and how God’s mercy caught him before he let go. The psalm peaks in verses 23-24: “This is the LORD’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

What do we make of this day? Will it end like the last 3,652, with fear’s putrid tang on our tongues and blind suspicion terrorizing our hearts? Or will we redeem the lives lost on 9/11/01 by joining a long overdue thanksgiving procession, offering sacrifices of praise for God’s goodness to us? Can we quit pointing fingers and recognize the marvelous things God has done? Will this be the day we finally open our eyes to see trust in God and one another is what transforms falling into soaring? Can we summon the clarity and courage to declare, “We shall not die. We shall live”?

This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Lord, open our eyes. Amen.

Trusting God and one another transforms falling into soaring.

The Church's First Protocol

Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. (Matthew 18.18)

Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore love is fulfilling the law. (Romans 13.10)

Benevolent Aliens

On October 19, 1945, almost two months to the day after World War Two ended, George Orwell published an essay, “You and the Atomic Bomb,” serving notice the Allies had won and brokered a “peace that is no peace.” He warned that ideological rivalry between emergent empire builders, the US and USSR—each equipped with potential to annihilate the planet—would grip the world in anxiety. His prescience greatly influenced post-War science fiction, much of which channeled global paranoia into scenarios of technically superior alien attacks—space invaders armed with death rays and whatnot. A few sci-fi writers, however, understood the gravity of Orwell’s predictions. They harnessed the genre’s fantastic elements to imagine a new breed of extraterrestrials—benevolent aliens that journeyed to Earth and offered the young planet wisdom they acquired eons ago. The first notably benevolent alien appeared fully intact in the low budget, 1951 film The Day the Earth Stood Still.

If you’ve not seen the film or it’s been a while, it’s worth a look. With East-West tensions abated, the Christ parallels can’t be missed. Assuming human form, the alien takes the name “Carpenter.” By choice, he lives in a boarding house occupied by a widow, her son, and several social misfits. He conceals his identity and his presence generates widespread unease about his mission. He won’t speak to political insiders, insisting his message is for all people. He demonstrates command of the elements by shutting down the global power grid. When a suspicious acquaintance betrays him, he’s gunned down before being heard. A mysteriously powerful space companion revives him. His resurrection brings attention he uses to address all nations at once. What he says echoes Jesus’s words in Matthew 18.15-20 (today’s Gospel), and resounds with Paul’s counsel in today’s New Testament reading, Romans 13.8-14.

I am leaving soon, and you will forgive me if I speak bluntly. The universe grows smaller every day, and the threat of aggression by any group, anywhere, can no longer be tolerated. There must be security for all, or no one is secure… I came here to give you these facts… Your choice is simple: either live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer. The decision rests with you.

Cosmic Implications

Earlier in the film, Carpenter explains the urgency of his mission. Newly armed with nuclear power, the Earth’s capability to destroy itself also threatens universal balance. If it abuses its powers to conquer other planets, it will foil a cosmic plan for harmony and peace. Learn to get along, Carpenter says, or forget belonging to the Big Picture. This is precisely what Jesus says in today’s passage, first spoken when everything He came to accomplish is due to transpire. The Earth will stand still at His execution. He’ll entrust His mission and message to His followers—Whom He collectively calls “the Church”—after His resurrection and departure. The same power that raises Him from the dead will remain with the disciples after he leaves, endowing them with capabilities unlike any the world has seen.

What the Church does with the Holy Spirit, however, rests on its shoulders. It can employ the Spirit's power to advance God’s kingdom on Earth. Or it can splinter into ideological rivalries that weaponize the Spirit and Scripture to build doctrinal empires. If the disciples go that route, Jesus foresees total anarchy. His mission will be in vain, His message reduced to ideals everyone admires, but no one lives by. Before responsibility for the Church gets dropped in the disciples’ laps, Jesus wants them to understand every decision and action they undertake is loaded with cosmic implications. They’re part of a divine plan that transcends human comprehension. But using these terms to set expectations the disciples will work together for His sake would sound like science fiction to them. So Jesus issues the Church’s first protocol in language they’ll readily absorb, speaking directly to conflicts and competing interests they’ve not dealt with until now.

The Peter Problem

The days prior to this conversation have been very strange. Everyone but Jesus has the jitters. He keeps talking about leaving them, after which Peter is supposed to take over. He as much as says their future depends on him when He promises to give Peter “the keys of the kingdom of heaven”—i.e., absolute authority—to lead the Church. (Matthew 16.18) The idea of Peter stepping into Christ’s shoes is as terrifying as it is baffling. He’s the most mercurial person in the group. He makes a big deal out of everything. No sooner does he witness Jesus’s transfiguration than he goes off on a tangent about building memorials—a thing he’s neither trained nor equipped to do. He’s useless in crisis. When taxes come due, rather than organize a fishing trip to earn some cash, He takes Jesus’s joke about finding money in a fish’s mouth seriously. (It turns out Jesus isn't kidding; the first fish Peter pulls from the water pays the bill.) He’s the only one crazy enough to believe he’ll actually walk on water because Jesus says so. (Oh, by the way, Peter is the only human known to walk on water.) Then there’s his hair-trigger temper. Why, a few days ago, he got so unnerved by all the death talk he went off on Jesus! And he’s supposed to be their leader?

The Peter problem creates many other problems. James and John—a.k.a. the Sons of Thunder—campaign for Jesus to reverse His decision and put them in charge. (They even drag their mother into it, pushing her to broach the topic with Jesus.) Judas is acting weird lately. He’s unhappy with where things are going. He signed on to overthrow Roman oppression, not to save the world. Mounting dissension and increasingly bolder lunges for power prove all the more unsettling because either Jesus fails to see or He simply doesn’t care about what’s happening. Of course, Jesus sees and cares. Just when tensions among the disciples reach their breaking point, He explains how and why they must work out their differences and stick to His plan.

The Earth-Heaven Connection

If someone wrongs you, talk it out, Jesus says. Don’t risk losing them over issues you can resolve. If they won’t listen, invite one or two witnesses to confirm you tried your best. If that doesn’t work, take the matter before the whole group. If the offender still refuses to acknowledge his/her error, put her/him out of mind. With that, the disciples discern responsibility for the Church’s stability and unity belongs to them. And Jesus explicitly says so in Matthew 18.18-20: “Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by My Father in heaven. For where two or three are gathered in My name, I am there among them.”

The Earth-Heaven connection is where the keys to the kingdom reside. And the protocol for accessing them is so simple it’s a wonder we don’t follow it religiously. Only when we agree are we aligned with Christ’s plan and purpose. Only when we bind forces that contradict Jesus’s mission and message, only when we loose the Spirit’s power to unite and liberate us, is Christ’s presence known and felt among us. The importance of doctrinal disputes and sectarian quirks is wildly exaggerated. It’s not about being right or wrong, but doing what’s right to avoid going wrong. Our power isn't evidenced by controlling others. It’s proven by conquering our desire to seize control. We don’t need a lot of rules and restrictions to secure the Earth-Heaven connection. We need a mind-boggling revelation that penetrates what we think to reach the depths of our understanding.

In a stunning take on why rules aren’t enough to resolve conflicts, Paul writes, “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The commandments… are summed up in this word, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.” (Romans 13.8-10) And there it is again: the only way to end our detrimental us-versus-them divisions in the Church is by making them our first concern.

In The Day the Earth Stood Still, Carpenter warned people of Earth that leveraging nuclear power to deepen political rifts not only endangered their survival. Unchecked, it would put the universe at risk. What Jesus and Paul say in today’s texts is no different. The Holy Spirit is given to unite us in purpose and principle. Jesus issued the Church’s first protocol, explaining how and why we must resolve our differences, lest we sever our connection to His divine plan. Paul discredits all notions of legally enforced unity. Love for one another is what binds evil’s power over us and liberates our hearts. We’ve been given a choice and Heaven waits for our answer. The decision rests with us.

Lord, we have heard You loud and clear. We pray Your Spirit will empower us to accept Your Word. May it penetrate what we think to reach the depths of our understanding. Instill in us an insatiable yearning to resolve our conflicts wisely, compassionately, showing true love for one another. Amen.

The Holy Spirit endows us with the power to resolve our conflicts and advance God’s kingdom. Jesus even tells us how to do it. Whether we follow His protocol is up to us.

Like There's No Tomorrow

Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for My sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life? (Matthew 16.25-26)

“If” and “Then”

Although some will shrug off Sunday’s Gospel (Matthew 16.21-28) with typical nonchalance, it’s hard to conceive anyone who listens to it not feeling like they’ve been socked in the gut. It’s one of the passages where Jesus couldn’t be clearer, where He leaves zero wiggle room for alternate readings that soften the blow. Jesus challenges us to forget everything—every instinct, behavior, belief, and opinion—so we can discover what life is really about. He’s not just urging us to correct our attitudes and ways. He’s not just promising rewards if we heed His word. He’s not just upholding a divine ideal. No, Jesus is telling us we don’t get it. What’s more, we never got it. Since the start, we’ve been so obsessed with staying alive we never bothered finding out what life can be. We’ve redefined the unsurpassed gift God breathed into us as “not dying.”

By nature, our days are governed by “if” and “then.” Long logical chains tether us to the notion we can escape unfavorable eventualities. We accept that logic as hard and fast—sacrosanct, even—never considering our way may not be the only way, let alone the best way. Here’s a classic example. Our parents, teachers, and culture assure us if we study hard and do the work, then we’ll make good grades. If we make good grades, then we’ll get into good colleges. If we do well in college, then we’ll qualify for good jobs. If we do well in our professions, then we’ll prosper. If we prosper, then we’ll be physically and fiscally sound. If we’re sound, then we’ll lead long and healthy lives. And we believe this, even though we’re inundated with evidence that every link in this chain is unreliable.

What seems sensible and just today may prove ridiculous and unfair tomorrow. Nothing is certain, including the preposterous idea that strength and fitness guarantee survival. Health can be protected, but never promised. Relationships will founder. Fortunes evaporate. Bad things happen to good people. Evildoers frequently prosper and outlive those they exploit. Death comes when it comes; regardless when it occurs—even when it ends prolonged suffering—it’s always too soon. None of this is news to us and still we cling to the if-then chain’s fallacy that life is about surviving, doing all we can to delay the inevitable as long as possible. Meanwhile, Jesus says life is all about embracing the illogical—instead of fearing a future we can't foresee, He urges us to live like there’s no tomorrow. This principle hangs high above His teachings, starting in the Sermon on the Mount: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” (Matthew 6.34) But we don’t get it. And as long as we cede any room in our lives to fear, we won’t.

Human Things

Fear swirls around the Matthew 16 passage, with Peter serving as our touchstone for entering the scene. Not long before this, confessing Jesus is the Messiah turns Peter’s life upside-down. Jesus rewards his faith and perception, changing his name from Simon to Peter (“the Rock”) and ordaining him as Christianity’s founding prelate. It’s a daunting task, yet Peter reacts no differently than we might if the Messiah honored us with such a prestigious promotion: he gets a little full of himself and jumps the gun, taking charge before Jesus releases the reins.

After announcing His successor, Jesus attends to mapping the leadership transition so His followers know what to expect. He’ll go to Jerusalem, where He’ll be arrested, tortured, and executed after which He’ll be resurrected. Such morbid talk scares Peter. Not only isn’t he ready to watch Jesus suffer and die, he’s nowhere near ready to hold things together in Jesus’s absence. If-then logic seizes him with panic, causing him to pull Jesus aside and rebuke Him! “I won’t hear of it!” he says. In a tongue-lashing unlike any in the Gospels, Jesus puts Peter in his place—calling him by a new, altogether humiliating name and chastising his lack of faith and perception. “Get behind me, Satan!” Jesus hisses. “You are a stumbling block to Me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” (Matthew 16.23)

Of the many impressions flooding Jesus’s mind, the most troubling is His realization Peter and the disciples just don’t get it. They’re still focused on human things—longevity and survival, status symbols and future security, how it all ends versus all it can be. Jesus breaks down His life principle in if-then language that mirrors their thought processes. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves”—i.e., give up this nonsensical trust in human things—“and take up their cross and follow Me”—i.e., risk living His way, modeling His example, and focusing on divine things. (v24) After He sees restating His life principle in logical fashion gets the disciples no closer to internalizing it, Jesus puts it in terms any human can understand: losses and gains. “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for My sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?” (v25-26)

Unequivocal Surrender

Jesus calls for unequivocal surrender—not only from Peter and the rest of the crew, but also from you and me. To know the joy, peace, and fullness that can only be found by living like there’s no tomorrow, we divorce ourselves from human things. We discover all that life can be when, for Christ’s sake, we forget all of our nonsense about “Me! Me! Me!” Answering Jesus’s invitation to follow Him means saying yes to His word, His will, and His way. Common sense is too common. Survival is too basic. Investing trust and capital in human things is too shallow. Staying alive is superfluous if we forfeit being alive in the process. And once we’ve squandered our lives trying to preserve them, nothing we achieve or possess will buy back what we’ve lost.

Jesus presents two choices: waste the precious gift of life on trying to stay alive or discover its riches by living like there’s no tomorrow. He makes it so obvious why His way is our best option. So why don’t we get it? Because it's also obvious we’d be out of our minds to do as He says. Precisely.

O Christ, we confess You are the Christ. We say yes to Your word, yes to Your will, and yes to Your way. If losing our minds is how we learn to live like there’s no tomorrow, then we surrender them to You. We’re through with fear and its spawn, futile selfishness and reliance on human things. We want to live! Amen.

Following Christ and finding all that life can be is one and the same thing, and it can’t be accomplished with anything less than unequivocal surrender.

Refresh

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. (Romans 12.2)

“At Least”

So I’ve spent the past few weeks battling with my Internet service provider—a battle ending this week, when I switch to a new ISPN. For reasons no one will explain (leading me to suspect behind-the-scene cutbacks), service has been maddeningly sporadic, with prolonged outages and turtle-slow speeds that require frequently clicking the refresh arrow. Sometimes a site freezes. I have to close the browser and start over. Since I’m not the most patient person when things don’t function as smoothly as I expect, I’ve spent a lot of time grunting and fussing at my screen, as if that will magically persuade the ISPN server to get a move on. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if I limited my Web activity to leisurely pursuits. Nothing on youtube, Facebook, or amazon is so urgent it can’t wait. For a freelance writer, though, a sputtering modem makes all the difference between a fine and not-so-fine job, meeting and missing deadlines, annoyance and agony.

When working on projects that entail online research, one supposes I could forego digging into the material and rely on how much—or, more likely, how little—I already know. That would eliminate the hassle and still get the job done. It won’t be as thorough and strong without the added time and stress of repeated refreshing, but at least it’s something. And therein lies the rub, because one of few things that drive me crazier than subpar technology is being forced to compromise. It goes back to being raised by parents who, when seeing I’d fallen short, always asked why I’d not done better. “At least it’s something” didn’t fly with them. It took several aborted attempts down that runway to convince me “at least” is a de facto admission that no matter how good the “something” may be, it’s still no good because it’s less than my best. My father put it like this: "Simply getting by simply guarantees you'll never get ahead."

That’s exactly what Paul says to us in Romans 12. “At least” may work for us and what comes of it may look fine to others. But it still won’t fly, because it’s not our best. Getting by on what we already know will never help us know all that we can be. Yes, the time and hassle of constantly refreshing our attitudes and perceptions can be unnerving. We’ll grunt and fuss a lot. But is “at least” really an option—especially since God sees and knows we’ve fallen short?

True Life

The passage begins with one of Paul’s most quoted—and least understood—admonitions: “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.” (Romans 12.1) On hearing “bodies,” “sacrifice,” and “holy and acceptable to God” in close proximity, we reply, “Got it!” and dash off a long list of no-no’s we’re fairly sure prevent us from meeting God’s purity standards. Without attending to the whole statement, it’s logical to assume Paul’s comparing us to livestock that Jews and pagans alike painstakingly bred and raised to be free of any disease or flaw disqualifying it for ritual slaughter.

A closer reading urges us to rethink such assumptions. What Paul describes has nothing in common with animal sacrifice. Nor, for that matter, is he speaking to us as individuals. The pivotal phrases here are “the mercies of God,” “a living sacrifice,” and “spiritual worship.” God’s mercy unites all believers as a single entity, a living sacrifice, and purifies us for spiritual service. It’s the polar opposite of what so many misinterpret as a call for surface holiness—a return to Mosaic legalism’s obsession with hygiene and conformity. Yet this makes no sense coming from Paul, particularly in the letter advancing his most eloquent argument that Jesus’s bodily atonement forever frees us from the Law’s rituals and demands. Equating holiness and acceptability to God with physical appearances and behaviors replaces spiritual freedom with carnal compliance. It mistakes cookie-cutter mentality for Christian solidarity. But we’re not assembly-line cattle being prepped for death. By God’s grace we’re one body, a singular organism spiritually transformed to witness life.

Now we’d be remiss not to stress that nearly all the Apostles’ letters, including Paul’s, caution against physically detrimental excesses and habits. Yet they take extra care to be clear they’re not advocating behavioral modification as a means of earning God’s mercy and acceptance. Again, it’s the complete opposite. Abandoning harmful pursuits is one of many changes that result from faith in God’s grace. Spiritual transformation occurs and manifests itself continuously. As participants in one living sacrifice, we shouldn’t look, act, and talk like each other. Neither should we look, act, and talk today like we did yesterday. True life produces unending change and growth. It’s not like Web access. It doesn’t slow down. It doesn’t freeze. It keeps loading us with new information, experiences, and insights. And if we’re frustrated because our lives have lost momentum or got stuck or feel incomplete, it’s time to refresh our screens and re-launch our browsers. While relying on what we already know may work for us and get us by in the world, it won’t fly with God, Who sees and knows it’s less than our best.

Taking Risks

“Do not be conformed to this world,” Paul writes in verse 2, “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.” How marvelous it would be if Paul were actually describing what many take him to mean—a once-in-a-lifetime epiphany that whips us into a U-turn, cleans up our acts, changes how we think, and sends us barreling headlong into eternal bliss! That might work if we were no more than sacrificial cattle being groomed for the day we die. And unfortunately that’s how many believers approach their faith and view themselves. All the goodness and wonder showered on us, all the life we’re blessed to experience and enjoy, boils down to getting ready to die. But, thanks be to God, we are a living sacrifice. God’s grace liberates us from the confines of the stall and trough, opening before us a meadow of mercy on which we feast, mature, and thrive. Some of us are young and wobbly. Some of us are seasoned and sure. While it's important that the weak among us grow strong and the strong among us don't grow self-confident in their own strength, it's most important that each of us understands we all belong to one living sacrifice.

Every day, every moment, provides nourishment that renews our minds so we’re ever aware of what God desires of us that day, in that moment. Conformity is of no benefit to transformation's perpetual process, as it always lags behind new growth. God’s abundance provides an endless supply of knowledge and experience that renews our minds, challenging us to digest concepts and beliefs that were once intolerable and made us afraid. Willingness to refresh our minds is the only way we discover God’s will for us. It’s a risky way to live, because it calls us away from conformity and getting by on what we know so we can be transformed by what God wants us to know. Writ large between the lines, Paul insists taking risks, defying uncertainty, enduring criticism, and patiently waiting for God’s will to unfold is what we must do if we’re to participate in spiritual worship as a living, holy, acceptable sacrifice. Besides, considering the alternative, can we doubt embracing newness of mind and welcoming change is the only way to live? Of course not, because living to die isn’t living at all.

Dear God, we know no better way to live than participating in spiritual worship as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to You. Awaken us to each day’s abundant newness. Free us from intolerance and fear so that we’ll risk learning all that life offers. Quicken us to refresh our minds to welcome new ideas and discover Your will for us. Amen.

When we’re frustrated because our lives seem to have lost momentum, got stuck, or feel incomplete, it’s time to click the refresh button and renew our minds.

My Neighbor is Me

When Jesus saw that he answered wisely, He said to him, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.” After that no one dared to ask Him any question. (Mark 12.34)

A Sincere Inquiry

Today’s Gospel (Mark 12.28-34) is our earliest available account of what’s widely regarded as the crystalizing moment in Jesus’s ministry, when He distills the whole of Judaism's labyrinthine edicts and codes by blending two lesser-regarded commandments into a unified Great Commandment: “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” (Deuteronomy 6.4-5) And, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” (Leviticus 19.18) Similar passages also appear in Matthew 22.34-40 and Luke 10.25-27, whose authors source much of their material directly from Mark. Yet of all the Gospels, Mark is the most concerned with Jesus’s credentials as a prophet and teacher, and that directly influences how he positions his account.

Arriving two or three decades after Mark, in the wake of the Early Church’s surging popularity, the other writers emphasize Jesus’s divinity, which automatically puts Him above, and in direct conflict with, Israel’s religious establishment. In contrast, Mark portrays Jesus as a rabbi and miracle worker actively engaged in the Judaic faith community. He sees Jesus as God’s Chosen Son—a radically different concept than Matthew, Luke, and John’s belief that Jesus is God Incarnate—Whom God endows with divine wisdom and power. In Mark, Jesus’s gifts and message put Him at odds with the religious and social norms of His day. Mark says God adopts Jesus (at His baptism) and tasks Him with ushering in the kingdom of God on Earth. And nowhere is this divine calling more prominent than in Mark’s rendition of Jesus’s two-tiered Great Commandment.

While Matthew and Luke depict a confrontation, saying a lawyer taunts Jesus to name the most important commandment, Mark describes a friendlier, more respectful conversation—a sincere inquiry about personal priorities rather than a devious ploy to ensnare Jesus in theological red tape. The lawyer has just overheard Jesus invalidate a ludicrous hypothetical question by indicting its askers’ insufficient knowledge of Scripture and God’s power. Because the proposition involves a sectarian dispute, Jesus avoids taking sides by citing a higher principle that moots the question altogether. His deftness impresses the lawyer, encouraging him to ask Jesus, “Which commandment is the first of all?” (v28)

The Law of the Land

Unlike the absurd test case preceding it, the question has very real and relevant implications for Jesus and the lawyer. It opens the door for Jesus to condense everything He's talked about for three years into a concise imperative. It also reveals the lawyer’s earnest curiosity, which Mark greatly admires, distinguishing his account from Matthew and Luke’s versions. They replace Mark’s polite lawyer—whom he identifies as a scribe, an academic—with a sly legalist and, in the process, diminish the moment as no more significant than any other skirmish in Jesus’s ongoing battle of wits with religious adversaries.

Matthew doctors Christ’s reply in Mark to underscore its legal precedence. After quoting Deuteronomy and Leviticus, Jesus adds, “On these two commandments hang all the Law and Prophets.” (Matthew 22.40) In Luke, Jesus doesn’t reply at all. Instead, He tosses the question back in His challenger’s lap. “What is written in the Law?” He asks. “How do you read it?” (Luke 10.26) The lawyer summarizes the Law. Jesus congratulates him for being wise and answers his follow-up question (“Who is my neighbor?”) with the Good Samaritan story. We’ll never know which account most accurately documents the actual event. In terms of impact and clarity, however, Mark’s stands leagues above the others, because the Great Commandment surpasses legal precedent and ethical ideals. It’s the essence of what God’s kingdom is all about.

Jesus’s reply elicits this response from the scribe: “You are right, Teacher; You have truly said that ‘God is one, and besides God there is no other,’ and ‘to love God with all the heart, and with all the understanding, and with all the strength,’ and ‘to love one’s neighbor as oneself,’—this is much more important than all whole burnt offerings and sacrifices.” (v32-33) Everything comes together in the Great Commandment. Uncompromised love for God is expressed in the consuming passion, constant awareness, and tireless devotion that drive our determination to please God in all we do. This in turn fires our relentless quest to love others with the same fervor and faithfulness we desire for ourselves. Whether or not our neighbors are “lovable” or deserving of love never enters the picture. And here’s why: none of us is lovable through-and-through; we are all vulnerable—and we all frequently succumb—to weaknesses and failures that beg more grace, mercy, and tolerance than we could ever merit. That’s also why nothing displeases God more than our polluting love for one another with conditions and expectations. Such behaviors constitute rebellion against God’s sovereign kingdom, where unconditional love is the law of the land and God alone presides as Supreme Authority and Judge.

Get Close

In the kingdom of God, God defines justice and righteousness. There is no court of appeals, no legislative council to amend or reverse God’s law of love, and no legitimate way to please God without total adherence to the love commandment. Jesus need not explain this to the scribe; his response proves he gets it. He answers wisely, whereupon Jesus declares, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.” Imposing personal opinions and human logic on love redefines it as something other than love. It becomes a reward rather than a gift—a far cry from what God intends our love to be and what God’s love actually is.

If we truly love God as the Great Commandment teaches, with all the heart, understanding, and strength we possess, we regard every chance to love our neighbors as a sacred opportunity to get close to the kingdom of God. Without love for God and one another, every sacrifice we make and all the talents we offer come to naught. First Corinthians 13.2-3 says, “If I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.” Power, knowledge, and possessions lose all value in the absence of love. Living in a hateful world that worships power, knowledge, and materialism should be more than enough to convince us of that.

Note the stinger on Mark’s version: “After that no one dared to ask Him any question.” Love that gets us close to the kingdom of God silences controversy and ends self-aggrandizing debates. With all respect to Luke, once we internalize the Great Commandment we don’t need to ask, “Who is my neighbor?” In God’s kingdom, my neighbor is me. That makes love a decision that decides itself.

All-loving and powerful God, overwhelm our hearts so they ache for Your kingdom. Cleanse us of the false notion that love is a reward given at our discretion. Obsess us with desire to please You by loving one another and then fortify our resolve to satisfy this most sacred desire. Make us wise. Amen.

The Great Commandment surpasses legal precedent and ethical ideals. It’s the essence of what God’s kingdom is all about—the law of the land.

Architect and Engineer

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through Him, and without Him not one thing came into being. (John 1.1-3)

Dead Horse

“Curiosity,” Stephen Hawking's new TV series, would appear ready-made for believers who regard faith and science as two halves of a greater whole. The same can be said of devout atheists, whose faith is science. Odds favor both groups comprising the bulk of the audience for its first episode, “Did God Create the Universe?”—with the remnant split between casually interested, non-religious viewers and Biblical literalists tuning in to be outraged by Hawking's stridently anti-Creationist stance. (Why Big Bang and Darwinian opponents flock where their beliefs are ridiculed is a mystery worthy of its own series.) In his latest book, The Grand Design—which Creationists pummeled soundly—Hawking makes no bones about dismissing belief in God as a medieval superstition. Citing immutable natural laws like gravity and inertia, he concludes there’s no need for a Creator. Ergo, the universe is a cosmic machine naturally endowed with self-perpetuating forces that explain its origins and existence.

Hawking, who naïvely supposes the faith-science relationship hasn’t advanced since Galileo’s discovery of Earth’s orbit brought down the Vatican’s wrath, flogs a dead horse. Parlaying the universe’s origins into a pretense for presuming God isn’t real, he ignores a premise enlightened believers of all creeds intuitively grasp: God and Nature, science’s Big Bang and Scripture’s Dawn of Time, Genesis and Darwin are “yes/and,” not “either/or,” propositions. An enlightened mind can’t dispute Hawking's opinion it’s medieval to reject scientific evidence that the corrects Creation narratives’ factual inaccuracies. Yet putting all one’s eggs in the science basket to disprove faith (which, by definition, can’t be empirically proved), is no less literal and, hence, every bit as medieval.

It’s scientifically reckless of Hawking to negate God’s existence as a self-evident corollary of natural law without first investigating the possibility invisible faith and apparent fact can, and do, coexist. While he needles his moribund is-God-real question, the postmodern world—believers and non-believers alike—wrestles with a much bigger, far more relevant mystery: What is God’s role in our world and lives? For regardless if one perceives God is real, the global population’s overwhelming faith in divine power indubitably plays a supremely significant role in daily life. Simply contemplating God as a phenomenon of faith—an unquantifiable Force of Nature unto Itself—puts just-the-facts-ma’am types like Hawking out of their depth. Yet what is curiosity if not jumping in over one’s head to see what’s there? The most curious aspect of “Curiosity” is Hawking's obvious discomfort with it.

Not One Thing

In a recent Walking in the Shadows post (“Is That Hubris or What?”), Sherry Peyton compares Bible literalists and atheists and finds, “Both agree, that both evolution and God cannot be [compatibly] true. Both, in utter arrogance, choose one side or the other because they, in their superior believing minds, believe that their constructs of God are unquestionably right.” Her frank appraisal leads to a sage reminder that balancing both sides requires humility to confess we can’t possibly nail down answers to all the questions. Conclusive proof of the universe and humanity’s origins ultimately would dispense with any need for faith or science. Believers who mistake Scriptural truth for empirical fact make trusting God’s Word pointless. If it’s all there in black-and-white, why is faith such a big deal? One doesn’t need faith to read newspapers and textbooks; they record objectively verifiable facts. But the Bible purposefully provokes questions and triggers doubts to engender faith; it’s packed with truth we can’t understand without accepting its invitation to believe.

In a similar way, science subscribes to data and observation as a means of constructing theories that provide logical insights into what we can’t comprehend. To borrow from “Curiosity”, while science can define an eclipse’s mechanics, it can’t explain why one occurs because no one knows why or how orbital gravity and inertia exist. That’s my gripe with Hawking's hubris to propose our capacity to quantify and observe Nature’s mechanics obviates the need for a Creator. Knowing with a reliable degree of certainty that immutable natural forces generated our vast universe, planet, and its astonishing diversity of life forms begs the same question the Creation narratives address. All Hawking does is transpose the question from “Where did we come from?” to “Where did the forces of Nature that got us here come from?” He implies they preexist the cosmos and because they’re immutable, they will outlast it.

Hawking and those who agree with him believe this, which fundamentally places them alongside we who believe God preexists and will outlast Creation. Either way, trying to unravel the mystery of existence mandates faith in a Creative Source, which John 1.1-3 majestically declares: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The Word was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through the Word, and without the Word not one thing came into being.” Not one thing came into being without God—not a star, an organism, not one force of Nature. A Creator isn’t needed for the universe to exist? Such logic falls apart by not dismantling God’s role in creating the forces it credits with constructing the cosmos. Why don’t Hawking and his confrères do that? It can’t be done.

Before the Facts

Entitling his refutation of God’s existence and creative role in the universe The Grand Design is Hawking's backhanded slap at proponents of “intelligent design,” the crafty, PC moniker adopted by science-hostile Creationists. It’s a petty gesture befitting both sides of this spat. Creationists and atheists alike expose their folly by reducing God to a day laborer, arguing for and against Genesis’ framing the Creation as a six-day task. Given all we’ve learned since its writing, we know Genesis doesn’t jibe with the facts. But even the ancients realized before the facts that Genesis uses the workweek as an organizing metaphor to depict the sequence in which the universe and life on Earth came to be. Throughout Scripture, Creation’s timeframe isn’t a sticking point; indeed, as we see in John, it’s seldom mentioned, because it’s unimportant.

What matters is exactly what John stresses: God is present at the beginning because God precedes the beginning. The laws of Nature Hawking vests with so much importance are visibly apparent in Genesis. God speaks the Word and they go to work. At God’s command, heavenly bodies reel through space and settle in fixed orbit. The Earth heaves and pitches and solid ground rises from the sea. Life begins in the water, takes to the air, and infests dry land. And, finally, we take shape in God’s own time by God’s own hand, in which the Laws of Nature reside.

Talk about hubris! It takes a lot of gall to confine the immortal God to a mortal timeline. Whether six days or millions of years, they’re a blink of an eye to God. Getting wrapped up in how long Creation took—let alone suggesting that proves or disproves God’s existence—is ridiculous. We don’t measure the Creator’s role by the hour, as if God were a cosmic worker punching a timecard. Because God preexists everything that is, including the forces that caused everything to be, God remains the universe’s Architect and Engineer. What’s more, God is still on the job, because Creation is an ongoing process. God is still speaking and forces are still coming into play and marvelously inexplicable new wonders are still appearing in the skies, on the earth, and in us. Surely we can all agree about that.

Most holy Creator, entice us to discover the gifts of faith and science. Help us to get over our craving to know it all, so we can truly believe You are our Source. Amen.

It makes a whole lot of sense to presume the universe exploded into existence. But it still doesn’t explain whence the forces of Nature that caused the explosion.

God Always Finds a Way

God will not take away a life; He will devise plans so as not to keep an outcast banished forever from His presence. (2 Samuel 14.14)

Objective Clarity

How many times do we hear of family situations that pit one member against another or result in black sheep syndrome and respond with, “I could never do that!”? How often does learning a believer’s been shunned by a faith community prompt us to exclaim, “That’s positively unchristian!”? When we care for one party in a broken relationship, how quickly do we accuse the other of “not trying” and “not understanding”? Objective clarity is a beautiful thing. It views issues through eyes unclouded by emotional uncertainty. It plainly indicates what’s right in principle, ignoring information and circumstances that tend to impede practicing the principle. When dilemmas that appear so clear-cut in theory rear up in real life, they’re never clear. As they say, life gets in the way, and the devil gets in the details. Factors specific to us destroy objectivity, assuring us we’re exceptions to the rule. Principle goes out the window and we muddle along as best we can. We muddle along. More often than not, we muck things up and spend a lot time explaining and apologizing for our behavior.

Principles are God’s guideposts to clarity. Rediscovering them, however, requires imposing objectivity on our situations—never easy and often seemingly impossible. Yet if we don’t divorce ourselves from our problems just long enough to identify principles we must activate, we’re apt to create new problems out of older ones and complicate complications. We need to listen when our hearts and friends urge us to step back and examine our difficulties without prejudice or self-pity. This is what a wise woman enables David to do when a family tragedy puts him at risk of mucking everything up.

Nightmare

David is living a father’s worst nightmare largely of his own making. The gutsy lad with the slingshot has grown into a superstar king intoxicated by his virility. His life is strung with impulsive affairs and marriages that produce dozens of children who never congeal into a single family. While he’s off ruling Israel, going to war, composing odes, and keeping an eye out for his next romantic conquest, the family takes care of itself. The price of his neglect doesn’t come due until his children are grown. Then all Hell breaks loose.

David’s oldest son and heir, Amnon, becomes infatuated with his half-sister, Tamar, and rapes her. The atrocity infuriates David, but he does nothing to avenge her. Scripture doesn’t explain why. As Israel’s king he’s obligated to sentence Amnon to death, the legal penalty for rape. More than a loving father’s reluctance to execute his own son may play into David’s decision, though. The nation is still reeling from his sex scandal—sleeping with Bathsheba and having her husband killed so he can marry her. By law, he too should have paid with his life. Yet God spared David by taking his and Bathsheba’s love child instead. So David’s not in the best position to convict Amnon; what looks like indifference to Tamar’s violation may be a merciful gesture. Then again, his apathy may be plain old denial. Tamar has divulged the rape by shedding her virginal gowns, smearing ashes on her head, wailing inconsolably, and shutting everyone out. One hears whispers from palace courts to farthest provinces: “Like father, like son.” Not dealing with Amnon saves David from revisiting his shame and admitting profound moral issues plague his house.

Whatever causes David not to seek justice for Tamar, loss of perspective prevents him from realizing it’s a most imprudent response—and his nightmare escalates into a full-blown horror. Absalom, Tamar’s full-brother, will not let Amnon go unpunished. His hatred seethes for two years. He takes Amnon to a sheep paddock where he kills the villain. Amnon’s murder devastates David. He’s immobilized for several days, during which Absalom vanishes. Once his grief abates, 2 Samuel 13.39 tells us, “King David longed to go to Absalom.” Yet, as with Tamar’s rape, he does nothing.

Paralysis (as opposed to patience) is a sure sign we’ve lost clarity to discern principles. In David’s case, what should be done is clear to all but him. Absalom needs to be reconciled. Yes, he took the law into his own hands. Had his father dealt with Tamar’s rape as Mosaic Law demands, however, Amnon would have been dead long ago. David can’t extricate himself from the problem to discern that as king, religious prelate, and father, he has higher principles to uphold. He loses two sons and irrevocably wounds a daughter by trying to muddle through.

Changing the Question

Observing David through his subjects’ eyes elucidates why Absalom’s self-imposed banishment raises grave concerns about the king’s fitness to govern. The legendary ruler, conqueror, poet, and (might as well say it) sex symbol bears no resemblance to the indecisive father who longs to reclaim his lost son yet hasn’t the will to act. Joab, David’s nephew and commander of his troops, realizes the king must regain objectivity to rediscover his principles. In a stroke of genius, he sends an incredibly wise provincial woman to beg David’s intervention in a theoretical crisis that’s almost identical to his. She says she’s a widowed mother of two sons, one of whom killed the other. Now the townspeople want to execute the killer, leaving her with no one to perpetuate the family name.

Since David doesn’t know her, he has no reason to doubt her story. He promises to issue an amnesty order to save her son’s life, opening the door for the wise woman to counsel him. “In giving this decision the king convicts himself, inasmuch as the king does not bring his banished one home again… But God will not take away a life; He will devise plans so as not to keep an outcast banished forever from His presence,” she says. (2 Samuel 14.13-14) Her boldness is startling. More than that, her wisdom is stunning. She shakes David from his lethargy by asking, “Why can’t you do for Absalom what you’re doing for my son?” Had she left it at that, she easily could have angered or confused David. Before David can protest her logic, insisting her situation is no comparison to his, she gives him an example he can’t refute. “God finds a way,” she insists—a veiled reminder that God dealt justly with David without destroying him. “How can you not do for your own what God did for you?” she wonders. Changing the question changes David’s perspective. His clarity is restored.

Banish Banishment

The wise woman gives us an invaluable principle to contemplate. How many times have our failures merited banishment? Yet God always finds a way to bring us back. If it takes bending the law, God will do it. If it takes devising a new plan, God will do it. If it means baffling everyone who believes we deserve rejection, God will do it. God’s amazing grace teaches us that impossible as it may seem, there’s always a way to reject rejection and banish banishment. “God will not take away a life; He will devise plans so as not to keep an outcast banished forever from His presence,” the wise woman insists. When we lose clarity, the question isn’t “What should I do?” It’s “What has God done for me?” That gets us to the real question. If God can find a way to reclaim me despite my failures, how can I justify doing less for those who’ve failed me?

Dear Lord, how many times do we find ourselves on the wrong side of right? And yet every time You find a way to bring us back to You. We pray Your help in keeping these moments of reconciliation vivid in memory so that we may find clarity that inspires and instructs when we lose our way. Amen.

If God always finds a way to reclaim us after we’ve failed, how can we justify doing less for those who fail us?