Mirror, Mirror

I have a bad habit of measuring someone's degree of self-centeredness by the number of times they use the word 'I' in normal conversation. As an observational tool, it works pretty well, but improper when used as a method of judgment. It probably stems from teaching junior high school long enough to note that almost any early teen's favorite subject is themselves, and from encouraging them to note the importance of other people in it. It probably also indicates my own weakness in this area and, like former smokers, I react strongly to the smell of second hand sin.

That is one of the reasons David of Israel impresses me so much. 2Samuel 22 and 23 captures his last inspired words, the ones in which he enumerates his achievements as king and, characteristic of a man after God's own heart, he speaks nothing of his own accomplishments. He mentions little about Goliath, or of his own mercy and respect for his predecessor Saul, of his rescue of the ark of the Covenant, or any of his battle victories. He does spend a great deal of time singing the praises of his 37 mighty men. Of himself, he discusses his own sin, specifically that of pridefully counting his people. David remembered this vividly. God punished him harshly for that pride, striking down seventy thousand men with a plague, a punishment that demonstrated his sin by reducing exactly what he had elevated in committing it.

More importantly, though, in these final words, David glorified his God. He finished the story about the census by explaining how God redeemed his sin in that the whole ordeal ended when David purchased the threshing floor that eventually became the site of the new temple. The story David wanted ultimately to tell was not his own. He wanted to tell his God's. David saw little of himself in his mirror. He saw the reflection of God's glory.

The Lord lives! Praise be to my Rock! Exalted be God, the Rock, my Savior!--2Samuel 22:47

Weighing In

We all live with a confounding disconnect between human actions and the results those actions produce. Predators often prosper while saints suffer. We chalk the injustice up to a fallen world and believe that You will eventually make things right, and in the abstract that works for us. When it comes to our own little world, however, uneven scales, even those You promise to level, do not always consent to wait. When our son is sent home from school for a fight he entered to protect his small friend, or our spouse fired when he stood against an unethical business practice, or our neighbor stolen from by the wastrel she took in, Your promise sometimes pales.

And the inequity tangles even more while we try to understand how we are to act in the face of the world's perversion, other people's failures, and our own sin. In short, when I act according to what You have shown me is right, I want to see results that reinforce my actions. When I work, I want reward, when I love, I want to be loved back. But it just doesn't work that way.

You warn me about this when You emphasize the importance of godly character. You gave a promise without specifying times or places, then offered to stand between me and my disappointments, saying, "Do it for me." You tell me to follow You not because anyone to whom I display love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self-control will respond with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, or self-control in return, but because You will respond that way. In fact, You already have.

We are not trying to please men, but God, who tests our hearts. --1 Thessalonians 2:4

Little Death, Big Life

I will not be the first to observe that life is a series of little deaths. I remember once hearing a young woman on a radio program reflecting on her potential choices for a husband. She, like most young women, held a picture of her wedding day in a special place...the white dress, flowers, music, and above all, the smile of her Prince Charming promising happiness evermore. Then she looked around, even between the stars she still held in her eyes, and saw that if she wanted a husband, she would by necessity marry just another sinner. He would hurt her carelessly, he would ignore her unintentionally, he would just mess up. A bit of her dream died that day, and when she finally did marry, every time one of those little hurts came, another bit would die.

In a way, I am glad that this is mankind's common lot. It means that my own disappointments, my own little deaths are not unique to my stumbling life. It also means that life makes more sense in the context of the cross. You died, too. You died in little halting bits like we do, then in one incomprehensibly grand bit, right at the end. And they hurt You, too. You, however, did several things I cannot. First, and most importantly, Your death threw open a door to life, a life you demonstrated almost immediately by walking out of your grave. You also explained it all on the cross. Yes, you did, and I almost missed it. You told me and everyone listening exactly what You were doing.

In fact, you shouted it--"My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?" This was not a cry of desperation or abandonment like so many Christian commentators have posed. They all got it wrong. Of course they were never young Jews who hung their hopes on the Old Testament. If they had been Jews, like the crowd that surrounded You that day, they would have immediately recognized your words as the plea they had already learned by heart, the plea we know from the first line of Psalm 22, the sweet song of desperation, of little deaths, that became salvation.

In saying "My God, my God," you cemented forever in their minds the connection between what You were doing and its ultimate purpose. You did not have to say it the rest. They already knew it:

He has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one... before those who fear you I will fulfill my vows... All the ends of the earth will remember and turn to the Lord and all the families of the nations will bow down before him--those who cannot keep themselves alive...They will proclaim His righteousness to a people yet unborn--for He has done it. --Psalm 22: 24, 27, 29, 31

Oh, we will have the little deaths and they will still hurt. But You went from Calvary to sit in heaven, and we will, too. This is hard to remember during the dying, but You did, and said so. Then You punctuated it with Your final assurance: "It is finished."

Fruit of my Knees

This, then, is how we know we belong to the truth, and how we set our hearts at rest in His presence whenever our hearts condemn us. For God is greater than our hearts, and He knows everything.--1 John 3:19-20

Part of the life I am called to before You insists upon humility and repentance. I must be constantly aware of my own sin and failure so that You can share Your life with me. But you are calling me to humility, not defeat. There is a big difference.

Humility brings me to my knees, confessing and understanding again how I sin, and why, and how to find enough courage and honesty to admit it fully. The repentance that must follow comes as a not only required, but natural, outflow of my acknowledgement of sin and love for You. I have done an evil thing before You, but You want so much to see me restored, that You climbed up on the cross and died. Now, having done that, You stretch out constant arms to welcome me home. That's the difference. Humility and repentance come to fruit in the lonely dark, but their world turns ever toward dawn.

Not so with condemnation. When the recognition of sin is followed by "I'm irrevocably stupid," or "I'll never get this right," or "You have forgotten me," or "I give up," then something else is at work. In the times that dark follows dark and the hammer comes down so hard that I think that I not only will die, but should, then I have forgotten You. You have promised a way out, always. You give me or allow in my life exactly what I need to achieve godliness, either for myself or for someone else, always.

I do not need to worry about this. I do need, however to monitor my repenting thoughts. I must condemn my sin and the author of it, whether it be the enemy of my soul, or my own flesh. A sweet little one told me once about one of his favorite movies and how, in it, the character exclaimed that God is "bigger than the boogie man." Whether our boogie man is another man who tempts us to evil, or spiritual devilry, or our own desire, You are always bigger.

You do not condemn those who love You. You save them. The fruit of our knees comes as a saving light right from You.

Location, location

Everyone who hears my words and acts on them is like a wise man who built his house on a rock. The rains came and the wind blew and it did not fall. But he who hears my words and does not act on them is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rains came and the wind blew and it fell with a crash. --Matthew 7: 24-28

Nobody wants their house to fall down around them, so Jesus, as He drew His Sermon on the Mount to a close, said essentially 'Build it on me.' He'd already been talking to them for a good long time and these were the last recorded words He said that day. Their position as final thoughts makes them important as a summary, but also begs the question as to exactly what they summarize.

I learned a long time ago that I have to take Scripture as a whole--examining passages individually for their finer points, but looking at them in context to see their larger application. So, closeup first. Jesus is saying that only when we not only hear, but live by what He teaches will our lives stand the test that are sure to come. I like that. Nice and simple.

But what teachings does this example summarize? Let's see--the sermon starts in chapter 5 with the beatitudes.

Blessed are the poor in spirit...Blessed are they those who mourn...Blessed are the meek...Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness...Blessed are the merciful...Blessed are the pure in heart...Blessed are those who are persecuted...

Jesus outlines the progression of His followers' lives, from understanding of sin, to mourning over it, to submission to His will, to a transformed life, and finally the privilege of suffering for Him. Then He moves on to say that His followers, the ones He just described in the beatitudes, are to be lights in the world, people who do more than just obey the written law. He expects those who say they love Him to go beyond what church leaders have both taught and exampled.

The next passages define what that extra effort looks like. Jesus expects His followers to go to lengths to make peace with enemies, to remain pure of heart, mind and body, to live in harmony and with commitment, to always tell the whole truth without hedging, to reach out to everyone with kindness and compassion, to be as perfectly human as He is perfectly God, to give generously, to pray with Him rather than the world in mind, and to fast only unto Him.

If we are able to do these things, we will also automatically do more. We will be storing up treasures in heaven and will live without succumbing to worry, not unduly judging others. He warns us that this will not be easy, that the this road is narrow and populated by wolves and robbers. Then comes the bit about the house on the rock.

You see what I mean? Jesus used the last image of the house because a house is where we put all our stuff and spend much of our time. We come home for refuge and for rest. In the whole first part of His sermon, He detailed what we should be storing in our cupboards and tucking under our bed. He wants us to hang generosity on the wall and light the candle of kindness. This house is not to be built with lip service. Every piece must come from the catalog He outlines beginning in chapter 5.

I once knew of a couple who spent every spare penny buying a house that they couldn't afford to paint once they moved in. That cannot happen with the house of our lives. Jesus did not subscribe to the realtors' old saying, "Location, location, location." His house is not built from the outside, but from the inside.

Create in Me

I have a wonderful Jewish Old Testament called the Stone Tanach that I like to read to bring an immediacy to the ancient stories that my Christian Bible sometimes lacks. For instance, it quickens creation by personifying God: "And God called to the light, "Day" and to the darkness, He called "Night". I can hear the very voice of God in those words and it brings a fluttering rush that makes me wish I were there to see it.

Of course, this book is also written by men with prejudice and interpretation and, while they stop short of changing the words, sometimes paint with broad strokes in their interpretation. This morning, I was reading about David. Like Moses and Abraham, David is revered by the Jews. I don't blame them. David, a man after God's heart, is everything I would like to be. He is passionate, loyal, brave, humble, joyful, loving, and more. He also brings an honesty and brokenness that never leaves the shepherd he once was completely behind. A good guy. Not a perfect guy, but a good one. Unfortunately, the Jewish interpreter who wrote the footnotes revered him a bit too much.

This morning, David was hanging around on his rooftop and spotted Bathsheba, the wife of one of his commanders, next door taking a bath. In that moment, David liked being the king. He called for her and slept with her, then later learned she was pregnant. With her husband at the battle front, that left him in a pickle, so he called her husband back, tried to get him to sleep with his wife so the child could be presented as his own and when that didn't work, put him in harm's way so that he was killed.

All of this looks pretty despicable to you and I, but not to the Jewish interpreter. Evidently, Jewish law allowed David to do pretty much everything he did. Bathsheba was not technically married because commanders routinely gave their wives divorce papers before they left for war so that they would be free to remarry right away if the men went missing in action. Also, well, David was the king, and when it came to women, it was good to be the king. He had a right to Bathsheba. In addition, when David told Bathsheba's husband to go home and sleep with his wife and he refused, he was guilty of insubordination and deserved death.

Not a bad deal. Technically, David had a proper reason to do everything he did. But he knew better. Technicality notwithstanding, David knew he did wrong in God's eyes, even if he had squeaked by before men. This is what makes him a man after God's heart. Squeaking by would not do for David because God does not accept it. God looks at actions, but does not stop there. He is not pleased when we do the right thing for the wrong reasons.

So, in the end, I admire David for his bravery, for his tenderness, for his faithfulness and joyful praise, but I remember him most for his honest repentance. The wrong we do presents a greater danger, and reveals a more ruthless enemy, than any other battle. Real courage is looking our own sins square in the face and calling them exactly what they are. Thank you, David, for your example.

For I know my transgressions, and my sin is always before me. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight...Create in me a pure heart, Oh God, and renew a steadfast spirit in me." Psalm 51:3,4,10

Beyond the Math

You were so darned human. As I strain hard to touch Your divinity, I keep getting derailed by Your flesh and blood. Because my own humanity does not, in fact cannot, exist alongside perfect holiness, I just find Yours so hard to comprehend. My entire human experience reinforces a simple principle:

Humanity = Sin
God = No Sin

Yet You lived as both God and Man. Clearly, I am missing something.

I know You were human less because You walked and talked and bled than by what You felt. You knew compassion, sadness, hurt, joy, loneliness. Animals and insects bleed, but they do not know love. You did. And a long time ago, when You lifted a handful of dirt and breathed Yourself into it, You shared Your ability to experience more than pulse and muscle movement. You gave us a part of Yourself.

Emotion is important not because of itself, the shedding of tears or the unexpected smile, but because of its source. The God who walked with Adam in the cool of the day was not flesh and blood, but Adam knew His presence by the awareness it produced in him. You were that God then, You were that God on Calvary, and You still are.

You do not walk in the cool of my day, but You lend me the parts of Yourself I recognize, all the loving and all the compassion and all the longing. I reach out and risk to feel because You did, and You take my hand in the process. Your humanity is not like mine, but You use it to make me a way.

Son of God = Son of Man

Oh Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing.--Matthew 23:37