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Category: Bible

“Hosanna!”: The presidential election, terrorism, and the state of the world

Last Saturday in Arizona, protesters tried to silence a presidential candidate while supporters retaliated with fisticuffs.

Hours later, on Palm Sunday, Christians commemorated Jesus’s kingly entrance into Jerusalem.

The next day, in Brussels, terrorist attacks killed over 30 people and injured at least 200 more.

This year has been that kind of surreal.

The elections, the unrest, the terror—all of this craziness makes me feel overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and afraid.

I can’t quite describe my feelings, but they include anger, horror, frustration, numbness, bewilderment and more, depending on what’s in the news each day.

I am distressed and heartbroken over the terrorism, crying out to God for the victims. But I can’t stop it. So I focus on something closer to home: election year, and how our next president might respond to terrorism and all of the other problems facing us, both here and abroad.

uncertainty-aheadYet it unnerves me to think who We, the people may choose as our next president. I am so un-thrilled by the choices that if I had to vote today, I couldn’t, even while holding my nose. I simply cannot shake the feeling that we are preparing to elect a dictator—because that’s what we seem to want.

I say this because I see a trend of feverish devotion, with several candidates being exalted to nearly messianic status. I understand that in a democratic republic, researching the candidates and trying to support the best one is a good thing. But where is the line between “support” and “worship”?

I’m not sure, but I think we border on worship when we defend our candidates by…

-shouting down or cold-cocking the opposition.

-attacking other candidates’ shortcomings while giving our own candidate a pass for the same offenses.

-name-calling and bullying anyone who dares to question our candidate.

-insisting that our candidate is the only one who has the answers.

All of these could fit the definition of “worship.”

It’s funny how history repeats itself.

In 2008 we elected a president based on a promise of “hope and change”—yet the world is still divided, hate-filled, and violent. Now we are preparing to elect one based on promises of “revolution” or “national greatness.” More and more these days, we seem to believe that the right person will be able to solve everything, and ring in utopia. Yet in truth, any president is lucky to fulfill maybe five percent, at most, of everything promised on the campaign trail (because our laws clearly define what a president can and cannot do—thank goodness for the Constitution’s “division of powers”!). In fact, no matter how great their desire, vision, and ability, none of these leaders will ever be able to save us—as a nation, or as individuals.

It has never happened, and it never will. 

Well, except once.

Jesus arrived in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, things were much the same as they are today. Then, as now, people felt a sense of political unrest and unhappiness with the government (and it was a government of brutal Roman occupiers, not their own self-government). Then, as now, many of Jesus’s followers were seeking a social revolution instead of a spiritual one. Then, as now, they despaired when their leader didn’t do what they wanted. And then, as now, people feared forces beyond their control and longed for a messiah to deliver them.

Yet Jesus came in riding into town not on a white steed, like a military hero, but on a humble donkey.

Palm%20Sunday_jpgAnd crowds of Jews spread palm branches before him and cried, “Hosanna!”—a rich, ancient word that we now use only on Palm Sunday. But I’m thinking we should revive it, because its meaning is, “Lord, save us!” (Psalm 118:25)—an urgent and desperate cry for deliverance.

The people were quoting this word from the Psalms. They weren’t welcoming Jesus into their city; they were pleading for divine rescue—as at Passover when God rescued their ancestors from slavery in Egypt, and as at Calvary when he rescued humanity from sin. No one knew it yet, but Jesus was coming to completely and finally answer the cries of “Hosanna.” He was coming to rescue us all.

Ironically, those cries for rescue would be answered just days later, after these same crowds turned on Jesus and demanded his death—the very death which would save the world.

If only they had known.

And now, during this holy Passion Week, we need saving more than ever. We see Americans attacking one another, a capital city recovering from fatal bombings, and a world possibly inching closer to the next great war.

None of this is exactly new (we’ve seen it all before), but it still feels so chaotic, so desperate, so uncertain. I simply do not have answers—nor, despite the politicians’ promises, does anyone else.

I’ve lived long enough to realize that we will never be rescued by anyone on the ballot.

And at that realization, my spirit cries, “Hosanna! Lord, save us!”

Only one Messiah has sacrificed himself for us, instead of for his own political ends. Only one Messiah possesses all of the power, authority, and credentials required to save us.

There is only one Savior.

And he is not currently running for President.

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Paralyzed by perfectionism

In January, I set a goal to complete a rough draft of my next manuscript this year. For the last six months the subject has been rolling around in my head, and for the last two, I have been itching to get the project underway. The words are dancing on my fingertips, hovering over my keyboard. I feel emotionally and spiritually ready to tackle the topic that represents the next chapter of my life. Everything seems ready to go.

writers-blockBut I just can’t bring myself to actually start. Every morning for the last eight weeks, I’ve vowed, “Today’s the day.” But by late afternoon, with no progress made, that vow becomes, “Tomorrow’s the day” – followed by an evening of more distractions and other business – and the next day the whole cycle repeats.

So far, it’s been a frustrating year.

Initially, I thought my problem was procrastination: even with my task immediately before me, I kept finding excuses to do other things. But as the days trudge on, I am starting to think the problem goes much deeper than that.

In reality, I want to get started. I want to immerse myself into the subject matter, to get into the zone for an entire afternoon. I try to will the words to start flowing through my fingers and onto my blank screen – but with each passing day that the word count doesn’t grow, I get crabbier.

The heart is definitely willing. Yet whenever I open the file on my computer, I feel frozen. By what, I am not certain, but it is enough to block the ideas. I get so frustrated that I want to run away.

Finally I shared my struggle with a friend in my home community. Immediately she said she was familiar with the problem – and for her, paralysis was caused by perfectionism.

That resonated with me.

perfectionist-imagePerfectionism is that god-awful affliction which stifles innovation and strangles creativity. It’s stealthy: we seldom recognize it as the root problem, instead blaming our paralysis on everything else. It’s clever, trapping us with fear and pride: fear because we might fail; pride because we’re too proud to take that risk.

We fear we won’t do it right. We fear our efforts will be rejected, mocked, or brutally criticized by others, and our egos will be irreparably damaged. So we freeze.

In my case, I have subconsciously refused to budge until I can guarantee my magnum opus on the very first try. That is a tall order for even the best writers. No one gets it right the first time. So, because I can’t guarantee perfection, my fingers won’t move.

It is in this perfection-based paralysis that I currently dwell. Yet now that I know why it’s there, exactly how do I overcome it?

In the paralysis itself, I find the answer: Turn the stillness to advantage. Don’t despise the dead air; embrace it.

Dwelling in silence, especially with God, can be one of the most meaningful experiences we can have. The psalmist says: “Be and still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). This imperative conflicts with the very essence of American culture. We push goals. We reward achievements. We exalt  “busy-ness” to the point of burnout.

But the psalmist declares otherwise. Intimacy with God comes not through activity, but through stillness. It is in the silence—even paralyzing silence—that the still small voice often speaks. It is at this point that I must become aware enough to set aside my agenda for God’s. Perhaps he wants me to meditate more deeply on a scripture passage I am reading. Perhaps he has a more significant use of my time than writing the next great tome, or whatever my other goals are. Maybe there is something he wants to say to me.

perphictIn my case, God appears to be homing in on my idol of perfectionism. Instead of typing my first chapter, suddenly I am facing questions far more important in God’s eyes: why is perfectionism so important to me? How can I possibly think I could achieve perfection to begin with? Is this project for my own glory or for God’s?

Whenever I am stuck in paralyzing silence, I can learn to see it not as a failure, but as an opportunity. An opportunity to check my heart, and listen.

When God chooses to unblock the dam, he will—probably in a way I could never imagine. But for now, in the dead silence and writer’s block, I will listen.

The words at the edge of my fingertips will come soon enough.

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Breaking a hard heart

Recently my church offered a time of prayer for healing. As I waited for my wife, who was praying for someone, an elder approached me and asked if I myself needed prayer.

I thought I didn’t, but my heart knew. Immediately I said yes, and when I was asked what to pray for, the words rushed out: “My hardened heart.”

05-19-2011I realized just how badly my hard heart did need healing prayer. After a wonderful advent season, as 2016 began I had started to feel deluged by political speeches, social media debates, and “awareness” campaigns over injustices about which I can do little, except worry over how little I can do. At such times, my old patterns of cynicism, sarcasm, and apathy tend to start sneaking back into my heart. After all, my flawed logic assumes, if I act superior or uncaring, then all of the bad things can’t bother me.

But this assumption is not true; those things still do bother me. And so my heart unconsciously hardens. I build a wall against the world—a defense against watching humanity make one bad choice after another, with evil flooding in wherever goodness seems weak or absent. At times I‘ve tried to deflect my feelings with humor, but sometimes that can offend people too. So withdrawal and apathy seem to provide better protection from the overwhelming feeling that the world is spinning out of control.

I begin to see myself as a detached, objective observer, sitting above other humans and mocking them as idiotic Neanderthals. However, my passion and emotion always seem to slip out as sarcasm, passive-aggressive put-downs, and biting comments. Though I try to stuff it inside, I seethe until I reach a boiling point. Then, I launch.

Unfortunately, the sinful choice to withdraw and harden my heart has serious side effects. The heart, as strong as we think it is, cannot completely close itself off from others. It cannot create an unbreachable wall. We angrily try to make sure no more pain gets in, but we cannot prevent our own corrosive bitterness and aggression from leaking out.

I’m guessing this is not God’s intended modus operandi for Christ-followers.

After all, when Jesus approached Jerusalem for the final time, scripture says that he “wept over it and said, ‘If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace—but now it is hidden from your eyes’” (Luke 19:41-42, NIV).

What brought on Jesus’s deep, unexpected emotion?

Simply put, his heart broke for the people.

In Jerusalem at that time, the Jews were hard-pressed on every side – taxed, abused, and marginalized in their own land by Roman occupiers. Seeking freedom from Rome, some Jews—one could even call them terrorists—issued stealth attacks against both the Roman oppressors and their Jewish collaborators. The city was in great turmoil and unrest.

But that wasn’t all. In addition to external oppression from Rome, the Jews also faced internal oppression from their own spiritual leaders, who had created a huge body of religious regulations governing every detail of life. Breaking just one small rule, intentionally or not, could lead to serious consequences and penalties – so everyone lived in constant worry and fear, trying to follow all of the rules. In about forty years, Jerusalem would be razed and its temple destroyed. And within a week, Jesus’s own fellow Jews, who would at first praise him as their king, would turn on him and kill him.

Yet his heart broke for them.

Me? Most of the time, I just want to shake my head in disgust and brush the dust from my shoes as I desperately seek a saner, less stressful life. “The world is going to hell in a hand basket,” I say to myself from my lofty perch. “Screw it. Let them. World, meet sin. Good luck. I will have no part of it.”

pulling stone heartBut I’m pretty sure my response is not the right one. I don’t need a tough, hard heart. I need a broken one—one that weeps for my city, my country, my world. A hardened heart wants to fight; a broken heart wants to heal. A hardened heart is selfish and stands apart to judge; a broken heart is selfless and jumps in to help.

So how can a hard heart be softened – or, better yet, broken?

Once I understood the process my heart took to become rock-hard, I realized that I cannot soften it through will-power. That’s what prayer is for. Only prayer and repentance can undo the damage.

In the last year, some political and spiritual leaders – even some Christian ones – have implied that praying is basically doing nothing. But these skeptics are blinded to the supernatural power found in prayer.

Prayer acknowledges our helplessness. It is a concession that despite all of our supposed knowledge, we cannot fix our problems but can only present them to a good and holy God and ask for his help.

Prayer includes our confession. It is an admission that we are—I am—responsible for breaking this world, which God created as good, and it forces us to see things through God’s eyes instead of our own.

Prayer restores our unity. It is an affirmation that I am not apart from the world God created; instead I am involved in it, both as part of the problem and as a living reflection of grace. And I definitely can’t reflect grace if my heart is hard.

Every heart must be broken. God can get us there in infinite ways—some very forceful and painful. However, having experienced some of those other ways, I do not recommend them. I think prayer is God’s preferred method.

Because becoming like Jesus requires that our hearts break over the world, seeing it the way he saw Jerusalem.

This is the world he died for.

This is the world he loves.

This is the world he invites me to love as he loves.

And that invitation to love starts with prayer.

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Walking through the valley of terror … then and now

2005 Paris-England 159
The Eiffel Tower. Photo by Daniel Hochhalter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The last—and only—time I visited Paris was in the summer of 2005.

I was studying in England over the summer, and had taken the Eurostar to Paris to meet my wife and sister-in-law for a wonderful couple of weeks exploring Paris, Normandy, Mont Saint Michel, and the Loire Valley. We had a glorious time—a dream vacation.

On July 7, I dropped off my family at Charles de Gaulle airport, then returned to Paris and boarded the Eurostar to go back to England.

But during the train’s stop at Calais—the last town before crossing into England—the doors opened and the PA system announced an unexpected delay, followed by the strange recommendation that everyone deboard and be transported back to Paris, free of charge. The announcer gave no explanation, nor any estimation of the length of the delay.

That was odd, but I didn’t think much of it. Since I didn’t know what was happening and didn’t speak a lick of French, I decided not to return to Paris but to stay on the train and wait it out.

The delay lasted about forty-five minutes; then the doors closed and the train headed under the English Channel.

However, when we reached Ashford on the British side, again the train stopped and the doors opened. This time there was another train next to us, pointing back toward France. The PA system announced another delay, along with an even stronger recommendation that we should board the train beside us and return to Paris.

Something was happening in London.

At this point, cell phones started going off and conversations became hushed. Straining to overhear, I gathered that there was an emergency of some sort. London had suffered an explosion, or a series of explosions. Initially, it sounded like a power transformer problem or something like that. I desperately hoped it was—but I suspected it was not, because why would a power failure warrant a recommendation to return to Paris?

A silent fear crept through me. My body constricted and my throat grew dry as I researched my maps of London, trying to find the various locations I heard people mentioning. I felt some relief as I concluded that these locations did not seem to be near my intended destinations: Waterloo and then Euston Station.

But I was wrong. When the train pulled into London, crowds had gathered to watch TV broadcasts showing an unraveling situation. Three bombs had gone off in different areas of the Tube—London’s subway system—and a fourth on a double-decker bus; terrorism was suspected.

I was standing just a couple of miles from where these bombs had detonated.

At the ticket counter, I asked about rescheduling my ticket out of Euston Station since the delays had caused me to miss my connecting train. The ticket agent replied bluntly, “Euston is closed.” Euston was just three blocks from where the bus bomb had gone off.

Now I understood the effects of terrorism first hand: the unsettling fear that perhaps the attacks were not over; the determination to remain stoic on the outside while reeling on the inside; the inability to wrap one’s mind around what is happening; the growing confusion and panic over not knowing what to do next.

Everything was shut down. The only sound seemed to be the screaming sirens of emergency vehicles. I thought I would be stranded in a foreign city with no place to go. Worse, the authorities believed more attacks could be planned.

In an instant, all plans went up in flames. I could only explore my next step; it was impossible to look any further.

The ticket agent gave me a new itinerary that would take me through various locations and eventually to Birmingham—only about 90 miles away—while reminding me things could change any minute as events unraveled around the city. I was okay with that—just taking one thing at a time. That was all I could do.

Eventually I completed my twisted path back Birmingham—late, tired, and greatly relieved.

But the tension continued. The next day, I went into the city centre for supplies. When I returned to my room, an email from the U.S. was waiting for me, asking if I was okay. It turned out the city centre had just been evacuated due to a suspicious package on a bus. It turned out to be nothing, but the uncertainty was nerve-wracking and illustrated how much I, and everyone else, was on edge. Nerves were frayed.

2005 Paris-England 1376
The entrance to the Russell Square Tube, closed due to the bombing investigation. I was staying at the Russell Square Hotel, the darkest building on the far left.
2005 Paris-England 1377
The impromptu memorial in Russell Square, across from my hotel. The second (failed) attack occurred the day before this photo was taken. DH

Then, two weeks later, I was in London, staying in a hotel over the Russell Street entrance to the Tube, near where one of the bombs had gone off. The entrance was still closed due to the ongoing investigation. An impromptu memorial was set up in the square across the street. And just as things seemed to be getting back to normal, terrorists attempted to detonate more bombs. Thankfully, all of the detonators failed. But the true damage of terrorism was done: everyone believed another attack was imminent. Life had changed. This was the new normal: navigating life as best we could, while trying to keep our unsettling fears in check.

When the events unfolded in Paris last Friday, I found myself once again deeply engaged as new and scattered details emerged on the television screen. I felt the same fear I had felt in 2005—the uncertainty, the sorrow, the horror. The mostly blank expressions of Parisians, trying to hide their shock while exiting the stadium or standing on the sidewalks, seemed very familiar. Hearing the TV news anchors report sketchy details of yet another attack touched a raw, horrifying uncertainty that I had buried beneath ten years of “normal” life. I relived the feelings of those living in a city under attack – walking through train stations and wondering what to do, as sirens wailed past in the streets.

During that time I wished for normalcy, but instead I had to will myself to live each abnormal day as normally as I could.

Life is beyond our control; we must function on bits and pieces of information without knowing the whole story. And evil does exist. I don’t pretend to understand the complexities of cultures or current events, but last Friday I saw evil on my TV screen—and though I was thousands of miles away, I clung to Jesus as if I were back in London, living through old emotions from long ago.

Psalm23

At such times I do feel like a sheep, hearing the growls of a predator just beyond the reaches of darkness. I cannot see him but I know he sees me. I am helpless; I am frightened. I don’t know exactly who the predator is, or why I am being targeted. At this moment, I just want to run to my Shepherd and stand as close to him as possible.

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Is Daniel an exception to the “loser” rule?

It was a great question from someone on Facebook.

In my book, Losers Like Us, I illustrated how – excluding Jesus – everyone in the Bible had faults and sins just like ours, and therefore they were all losers like us.

Then came that Facebook question: What about Daniel? Was he an exception?

I had to think about that one.

Daniel_in_the_lions_den_by_Wincent_Leopold_SlendzinskiThe book of Daniel is set during Israel’s captivity in Babylon (in the 500s BC)—yet it mentions elements of Greek culture which did not exist at that time, and it is written partly in Hebrew and partly in Aramaic (a later language). For these and other reasons, many scholars believe that someone else wrote Daniel’s story long after his death, just as Moses wrote the patriarchs’ stories long after their deaths. Also, some scholars believe Daniel was not a real person and the book of Daniel is just an allegory which was written to encourage the Jews, perhaps during the oppressive reign of Antiochus Epiphanes IV (about 165 BC).

I can’t say exactly when or by whom the book was written, but I do believe Daniel was a real person because Jesus calls him “the prophet Daniel” (Matthew 24:15).

From the beginning, Scripture presents Daniel as a man of great character, and never accuses him of a single flaw. As a captive in Babylon, he walks a fine line: with great humility he submits to his captors, yet with great courage he refuses to obey their pagan demands. When Darius, the Babylonian king, decrees that those who pray to anyone other than him will be fed to the lions (Daniel 6:7-9), Daniel continues praying to Yahweh every day, in front of his window, just as he always has (a respectful “neener neener”). His trust in God is complete. And when he is thrown to the lions, God shuts their mouths (Daniel 6:22) to save his life.

With a bio like that, it’s hard to find fault with Daniel. So the question about whether he still qualifies as a loser gave me pause.

Yet I conclude that, yes, Daniel was a loser. I say this not because I feel superior to, or critical of, Daniel – but because he was human, and therefore a loser in the sense of being a sinner. Thus he is not an exception to the rule.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog (2015/06/17), “Can we be sinners but not losers?”, only Jesus lived a sinless life; all the rest of us, including Daniel, have been sinners and therefore losers. And as long as we live on this earth, sin is with us even though we have received grace and salvation (I John 1:5-10).

But there is another, more personal indication that Daniel was a sinner / loser: his response to the presence of holiness.

In Daniel 10, a man appears before Daniel. But this is no ordinary man. This man is ablaze with fire, shining like polished brass or bronze (v. 5)—just like the man seen by Ezekiel (Ezekiel 1:27) and John (Revelation 1:13-17). John identifies this man as the risen Christ (Revelation 1:11, 13, 17).

Yet Daniel, Ezekiel, and John all respond to this man in the same way: they fall to the ground (Dan. 10:9, Ezekiel 1:28, Rev. 1:17).

Why?

Because unholiness cannot coexist with holiness – just as darkness cannot coexist with light. In the presence of God’s perfect holiness, I believe Daniel falls to the ground because of his own sins and impurities, even though they are not specified by name.

Yet Daniel lived a life full of faith and power, whether he was defying a maniacal king or facing down a den of hungry lions. He was both a sinner and a saint—at the same time.

All of us, including Daniel, are sinners and therefore losers. Only when we acknowledge our guilt and brokenness can we begin to understand the healing power and significance of grace.

As the life of Daniel shows us, following Jesus is not about totally conquering all imperfection, all of the time; instead, it is about surrendering our imperfection to God, while he builds his kingdom in the middle of it.

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The New American Pharisee

When we think of a modern-day Pharisee, most of us immediately think of a stereotypical “us vs. them, holier-than-thou” legalist, pointing a judgmental finger at others and trying to force his or her narrow religious views on all of society. But lately I see a new kind of Pharisees emerging within the body of Christ, and though their fingers point back at that stereotype, they are every bit as judgmental.

Recently I saw a disturbing Facebook exchange about the scandal involving AshleyMadison.com (tagline: “Life is short. Have an affair”). Sadly, the breach of this hookup website for married people exposed many subscribers who were Christians—even well-known pastors and other spiritual leaders.

Yet the Facebook posts which so bothered me contained not sadness but celebration. One poster crowed, “Folks: Evangelical celebrities are bankrupt…how many more examples do we need?” Another expressed his disdain for a famous preacher, and his hopes that this preacher also would be on the list of exposed subscribers.

I was horrified by the vitriolic glee of these self-identified Christians over the downfall of other Christians. These posters not only rejoiced over those who had fallen; they even hoped more would fall. (Note that I am not saying everyone should just “forgive and forget” about sin, nor am I saying we should sweep it under the rug to protect Jesus’ name from further scandal. Instead, I believe in a church-led healing process of reconciliation, accountability, and restoration. And I believe this healing process is exactly that—a process.)

Yet there was more to come.

Days later, I came across a social media video in which several young adults each proclaim, “I’m a Christian, but I’m not…” and then they fill in the blank with such words as: a hypocrite; homophobic; uneducated; judgmental; closed-minded; unaccepting.

Newpharisee2One person says that just because Christians subscribe to “a faith that has terrible people in it, does not mean that we’re all terrible.” Another adds, “A lot of people think Christianity ruins people, but to me, I think it’s people that are ruining Christianity. You never really see the good that happens; you only see the hypocrites that put themselves on a higher pedestal.” A third claims that he is not perfect—with two underlying implications: first, that he thinks some “other” Christians believe they are perfect; and second, conversely, that he expects them to be. In other words, even though he himself makes mistakes, those “other” Christians had better not make any—especially not the mistake of being judgmental, according to his own judgment.

None of these people seem to see that putting themselves “on a higher pedestal,” which they denounce in others, is exactly what they are doing.

The people in the video, along with the Facebook gloaters, sound an awful lot like a new American version of the Pharisee in Jesus’s parable (Luke 18:9-14, NIV), who prayed: “God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector.” But Jesus condemned that prayer, and praised instead the prayer of the tax collector—the lowest, most despised rung of Jewish society: “God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Origins of Jewish Pharisaism

In the Gospels, Jesus clearly condemns the Pharisees; yet originally, their movement had noble roots.

After centuries of sin and idolatry, the Jews fell under God’s judgment and, as a result, were conquered and carried away in exile. Decades later, when they finally returned to their homeland, they understood at a deep level that the exile had been their own fault, brought on by their disregard of God and his commandments. So, to prevent a repeat of that hard lesson, they vowed absolute obedience to the Law of Moses.

Sounds great, right? But then they went further. To be sure they didn’t disobey the Law, they began to create “buffer” rules—a kind of padding around the Law to make sure no one came even close to breaking it. For example, the Law of Moses forbade work on the Sabbath, so the Pharisees’ new rules spelled out things like exactly which tasks people could do, or even how far they could walk, on the Sabbath before work was being done. Anyone breaking these “buffer” rules was censured before they could break the Law itself.

In this way, the Pharisees became protectors and arbiters of both the Law and the new rules, trying to make sure everyone toed the line so the Jews would never again experience God’s punishment.

But all of these new rules were extremely intricate and hard to understand, or even to remember, much less to obey. So the Pharisees worked very hard at trying to track and follow them all. In fact, they tried so hard to stay pure and holy that eventually they came to see themselves as spiritually superior to everyone else. They became so proud of their own hard-won “righteousness” that by the time Jesus came, he had to directly challenge their arrogant, legalistic ways.

A brief history of American Pharisaism

A couple of thousand years later, on the other side of the world from the original Pharisees, a small group of Christians fled religious persecution in Europe to establish Christian colonies in the New World—but in the area of Salem, Massachusetts, some of those colonists soon began executing others on the mere suspicion of witchcraft. The persecuted had become the persecutors. Even the passing of two millenia and the crossing of an ocean couldn’t root out pharisaism.

In the early twentieth century, many American Christians believed liberal modernism was infiltrating the church, diluting Scripture and diverting attention from the person and work of Jesus. In response to this threat, a group of theologians wrote The Fundamentals: A Testimony to the Truth—a multi-volume series of essays which spelled out Christian beliefs and their differences from the beliefs of the surrounding culture. This movement came to be called fundamentalism. But eventually it splintered into factions, each one claiming to have the only true doctrine—pharisaism at its best.

In the mid-twentieth century, discomfort with fundamentalist separatism gave rise to evangelicalism, which tried to maintain a Christian identity while engaging the secular culture instead of avoiding or condemning it—but again, in some ways, traces of pharisaism crept in. Then, in response to the free-wheeling 1960s-70s, the 1980s-90s birthed Christian moralism. Like every other attempt to define and protect true Christian belief and practice, this movement was not necessarily wrong in itself—yet like all the others, it contained pharisaical pitfalls.

 The new American Pharisee

And now, as mentioned above, a new American Pharisee is emerging. I believe that those in this group, like their predecessors, sincerely desire to obey God’s commandments to “love the Lord your God…” and “…love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:30-31, NIV).

Still, though it seems nearly impossible to bring legalism into this commandment, these new Pharisees found a way to do so. Like every human, they too fall into the “us vs. them, holier-than-thou” trap. By claiming not to be judgmental, they judge those “other” believers who they think are – especially believers whose convictions are “unhip” and countercultural, even though Jesus himself was countercultural.

And if one of those “other” believers is caught in sin, they symbolically stone him or her—in order to prove to the world that they are, in fact, loving Christians.

Jesus’s solution

Let’s be honest: we are all Pharisees in one way or another. Jesus calls his followers to unite the church and heal its wounded; but Pharisees, no matter how well-intentioned, always end up dividing the church and executing its wounded.

Pharisees1 copyHowever, in the Luke 18 parable, Jesus shows us the solution to our own pharisaical ways.

What if those Facebook posters were to express sorrow over each exposed Ashley Madison subscriber and say, “I disagree with this guy on a lot of things, but he and his family really need our prayers”? What if they humbly admitted that they themselves are just as capable of committing terrible sins?

What if those video makers were to proclaim: “I am a Christian, and I am a hypocrite, and I am judgmental, and I am closed-minded, and I am unaccepting—especially of other Christians!… and I am in need of a Savior”?

What if we Pharisees, both old and new, were to abandon our attitude of spiritual superiority and cry out, like the lowly tax collector, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner!”?

Because Jesus said the tax collector, not the Pharisee, “went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted” (Luke 18:14, NIV).

Jesus made it clear: the penitent tax collector had a better understanding of sin and grace than the proud Pharisee beside him ever could.

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Imago dei … even when I don’t want to

Jesus said the first and most important commandment is to “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength” (Mark 12:30) – and coming in at second is to “love your neighbor as yourself” (Mark 12:31).

The first one is pretty easy—at least, it is pretty easy to make an appearance of loving God. Whether it is real or not, only God knows.

The second commandment, however, is a little harder to fake. Merely saying I love my neighbor doesn’t mean much; I have to live it out. Jesus didn’t just say “I love you” to humanity; he put himself on a cross to show it.

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Last weekend, my dodge of this second commandment was painfully exposed. My church participates in “Love Portland” – a Saturday in August when we prepare local schools for the students’ return. The work involves mostly simple tasks like trimming, weeding, and painting, which these under-resourced schools don’t have the staffing or funding to do; If we don’t do it, the campuses simply remain untrimmed, unweeded, unpainted.

The purpose of this event is put hands and feet to loving our neighbors, expecting nothing in return. The underlying desire of the organizers and participants is give a gift of service to our community.

In my case, however, my underlying desire was to avoid giving that gift. I had my reasons, some of them legitimate. First, I work graveyard on weekends, and big events like this tend to get me stirred up so that I have a hard time sleeping to prepare for work. Second, the temperature was supposed to hover in the upper 90s that day, and I turn into a real crab-bucket at anything over 80. Third, the wind was full of smoke from raging forest fires some miles away, and the news kept warning everyone to stay inside and avoid breathing it. Fourth, I have a bad back, so I always try to avoid activities that might tweak it.

Unfortunately, beneath all of those reasons—or excuses—for not loving my neighbor hid the truth: I just didn’t want to.

Once again, Jesus’ command to “love my neighbor” came down to an ultimate cage-match between my spirit and my flesh (sin nature). I didn’t want to be inconvenienced. I didn’t want to leave my comfort zone. I didn’t want to share another’s burden. To which Jesus responds: “Love your neighbor.” And then, as if to seal the deal, he adds: “as yourself.”

Jesus’ words launch an inescapable circle of reasoning inside my head. I do love God, I insist. Then show it, he says. How? I hedge. Well, he repeats, by loving others exactly the same way that you love yourself.

Every day, I expend an ocean of effort to get my own needs met, look out for myself in the name of self-preservation, and pump up my Facebook profile to impress everyone else. And that ocean is the amount of love I am called to pour out on others.

Wynants_Jan-ZZZ-Parable_of_the_Good_SamaritanIn other words, as much as I don’t want to be inconvenienced—that is how much I am to love my neighbor. As much as I don’t want to leave my comfort zone—that is how much I am to serve others. As much as I don’t want to share another’s burden—that is how much I am to come alongside the needs of my community.

Just because God—who I say I love—commands it. And loving God is loving my neighbor.

Suddenly, as all my selfish excuses fall flat, these two commands combine to trigger another spirit-versus-flesh battle within. I think Jesus intends it to be that way. These are not commands with which to impress others; they are internal. They create a struggle between the self-centered desires of my flesh and the God-centered desires of my spirit.

This struggle between my flesh and my spirit went on for an entire week before the service day. But two things helped my spirit win out.

Self-awareness. We must be aware that we consist of flesh and spirit. After we put our trust in God, our spirit desires to please him, but our flesh still wants to please itself. So ignoring our flesh, and pretending it isn’t there, gives it the advantage of stealth: we never see it coming. Instead of engaging us in a full-frontal assault, it can sidle up next to us and woo us with sly arguments. I believe this lack of self-awareness is how I can rationalize away bad choices and even sin.
Last Saturday, I was completely aware of the source of my resistance. I knew full well that it was my flesh which was copping the attitude. And the Holy Spirit used this awareness to show me just how self-centered I was being.

Accountability. In my case, accountability came through my wife. She encouraged me to join her in serving the schools, but she also allowed me to talk through my objections, helping me get to the bottom of my resistance. She even gave me the freedom to back out. All of this processing helped turn my heart away from selfishness and toward loving my neighbor.

It’s no secret that Jesus called his followers to be in community with one another. We need close friends who will challenge us to fight against our own flesh, give us the freedom to reach our own conclusions, and pick us up during those times when our flesh wins the day.

Fortunately, on that hot, smoky Saturday last week, my spirit won out: I did participate in the event. My flesh kept screaming its displeasure even as I walked into the school; but my spirit fought back and did what was right.

But how about the next time I am confronted with the opportunity to carry out the second greatest commandment? Will my flesh gain the upper hand or will my spirit win? The battle between flesh and spirit will continue as long as I live. Starving the flesh and feeding the spirit is an ongoing process. I will take the wins whenever I can get them.

For now, I will be grateful that this time, Jesus helped me choose to love my neighbor. In his name.

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Hearing the prophets: What could they possibly say to us today?

9d43523b09f7b5f24a22d3e6f4dbcc39Every so often in my personal devotions, I decide to read the Bible cover to cover. Starting with Genesis 1, I work my way through, reading three chapters a day and five on Sunday. That’s no magical, spiritual formula, just a tip I got from one of my college professors for how to get through the Bible in about a year. When I do a read-through like this, I do so without any commentary or teacher holding my hand. I simply want to allow God’s word to speak into my story right now.

Often a verse leaps out at me, and I post it on my Facebook page. I include no added thoughts, no set-up, no discussion questions. I just let God’s word stand on its own, as it is more than capable of doing. Frequently, individuals respond with a simple “Amen,” which speaks volumes. Sometimes, people share more.

Currently I am working through the Hebrew prophets, which use rich poetry and imagery to illustrate God’s loving relationship with his people—and also, in some cases, with the surrounding nations. These writings are bold and fascinating – a joy to read. But reading these ancient Middle Eastern prophets from my little corner of the twenty-first century America makes me wonder: What could they possibly say to me today?

The context of the prophets is one of judgment. Israel and Judah—respectively, the northern and southern kingdoms of the Hebrew nation—have not simply ignored the teachings of Yahweh but have openly rebelled against them (think in terms of God’s chosen people giving God the finger). During this time, in a remarkable act of grace, God raises up a group of prophets to reveal truth. All of these prophets expose sin, warn of judgment, offer a way out through repentance, and preach the abundance of God’s lovingkindness and forgiveness. But, typical of human nature, his people don’t listen—in some cases even beating up these messengers of God’s mercy (ironic!). Finally, just as they predicted, God’s righteous judgment comes:

-First, Assyria invades and destroys the northern kingdom, dispersing its people (later referred to as the ten “lost tribes” of Israel).

-Eventually Babylon invades the southern kingdom and its capital city of Jerusalem, carrying the remaining tribes (of Judah) into exile.

So in ancient times, God’s purpose in sending the prophets was to warn his people to repent of sin, in order to avoid judgment and be restored to relationship with him.

Nowadays, however, Christians seem to read something different into these Old Testament books of prophecy. First, some use them to try to “decode” the future and God’s plan for the “end times.” These folks interpret all Old Testament books of prophecy as predictive of things yet to come: they believe the prophets spell out God’s plan for the future, and it is our job—our duty—to unlock the secrets. While I agree that the prophets do contain many prophecies about the future, particularly messianic ones, I think these books are meant for more than mere eschatological (end-times) proof-texting.

Second, some use the prophets to claim that God’s wrath is coming against unbelievers, or even against believers with whom they disagree. This approach may have a bit more validity since the prophets are obviously writing about God’s judgments, specifically against Israel, Judah, and the surrounding nations. But using the prophets to deflect blame onto others seems a little self-serving.

So how do we read the Hebrew prophets? Do we just ignore them—like, say, Leviticus? My answer is that I don’t think we should ignore any part of the Bible (including Leviticus!). Besides, many sections in these prophetic writings start with phrases like, “The word of the Lord says…”, indicating the importance of what comes next. For these reasons, along with others, we should read the prophets and meditate upon them.

But what do they mean to us today?

I don’t pretend to be Dr. Hebrew Scholar; I know these writings have deep layers of meaning, and I always enjoy reading the many scholars who know more about them than I. At the same time, I don’t think a degree is necessarily required to mediate on any part of God’s word.

So as I read the prophets, I try to focus on two simple questions: What was the purpose of the prophets’ message in their own time? And what is the purpose of their message today?

What was the purpose of the prophets’ message in their own time? Like all of the books in the Bible, the writings of the prophets were originally written for a certain group of people in a certain historical context. In other words, each prophet’s message had a clear meaning for his contemporaries – not just a cryptic message to be decoded centuries later, woven in and out of today’s headlines. It is always important to reflect on who the recipients were. What were they doing to warrant such strong words of warning? One need not be a Bible scholar or commentator to find out. The time during which the prophets spoke occurred primarily during the books of 1 and 2 Kings. In fact, the Jews have always considered 1 and 2 Kings as one book, and they list it not as a history book but with the prophets. So reading 1 and 2 Kings provides a good overview of people’s behavior during the time of the prophets, and of the context in which God was speaking.

By showing how messed up the people were and how they continually chose sin over God, the prophets clearly explain the justification of God’s judgment. However, in doing so, they also reveal the extent of God’s love.

-First, according to the prophets, God is offering his people a lifeline: Judgment will fall—but not without a clear and concise warning, and not without the chance to escape it through repentance.

-Second, amidst all of this judgment is a promise of redemption and restoration: the people’s defeat and exile would be severe, but also temporary, after which they would return home and rebuild the temple—God’s symbolic dwelling-place, and thus a symbol that he would come and live among them again.

What is the purpose of the prophets’ message today? After a quick run-through of the headlines from any typical news source, I always feel like society has “jumped the shark,” so to speak. I can hardly wrap my mind around what’s happening around me. It seems everyone’s gone crazy, and every day brings news that is crazier than the day before. Just as in the days of the prophets, people seem determined to come up with new ways to rebel against God, each one with a darker, more perverse twist than the last. The world is so screwed up, I tell myself, and so richly deserving of God’s wrath that no one should be surprised when it comes.

So it’s tempting to pull out a verse about God’s judgment and launch it against other people or groups.

For example, consider Ezekiel 24:14 (NIV):

“‘I the Lord have spoken. The time has come for me to act. I will not hold back; I will not have pity, nor will I relent. You will be judged according to your conduct and your actions, declares the Sovereign Lord.’”

Hooya! I could post that on Facebook, with my own little social commentary: “Ha ha! See, America? See, people I disagree with? See, sinners who aren’t me? That’s what happens when you kick God out of the culture! You really have it coming!”

But to do so is to remove myself from the equation. If I delight in the thought that God will judge others’ sins, I’d better be ready for him to judge mine too. So, instead of reading the prophets as a brilliant spotlight of judgment to flash into the eyes of others, I should reflect on my own life first.

The truth is, reading the prophets for ammo to attack the sins of others is the wrong motivation. The Bible has this incredible rhetorical ability to circle back to my own sin whenever I try to point it out in others.

So, just as the prophets had a two-fold message for their contemporaries, they have a two-fold message for us today. It’s a message of repentance and redemption.

-First, repentance: How is God convicting me personally through the prophets? How am I worshipping idols of pride and greed, like Israel and Judah (Ezekiel 23:30)? Where am I ignoring the poor, the sick and the helpless, as they did (Amos 5:11-12)?

-Second, redemption: In my brokenness and rebellion, how is God’s judgment redeeming me? How is he leading me through repentance and back toward restoration?

So this is the message of the prophets: They were relevant in their time, and they are still relevant in ours. They reveal the depths of human sin and rebellion, but also of God’s never-ending love and pursuit of sinners. They communicate the overall message of God’s relationship with his people, which is that we continually fail, but God redeems. He is always present to convict, to judge, and to restore those who will listen to him.

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Three words only the smartest people can say

Current events can be hard on one’s mental health. Reports of terrorism, racism, and other insanities flash across our TV and computer screens faster than we can follow. We’re only a decade and a half into the twenty-first century, yet already so much has changed that we hardly know how to make sense of it.

But it doesn’t matter; we don’t have to think for ourselves because there are others to do that for us. For every headline in traditional and online media, there is an endless parade of experts proclaiming an endless parade of sure-fire solutions.

Some of these people are really smart.

But the more I read, watch, and listen to them, the more I believe this: if their confident solutions were given the free rein they desire, the crises would not be solved but in fact could be made worse.

Cynical? Perhaps.

Still, it got me thinking: why do so many of us listen to them?

I think our hunger for such content goes deeper than simply seeking support for positions we hold dear. I think it’s because, dating all the way back to the Enlightenment (~1600s–1700s), our western society has put more and more trust in human reason and effort until we’ve come to believe we can fix virtually every problem. Over time, this belief has led to increased research and knowledge and, in turn, more and more people claiming with certainty that they have the answers to every ill: Solution A will end this problem; Solution B will end that one.

Yet hardly anyone among them—or among us, their listeners—ever says, “I don’t know.”

Would that be the worst thing anyone could say? Why are we so afraid to say it?

I think it’s because doing so is admitting we have limited knowledge and power—an admission which flies in the face of our “can-do” American humanism. Even our Christian culture claims that we can do all things “through him who gives us strength” (Phil. 4:13), as if that verse were about our own achievement and not about Jesus. We desperately fight appearing ignorant or helpless by offering an opinion on every subject, even if we truly don’t know anything about it.

Our national motto seems to be: Better to say something stupid with certainty than to say nothing at all.

Yet this attitude runs counter to God’s ancient wisdom, which states, “Even fools are thought wise if they keep silent, and discerning if they hold their tongues” (Proverbs 17:28). This proverb contains a truth so deep and enduring that it’s been reworded many times since; one paraphrase is, “Better to shut your mouth and be thought a fool, than to open it and remove all doubt.”*

Indeed, it takes great courage and wisdom to say, “I don’t know” and really mean it. For public personalities, doing so surely would be the end of their interview invitations from the media – but such a refreshing change to the rest of us.

The more I thought about this rhetorical device of admitting we don’t know, the more I began see its merits.

It’s disarming. In the marketplace of media attention, a quick, strident “rush to judgment” tends to get more reactions – and ratings – than a slower response which has been thoughtfully considered and verified. This reality encourages media personalities and their guests to react to each situation more quickly and stridently than to the last one, even before any facts are known. Such reactions can spill over into the general populace and stir up conflicts among neighbors, coworkers, close relatives, and members of the body of Christ, often based on speculation rather than truth.

However, saying “I don’t know” tends to defuse tension, nip quibble-matches in the bud, and open up more honest and meaningful discussions about the issue at hand.

It’s authentic. We invest much time and energy in trying to present our best faces to the world. We put on masks (in social media, these masks are called “profiles”) and try to sound intelligent, insightful, and confident. We don’t actually have to be these things; appearance is good enough.

But saying “I don’t know” rips off the mask. It indicates that our own views probably have no more merit than anyone else’s, and invites others to express their views in return. It takes the focus off of the self and affirms the old saying that the more we learn, the more we see how much we still don’t know.

It’s vulnerable. Human reason and scientific inquiry are just as fallible as anything else: although they can and do greatly increase knowledge, they still can’t unlock every last secret of the universe. Try as we might, as long as we are on this earth we will never fully understand the mind of God (Isaiah 55:7-8), nor will we ever solve all of the heart-breaking problems in the world. The root source of these problems is sin, and the only solution is the one who has conquered sin.

So saying “I don’t know” is a reminder of our smallness, our need for God—individually, culturally, and globally. It takes vulnerability to admit that we still can’t fix everything; we still don’t know it all.

So what should Christians do? Should we say “I don’t know” in the sense that we abdicate from the public forum altogether?

Well, not necessarily. Especially if we feel a specific leading to do so, I think it’s good to be informed about, and involved in, what is happening around us—seeking God’s wisdom as diligently as possible, and sharing his grace in any way we can.

But even more, it’s critical to remember that Jesus said: “My kingdom is not of this world” (John 18:36, NIV). We are citizens not of earth but of heaven, and eventually any wisdom we espouse will fade in the light of his truth.

Therefore, I suggest admitting, to God and to each other: “I don’t know.” Because we really don’t. We may know how to do some good, but we don’t know how to permanently end racism, terrorism, or poverty. We don’t know how to stop all violence and evil. We don’t know how to heal a broken world.

Only God does.

I’m not saying we should give up on trying to solve problems, nor am I saying every attempt to take action is always wrong.

I’m only saying that before we do anything else, our very first step should be to fall on our knees and pray, “I don’t know” – a step we should repeat frequently, even if (and especially if) we try to take any specific actions to help.

This three-word prayer is by far the wisest, most effective first response to every problem—because it opens us up to God’s wisdom instead of our own.

That’s why it’s three words only the smartest people can say.

IDK

* This sentiment is often attributed to Abraham Lincoln or Mark Twain. However, according to http://quoteinvestigator.com/2010/05/17/remain-silent/, the first documented variation of it appeared in 1907, “Mrs. Goose, Her Book” by Maurice Switzer, page 29, Moffat, Yard & Company, New York (“It is better to remain silent at the risk of being thought a fool, than to talk and remove all doubt of it”), while other attributions of similar sayings – including those naming Lincoln or Twain as the original source – lack substantive documentation

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Heart check on bitterness

Blog BitternessFor months now, the news has been filled with stories of the destructive power of bitterness.

In local communities, neo-bullies force political correctness on any who disagree, sometimes with verbal or emotional violence. Across the U.S., cities erupt in frustration and rage, and many may never recover. In the Middle East, Christians are slaughtered for their faith, and my country’s perceived response is indifference. And we, the body of Christ, respond not by crying out to the Prince of Peace for help, but by launching grenades of hate and shame at each other because we can’t agree on the causes of and solutions to these tragedies.

In no way do I want to judge or diminish all of this suffering and chaos, but in each case—including the infighting among Christ-followers–I see offenses of bitterness beneath it all (Hebrews 12:15) And the terrible fallout is not only individual but also collective—with familial, societal, and even global implications.

The pain of it has filled me with confusion and anger—along with a wish to climb to the heavens and shout: “Stop!” I’ve longed to find some verse I could post to convince everyone to put away bitterness and give life instead of death.

Funny thing is, Scripture doesn’t always give me what I’m looking for. Sometimes it gives me something completely different.

Just before I started this blog, as I was reading through Proverbs, suddenly one verse punched me in the liver:

“Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.” (Proverbs 14:10)

I tried to move on, but those words kept drilling into my ears. The irony was obvious: I wanted to find a verse to convict others of their bitterness, but God gave me a verse to convict me of mine. I wanted to use God’s word to go all prophetic on everyone else, but instead God’s word went all prophetic on me. I wanted to call out the hearts all around me, but this verse called out my own.

I hate it God when does that.

I think the reason this verse hit me so hard is that it is both an observation and a warning.

Let me explain.

Bitterness says, “I don’t deserve the bad that has happened to me.” Much of my life has felt that way—like one undeserved land mine after another. Forgive me if you’ve heard my backstory: broken by my parents’ divorce and battered by nonstop bullying, I dropped out of and flunked sixth grade, struggled through my teens and twenties and then, in adulthood, lost my dream job, my postgraduate degree, and my future all at once – the rotten cherry on top.

Yeah, I could be bitter. Surely, I told myself, I had a right to hold on to some of that rancor.

But God says no (Hebrews 12:15, Ephesians 4:31, James 3:14). Apparently, he can see something I can’t about the great dangers of bitterness—even the tiniest little bit of it. And as I’ve watched the world erupt into chaos, I’ve started to see those dangers too.

So instead of what I wanted—a verse to launch like a hand grenade at what others are doing—I found this verse, which forced me to look within and strongly convicted me of what I myself must do:

Stop denying and start acknowledging the existence and the degree of my bitterness. From Proverbs 14:10 I take two main points: 1) Only the heart can see the bitterness within; and 2) Only the heart knows the full depth of that bitterness. No one can see into another’s heart and detect its bitterness, or measure how much is there. Face it, we are all pretty good at throwing up a façade of “Who, me? I’m not bitter” to fool others and even ourselves, excusing and denying our bitterness while it festers for years or even decades, consuming us from within. We say we’re not bitter; we’re just a little miffed, upset, teed off. We even give our bitterness watered-down names like “resentment” or “grudges.” But after years of coddling those grudges like pets – when in truth they are wild beasts which will devour me – I believe I am finally starting to admit and deal with my bitterness. Which leads to the next point…

Understand that my bitterness will destroy me. Many scriptures teach that bitterness ends in destruction and death. Proverbs 14:10 is part of a longer passage, Proverbs 14:8-15, which is a type of chiasm (sometimes called a chiasma or chiasmus) – a mirrored parallel structure which introduces words or concepts and then reverses them (for example, “All for one and one for all”). In this type of chiasm, the most important point is placed in the center for emphasis. So verses 8 and 15 contrast wisdom vs. foolishness; verses 9 and 14 contrast sinfulness vs. uprightness; verses 10 and 13 contrast bitterness vs. joy; and verses 11 and 12 contrast the way of life vs. the way of death:

 The house of the wicked will be destroyed, but the tent of the upright will flourish.

There is a way that appears to be right, but in the end it leads to death.

These two verses are the center – the most important point – of the chiasm. The writer wanted to emphasize that the righteous behaviors in the surrounding verses, like wisdom and thoughtfulness, will surely lead to life, while sinful choices like foolishness and bitterness will certainly lead to death. So there is only one remedy…

Allow God to clean out my bitter heart and give me a grateful one.            IMG_0020Bitterness never goes away on its own; it is defeated only when God barges into our hearts, entering rooms we wish he wouldn’t. Fortunately, he is fully able to break open all the darkest cabinets and deepest closets, dig into the muck and mire, and clean everything out. It may be true that I haven’t “deserved” the bad things I’ve received in life—all of the rejections, losses, and failures; this is the voice of bitterness. However, the opposite is also true: I certainly haven’t “deserved” even one of the good things I’ve received either—not a single awesome sunset or a single amazing moonrise—and yet I keep receiving them, day after day; this is the voice of gratitude. Bitterness, if fed, destroys gratitude, bringing death to the soul. Yet gratitude, if fed, overcomes bitterness—bringing life and healing.

As I write this, the news is revealing yet another new situation involving deep-seated bitterness, threatening to destroy lives. There is no panacea to alleviate all the pain and turmoil, and there is nothing I can do to resolve it either. Bitterness can be uprooted only as each person opens his or her heart to a gracious God, and I can’t make anyone do that.

I can, however, begin by opening my own heart, giving Jesus the keys to every dark, decaying room, and allowing the King of Kings to start cleaning out the bitterness within.

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