Enemies

Do you have enemies?

Is that a tough question to answer?

Anyone who has read the Bible even a little bit has probably encountered this passage:

"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven."

It's easy to read this and think about Hitler, bin Laden, the Unabomber, and other assorted nasties. But it's clear Jesus is making a much more personal application here, and is just as likely talking about that neighbor who lets his dog go on your lawn as He is some far-off historical figure you're never going to meet.

Either way, it's hard to love our enemies. It's hard to pray for them. It's not something we instinctively want to do, but something we're commanded to do, and can learn to do with the Spirit's help.

But have you ever put the shoe on the other foot?

Have you ever considered that someone else out there might just be praying for you, counting you as an enemy, asking God for relief from your persecution, and pleading with the Father to soften your heart?

This can't be, can it? Who would consider me an enemy? I haven't hurt anyone, have I?

Well, the more I think about it, there are people out there:

*Who don't work where they used to work, because of me.

*Who didn't get a job they wanted, again, because of me.

*Who put a lot of personal eggs in a basket depending on my decision about something, only to be disappointed in the decision I made.

*Whose children are experiencing disciplinary consequences for their conduct, despite their own conviction that my actions were unfair. (Could my picture be on a dart board somewhere? It just might be.)

Do Jesus's words take on a different tint in the harsh light of someone else's scorn for you, rather than the familiar ambiance of your own victimhood?

Does it feel unfair for someone else to look upon you as an enemy for actions or decisions you felt were justified? Sure it does, but that doesn't change the fact that those decisions might create the feeling of victimhood in someone else, with you squarely in their sights at the other end of that decision or action, doling out the suffering they are asking God to help them endure.

Knowing this, that someone could (and probably does) consider you an enemy for doing what you thought (and still think) was the right thing, are you motivated to reflect anew on what it takes for another person to be categorized as an "enemy" in your mind?

Are you motivated not only to pray for your enemies, but to pray for the grace to keep people out of that category who don't deserve to be there?

Help us, Lord, to be slow to count others as enemies, and to be gracious when others are quick to count us as theirs.

A Common Love

One day back in the fall, one of my staff members and I, in random conversation, discovered we're both from Southern California, and lifelong L.A. Dodgers fans. And this guy was legit; he opened up his phone and showed me pictures of himself with his wife and daughter at beautiful Dodger Stadium, much more recently than I had been there. He even thought of me at Christmas time, giving me a Fernando Valenzuela bobblehead that now stands proudly on a shelf in my office.

Ever since that conversation, I've remembered this bond every time I see Andrew at work, and I appreciate the qualities that make him a great employee even more than I did before.

But something still sticks in my mind from that first discovery:  Andrew happened to mention his age that day. Now, it's always been obvious that I've got several years on him, but I have to admit that my mind stopped short for just a moment when he said he was born in 1986.

1986?

Yes, 1986.

I actually remember 1986...pretty vividly. The Dodgers were terrible, the Lakers lost in the Western Conference Finals to (stinking) Houston, I turned 13 years old and received several power tools from my grandmother for my birthday, after telling her how much I had enjoyed my woodshop class at Walker Jr. High. I was watching Game 6 of the World Series when the ball rolled through Buckner's legs.

Shouldn't someone born in 1986 be....a baby?

No, Andrew is 26 years old, with a wife, a child, and a job. Amazing, isn't it? Amazing how fast younger people's adult lives fill up with the very responsibilities and relationships you're already accustomed to, and assume they aren't quite ready for.

But there was something else about Andrew's age that my mind just couldn't shake:

Where was he for Gibson's home run? (He was 2 years old.) Where was he during Fernandomania and the 1981 World Series win over the Yanks? (Not even born yet.) The disillusionment of Garvey's free agent departure for San Diego? (Nope.) The heartbreak of Ozzie Smith's playoff home run off Niedenfuer? (Mercifully, not here to live through it.) The Pedro Martinez-for-DeLino DeShields trade? (Not even out of elementary school.)

You get my point.

Every single one of my formative Dodger moments and experiences, all the things that make up my Dodger story, are known to Andrew only as history. He wasn't around for any of them. And honestly, by the time Andrew came along as a serious Dodgers fan, I was long gone, and I couldn't tell you what his formative Dodger experiences were. By that time, I had shifted from being a hometown fan to a long-distance fan, and wasn't paying nearly as close attention as I once did.

So, how to respond?

On the surface, there is no denying our common allegiance, but how tempting could it be for me to categorize him as a little less bona fide, a little less legitimate, a little less proven, because he wasn't around for the things that made me an original?

But even as I ask that question, I can't escape the reality that there are many who could wonder the same thing about me. My Dad could argue that he's more of an original than I am when it comes to Dodger fandom. He lived in L.A. before the Dodgers did, remembers when they played in the Coliseum before Dodger Stadium was built, and actually watched Koufax pitch. What could be more legit than that?

Is it possible my Dodger story could have seemed just a little less consequential to him at the time, in comparison to the legendary names and events from his early years? Do you think it escaped him, during Game 6 of the 1986 World Series, that I was totally unaware that Bill Buckner had played for the Dodgers years before I was old enough to know?

Could it have been tempting for him to categorize me as a Johnny-Come-Lately who might have a ticket into the club, but would never fully understand what you "just had to be there" for?

And speaking of things you just had to be there for:  It won't be long now before a new generation of Dodger fans will grow up never having heard Vin Scully's voice. How could that be? How will anyone's soul become stamped with the interlocking L.A. logo without Vin Scully? The same way it's happened for every generation sofar:  People will watch the games, cheer for Dodger blue, and over time, fall in love with this team for their own reasons, just as I did so long ago.

Formative experiences, defining moments, personal landmarks, enduring legends. So important in the development of a lifelong love, but so often different among people who share the same love.

What is more important? The love we share, or how each of us arrived at it? Is one generation's arrival at this love more legitimate than another's? Is my story more bona fide than yours? Is my bond with my generational cohort more important than my bond with all who share this love, of any age?

How tempting can it be to value the familiarity of similar stories more than we treasure the unique nature of each family member's story? To create tiers of acceptance, with those who haven't lived my story being somehow less than those who have.

This temptation wouldn't be much to worry about if we were just talking about the Dodger Family.

What about your family?

What about the Family of God?

"I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me. I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one, I in them and you in me, so that they may be brought to complete unity." John 17:20-23

 

Thoughts at the Beach

Are you a beach person?

I have to say that I am, though I haven't come close to logging the kind of hours in the sand and surf that would qualify me as a bona fide "beach bum". Much to my regret, I rarely see the beach in person, but when I do, I find that there are few places on earth that turn my thoughts heavenward quite like this place does.

When I am here, I can't help but remember...


*God's words to Job, about when He created the sea: "Here your proud waves must stop!"

*God's mention of something called Leviathan, which makes me wonder just what all is swimming under there...

*Jonah.

*The terror felt by Jesus' apostles when their boat was threatened by a stormy sea, and what must have been a flood of thoughts and emotions at His mastery over nature.

*Jesus walking along the top of the water.

*The resurrected Jesus grilling fish on the beach, and Peter the fisherman jumping overboard and swimming ashore to see Him. (Have you ever wondered how Jesus lit the coals for his cookout? I love to imagine that He spoke them into flame, just to save the time and aggravation.)

*Paul's mention of having been shipwrecked, and spending "a night and a day in the deep". Just the mere thought of this is terrifying to me.

The picture above was taken this afternoon, from my perspective, ankle-deep in the Gulf of Mexico, at Mustang Island, Texas.

I'll be visiting this spot again over the next few days, but I won't be venturing out into the water much further than I did to take this picture. I'm painfully aware of my limitations when it comes to the ocean. While its beauty and vastness inspire me, and I do love to swim, I just know that I don't belong out there. While I want to show our two little boys God's beauty in this place, I also fear what a moment's inattention here could cause.

Yes, I'll be trusting in God this week to keep my family safe in His care at the seashore, where I'm an alien and don't know what I'm doing.

Then we'll all return home, to solid ground, with no waves in sight, where I know what to do and can handle whatever comes along.

Maybe I should come here more often.

No Mulligans

Did you see the sports highlight the other day about the golfer who broke his club in frustration after a bad shot, only to find that he had cut his hand open in the process?

Pretty embarrassing for him, to say the least, and kind of ironic, that in his anger over a poor shot, he would unwittingly impair his own ability to make the shots he was hoping for.

In a way, though, he might have been fortunate. Really, when do you think he will break another golf club? I highly doubt he ever will. The memory of this self-inflicted injury will probably be enough to spare his caddy the trouble of having to replace another broken club in the future. While this wasn't the ESPN moment this golfer would have preferred, it might end up being a valuable lesson learned.

If only it were always so with outbursts of anger.

If you're like me, it's not hard to compile a list of shameful memories of moments of unbridled anger. Moments marked by regrettable words and perhaps even physical displays of wrath. Moments that embarrassed, disappointed, or even frightened others; moments that changed other people's view of you; moments that made someone wonder about the depth of your commitment to Christ.

The difference between those moments and the golf highlight is who suffers the wound caused by the outburst.

Yes, the golfer made a bad impression, set a bad example, etc, but at the end of the day, he cut himself. No one else was hurt. No one else bled because of this impulsive act.

When it comes to the outbursts of anger you and I remember, it's usually the complete opposite. Usually the person delivering the blast walks away unscathed, and leaves others cut and bleeding, trying to process and recover from what just happened. The frightened child, the tearful spouse, the beleaguered co-worker, the suddenly cautious neighbor, all bear the wounds of outbursts they didn't want or ask for, and often carry these wounds alone, without even the basic first aid that allowed the golfer to at least stop the bleeding.

And I believe every one of us, when we look back on those moments, wish we could have somehow absorbed the wounds of our words ourselves, if it meant sparing others the hurt feelings and offenses we caused them.

And if we could immediately feel the hurt our own anger can cause, as the golfer did when he broke his club, might we too be less likely to "lose it" in the future?

Maybe so, but it doesn't work that way.

It's no wonder this specific danger is called out by name in scripture, as being the opposite of the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:20), the opposite of the qualities to seek in a friend (Proverbs 22:24), and the opposite of the qualities sought in the shepherds of God's church (I Timothy 3:3).

Outbursts of anger.

You don't get a mulligan.

A Tale of Two Prodigals

You remember the parable of the Prodigal Son.

After the son has left his father's home, his father anxiously awaits his return, watches for his coming, and rushes out to meet his son when he finally appears on the road back home.

The father barely even listens to his son's prepared apology, but instead restores him fully, immediately, and wholeheartedly. The father kisses his son, embraces him, and leaves no room for even a shadow of a doubt as to whether the matter is resolved.

It is done. The son is home.

In a lesser-known story, another prodigal son finds himself in a homecoming that is much less clear or comforting, in fact, highly ambiguous and open for interpretation.

King David, like the father in Jesus' parable, also kisses his prodigal son Absalom, but the kiss does not convey resolution or completion, but an ambiguity that leaves open the door for the worst disaster of David's reign.

The story begins in II Samuel 13, when King David's daughter Tamar is raped by her half-brother Amnon. This bizarre and disturbing incident ends with King David being "furious", but doing nothing, and Tamar retreating in shame to the home of her brother....Absalom.

In the absence of any reaction from the King, Absalom's heart is allowed to nurture a vengeful grudge against Amnon, and Absalom resolves to carry out his vengeance when the time is right.

2 Years Later:

After everyone else has apparently moved on and forgotten about the rape of Tamar, Absalom arranges to murder Amnon in the middle of a high-spirited feast, and makes good his plan. With Amnon dead and Tamar avenged, Absalom flees the country. King David then "mourned his son every day", but still apparently does nothing in response to what has now evolved into a series of heinous events.

3 Years Later:

King David's feelings have now moved from grief over the death of his son Amnon, to longing for his prodigal son Absalom. David still does not act, but leaves the situation as it is. Joab, the head of David's army, realizes the king's heart will not be at ease as long as Absalom is estranged, and devises a scheme using an emotional story from a widow to persuade David to allow Absalom to return to the kingdom.

But David still will not erase all doubt. While he grudgingly relents to Absalom's return, there are stipulations: "He must go to his own house; he must not see my face." So, Absalom returns to Jerusalem, three years after sinfully avenging a rape that is now five years old, but still has no place before his father.

2 Years Later:

Absalom's resentment grows over his continued status as an outsider, and he twice sends for Joab to appeal for an audience with King David. Joab twice ignores Absalom's request. The increasingly bold Absalom responds to this rebuff by burning Joab's field, forcing a response from the chief of the army. Joab finally hears Absalom out, and finally arranges a meeting between father and son.

Read out of context, this reunion after seven years of separation might sound heartfelt: "...the king summoned Absalom, and he came in and bowed down with his face to the ground before the king. And the king kissed Absalom." (14:33) But, considering the reasons for the separation, and the resentment surely felt by Absalom by this time, this scene is more likely forced and awkward, so very different from the scene described by Jesus when the prodigal in His story returns home.

So much that had needed to be said was never said, and now so many things that might help are so hard to say, perhaps impossible to say.

4 Years Later:

After Absalom's ambiguous reunion with his father, he immediately sets upon a deliberate campaign to undermine his father's authority and win the hearts of his father's people. For four years this goes on, without a word from King David. And all at once, it happens. Absalom overthrows King David, and it takes a bloody battle and Absalom's demise to restore David's throne again.

All this, in 11 years. 11 short years. 11 long years. Imagine having your life turned upside-down by a chain of events that had gone unchecked, with their origin in a wrong left unresolved, eleven years before.

It was a very different story for David and Absalom than the story Jesus told about the Prodigal Son.

Both stories feature a son gone astray, and a father facing the painful aftermath of the sins of his son. Both stories build up to a moment of return for the lost son.

But only one story's reunion is happy, fulfilling, or lasting.

These stories speak to what can happen when a person needs to be restored, and when a person needs to forgive.

The son in Jesus' story repented completely of his sin, and threw himself at his father's mercy. The father forgave immediately, restored fully, and left no room for misunderstanding, in sharp contrast to David, whose responses to Absalom were marked by delay, procrastination, and grudging, conditional compromise. While Jesus' prodigal knew where he stood, it's clear Absalom did not.

We're not told exactly what Absalom's attitude was about his sin. We tend to think poorly of him all around, but one has to wonder how the story might have been different had David intervened from the beginning. Is it possible Absalom's vengeful spirit might never have taken root? Is it possible this father might have been able to guide his son to the God whose heart he knew so well?

We'll never know.

But we do know that this relationship was never restored, and this prodigal was never brought home.

Forgiveness, restoration.

When the story is told by Jesus, the way home is clear.

God's Movers

What ever became of the Kohathites?

Introduced with several verses of ink in Numbers 4, but only mentioned in passing a few times beyond that; entrusted with what initially sounds like a refined responsibility, but in reality the ancestors of those indispensable guys you never think about till you need them: movers.

Never heard of them?

The Kohathites were a division of the Levite tribe in Israel, and were therefore assigned a responsibility related to the tabernacle during the years when the Israelites wandered in the wilderness.

Their task, as presented in Numbers 4:4, was "...the care of the most holy things."

How can this job description not conjur up images of white-gloved hands polishing shiny things, stocking breads, refilling oils, lighting candles and generally keeping oneself clean and out of the heat?

If you thought those things like I did, the image is busted in the next several verses. It turns out the Kohathites didn't get to dust, shine, or refill the holy things at all. In fact, they didn't even get to see or touch them. The fancy parts of this job were reserved for Aaron and his sons, and whenever God called on His children to pick up camp and move across the wilderness, the holy things inside the tabernacle were packed up carefully by Aaron's sons, covered and concealed by the curtains from the tabernacle, the hides of sea cows, and solid blue cloths.

Once the holy things were secure and unseen, "...and when the camp is ready to move, the Kohathites are to come to do the carrying. But they must not touch the holy things or they will die. The Kohathites are to carry those things that are in the Tent of Meeting." (verse 15)

"Do the carrying" would certainly fall into the "Care of the Holy Things" chapter, but it sure isn't the first thing that comes to mind.

What must this job have been like? Over and over again, to transport the same hidden items across the wilderness, only to arrive at the next stop, turn over the precious cargo to Aaron and his sons without seeing or touching it, and go back on standby till the next move is called for.

What was it like for these servants of God, to carry a burden for Him that they themselves could never see, never touch, never fully comprehend or appreciate? They doubtless saw the rough outline of the holy things of God, shrouded by mystery they were never permitted to uncover. They knew the strength it took to carry the load a long way, but they never saw the load itself, and, so far as we know, were never given a reason why they weren't allowed to see it.

Did the Kohathites bear their burden gladly? Was there ever any resentment felt over the limits of their privilege? If not resentment, at least a longing to know more, to become fully familiar with the burden God had assigned them to carry? Might a full appreciation for the splendor of God's holy things have made the burden easier to carry? (Or, might the Kohathites have thought so, at least?)

We're just not told.

One thing we do know, however, is that the Kohathites are not the only ones God has ever tasked with carrying a burden they could not comprehend.

"Have you considered my servant Job?" -- Job 1:8

"For truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it." -- Matthew 13:17

"It was revealed to them [the prophets] that they were not serving themselves but you, when they spoke of the things that have now been told you by those who have preached the gospel to you by the Holy Spirit sent from heaven. Even angels long to look into these things." -- I Peter 1:10-12

From Job to the Kohathites, to the prophets to the angels, the children of God can find kindred spirits in scripture during times of confusion created by burdens we bear but can't comprehend.

Illness, loss, good deeds seemingly unnoticed or even punished, attempts at godly influence spurned. Seemingly aimless periods in which God's direction is sought after, but just doesn't seem clear.

Why doesn't God always supply the full context for these burdens at the time we're carrying them?

Why doesn't he always satisfy our desire to know more, to comprehend fully in this life?

There are deeper waters to dive in search of scholarly answers to those questions, but a sense of His mystery can be found in the story of Jesus' healing of the man blind from birth. (John 9) Jesus makes clear that the man's affliction, his burden in life, was not caused by anyone's sin, but was rather an opportunity for "...the works of God to be displayed in him." (verse 3).

Ultimately, the burdens we bear without full comprehension can only be accepted on faith as God's opportunities to display His work in our lives.

And, ultimately, our ways are not His ways, and our thoughts are not His thoughts. (Isaiah 55:8)

Lord, please sustain us when we don't see what You see, when we can't comprehend what You ask us to carry, when it seems so clear to us that we just need You to tell us Your plan.

Help us to trust you more, Father, and to rest assured that You will never forsake us, even when the burden seems heavy, and the purpose seems unclear.

Without Fear of Persecution

If you've attended worship services in the United States all your life like I have, you've probably heard this, too:

"Thank you, God, that we are able to gather together freely and worship You without fear of persecution."

I'll be honest: It's a sentiment I certainly agree with, but don't often think much about. Freedom of worship is all I've ever known. It's all my parents and grandparents have ever known as well. In fact, I can't say that I've ever met, in all my life, anyone who has ever experienced anything else, or who even knows anyone who has experienced anything else.

That's just how far removed from persecution I am.

So, the prayer quoted above takes on a whole new meaning in the light of this news story.

Imagine it. Gathering together to worship, only to be interrupted by a mob of hateful opponents, bent on not only stopping the worship, but dispersing the worshippers, by whatever means necessary.

Call the police? The government is on the side of the hostile crowd, and the facility you used for worship right up to that moment is now sealed off from your use.

Fight the crowd? Not exactly in line with Jesus' command to turn the other cheek, nor with His reaction to Peter's sword strike on Malchus. To respond in kind would be to forfeit every shred of credibility as followers of Christ, and accomplish the mob's very goal.

Demand of God how He could possibly let this happen to His children? While crying out to Him about such a trauma would be the only normal reaction, the realization would quickly set in that Jesus never promised His followers the respect or support of their neighbors, colleagues, or countrymen, or even their families.

In fact, it's quite the opposite.

"If the world hates you, you know that it hated me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world, therefore the world hates you." -- John 15:18-19

"...all who desire to live godly in Jesus Christ will suffer persecution." -- II Timothy 3:12

As hard as it can be to accept, there are some things God simply does not promise His children, and the average American Christian's absence of fear of persecution is probably more of an anomaly than a norm.

While it is right to make the most of our freedom to serve God and share the Gospel, our freedom must not be allowed to create within us a feeling of entitlement to the approval of those around us.

And while we should pray for the preservation of our freedom, we should be prepared to follow Jesus even if we are not always afforded a comfortable set of circumstances in which to do it.

A story like the one above might cause you and me to reflect on just what, if anything, following Jesus has really cost us in this life. And what we would be willing to have it cost us if our circustances were different.

Have we prepared our minds for the possibility of following Jesus in a hostile environment? Are we assuming our current favorable situation will endure right up to the moment Jesus comes again? Are we assuming nothing here will ever be different? Are our children developing a faith that assumes it will always exist in a supportive environment?

Lord, please preserve our freedom to serve You, please help Christians who suffer persecution for serving You, and please prepare us for more difficult times, if they are to come.