Dad

Dad

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. (2 Corinthians 4:16–18)

For many years, I drove the family to Grandma and Grandpa’s for a summer’s vacation. And on one particular occasion, three hours into the eleven-hour trip, I realized that I was in a theology lab.

A day with a car full of kids will teach you a lot about God. Transporting a family from one city to another is like God transporting us from our home to his. And some of life’s stormiest hours occur when the passenger and the Driver disagree on the route.

A journey is a journey, whether the destination is to a family reunion or the heavenly one. Both demand patience, a good sense of direction, and a driver who knows that the fun at the end of the trip is worth the hassles in the middle of the trip.

The fact that my pilgrims were all under the age of ten only enriched my learning experience.

As minutes rolled into hours and our car rolled through the San Joaquin valley, I began to realize that what I was saying to my kids had a familiar ring. I’d heard it before – from God. All of a sudden, the car became a classroom. I realized that I was doing for a few hours what God has done for centuries: encouraging travelers who’d rather rest than ride.

For instance, in order to reach the destination, you have to say "No" to some requests. Otherwise, can you imagine the outcome if a parent honored every request of each child during the trip? We’d inch our stomachs from one ice-cream store to the next. Our priority would be popcorn, and our itinerary would read like a fast-food menu. “Go to the Chocolate Malt and make a right. Then, head north until you find the Chili Cheeseburger. Stay north for 1,300 calories and then bear left at the Giant Pizza. When you see the two-for-one chili dog special, take the Pepto-Bismol Turnpike east for five convenience stores. And at the sixth rest stop …. ” Can you imagine the chaos if a parent indulged every indulgence? Can you imagine the chaos if God indulged each of ours?

"No" is a necessary word to take on a trip. Destination has to reign over Dairy Queen. “For God has not destined us to the terrors of judgment, but to the full attainment of salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (1 Thess. 5:9) Note God’s destiny for your life. Salvation.

God’s overarching desire is that you reach that destiny. His itinerary includes stops that encourage your journey. He frowns on stops that deter you. When his sovereign plan and your earthly plan collide, a decision must be made. So the question becomes, “Who’s in charge of this journey?” And if God’s in charge and must choose between your earthly satisfaction and your heavenly salvation, which do you hope he chooses? Me, too.

When I’m in the driver’s seat as the dad, I remember that I’m in charge. But when I’m in the passenger’s seat as a child of my Father, I forget sometimes that he’s in charge. I forget that God is more concerned with my destiny than my stomach. And I complain when he says “No.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. The requests my children made while on the road to Grandma and Grandpa’s weren’t evil. They weren’t unfair. They weren’t even rebellious. In fact, we had a couple of ice cream cones and probably more than a few Cokes along the way. But most of the requests were unnecessary. Now, my then five-year-old daughter would have argued that fact. Because from her viewpoint, another soft drink is indispensable to her happiness. I know otherwise, so I say “No.”

And a forty-year-old adult would argue that fact. From his standpoint, a new boss is indispensable to his happiness. God knows otherwise and says “No.” Or a thirty-year-old woman would argue that fact. From her standpoint, that man with that job and that name is exactly who she needs to be happy. Her Father, who is more concerned that she arrive at his City than at the altar, says, “Wait a few miles. There’s a better option down the road.” “Wait?!” she protests. “How long do I have to wait?” Which takes us to the next point.

Children have no concept of minutes or miles. “We’ll be there in three hours,” I said. “How long is three hours?” (How do you explain time to a child who can’t tell time?) “Well, it’s about as long as three Sesame Streets,” I ventured. The children groan in unison. “Three Sesame Streets?! That’s forever!” And to them, it is. And to us, it seems that way, too.

“He who lives forever” (Isaiah 57:15) has placed himself at the head of a band of pilgrims who mutter, “How long, O Lord? How long?” (Psalm 74:10; 89:46) “How long must I endure this sickness?” “How long must I endure this paycheck?” But do you really want God to answer? He could, you know. He could answer in terms of the here and now with time increments we understand. “Two more years on the illness, and ten more years for the bills.” But he seldom does that. He usually opts to measure the here and now against the there and then. And when you compare this life to that life, this life isn’t very long.

“Our days on earth are like a shadow,” (1 Chronicles 29:15) and “each man’s life is but a breath.” (Psalm 39:5) “You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” (James 4:14) “As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. (Psalm 103:15, 16) “It’s a short journey,” I offer to the children. “We’re almost there.”

I can say that because I know these things. I’ve been there before. I’ve driven this road. I’ve covered this territory. For me, it’s no challenge. Ah, but for the children? It’s eternal. So I try another approach.

“Just think how fun it will be when we get there,” I say. “House boating, waterskiing, swimming … I promise you, when you get there, the trip will have been worth it.” But they still groan. Why? Because children can't envision the reward. For me, eleven hours on the road is a small price to pay for a vacation. I don’t mind the drive because I know the reward. As I drive, I can see Lake Shasta. I can hear the dinner-table laughter, and smell the smoke from the barbeque. I can endure the journey because I know the destiny.

But my children have forgotten the destiny. After all, they’re young. Children easily forget. Besides, the road is strange, and the night has come. They can’t see where we’re going. It’s my job, as the dad, to guide them. I try to help them see what they can’t see. I tell them how we’ll fish at the lake. How we’ll play on the inner tubes. How they can spend the night under the stars in their sleeping bags. And it seems to work. Their grumbling decreases as their vision clears – as their destiny unfolds.

Perhaps that’s how the apostle Paul stayed motivated. He had a clear vision of the reward. “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:16–18)

It’s not easy to get three kids under the age of ten to see a city they can’t see. But it’s necessary. It’s not easy for us to see a City we’ve never seen, either, especially when the road is bumpy … the hour is late … and companions want to cancel the trip and take up residence in a motel. It’s not easy to fix our eyes on what’s unseen. But it’s necessary.

And one line in that 2 Corinthians passage really makes me wonder: “our light and momentary troubles.” I wouldn’t have called them that if I were Paul. Read what he called light and momentary and I think you’ll agree: imprisoned; beaten with a whip five times; faced death; beaten with rods three times; stoned once; shipwrecked three times; stranded in the open sea; left homeless; in constant danger; hungry and thirsty. (2 Corinthians 11:23–27)

Long and trying ordeals, perhaps. Arduous and deadly afflictions. OK. But “light and momentary troubles”? How could Paul describe endless trials with that phrase? Well, he tells us. He could see “an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” And for some of you, the journey has been long and stormy. And in no way do I wish to minimize the difficulties that maybe you’ve had to face along the way. Some of you have shouldered burdens that few of us could ever carry.

You’ve been robbed of life-long dreams. You’ve been given bodies that can’t sustain your spirit. You have bills that outnumber the paychecks, and challenges that outweigh the strength. And you’re tired. It’s hard for you to see the City in the midst of the storms. The desire to pull over to the side of the road and get out entices you. You want to go on, but some days – frankly – the road just seems so long. But, it’s worth it.

Looking back over those early family vacations, once we had arrived, no one talked about the long trip to get there. No one mentioned the requests I didn’t honor. No one grumbled about my foot being on the accelerator when their hearts were focused on banana splits. No one complained about the late hour of arrival. Yesterday’s challenges were lost in today’s joy. And I think that’s what Paul meant. God never said that the journey would be easy, but he did say that the arrival would be worthwhile.

God may not do what you want, but he will do what is right … and best. He’s the Father of forward motion. Trust him. He will get you home. And the trials of the trip will be lost in the joys of an endless summer.

P.S. The following year, however, I drove during the night – while the kids slept.

P.S.S. Thanks, Dad. I love you.

Grace,

Randy

Revenge

Revenge

“Don’t say, ‘I’ll pay you back for the wrong you did.’ Wait for the Lord, and he will make things right.” (Prov. 20:22)

As I’m writing this, I’m angry. I’m angered by frogs. They’re loud. They’re obnoxious. They’re in my pool. And they’re in big trouble if I can get my hands on ‘em. I’m up late. Later than I should be. But my sleeves are rolled back and my laptop’s humming. Get a jump on this thing, I’d planned. Get a leg up. But get your hands on those frogs is what I’m mumbling.

Now, I have nothing against nature. The melody of a song bird, I love. The pleasant hum of the wind in the leaves, I cherish. But the evening Ribbit-Ribbit-Ribbiting of the frogs really bugs me. So, I go outside to see what I can do. Now, we’re blessed to have a pool (it comes in handy on hot summer days), and at the deep end of the pool is a rock grotto with an attached slide. And there they are. Must be a half dozen of them. All about three inches long, but each equipped with a ten foot foghorn. And when they’re inside the grotto, it sounds like there’s a million of ‘em. So, I turn the water on that leads into the pool to disturb them. Ahh, it’s quiet – for a minute. Then I turn on the waterfall over the grotto – that’ll drown them. Silence. For a moment. Humbling. I’ve been sabotaged by an army of amphibians. What are these insolent irritants that reduce a man to becoming a frog-stalker, I think to myself.

So forgive me if my thoughts are fragmented, but I’m launching artillery every other paragraph or so. This is no way to work. This is no way to end the day. My space is cluttered. My pants are wet. My train of thought is derailed. I mean, how can you write about anger with a bunch of stupid frogs croaking in your pool? Oh. Guess I’m in the right frame of mind after all.

Anger. Tonight it’s easy to define: the noise of the soul. Anger. The unseen irritant of the heart. Anger. The relentless invader of silence. Just like the frogs, anger irritates. Just like the frogs, anger isn’t easily silenced. Just like the frogs, anger has a way of increasing in volume until it’s the only sound we hear. The louder it gets the more desperate we become.

When we are mistreated, our animalistic response is to go on the hunt. Instinctively, we double up our fists. Getting even is only natural – which is precisely the problem. Revenge is natural, not spiritual. Getting even is the rule of the jungle. Giving grace is the rule of the Kingdom. But some of you may be thinking, “That’s easy for you to say, sitting there with a bunch of frogs as your chief complaint. You ought to try living with my husband.” Or, “You ought to have to cope with my past.” Or, “you don’t have any idea how hard my life has been.” And you’re right, I don’t. But I have an idea how miserable your future will be unless you deal with the anger.

X-ray the soul of the vengeful and you’ll see the tumor of bitterness: black, menacing, malignant. It’s carcinoma of the spirit. Its fatal fibers creep around the edge of the heart and ravage it. Yesterday you can’t alter, but your reaction to yesterday you can. The past you can’t change, but your response to your past you can. Impossible, you say? No, and here’s why.

Imagine you’re from a large family – a dozen or so kids. A family more blended than the Brady bunch. All the children are from the same dad, but they have four or five different moms. Imagine also that your dad is dishonest and has been for a long time. Everybody knows it. Everybody knows he cheated your uncle out of the estate. Everybody knows he ran like a coward to avoid getting caught. Let’s also imagine that your great-uncle tricked your dad into marrying your mother’s sister. He got your dad drunk before the wedding and had his less fortunate looking daughter go to the altar instead of the pretty one your dad thought he was marrying. That didn’t slow your father down, though. He just married them both. The one he loved couldn’t have kids, so he slept with her maid. In fact, he had a habit of sleeping with most of the help. As a result, a number of your siblings look like the cooks. Finally, the bride your dad wanted to marry in the first place gets pregnant … and Viola! You’re born.

You’re the favored son, and your brothers know it. You get a car; they don’t. You get Armani; they get K-Mart. You get summer camp; they get summer jobs. You get educated; they get angry. And they get even. They sell you to some Foreign Service organization, put you on a plane bound for Egypt, and tell your dad you were murdered by Al-Qaeda. You find yourself surrounded by people you don’t know, learning a language you don’t understand, and living in a culture you’ve never seen.

Imaginary tale? No. It’s the story of Joseph. A favored son in a bizarre family who had every reason to be angry. He tried to make the best of it, though. He became the chief servant of the head of the Secret Service. But his boss’ wife tried to seduce him, and when he refused, she pouted and he ended up in prison. Pharaoh got wind of the fact that Joseph could interpret dreams and let him take a shot at some of Pharaoh’s own. When Joseph interpreted them he got promoted out of the prison and into the palace as prime minister: the second highest position in all of Egypt. The only person Joseph bowed before was the king.

Meanwhile, back in Israel, a famine hits and Jacob, Joseph’s father, sends his sons to Egypt for a foreign loan. (Sounds like Greece and the E.U.-imposed austerity measures) The brothers don’t know it, but they’re standing in front of the same brother they sold to the Gypsies some twenty-two years earlier. They don’t recognize Joseph, but Joseph recognizes them. A bit balder and paunchier, but they’re the same brothers. Now, imagine Joseph’s thoughts. The last time he saw those faces he was looking up at them from the bottom of a pit. The last time he heard those voices, they were laughing at him. The last time they called his name, they called him every name in the book.

Now’s his chance to get even. He has complete control. One snap of his fingers and his brothers are dead men. Better yet, slap some manacles on their hands and feet and let them see what an Egyptian dungeon’s like. Let them sleep in the mud. Let them mop the floors. Let them learn Egyptian. Revenge is easily within Joseph’s power. And there is power in revenge. Intoxicating power.

Haven’t we tasted it? Haven’t we been tempted to get even? As we escort the offender into the courtroom, we announce, “He hurt me!” The jurors shake their heads in disgust. “He abandoned me!” we explain, and the chambers echo with our accusation. “Guilty!” the judge snarls as he slams down the gavel. “Guilty!” the jury agrees. “Guilty!” the audience proclaims. We delight in this moment of justice. We relish this pound of flesh. So we prolong the event. We tell the story again and again and again.

Now let’s freeze-frame that scene. I have a question. Well, not for you, really, but for me. I’m in that courtroom. The courtroom of complaint. I’m rehashing the same hurt every chance I get with anyone who’ll listen. But, who made me God, anyway? Why am I doing his work for Him? “Vengeance is mine,” God declared. “I will repay.” (Heb. 10:30) “Don’t say, ‘I’ll pay you back for the wrong you did.’ Wait for the Lord, and he will make things right.” (Prov. 20:22)

Judgment is God’s job. To assume otherwise is to assume God can’t do the job. Revenge is irreverent. When we strike back we are saying, “I know vengeance is yours, God, but I just didn’t think you’d punish enough. I thought I’d better take this situation into my own hands. After all, you have a tendency to be a little soft.” Joseph understood that. But rather than get even, he reveals his identity and has his father and the rest of the family brought to Egypt. He grants them safety and provides them a place to live. They live in harmony for seventeen years.

But then Jacob dies and the moment of truth comes. The brothers have a hunch that with Jacob gone they’ll be lucky to get out of Egypt with their heads on their shoulders. So they go to Joseph and plead for mercy. “Your father gave this command before he died … ‘Tell Joseph to forgive you.” (Gen. 50:16—17) (Don’t you just have to smile at the thought of grown men talking like that? They sound like kids, whining, “Daddy said to be nice to us,” don’t they?)

Joseph’s response? “When Joseph received the message, he cried.” (Gen. 50:17) “What more do I have to do?” his tears implore. “I’ve given you a home. I’ve provided for your families. Why do you still mistrust my grace?” Please read carefully the two statements he makes to his brothers. First, he asks, “Can I do what only God can do?” (v. 19) Let me restate the obvious. Revenge belongs to God. If vengeance is God’s, then it’s not ours. God hasn’t asked us to settle the score or get even. Ever. Why?

The answer is found in the second part of Joseph’s statement: “You meant to hurt me, but God turned your evil into good to save the lives of many people, which is being done.”
(v. 20) You see, forgiveness comes easier with a wide-angle lens. And Joseph uses one to get the whole picture. He refuses to focus on the betrayal of his brothers without also seeing the loyalty of his God. It always helps to see the big picture.

Max Lucado tells the story about a time when he was in an airport lobby when he saw an acquaintance enter. He was a man Max hadn’t seen in a while but had thought about from time to time. He’d been through a divorce, and Max was close enough to it to know that he deserved some of the blame. Max also noticed that he wasn’t alone. Beside him was a woman. “Why, that scoundrel! Just a few months out and here he has another woman?” Any thought of greeting him disappeared as Max passed judgment on his character. But then the man saw Max. He waved at him. He motioned him over. Max was caught. He was trapped. He’d have to go visit with the reprobate. So he did.

“Max, meet my aunt and her husband.” Max gulped. He hadn’t noticed the man before. “We’re on our way to a family reunion. I know they would really like to meet you.” “Hey, Max! We use your books in our home Bible study,” the uncle said. “You’ve got some great insights.” “If only you knew,” Max thought to himself. He’d committed the common sin of the unforgiving: he’d cast a vote without knowing the whole story.

To forgive someone is to admit our own limitations. We’ve been given only one piece of life’s jigsaw puzzle. Only God has the cover to the box. To forgive someone is to display reverence. Forgiveness is not saying the one who hurt you was right. Forgiveness is stating that God is fair and He will do what is right. After all, don’t we have enough on our plate without trying to do God’s work, too?

Hey! I just noticed something. The frogs are quiet. I got so wrapped up in this thing I forgot about them. I haven’t thrown anything, or done anything for an hour. Guess they fell asleep. Could be that’s what they wanted to do all along, but I kept waking them up by doing stuff to ‘em. They finally ended up getting some rest, and I ended up finishing this lesson. Remarkable what gets accomplished when we let go of our anger.

Ribbit.

Grace,

Randy