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