Prideful
Pride precedes destruction; an arrogant spirit before a fall. (Prov. 16:18)
As Brazilian jail cells go this one wasn’t
too bad. There’s a fan on the table, and the twin beds each have a thin
mattress and a pillow. There’s a toilet and a sink, and Hector’s there to stay.
The tattooed anchor on his forearm symbolizes his personality — cast-iron. His
broad chest stretches his shirt, and the slightest movement of his arm bulges his
biceps. His face is as leathery in texture as it is in color. His glare could laser
through an enemy. His smile’s an explosion of white teeth. But today, the glare’s
gone and the smile’s forced. Hector isn’t on the street where he’s the boss; he’s
in a jail where he’s a prisoner.
He’d killed a man, a “neighborhood
punk” as Hector told it; a restless teenager who sold marijuana to kids on the
street and made a nuisance of himself with his mouth. One night the drug dealer
had used his mouth one time too many times, and Hector had decided to silence
it. He’d left the crowded bar where the two of them had been arguing, gone
home, grabbed a pistol out of a drawer, and walked back to the bar. Hector re-entered
the bar and called the punk’s name. The drug dealer turned around – just in
time to take a bullet to his chest.
Hector’s guilty. Period. His only
hope is that the judge might agree that he’d done society a favor by getting
rid of a neighborhood problem. He’d be sentenced within the month. So, it’s no
surprise that he was at least open to the idea of becoming a Christ-follower,
and the eyes of the murderer softened slightly at the thought that the one who
knows him best loves him most. His heart appeared touched as he listened about heaven,
a hope that no executioner could take away from him.
But as the conversation turned to conversion,
Hector’s face began to harden. The head that had leaned forward with interest was
now erect with caution. Hector didn’t like the statement that the first step in
coming to God was an admission of guilt. He was uneasy with words like, “I’ve
been wrong,” and “Forgive me.” Saying “I’m sorry” was out of character for him.
He’d never backed down to anyone, and he wasn’t about to start now — even if
the man was God.
“Don’t you want to go to heaven?” “Sure,”
he grunted. “Well then, are you ready?” Earlier he might have boasted yes, but
now he’d heard too many verses from the Bible. He knew better. He stared at the
concrete floor for a long time, meditating on the question. Maybe his stony
heart would crack. And, for a second, it seemed like burly Hector would, for
the first time, admit his failures. But the eyes weren’t tear-filled; they were
angry, instead. They weren’t the eyes of a repentant prodigal; they were the
eyes of an angry prisoner.
“All right,” he shrugged. “I’ll become
one of your Christians. But don’t expect me to change the way I live.” “But you
don’t get to draw up the rules, Hector. It’s not a contract you negotiate
before you sign. It’s a gift—an undeserved gift. But to receive it, you have to
admit that you need it.” “OK, but don’t expect to see me at church on Sundays.”
Hmmm.
How many hits to the head and blows
to the heart does a guy need before he’ll ask for help? Hector’s prison is not just
bricks and mortar; it’s pride. The fact is, he’s twice imprisoned: once because
of murder, and the other because of stubbornness; once by his country, and once
by himself.
The prison of pride. For most of us
it isn’t as blatant as Hector’s, but the characteristics are the same. The
upper lip is just as stiff. The chin is jutted upward, and the heart’s just as hard.
The prison of pride is filled with self-made men and women determined to pull
themselves up by their own bootstraps, even if they land on their backside. It
doesn’t matter what they did, or to whom they did it, or even where they’ll end
up; it only matters that, like Frank Sinatra crooned, “I did it my way.”
And we’ve seen the prisoners, haven’t
we? The addict who won’t admit his drug problem. The woman who refuses to talk
to anyone about her fears. The businessman who adamantly rejects help, even
when his dreams are falling apart. The truth is, maybe all we have to do to see
the prisoner is simply look in the mirror.
“If we confess our sins, he is
faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all
unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)You know, the biggest word in Scripture just
might be that two-letter one: “If.” Because confessing sins (admitting failure)
is exactly what prisoners of pride refuse to do. You know the lingo, don’t you?
Something like, “Well, I may not be perfect, but I’m better than Hitler and
certainly nicer than Mussolini!” Or, “Me a sinner? Oh, sure, I get a little
carried away every once in a while, but I’m a pretty good person.” And, “Listen,
I’m just as good as the next guy. I pay my taxes. I coach the Little League
team. I even make donations to the Red Cross. Why, God’s probably proud to have
somebody like me on his team.”
Justification. Rationalization.
Comparison. These are the tools of the jailbird. They sound good. They sound
familiar. They even sound American. But in the kingdom, they sound hollow.
“Blessed are those who mourn….” (Matthew
5:4) To mourn for our sins is the natural outflow of a poverty of spirit, and that’s
why the second beatitude about mourning should follow the first, i.e., “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”
(Matthew 5:3) But that’s not always the case. Many of us deny our weaknesses.
Many of us know we’re wrong, yet pretend we’re right. As a result, we never
taste the exquisite sorrow of repentance. Perhaps of all the paths to joy, this
one has got to be the strangest: true blessedness, Jesus says, begins with deep
sadness.
In Frederick Bruner’s commentary on
Matthew, he says “God helps those who cannot help themselves and he helps those
who try to help others, but he does not in any beatitude help those who think
they can help themselves—an often ungodly and antisocial conception.” p. 152
Joy through mourning? Freedom through
surrender? Liberty through confession? Looking for an example? OK, here’s one.
He was nitroglycerin in a bottle; if you bumped him the wrong way, he blew up.
He made a living with his hands, and got into trouble with his mouth. In some
ways, he had a lot in common with Hector. And if he’d had a tattoo, it would
have been a big, black anchor on his forearm, too. If they’d had bumper
stickers back then, his would have read, “I don’t get mad; I get even.”He was a
man among men on the Galilean sea. His family called him Simon, but his master
called him “Rocky.” You know him as Peter.
And though he might not have known
everything about self-control, he knew one thing about being a fisherman: he
knew better than to get caught in a storm. And this night, Peter knows he’s in trouble.
The winds have roared down onto the Sea of Galilee like a hawk on a field mouse.
Lightning zigzags across the pitch-black sky. The clouds reverberate with
thunder. The rain taps, then pops, then slaps against the deck of the boat
until everyone aboard is soaked and shaking. Ten-foot waves pick them up and
slam them down again with bone-jarring force. These drenched men don’t look
like a team of apostles who’re only a decade away from changing the world. They
don’t look like an army that will march to the ends of the earth and re-route
history. They don’t look like a band of pioneers who’ll soon turn the world
upside down. No, they look more like a handful of shivering sailors who’re wondering
if the next wave will be their last.
And you can be sure of one thing. The
one with the widest eyes is the one with the biggest biceps—Peter. He’s seen
these storms before. He’s seen the wreckage and bloated bodies float to shore.
He knows what the fury of both wind and wave can do. And he knows that times
like these are not times to make a name for yourself; they’re times to get some
help. That’s why, when he sees Jesus walking on the water toward the boat, he’s
the first to say, “Lord, if it’s you . . . tell me to come to you on the
water.” (Matt. 14:28)
Now, some say this statement was simply
a request for verification. Peter, they suggest, wants to prove that the one
they see is really Jesus and not just anyone who might be on a stroll across a
storm-tossed sea in the middle of the night, like a ghost. (I guess you can’t
be too careful, you know)So, Peter consults his notes, removes his glasses,
clears his throat, and asks a question any good lawyer would ask: “Ahem, Jesus,
if you would kindly demonstrate your power and prove your divinity by calling
me out on the water with you, I would be most appreciative.”
But I don’t buy that. I don’t think
Peter is seeking clarification; I think he’s trying to save his neck because he’s
aware of two facts: he’s going down, and Jesus is staying up. And it doesn’t
take him too long to decide where he would rather be. Perhaps a better interpretation
of his request would be, “Jeeeeeeeesus. If that’s you, then get me out of
here!”
“Come on,” is the invitation. And
Peter doesn’t have to be invited twice, because it’s not every day that you can
walk on water through waves that are taller than you are. But when faced with
the alternative of sure death or possible life, Peter knows which one he wants.
And the first few steps go pretty well. But a few strides out onto the water,
and he forgets to look to the One who got him there in the first place, and
down he plunges.
And at this point we see the major
difference between Hector and Peter—the difference between a man who hides his
problems and the one who admits them. Hector’s more concerned about his image
than about his neck. He would prefer to go under rather than let his friends
hear him ask for help. He would rather go down “his way” than get out “God’s
way.”Peter, on the other hand, knows better than to count the teeth in the
mouth of a gift horse. He knows better than to bite the hand that can save him.
His response may lack class but it gets him out of some deep water: “Help
me!”And since Peter would rather swallow pride than water, a hand reaches down through
the rain and the water and pulls him up.
I think the message is pretty clear.
As long as Jesus is one of many options, he’s no option. As long as we can
carry our burdens alone, we don’t need a burden-bearer. As long as our
situation brings us no grief, we’ll receive no comfort. And as long as we can
take him or leave him, well, we might as well leave him because he won’t be
taken halfheartedly.
But when we mourn, when we get to the
point of sorrowing for our sins, when we admit that we have no other option but
to cast all of our cares on him, and when there’s truly no other name that we can
call, then cast all your cares on him, for he’s waiting in the midst of the
storm. I think that’s what Peter meant when, through inspiration of the Spirit,
he later wrote, “Cast all your cares on him, because He
cares for you.” (1 Peter 5:7)
Grace,
Randy
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