Legalism - The Search for Innocence

 

Legalism

The Search for Innocence

Legalism - The Search for Innocence - Audio/Visual 

 

Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born again, he cannot be in God's kingdom." Nicodemus said, "But if a person is already old, how can he be born again? He cannot enter his mother's body again. So how can a person be born a second time?" But Jesus answered, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born from water and the Spirit, he cannot enter God's kingdom. (John 3:3-5)

 Farmers know that even the most fertile ground will remain barren if they don’t sow some seed, weeds excepted. Apparently, Nicodemus didn't know that. He thought that soil could bear fruit without planting any seeds. He was big on the farmer's part of the equation, but a little short on the seed's part. He was a legalist. And that’s how a legalist thinks – a legalist prepares the soil but forgets the seed. Granted, Nicodemus came about his legalism honestly. He was a Pharisee, and Pharisees taught that faith was an outside job. What you wore, how you acted, the title you carried, the sound and length of your prayers, the size of your offering – all these were the Pharisees' measures of spirituality. Had they been farmers, let’s say, they would have had the most attractive acreage in the region – painted silos and sparkling equipment. The fences would have been whitewashed and clean. The soil turned over and watered. But no crop.

The Pharisees had a problem. For all their discussion about the right techniques, they grew very little fruit. In fact, one untrained Galilean had borne more fruit in a few short months than all the Pharisees had in an entire generation, combined. This made them jealous, angry and condescending. And they dealt with Jesus by ignoring his results and insulting his methods. Eventually, they just had him murdered. Nicodemus was an exception. He was curious about the way people listened to Jesus – they listened to Jesus as if he were the only one with the truth; as if he were a prophet. But Nicodemus had a problem. He was a member of the Jewish high court, the Sanhedrin, and couldn’t be seen with Jesus. As a result, he couldn’t approach Jesus in the day time, so Nicodemus went to meet him at night. He went in darkness. Appropriate, since legalism offers no light.

Nicodemus starts off the discussion with courtesies: "Teacher, we know you are a teacher sent from God, because no one can do the miracles you do unless God is with him." (John 3:2) Jesus disregards the niceties and responds, "I tell you the truth, unless one is born again, he cannot be in God's kingdom." (v. 3) No chitchat. No idle talk. Straight to the heart of the problem. Jesus knows the heart of the legalist is hard, and you can't crack it with a bunch of fluff. You need a chisel, instead. So Jesus hammers away: You can't help the blind by turning up the light. You can't help the deaf by turning up the music. You can't change the inside by decorating the outside. You can't grow fruit without seed. You must be born again. Whack! Whack! Whack!

The meeting between Jesus and Nicodemus was more than just an encounter between two religious figures. It was a collision between two philosophies; two opposing views on salvation. Nicodemus thought that the person does the work; Jesus says that God does the work. Nicodemus thought it was a trade-off. Jesus said it’s a gift. Nicodemus thought it was man's job to earn it. Jesus said that it was man's job to accept it.

Actually, these two views encompass all views. The world’s religions can be placed in one of two camps: legalism or grace. Humankind does it, or God does it. Salvation as a wage based on deeds done – or salvation as a gift based on Christ's death. A legalist believes the supreme force behind salvation is “you.” If you look right, speak right and belong to the right segment of the right group, you will be saved. Thus, the brunt of responsibility doesn't lie with God; it rests in you. The result? The outside sparkles. The talk is good. But look closely because something’s missing. Joy.

Because in the place of joy is fear that you won't do enough; arrogance that you have done enough; and failure wondering if you’ve made a mistake of eternal proportions. Legalism’s a dark world. But you wouldn’t know that looking at Nicodemus. He doesn’t appear to be hurting. He's got clout. He's got friends. He studies the Bible. But if you’ve known the crush of legalism, you know that it’s the slow and gradual suffocation of the Spirit. Legalism is just enough religion to keep you, but not enough to nourish you. So you gradually starve. And your teachers don't know where to go for food, so you starve together. Your diet is rules and standards. No vitamins. No taste. Just bland, predictable religion.

Reminds me of a friend of mine. When he was about eight years old he was part of a boys' choir. They met two nights a week for two hours. They wore blazers and sang at banquets. They even went on the road. Their instructor was an ex-drill sergeant, and before he ran a boys' choir he ran a boot camp. Apparently, some of the camp spilled over into the choir because every evening, during rehearsals, the choir took a marching break. Yeah, they’d go outside and march in formation. He gave the commands, and the choir did the turns. "Hut, two, three, four. Hut, two, three, four." At first, my friend didn't question the practice because he was frightened of the former drill sergeant. Finally, he summoned up enough courage to ask a choir buddy to explain the marching thing. "Why are we doing this?" "I don't know," was the response. "Well, where are we going?" "I don't know that either," was the reply. No one did. And for two years my friend marched two nights every week, but no one knew where they were going and no one even knew why. They just knew that if they wanted to sing in the choir they’d better stay in step. That's legalism.

It's rigid. It's uniform. It's mechanical – and it's not from God. The truth is that legalism doesn't need God. Legalism is the search for innocence — not forgiveness. It's a systematic process of defending self, explaining self, exalting self and justifying self. Legalists are obsessed with self – not God. Legalism turns my opinion into your burden – there’s only room for one opinion in this boat, so guess who’s wrong? It turns my opinion into your boundary – your opposing opinion makes me question not only your right to have fellowship with me, but your salvation, too. It turns my opinion into your obligation – Christians have got to toe the company line. Your job isn't to think, it's to march. So, if you want to be in the group, you’d better stay in step and don't ask any questions. Sound familiar?

Nicodemus certainly knew how to march since he was usually at the head of the parade. But Nicodemus really wanted to sing, instead. He knew there was something more, but he didn't know where to find it. So he went to Jesus, but he went at night because he feared the displeasure of his peers. Oh yeah, legalism does that, too: it puts the fear of man in you. It makes you approval-hungry. You become keenly aware of what others will say and think, and you do what it takes to please them. Conformity is not very fun, but it's safe. The uniform doesn't fit but it's approved, so you wear it.

You don't know why you’re marching or where you’re going – but who are you to ask any questions? So you stay in step and plod down the path of least resistance. And if you dare explore another trail, you’d better do it at night, just like Nicodemus. So, he snuck through the shadows and crept through the streets until he stood in the presence of Christ. And in the conversation, Nicodemus, the renowned teacher of the law, spoke only three times: once to compliment and twice to question. Because after a lifetime of weighing the jots and tittles of Scripture in his scale of logic, the scholar suddenly becomes silent as Jesus opens the gate, and the light of grace floods the catacombs of Nicodemus’ heart.

Jesus begins by revealing the source of spirituality: "Human life comes from human parents, but spiritual life comes from the Spirit." (John 3:6) Spiritual life is not a human endeavor; it’s rooted in, and orchestrated by the Holy Spirit. Every spiritual achievement is created and energized by God. Spirituality, Jesus says, doesn’t come from church attendance, or good deeds, or correct doctrine, but from heaven itself. Those words, alone, must have blown Nicodemus’ mind. But Jesus was just getting warmed up. "The wind blows where it wants to and you hear the sound of it, but you don't know where the wind comes from or where it is going. It is the same with every person who is born from the Spirit." (John 3:8)

Have you ever had a gust of wind come to you for help? Or, have you ever seen a wind-storm on the side of the road catching its breath? No, you haven't. The wind doesn't seek our aid. Wind doesn't even reveal its destiny. It's silent and invisible, and so is the Spirit. And by now Nicodemus is getting edgy, because that kind of light is too bright for his eyes. Religious teachers like to control and manage; they define and outline. Structure and clarity are the friend of the preacher. But they aren't always the protocol of God. Salvation is God's business. Grace is his idea, his work and his expense. He offers it to whom he desires, when he desires. Our job in the process is to inform the people, not screen them.

So the question must have been written all over Nicodemus' face. Why would God do this? What could possibly motivate him to offer such a gift? And what Jesus told Nicodemus he could have never imagined. The motive behind the gift of new birth? Love. "God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son so that whoever believes in him may not be lost, but have eternal life." (v. 16) Nicodemus had never heard those kinds of words before. Ever. He’d had lots of discussions about salvation, but this is the first time where no rules were given. No system was offered. No code or ritual. "Everyone who believes can have eternal life in him," Jesus told him. Could God really be that generous?

Even in the darkness of night, the amazement must have been noticeable on Nicodemus' face. Everyone who believes can have eternal life. Not "everyone who achieves." Not "everyone who succeeds." Not "everyone who agrees." But "everyone who believes." Note how God liberated this legalist. Like a master farmer, he shoveled away the crusty soil until a moist, fertile spot was found, and there he planted a seed, a seed of grace. And did it bear fruit? Well, read for yourself: Nicodemus, who earlier had come to Jesus at night, went with Joseph. He brought about seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloes. These two men took Jesus' body and wrapped it with the spices in pieces of linen cloth, which is how Jewish people bury the dead. In the place where Jesus was crucified, there was a garden. In the garden was a new tomb that had never been used before. The men laid Jesus in that tomb. (John 19:39-42)

Strange how a man like Nicodemus can go full circle in the kingdom. The one who'd come at night now appears in the day. The one who crept through the shadows to meet Jesus now comes to the cross to serve him. And the one who'd received the seed of grace now plants the greatest seed of all – the seed of eternal life that sprung from the tomb of the risen Savior.

I guess there’s help for legalists after all. Thank God.

Grace,

Randy

Superiority Complex

 

Superiority Complex

Superiority Complex - Audio/Visual 

As your spiritual teacher I give this piece of advice to each one of you. Don’t cherish exaggerated ideas of yourself or your importance, but try to have a sane estimate of your capabilities by the light of the faith that God has given to you all. (Romans 12:3)

Sometimes you can climb too high for your own good. It’s entirely possible to ascend too far, stand too tall and elevate too much. Linger too long at high altitudes and at least two of your senses will likely suffer from hypoxemia, i.e., insufficient oxygenation of the blood. First, your hearing dulls. It’s hard to hear people when you’re higher than they are. Voices grow distant and sentences seem muffled. And second, when you’re up there, your eyesight dims, too. It’s hard to focus on people when you’re so far above them. They appear so small, like little figures with no faces. You can hardly distinguish one from the other since they all look alike to you. In other words, you don’t hear them, and you don’t see them because you’re above them. Which was exactly David’s altitude at the zenith of his reign.

He’s never been higher. The wave of his success crests at age fifty. Israel’s expanding, and the country’s prospering. In two decades on the throne, he’s distinguished himself as a warrior, musician, statesman and king. His cabinet is strong, and his boundaries stretch for 60,000 square miles. No defeats on the battlefield, and no blemishes on his administration. Loved by the people, served by the soldiers and followed by the crowds, David’s at an all-time high. Quite a contrast to how we first found him in the Valley of Elah – kneeling at the brook in search of five smooth stones. Then, everybody else stood. The soldiers stood. Goliath stood. His brothers stood. The others were high; David was low. Never lower, in fact. But then again, never stronger.

Three decades later his situation is reversed. Never higher, yet never weaker. David stands at the highest point of his life, in the highest position in the kingdom and at the highest place in the city — on the balcony of his castle overlooking Jerusalem. He should be with his men at battle. But he isn’t. He’s home. “In the spring, when the kings normally went out to war, David sent out his general, Joab, his servants, and all the Israelites. They destroyed the Ammonites and attacked the city of Rabbah. But David stayed in Jerusalem.” (2 Sam. 11:1)

It’s springtime in Israel. The nights are warm, and the air is sweet. David has time on his hands, love on his mind and people at his disposal. His eyes fall upon a woman as she bathes. Maybe Bathsheba was bathing in a place where she shouldn’t bathe, hoping David would look where he shouldn’t be looking. Then again, maybe she wasn’t. The truth is we’ll never know. But we know that he looks and likes what he sees. So he inquires about her. A servant returns with the following information: “That woman is Bathsheba daughter of Eliam. She is the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” (2 Sam. 11:3) The servant tactfully laces his information with a warning. He gives not only the woman’s name, but her marital status and the name of her husband. Why tell David she’s married if it wasn’t to caution him? And why give the husband’s name unless David wasn’t familiar with it? Odds are, David knew Uriah.

But even if he didn’t know Uriah, David knew Eliam’s dad, Ahithophel, because Ahithophel was David’s closet cabinet advisor – which, of course, would make Bathsheba his counselor’s granddaughter. See? The servant hopes to respectfully dissuade the king. But David misses the hint because he can’t hear, and the next verse describes his first step down a very slippery slope. “So David sent messengers to bring Bathsheba to him. When she came to him, he had sex with her.” (2 Sam. 11:4)

Notice that David “sends” a lot in this story. He sends Joab to battle. (2 Sam. 11:1) He sends the servant to inquire about Bathsheba. (v. 3) He sends for Bathsheba to have her come to him. (v. 4) When David learns of her pregnancy, he sends word to Joab (v. 6) to send Uriah back to Jerusalem. David sends him to Bathsheba to “get busy,” so to speak, but Uriah is too noble; he’s on the clock. So, David opts to send Uriah back to a place in the battle where he is sure to be killed. Thinking his cover-up is complete, David sends for Bathsheba and marries her. (v. 27) That’s a lot of sending.

We don’t like this sending, demanding David. We prefer the pastoring David, caring for his father’s sheep. Or the clever and resourceful David, hiding from Saul. Maybe even the worshiping David, penning psalms. We aren’t prepared for the David who’s lost control of his self-control, who sins as he sends. What happened? Simple. Hypoxemia. Altitude sickness. Call it a superiority complex. He’s been too high too long. The thin air has messed with his senses. He can’t hear like he used to. He can’t hear the warnings of the servant, or the voice of his conscience, or even his Lord. The pinnacle has dulled his ears and blinded his eyes. Did David see Bathsheba? No. He saw Bathsheba bathing. He saw Bathsheba’s body and Bathsheba’s curves. He saw Bathsheba, the conquest. But did he see Bathsheba, the human being? The wife of Uriah? The daughter of Eliam? The creation of God? No. David had lost his vision.

Too long at the top will do that to you. Too many hours in the bright sun and thin air can leave you breathless and dizzy. Of course, who among us could ever ascend as high as David? Who among us is a finger snap away from a rendezvous with anyone we choose? Presidents and kings might send people to do their bidding, but we’re lucky just to be able to send out for pizza. We don’t have that kind of clout. We can understand David’s other struggles like his fear of Saul, and his long stretches of hiding in the wilderness. We’ve been there. But David the high and mighty? David’s balcony is one place we’ve never been. Or, then again, have we?

I wasn’t on a balcony, but I was in a restaurant. And I didn’t watch a woman bathe, but I did watch a waitress fumble. She couldn’t seem to do anything right. Order soda, and she’d bring juice. Ask for an appetizer, and she’d bring the entre – if she remembered to bring anything at all. And I started to grumble. Not out loud, mind you, but in my thoughts. “What’s the matter with her?” Unfortunately, I was feeling a little smug at the time – I’d just won at trial, and to celebrate the victory my client had invited me to lunch and then proceeded to tell me what a great lawyer I was. I don’t know which was crazier, i.e., the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that I believed it.

So I entered the restaurant that day feeling just a little cocky. I probably even had to tilt my head just to enter the doorway. Then I asked for the soda, the appetizer, etc., and she blew every assignment. So, I growled. Do you see what I was doing? I was placing myself higher than the waitress because, in the pecking order of a restaurant, she was below me. Her job was to serve, and my job was, of course, to be served.

Have you ever felt that way? Superior to someone? A parking lot attendant. The clerk at the grocery store. The peanut-vendor at the baseball game. The sanitation engineer, maybe? You’ve probably done what I did, and the truth is that we’ve all done what David did. We’ve lost our sight and our hearing. When I looked at the waitress, I didn’t see a human being; I saw a server. Which begs the question, how’s your hearing these days? Do you hear the servants whom God sends? Do you hear the conscience that God stirs? And secondly, what about your vision? Do you still see people? Or do you only see their functions? Do you see people who need you, or do you see people beneath you? To me, the story of David and Bathsheba is less a story of lust, and more a story about power. A story of a man who rose too high for his own good. A man who needed to hear, “Come down from there David before you fall.” David’s son, Solomon, whose mother was Bathsheba, would later pen these words: “First pride, then the crash — the bigger the ego, the harder the fall.” (Prov. 16:18)

That must be why God hates arrogance. He hates to see his children fall. He hates to see his David’s seduce, and his Bathsheba’s be victimized. God hates what pride does to his children. God doesn’t merely dislike arrogance, he hates it. Could he state it any more clearly than in Proverbs 8:13: “I hate pride and arrogance”? And then a few chapters later, in case you missed it the first time, “God can’t stomach arrogance or pretense; believe me, he’ll put those upstarts in their place.” (Prov. 16:5)

You don’t want God to do that, i.e., put you in your place. Just ask David. He never quite recovered from his bout with this particular giant. So don’t make his mistake. It’s better to descend the mountain than to fall from it. Pursue humility, instead. C.S. Lewis once said, “Humility doesn’t mean you think less of yourself, but that you think of yourself less.” (Mere Christianity) The apostle Paul said two thousand years earlier, “Don’t cherish exaggerated ideas of yourself or your importance, but try to have a sane estimate of your capabilities by the light of the faith that God has given to you.” (Rom. 12:3) Emphasis, perhaps, on the word sane since its antonym, insane, is defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. (attrib. Albert Einstein)

Learn to embrace your poverty. We’re all equally broken and blessed. “People come into this world with nothing, and when they die they leave with nothing.” (Eccles. 5:15) Resist the place of celebrity. “Go sit in a seat that is not important. When the host comes to you, he may say, ‘Friend, move up here to a more important place.’ Then all the other guests will respect you.” (Luke 14:10) Wouldn’t you rather be invited up than put down? God has a cure for the high and mighty: come down from the mountain, or he’ll help you get over your superiority complex. And when you do, you’ll be amazed at what you can hear, and who you will see.

Oh, and you’ll breathe a whole lot easier, too.

Grace,

Randy