The Prison of Pride

 

The Prison of Pride

Pride comes before disaster, and arrogance 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, and 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 run 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 gun 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 the 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 somewhat 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 admitting guilt. He was uneasy with words like, “I’ve been wrong,” and “Forgive me.” Saying “I’m sorry” wasn’t in his vocabulary. He’d never backed down from 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 said “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 penitent 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.” Uh, no problem there.

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 his pride. The fact is he’s been imprisoned twice: once because of murder, and the other because of stubbornness; once by his country, and once by himself. That’s 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) Maybe the biggest word in Scripture is that two-letter one: “If.” Because confessing sins (admitting wrong) is exactly what prisoners of pride refuse to do. You know the lingo. 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 fairly good person.” And “Listen, I’m just as good as the next guy. I pay my taxes. I coach a Little League team. I even make donations to the Red Cross. Why, God’s probably pretty 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 follows 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 to be the strangest: true blessedness, Jesus says, begins with deep sadness. Joy through mourning? Freedom through surrender? Liberty through confession? Looking for an example? Okay, 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. 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 maybe he didn’t know much about self-control, but 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. 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 a time to make a name for yourself; it’s a time 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 confirm 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. I guess you can’t be too sure these days. 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 at the one who got him there in the first place, and down he goes.

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 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.

The message is pretty clear. As long as Jesus is one of many options, he’s no option at all. 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, 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 our cares on him, and when there’s truly no other name that we can call, then cast all your cares on him because he’s waiting in the midst of your storm. I think that’s what Peter meant when later, through inspiration of the Spirit, he wrote, “Cast all of your cares on him, because he cares for you.” (1 Peter 5:7) It’s the key that opens the door to the prison of pride.

Grace,

Randy

Re-Solutions

 

Re-Solutions

Re-Solutions - Audio/Visual 

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shone in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. … The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. (John 1:1-5, 14)

So, what’s your New Year’s Resolution for 2026? Maybe you’ve made several, or maybe you’ve given up on the whole resolution thing altogether. But if you’ve made one or a dozen, and your past experiences are like mine, most of your resolutions are broken by the end of January, and by the end of February … well … they’re pretty much forgotten. Frankly, I think the problem with making resolutions is found in the word itself, i.e., solution.

The problem is that we can never really resolve the core problems of life in our own strength because although the spirit of resolution is willing, the flesh of the solution is weak. We know deep down that we need something outside of ourselves to empower us to live out the solutions of life, but there’s only been one resolution that has ever been completely fulfilled. And it is this great resolution, I believe, that lies behind our impulse to resolve the problems and issues of being human. This great resolution is what we just celebrated this past Christmas: the Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us. (John 1:14)

You see, God resolved to give birth to the solution to humanity’s brokenness and sin in the form of his only begotten son, Jesus Christ. God came to be with his creation, now and forever, in the form of a solitary human being who would grow up and begin his ministry of salvation and resolution in a dusty, out-of-the-way province of Palestine. In Jesus, the very character of God is revealed since only in Jesus could the very nature of God be known and experienced. As the apostle John said so well, “The law was given through Moses, but grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.” (John 1:17) And don’t miss the order of the words, “grace” and “truth.” The writer’s use of the words, and their order, was intentional.

For instance, the grace of God is this unconditional, infinite love that God has for his creation, because the truth is that God needed to send his son, Jesus, into the world to save us from our sins. And the grace of God is the giftedness of this love, including its divine initiative and sacrificial vulnerability, because the truth is that God so loved the world that he was prepared to come into this world as a vulnerable human being. (John 3:16) It’s this grace/truth dynamic that’s the solution to humanity’s impulse to find meaning, value and fulfillment.

The truth of the human species is that we have the capacity for both great good and incredible evil. And there’s a wonderful beauty about humanity which God embraces, because God becoming human presupposes the inherent characteristics of being human in the first place. Nevertheless, we’re a flawed, broken and fallen humanity in need of salvation and restoration. Alexander Solzhenitsyn said, “If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?” (The Gulag Archipelago) The apostle Paul put it this way: “I have discovered this principle of life – that when I want to do right, I inevitably do what is wrong.” (Romans 7: 21)

It is God’s great resolution in Jesus Christ that releases us from the tyranny of knowing our human potential and yet never achieving it; of destroying, or damaging, the important achievements in life through our illogical, chaotic tendencies of self-interest and aggression. God, in Jesus, saves us from the dichotomy of ourselves. And God’s great resolution has the ability to save us because, first of all, he accepts us as we are – in all our grubbiness. At the same time God, in Jesus, embraces and esteems humanity and confronts our sinfulness, enabling us to be released from evil through his supernatural power. But this resolution doesn’t occur through the dictatorial activity of a deity that beats us into conformity. Instead, the solution occurs through the God/Jesus who initiates an event in human time and space. Salvation is offered through the God who loves us so much that he is willing to communicate that love by being born a human, living a fully-human life, and then dying at the hands of the very human beings that he loves infinitely and came to save. Maybe the following story will help.

Once upon a time, a watermelon hunter strayed from his own country into a place known as the Land of Fools. He suddenly encountered a group of people fleeing in terror from a field where they had been reaping wheat. “There’s a monster in that field,” one of them yelled. The watermelon hunter went over to the “monster” in the field and saw … a watermelon. The crowd of people watched him from a safe distance with a mixture of fear and awe. Realizing that this was his opportunity to impress and win these strangers over he said, “I’ll kill the monster for you.” And with that, he drew his sword, cut the melon from its stalk and then cut himself a large slice of the watermelon and began to eat it. Witnessing this incredible spectacle, the people became even more terrified of him than they had been of the watermelon “monster.” Some of them screamed in fright at the sight of this foreigner devouring part of the monster. Others began to whisper, “He will kill us next unless we get rid of him.” So, they drove him away with pitchforks and whatever else they could lay their hands on.

Many years passed and another watermelon hunter also strayed into the Land of Fools. He encountered a similar situation as the first man. But instead of offering to help them kill the monster, he agreed with the fools that it might be dangerous to try that, and by tip-toeing away from the watermelon gained their confidence. Thereafter, he decided to spend time with these people in their homes. He developed relationships with them. Eventually, little by little, he taught them some basics about watermelons that enabled them to lose their fear of watermelons and to eventually cultivate them for themselves. (Adapted from an old Sufi legend)

God, in Jesus, is like the second watermelon hunter who decided to completely identify with us as human beings. God comes from another land and has the solution to all our dilemmas, fears and sufferings. Yet God does not impose this solution, as did the first watermelon hunter. God appreciates and respects his creation with all its limitations. God accepts humanity as it is and yet, paradoxically, exposes humanity’s brokenness and sin by offering a solution through his limitless love. God, through Jesus, dwells with us in our homes; he is in relationship with us as one of us, yet he is still God – beyond us, and from a strange land.

John Tucker, a Baptist minister from New Zealand, had a useful observation which I think applies – it’s about aquariums. He says, “Have you ever seen one of those really sophisticated aquariums for tropical fish that some people have in their living rooms? You probably know someone who has one. It takes incredible energy and compassion to take care of those delicate fish. You have to feed them three times a day, change the water filters, monitor the water temperature and test the nitrate levels. You’d think the fish would be grateful, but every time your shadow appears above the tank the fish dive for cover. Out of ignorance they perceive their caretaker as a threat. Tragically, they see his acts of mercy as cruelty. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot convince them of his true intentions. He’s too large for them; too different. To change their perception, to communicate his true intentions, to reveal his true character, would mean getting into the aquarium, not just caring for their “world,” but actually being in it; becoming one of them.”

In Jesus, God got into the aquarium of humanity. Through Jesus, God in his infinite wisdom was at once able to identify with his creation and communicate God’s glory, i.e., grace and truth, and then rescue, by resolution, i.e., Jesus Christ, a creation quarantined by evil and self-indulgence. And God, in Jesus, continues to dwell within us in the form of the Holy Spirit – the living reality of Jesus Christ who was raised from the dead through the supernatural power of God’s limitless love. Praise God that the Light that came into this world is still with us. God, through Jesus, is Emmanuel which means, “God with us.” In other words, we can have a full relationship with God, through Jesus, in the here and now, and by accepting Jesus as he accepts us, our eternal resolution with God is sealed – now and for eternity.

As Jesus’ disciples, we have the same task of accepting people as they are, and to learn to treat them with a grace they don’t deserve. We need to take the time to build the kind of personal relationships that demonstrate the great resolution of God in Jesus Christ – a salvation of grace and truth. That kind of re-solution, I believe, is worthy of any new year.

Happy New Year!

Randy

Stay In the Boat and Keep Rowing

 

Stay In the Boat and Keep Rowing

Stay In the Boat and Keep Rowing - Audio/Visual 

It was dark now, and Jesus had not yet come to them. (John 6:17)

Here are some thoughts from a then-young missionary, Max Lucado, excerpted from his journal during his first month on the mission field in Brazil. On the flight to the field, he writes: “The next time this plane touches down, I will be a missionary. To God be the glory.” The second day Max reflects, “I keep reminding myself that the homesickness is temporary — it comes with the weariness and adjustments. I must remember the reason I’m here. Not for my own joy or gain, but for the growth of God’s kingdom.” By day three his spirits are up: “God, it’s a grand blessing to serve you.” But on the fourth day, Max’s spirits begin to sag: “It’s difficult for us to think about home. We cried this morning.” On the fifth day he doesn’t rebound as he writes, “Today is not so clear. The clouds have buried the mountains. The sky is gray.”

By day six, the storm is brewing: “Yesterday was the toughest day thus far. The newness is gone. I’m tired of this language. We could hardly think of our family and friends without weeping.” On the eighth day, the waves have crested and the winds are blowing: “This hotel room which has been our home is cold and impersonal. I held my wife as she wept, and we both confessed the ugliness of the thought of spending the rest of our lives in this foreign country. We’re so far from home.” By the tenth day the gales are at full strength when Max writes, “Doggone it, I know God is guiding us, I know he has a plan for us, but it’s so hard. How will we learn this language? Lord, forgive my sorry attitude.” And just when you’d think it couldn’t get any darker he says, “I wish I could say I’m thrilled to be here. I’m not. I’m only willing to be here. My commitment to be a missionary feels like a prison sentence.”

Perhaps the disciples could have journaled the same. They only did what they were told. They didn’t question the order; they simply obeyed it. They could have objected. After all, it was evening and darkness was only minutes away, but Jesus told them to get into the boat and so they did. And what was the result of their obedience? John’s crisp description tells you: “That evening Jesus’ followers went down to Lake Galilee. It was dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The followers got into a boat and started across the lake to Capernaum. By now a strong wind was blowing, and the waves on the lake were getting bigger.” (John 6:16-18)

That’s a pretty chilling phrase, “Jesus had not yet come to them.” They were caught in the storm of “not yet.” They did exactly what Jesus said and look where it got them – a night on a storm-tossed sea with their Master somewhere on the shore. It’s one thing to suffer for doing wrong, but it’s an entirely different matter altogether to suffer for doing what’s right. But it happens. And when the storm bursts, it washes away the naive assumption that if we do right, we will never suffer. Just ask the faithful couple whose crib is empty and whose womb is barren. Just ask the businessman whose hard and honest work was rewarded with financial ruin and bankruptcy. Or the recent story of an Oklahoma University student who received a zero on her psychology essay for incorporating Christian beliefs about gender roles, and the coed who took a chance on love and was raped. And so, the winds blow. And so, the boat bounces. And so, the disciples wonder, “Why the storm, and where’s Jesus?”

It’s bad enough to be in the storm, but to be in the storm alone? The disciples had been on the sea for about nine hours, and John tells us they had been rowing for four miles. (John 6:19) Under calm seas, they should have rowed that distance in an hour. It’s been nine. That’s a long night, and how many times had they searched the darkness for their Master? How many times did they call out his name? Why did he take so long? And like the disciples, we ask the same questions.

It reminds me of my children taking piano lessons. Many years ago, we purchased a piano and fearing that it would become just an expensive piece of furniture I told my kids that they were to take piano lessons for one year; after that, they were on their own. Even now I can hear my children playing the piano. And by the time they had begun their last six months, the teacher had upped the ante. No more rinky-dink songs; no more nursery rhymes. It was time to move on. The rhythm varied, the notes sharpened, and the key changed. I remember thinking that it would be pleasant to the ear … someday.

But the notes came slowly and the fingers dragged, and the kids would have quit if I’d given them the chance. So, was I a cruel father for urging them to continue? Was I unfair in prodding them to practice? I wasn’t oblivious to their struggles; I could hear them. And I wasn’t blind to their tears; I could see them. I knew they’d be much happier swimming, reading, or watching television. So why then did I let them suffer? Because I loved them then and love them still. And I knew their struggles then would result in music tomorrow.

Mark tells us that during the storm Jesus “saw his followers struggling.” (Mark 6:48) Through the night he saw them. Through the storm he saw them. And like a loving father he waited. He waited until the right time – until the right moment. He waited until he knew it was time to come, and then he came. So, what made it the right time? I don’t know. Why was the ninth hour better than the first or second? I can’t answer that one either. Why does God wait until the money’s gone, or the sickness has lingered? Why does he choose to wait until the other side of the grave to answer the prayers for healing? Again, I don’t know. I only know that his timing is always right. All I can say is that God will do what’s best. “God will always give what is right to his people who cry to him night and day, and he will not be slow to answer them.” (Luke 18:7)

Though you hear nothing, he’s speaking. Though you see nothing, he’s acting. With God there are no accidents. Every incident is intended to bring us closer to him. It’s like the story of Leonard Bernstein and Arturo Toscanini who attended a concert to hear the promising young soprano, Elisabeth Rethberg, sing. Toscanini commented on the purity of her voice, to which Bernstein responded, “Yes, but she’ll sing better once her heart is broken.” There are certain passions learned only by the pain. And there are times when God, knowing that, allows us to endure the pain for the sake of the song.

So, what does God do then while we’re enduring the pain? What does he do while we’re in the storm? Jesus prays for us. Remember, Jesus wasn’t in the boat with the disciples because he had gone to the hills to pray. (Mark 6:46) Jesus was praying for them. That’s noteworthy. It’s even more remarkable to know that Jesus didn’t stop praying when his disciples were struggling. When he heard their cries, he remained in prayer. Why? Well, there’s two possible answers that come to mind.

Either Jesus didn’t care, or he believed in prayer and you know the correct choice there. And do you know what? Jesus hasn’t changed. He still prays for his disciples. “Because Jesus lives forever, he will never stop serving as priest. So, he is able always to save those who come to God through him because he always lives, asking God to help them.” (Heb. 7:24-25) But if that’s true, where does that leave us? While Jesus is praying and we’re in the storm, what are we to do? Simple. We do what the disciples did. We stay in the boat and keep rowing. The disciples rowed most of the night. Mark says that they were “struggling hard” to row the boat. (Mark 6:48) The word “struggle” is translated elsewhere as “tormented.” In other words, it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t glamorous.

And much of our life is spent rowing. Getting out of bed. Fixing lunches. Turning in assignments. Changing diapers. Paying bills. Routine. Regular. More struggle than strut. More wrestling than resting. You thought marriage was going to be a lifelong date. You thought having kids was going to be like babysitting. You thought the company who hired you wanted to hear all about the great ideas you had in college. Then you learned otherwise. The honeymoon ended. The IRS called, and the boss wanted you to spend the week in Screamer, Alabama. Sure, there are moments of glamour and days of celebration. We have our share of feasts, but we also have our share of baloney. And to have the first we must endure the second.

At the right time, God comes. In the right way, he appears. So don’t bail out. Don’t give up. Don’t lay down the oars. He’s too wise to forget you and too loving to hurt you. When you can’t see him, trust him. He’s praying a prayer that he himself will answer. So, stay in the boat and keep rowing since, without Jesus, you’ll just be alone and rowing in circles.

Grace,

Randy