Pride

Pride

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, and Hector had decided to silence it. He’d left the crowded bar where the two of them had been arguing, gone home, took 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 in 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 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 shots to the head does a guy need before he’ll ask for help? And Hector’s prison is not just bricks and mortar, but 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 bum. 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