Spite

Spite

“Why were you so cruel to me?” Jacob moaned. “Why did you tell him you had another brother?” “The man kept asking us questions about our family,” they replied. “He asked, ‘Is your father still alive? Do you have another brother?’ So we answered his questions. How could we know he would say, ‘Bring your brother down here’?” Judah said to his father, “Send the boy with me, and we will be on our way. Otherwise we will all die of starvation—and not only we, but you and our little ones. I personally guarantee his safety. You may hold me responsible if I don’t bring him back to you. Then let me bear the blame forever. If we hadn’t wasted all this time, we could have gone and returned twice by now.” (Genesis 43: 6-10)

In 1882, a New York City businessman named Joseph Richardson owned a narrow strip of land on Lexington Avenue. It was 5 feet wide and 104 feet long. Another businessman, Hyman Sarner, owned the normal-sized lot adjacent to Richardson's little, skinny one, and wanted to build apartments that fronted Lexington Avenue. So, he offered Richardson $1,000.00 for his lot. Richardson was deeply offended by the amount and demanded $5,000.00. Sarner refused. Richardson then called Sarner a “tightwad,” and slammed the door in his face. Sarner assumed Richardson’s land would remain vacant, so he told his architect to design the apartment building so that the windows would overlook Lexington.

When Richardson saw the finished building, however, he was determined to block its view – no one was going to enjoy a “free” view over his lot. So, at age 70, Richardson built a house on his lot; it was 5’ wide, 104’ long and 4 stories high, with two suites on each floor. He also took advantage of a clause in the building code that allowed him to build bay window extensions on the building, which allowed him to extend its maximum width 2'3" beyond the boundary of his lot. The bedrooms of the house were in these bay window extensions. Upon completion, he and his wife moved into one of the “suites.” Of course, only one person at a time could ascend the stairs or pass through the hallway. The largest dining table in any suite was only 18” wide. The stoves were the very smallest made. A robust newspaper reporter once got stuck in the stairwell, and after two tenants were unsuccessful in pushing him free, he extricated himself by stripping down to his underwear. The building was dubbed the "Spite House," and Richardson spent the last fourteen years of his life in the narrow residence that seemed to fit his very narrow state of mind. It was eventually torn down in 1915.

Spite builds a very lonely house: space enough for only one person. The lives of its tenants are reduced to one goal: make someone miserable. And they do. Themselves. No wonder God insists that we "keep a sharp eye out for weeds of bitter discontent. A thistle or two gone to seed can ruin a whole garden in no time." (Heb. 12:15) God’s healing, on the other hand, moves us out of the spite house – away from the cramped world of grudges – toward his spacious ways of grace; away from hardness and toward forgiveness. He moves us forward by healing our past. But can he really do that with me? With my mess? This history of sexual abuse? This raw anger at the father who left my mother? This seething disgust I feel every time I think of the person who treated me like yesterday's garbage? Can God really heal this ancient hurt in my heart? Joseph asked those very same questions.

Truth is you never outlive the memory of ten brothers giving you the heave-ho. They walked away and never came back. So Joseph gave them a taste of their own medicine. When he saw them in the breadline, he snapped at them, accused them of being spies and threw them in jail. Ah, revenge. And isn't it just a little comforting to know that Joseph was actually human? The guy was so good it hurt. He endured slavery, succeeded in a foreign land, mastered a new language, and resisted sexual seductions. He was the model prisoner and the perfect counselor to the king. We expect him to levitate, or when he saw his brothers say, "Father, forgive them, for they knew not what they did." (Luke 23:34) But he didn't. He didn't because forgiving jerks is hard to do. We’ll feed the poor and counsel the king. We'll even memorize the book of Numbers if God says to. But . . . "Don't let the sun go down while you are still angry" (Eph. 4:26)? "Let all bitterness, wrath, anger, clamor, and evil speaking be put away from you, with all malice." (Eph. 4:31)? "As Christ forgave you, so you also must do." (Col. 3:13)? Really, God?

Take the story of the mom who ran off with the traveling salesman, leaving her daughter to be raised by a good-hearted dad who didn’t know the first thing about dolls, dresses or dates. So, the father and daughter stumble through life and make the best of it. Then, years later, the mom reappears, like a brother out of Canaan, and wants to meet dad at the local Starbucks to tell him that she’s sorry for abandoning him, and that she wants to reconnect with her daughter. Our first thought is, “That’s it? He’s supposed to forgive her? Just like that?” That’s way too easy. Doesn't the mom need to experience what she gave? Maybe a few years wondering if she’ll ever see her daughter again would do her some good. Maybe some pain-filled nights. Just a little bit of justice. And how do you reconcile the pain of the daughter with God's command to forgive? Isn't some vengeance in order? Yes, of course it is.

In fact, God cares about justice even more than we do. Paul admonished the church in Rome to "Never pay back evil for evil . . . never avenge yourselves. Leave that to God, for he has said that he will repay those who deserve it." (Rom. 12:17;19) Our problem is that we fear the evildoer will slip into the night, unknown and unpunished – escaping to Fiji to sip a few piña coladas on the beach. But don’t worry. Scripture says, "God will repay," not "might repay." God will execute justice on behalf of truth and fairness. Case in point? Prepare yourself for the most surprising turnaround in the Joseph story.

After three days Joseph released all but one brother from jail. They returned to Canaan to report to Jacob, their father, who was then but a shadow of himself. The brothers told him how Simeon was kept in Egypt as assurance that they would return with Benjamin, their youngest brother. Jacob had nothing to say except, “You’ve taken my children from me. Joseph’s gone. Simeon’s gone. And now you are taking Benjamin. All this can’t really be happening to me!” (Gen. 42:36) Such a louse. Jacob played favorites, refused to discipline, had multiple wives, and upon hearing of the imprisonment of his son, had a pity party. What a prima donna. No wonder the family was screwed up. But as we read further, a light breaks through the clouds. Judah, who once wanted to get rid of Joseph, steps forward: "Send the boy with me, and we will be on our way. Otherwise we will all die of starvation—and not only we, but you and our little ones. I personally guarantee his safety. You may hold me responsible if I don’t bring him back to you. Then let me bear the blame forever. If we hadn’t wasted all this time, we could have gone and returned twice by now." (43:8-9) What? Is this the same Judah? The same man who said, "Let’s sell him to the Ishmaelites" (37:27)? The same brother who helped negotiate the slave trade? Well, yes . . . and no.

Judah, as it turns out, had had his own descent into the pit. After Joseph's abduction, Judah went on to have three sons. He arranged for the eldest to marry a girl named Tamar. But the son died. So, following the proper protocol of his day, Judah arranged for his second son to marry Tamar. But the son didn't manage the situation well and he died, too. Judah, by now, assumed that Tamar was somehow jinxed, and afraid that his third son would meet the same fate as his older brothers, put the marital matter on hold, leaving Tamar with no husband. Sometime later, Judah's wife died, too.

One day, Tamar heard that Judah was coming into town. Apparently, she hadn't been able to get Judah to reply to her e-mails, so she got creative. She disguised herself as a prostitute and made him an offer. Judah took the bait, and exchanged his ring and walking stick for sex, totally unaware that he was sleeping with his daughter-in-law. As “luck” would have it, she conceived, and three months later she reappeared in Judah's life as Tamar – pregnant Tamar. Judah went all high and mighty on her and demanded that she be burned. That’s when she produced Judah’s ring and walking stick, and Judah realized the child was his. He was caught in his own sin, disgraced in front of his own family. Things had come full circle. Judah, who had deceived Jacob, was deceived. Judah, who had trapped Joseph, was trapped. Judah, who had helped humiliate Joseph, was humiliated. God gave Judah his comeuppance, and Judah came to his senses. “She has been more righteous than I,” he later declared. (Gen. 38:26)

For years I wondered why Judah’s exploits were included in the Joseph narrative because they interrupt everything. We just get started in chapter 37 with the dreams and drama of Joseph, when the narrator dedicates chapter 38 to the story of Judah, the hustler, and Tamar, the escort. Two dead husbands. One clever widow. An odd, poorly placed story, I thought. But now I see how it fits. Because for anything good to happen to Jacob’s family, someone in the clan had to grow up. And if it wasn’t going to be their dad, then one of the boys had to mature to the point where he took responsibility for his actions. God activated that change in Judah. He gave the guy a taste of his own medicine, and the medicine worked. Judah championed the family cause. He spoke sense into his father's head. He was willing to take responsibility for Benjamin's safety and bear the blame if he failed. Judah got his wake-up call, and Joseph didn't have to lift a finger or swing a fist.

Vengeance is God's. He will repay – whether ultimately on the Day of Judgment, or intermediately in this life. The point of the story is that God handles all the Judah’s of the world. He can discipline your abusive boss, or soften your angry parent. He can bring your ex to his knees or her senses. Forgiveness doesn't diminish justice; it just entrusts it to God. He guarantees the right retribution. We give too much or too little. But the God of justice has the precise prescription. Unlike us, God never gives up on a person. Never. Long after we’ve moved on, God is still there, probing the conscience, stirring conviction, always orchestrating redemption. Fix your enemies? That's God's job. Forgive your enemies? Ah, that's where you and I come in. We forgive. "Do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not give the devil an opportunity." (Eph. 4:26-27)

The word translated “opportunity” is the Greek word topos, the same term from which we get the English noun “topography.” It means territory or ground. Interesting. Anger gives ground to the devil. Bitterness invites him to occupy a space in your heart, like renting a room. And he will. Gossip, slander, temper – anytime you see these things, Satan’s claimed a bunk. So what do we do? Evict him.

Don't give him the time of day. In the name of Jesus tell him to pack his bags and hit the road. Begin the process of forgiveness. Keep no list of wrongs. Pray for your antagonists rather than plot against them. Hate the wrong without hating wrongdoers. Turn your attention away from what they did to you, and concentrate on what Jesus did for you. Outrageous as it may seem, Jesus died for them, too. And if he thinks they’re worth forgiving, they are.

Does that make forgiveness easy? No. Quick? Seldom. Painless? Hardly. And it wasn't for Joseph, either. The brothers returned to Egypt from Canaan, Benjamin in tow. Joseph invited them to a dinner. He asked about Jacob, spotted Benjamin, and all but came undone. "God be gracious to you, my son," he blurted out before he hurried from the room to ball his eyes out. (Gen. 43:29) Eventually, he returned to eat and drink and share pleasantries with the brothers. Joseph even sat them according to birth order, oldest to youngest. He singled out Benjamin for special treatment – every time the brothers got one helping, Benjamin got five. The brothers noticed this, but said nothing. Later, Joseph loaded their sacks with food and hid his personal cup in the sack of Benjamin. The brothers were barely down the road when Joseph's steward stopped their caravan, searched their sacks, and found the cup. The brothers tore their clothes (the ancient equivalent of tearing their hair out) and soon found themselves back in front of Joseph, fearing for their lives. Weird. Why did Joseph do that?

Well, apparently, Joseph couldn't make up his mind. He welcomed them, wept over them, ate with them, and then pranked them. He was at war with himself. These brothers had peeled the scab off his oldest and deepest wound, and he wasn’t about to let them do it again. On the other hand, these were his brothers, and he wasn’t going to lose them again, either. Forgiveness vacillates like that. It has fits and starts; good days and bad. Anger intermingled with love. Call it irregular mercy. We make progress only to make a wrong turn. Step forward and then fall back. But that’s okay. When it comes to forgiveness, all of us are amateurs. No one owns a secret formula. And as long as you are trying to forgive, you are forgiving. It's when you no longer try that bitterness sets in and Satan takes up shop.

So, try spending less time in the spite house and more time in the grace house. Having walked the hallways of both, I can tell you that the space of grace is preferred over getting stuck in your underwear in a narrow hallway called “spite.”

Grace,

Randy