Vengeance
Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in
the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at
peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for
God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the
Lord. (Romans 12:17-19)
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: making 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 and
forgiveness. He moves us forward by healing our past. But can he really do that
with you, or 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? The Old Testament character of 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. Joseph 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?
The truth is
that 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. 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? Consider 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.
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) 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 texts, 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. 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. 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 “vengeance.”
Grace,
Randy
Vengeance - Audio/Visual
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