Bitterness

Bitterness

The older son was in the field, and as he came closer to the house, he heard the sound of music and dancing. So he called to one of the servants and asked what all this meant. The servant said, "Your brother has come back, and your father killed the fat calf, because your brother came home safely." The older son was angry and would not go in to the feast. (Luke 15:25-28)

Ah, the case of the older son. It’s a difficult one because he looked so good. He kept his room straight and his nose clean. He played by the rules and paid all his dues. His resume? Impeccable. His credit? Squeaky clean. And loyalty? Well, while his brother was out sowing his wild oats, he stayed home and sowed the family’s crops. On the outside he was everything a father could want in a son. But on the inside? Well … he was kind of sour and hollow. Overcome by jealousy. Consumed by anger. Blinded by bitterness.

You remember the story, don’t you? It's perhaps the best known of Jesus’ parables. It's actually the third of three stories in Luke 15; three stories about three parties. The first began after a shepherd found a sheep he'd lost. He had ninety-nine others. He could have been content to write this one off as a loss. But shepherds don't think like businessmen. So he searched for it. And when he found the sheep, he carried it back to the flock, cut the best grass for the sheep to eat, and had a party to celebrate. The second party was held on the front porch of a modest house. A housewife had lost a coin. It wasn't her only coin mind you, but you would have thought it was by the way she acted. She moved the furniture, got out the dust mop, and swept the whole house until she found it. And when she did, she ran shouting into the cul-de-sac and invited her neighbors over for a party to celebrate.

Then there’s the story of the lost son. The boy who broke his father's heart by taking his inheritance and taking off. He trades his dignity for a whisky bottle, and his self-respect for a pigpen. Then comes the son's sorrow and his decision to go home. He hopes his dad will give him a job on the farm and an apartment over the garage. What he finds is a father who has kept his place set at the table and the porch light on every night. The father is so excited to see his son, he throws a party. And we party-loving prodigals love what that dad did, but it infuriated the older brother. "The older son was angry." (v. 28) And it's not hard to see why.

"So this is how a guy gets recognition in this family: get drunk, go broke, get busy with prostitutes and you get a party. Really?" So he sat outside the house and pouted. I’ve done that. In fact, one time, I pouted at a party. A Christmas party. I was in the third grade, and third graders take parties very seriously, especially when gifts are involved.

So, the class had drawn names. But since you didn't know who had your name, you had to drop hints very loudly. Well, I didn't miss a chance. I wanted a "Sixth Finger" – a toy pistol that fit in the palm of your hand and looked like an extra finger. (No, I’m not making this up)

        

          Well, finally the day came to open the gifts. I just knew I was going to get my pistol. Everyone in the class had heard my hints – I’d made sure of that. So, I tore into the wrapping and ripped open the box and there it was . . . stationery. Stationery? Yes, western-style stationery. Paper and envelopes with horses in the corners. Probably left over from the Christmas before.

Now, everyone knows that eight-year-old boys don't write letters. I mean, what was my gift-giver thinking? No doubt some mom had forgotten all about the gift exchange until that morning. So, she desperately went to the closet, looked through the box labeled, “Re-gifts,” and came out with the stationery. I was distraught. I was upset. Who wouldn’t be? So, I missed the party. Oh, I was present, but I pouted.

      

          So did the older brother in our story. He, too, felt he was a victim of inequity. When his father came out to meet him, the son started at the top, listing the atrocities of his life. To hear him talk about it, his woes apparently began the day he was born. "I have served you like a slave for many years and have always obeyed your commands. But you never gave me even a young goat to have at a feast with my friends. But your other son, who wasted all your money on prostitutes, comes home, and you kill the fat calf for him!" (vv. 29-30). Maybe both sons spent time in the pigpen. One in the pen of rebellion – the other in the pen of self-pity. The younger one had come home. The older one – apparently – hadn’t. He's still in the slop. He’s saying the same thing you said when the kid down the street got a bicycle and you didn't: It's not fair.

        

        That's what Wanda Holloway said. When it looked like her fourteen-year-old daughter wouldn't get chosen for the cheerleading squad, Wanda got angry. So, she decided to get even. She hired a hit man to kill the mother of her daughter's chief competitor, hoping to so upset the girl that Wanda's daughter would make the squad. Bitterness will do that to you. It'll cause you to burn your house down to kill a rat. Fortunately, her plan failed and Wanda Holloway was caught. She was sentenced to fifteen years. She didn't have to be put behind bars to be imprisoned, however. Bitterness is its own prison. Black and cold, bitterness denies easy escape. The sides are slippery with resentment. A floor of muddy anger mucks at the feet. The stench of betrayal fills the air and stings the eyes. A cloud of self-pity blocks the view of the tiny exit above.

Just step inside and look at the prisoners. Victims are chained to the walls. Victims of betrayal. Victims of abuse. Victims of the government, the system, the military, the world. They lift their chains as they lift their voices and wail – loud and long. They grumble. They're angry at others who got what they didn't. They sulk. The world is against them. They accuse. The pictures of their enemies are darted to the wall. They boast. "I followed the rules. I played fairly . . . in fact, better than anybody else." They whine. "Nobody listens to me. Nobody remembers me. Nobody cares about me." Angry. Sullen. Accusatory. Arrogant. Whiny. Put them all together in one word and spell it b-i-t-t-e-r.

The dungeon, deep and dark, is beckoning you to enter, too. You can, you know. You've experienced enough hurt, haven’t you? You've been betrayed enough times. You have a history of rejections, don't you? Haven't you been left out, left behind, or left out in the cold? You’re a candidate for the dungeon. And you can choose, like many, to chain yourself to your hurt. Or you can choose, like some, to put away your hurts before they become hates. You can choose to go to the party. You have a place there. Your name is on the placard beside your plate. If you’re a child of God, no one can take away your place as your Father’s child.

Which is precisely what the father said to the older son: "Son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours." (v. 31) Interestingly, that is precisely what the Father says to you. How does God deal with your bitter heart? He reminds you that what you have is more important than what you don't. You still have your relationship with God. No one can take that. No one can touch it.

Your health can be taken and your money stolen. But your place at God's table is permanent. The brother was bitter because he focused on what he didn't have and forgot what he did have. His father reminded him – and us – that he had everything he'd always had. He had his job. His place. His name. His inheritance. The only thing he didn't have was the spotlight. And because he wasn't content to share it, he missed the party.

      

         It takes courage to set aside jealousy and rejoice with the achievements of a rival. Take Abraham Lincoln for an example. Standing before ten thousand eyes, he’s obviously uncomfortable. His discomfort comes not from the thought of delivering his first inaugural address, but from the very ambitious efforts of well-meaning tailors. He's unaccustomed to such attire – formal black dress coat, silk vest, black pants and a glossy top hat. He holds a huge ebony cane with a golden head the size of an egg.

So, there he is. He approaches the platform with his hat in one hand and his cane in the other, and he doesn't really know what to do with either one. In the nervous silence that comes after the applause and just before the speech, he searches for a spot to put them both.

He finally leans the cane in a corner of the railing, but he still doesn't know what to do with the hat. He could lay it on the podium, but it would take up too much room. Perhaps the floor . . . no, too dirty. Just then, and not a moment too soon, a man stepped forward and took his hat, returned to his seat, and listened intently to Lincoln's speech.

      

          Come to find out, that man was Lincoln's dearest friend. The president once said of him, "He and I are about the best friends in the world." He was one of the strongest supporters during the early stages of Lincoln's presidency. He even had the honor of escorting Mrs. Lincoln at the inaugural grand ball. And as the storm of the Civil War began to boil, many of Lincoln's friends left. But not this one. He amplified his loyalty by touring the South as Lincoln's peace ambassador: he begged Southerners not to secede and Northerners to rally behind the president.

            

           His efforts were great, but the wave of anger was greater. The country did divide, and civil war bloodied the nation. Lincoln's friend never lived to see it. He died three months after Lincoln's inauguration. Wearied by his travels, he succumbed to a fever and Lincoln was left to face the war alone. Upon hearing the news of his friend's death, Lincoln wept openly and ordered the White House flag to be flown at half-staff. Some have even suggested that Lincoln's friend would have been chosen as his running mate in 1864 and would thus have become president following the assassination of the Great Emancipator. No one will ever know for sure.

But we do know that Lincoln had one true friend. And we can only imagine the number of times the memory of him brought warmth to a cold Oval Office. He was a model of friendship. But he was also a model of forgiveness, because this friend could just as easily have been an enemy. That’s because long before he and Lincoln were allies, they were competitors – politicians pursuing the same office. Unfortunately, their debates are better known than their friendship: the debates between Abraham Lincoln and his dear friend, Stephen A. Douglas. But on Lincoln's finest day, Douglas set aside their differences and held the hat of the president.

Unlike the older brother, Douglas heard a higher call. And unlike the older brother, he was present at the party. And we would be wise to do the same. Wise to rise above our hurts. Because if we do, we'll be present at the Father's final celebration. A party to end all parties. A party where no pouters will be permitted.

So, come on; join the party. Be better – not bitter.

Grace,

Randy

Gratitude

Gratitude

While Jesus and his followers were traveling, Jesus went into a town. A woman named Martha let Jesus stay at her house. Martha had a sister named Mary, who was sitting at Jesus' feet and listening to him teach. But Martha was busy with all the work to be done. She went in and said, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things. Only one thing is important. Mary has chosen the better thing, and it will never be taken away from her." (Luke 10:38-42)

I love milk. One of the saddest days of my life was when I learned that whole milk was actually unhealthy. So, with great reluctance I have adapted to the watered-down version. However, every once in a while, I still allow myself the pleasure of a cold glass of whole milk with a hot, gooey, chocolate-chip cookie.

In my years of milk appreciation I have also learned that a high price is paid for leaving milk out of the refrigerator. That happened a while ago when I spit the spoiled stuff all over the kitchen cabinet. I’ve learned that sweet milk turns sour from being left too warm for too long. And, it occurred to me, sweet dispositions can turn sour for the same reason. Let aggravation stew without a period of cooling down, and the result? A bad, bitter, clabberish attitude. Kind of like buttermilk – I’m not really a fan of a drink with lumps in it.

The tenth chapter of Luke describes the step-by-step process of the sweet becoming sour. It's the story of Martha. A dear soul with a talent for hospitality and organization. More frugal than frivolous; more practical than pensive, her household is a tight ship and she’s a stern captain. Ask her to choose between a book and a broom, she'll take the broom. Mary, on the other hand, will take the book. Mary is Martha's sister. Same parents, but different priorities. Martha has things to do. Mary has thoughts to think. The dishes can wait. Let Martha go to the market; Mary will go to the library.

Two sisters. Two personalities. And as long as they understand each other, life’s fine. But when the one resents the other, it's like flint against stone. And the picture I get from Luke is that Martha’s probably the one standing by the table, wearing the apron and commanding the kitchen. Stirring with one hand and cracking eggs with the other, she doesn’t spill a drop. She knows what she's doing, and there must be a big crowd coming because there’s a whole lot of food. And then she hears them laughing in the next room, and it sounds like they're having fun. Martha isn't having fun. One look at her flour-covered scowl will tell you that.

"Stupid sister," you can almost hear her mumble. "Stupid Mary. Here I am alone in the kitchen while she's out there. And if I’d known that Jesus was going to bring his entire posse with him, I probably wouldn’t have invited him over in the first place. Those guys eat like horses, and Peter is just plain gross … his breath stinks when he belches. Such a fisherman."

"Yeah, that sweet little darling sister of mine . . . always ready to listen and never ready to work. I wouldn't mind sitting down myself. But all I do is cook and sew, cook and sew. Well, enough is enough!" And at this point, you get the sense that someone’s gonna get it. "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." (v. 40) Suddenly the room goes deathly silent, except for the tap-tap-tapping of Martha's foot on the stone floor, and the slapping of a wooden spoon in her palm. She looms above the others with flour on her cheeks and fire in her eyes.

At this point, the disciples are probably staring wide-eyed at this fury that hell hath not known. And poor Mary, flushed red with embarrassment, sighs and sinks lower to the floor. Only Jesus speaks. Because only Jesus understands the problem. The problem is not the large crowd. The problem is not Mary's choice to listen. The problem is not Martha's choice to host. The problem is Martha's heart – a heart soured with anxiety. "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things." (v. 41)

The truth is that Martha wanted to do right, but her heart was wrong. Her heart, Jesus said, was worried. As a result, she turned from a happy servant into a beast of burden. She was worried: worried about cooking; worried about pleasing; worried about too much. I like what Erma Bombeck had to say about worrying: “I've always worried a lot and frankly, I'm good at it. I worry about introducing people and going blank when I get to my mother. I worry about a shortage of ball bearings; a snake coming up through the kitchen drain. I worry about the world ending at midnight and getting stuck with three hours on a twenty-four hour cold capsule. I worry what the dog thinks when he sees me coming out of the shower; that one of my children will marry an Eskimo who will set me adrift on an iceberg when I can no longer feed myself. I worry about salesladies following me into the fitting room, oil slicks, and Carol Channing going bald. I worry about scientists discovering someday that lettuce has been fattening all along.”

Apparently, Martha worried too much, too. So much so that she started bossing God around. A lack of gratitude will do that to you. It makes you forget who's in charge. What makes this case interesting though is that Martha’s worried about doing something good: she's having Jesus over for dinner. She's literally serving God. Her aim was to please Jesus. But she made a common, but dangerous, mistake. As she began to work for him, her work became more important than her Lord. What began as a way to serve Jesus, slowly and subtly became a way to serve herself.

I’m guessing that the process went something like this. As she began to prepare the meal, she anticipated the compliments she’d get on the food. And as she set the table, she imagined the approval of her guests. She could just picture it. Jesus would enter the house and thank her for all her hard work. He would tell the disciples to give her a standing ovation. John would cite her as an example of hospitality and dedicate an entire chapter in the Bible to her. Then women would come from miles around to ask her how she learned to be such a kind and humble servant. And the rest of her days would be spent directing a school of servanthood – with Jesus as the director, and Martha as the professor.

But things didn't turn out quite like she'd planned. She didn't get the attention she sought. There were no standing ovations. No compliments. No adulation. No school. No one even noticed. And that irritated her. But Martha is long on anxiety and short on memory. She’s forgotten that the invitation was her idea. She’d forgotten that Mary has every right to be with Jesus. And most of all, she’d forgotten that the meal was to honor Jesus, not Martha.

It's easy to forget who’s the servant and who’s to be served. Satan knows that. This tool of distortion is one of Satan's slyest. You see, he didn't take Martha out of the kitchen; he took away her purpose in the kitchen. The adversary won't turn you against the church; he will turn you toward yourself in the church. He won't take you away from your ministry; he'll disillusion you in your ministry.

And when the focus is on yourself, you do what Martha did — you worry. You become anxious about many things. You worry that your co-workers won't appreciate you; your leaders will overwork you; and your superintendent won't understand you. With time, your agenda becomes more important than God's because you're more concerned with presenting self than pleasing him. And then you start doubting God's judgment: "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me alone to do all the work? Tell her to help me." (v. 40) I think Martha probably regretted saying that. I bet that after she cooled down a bit, she would have loved to have those words back. She probably wished she'd heeded Solomon's counsel: "A rebel shouts in anger; a wise man holds his temper in and cools it." (Prov. 29:11)

There’s a principle here. To keep an attitude from souring, treat it like you would a cup of milk: cool it off. Martha's life was cluttered. She needed a break. "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things," the Master explained to her. "Only one thing is important. Mary has chosen [it]." (Vv. 41-42) What had Mary chosen? She’d chosen to sit at the feet of Christ. And it seems to me that God is probably more pleased with the quiet attention of a sincere servant, than the noisy service of a sour one.

By the way, this story could easily have been reversed.

Mary could have been the one to get angry and upset. The sister on the floor could have resented the sister at the sink. Mary could have grabbed Jesus by the arm, dragged him into the kitchen and said, "Jesus. Would you please tell Martha to quit being so productive and to get a bit more reflective. Why do I have to do all the thinking and praying around here, anyway?"

What matters more than the type of service is the heart behind the service – a grateful heart. A bad attitude spoils the gift we leave on the altar for God. It reminds me of a story about a guy who prayed with a bad attitude. "Why," he asked God, "has my brother been blessed with wealth and me with nothing at all? All my life I’ve never missed a single day without offering morning and evening prayers to You. My church attendance has been spotless – it’s perfect! I’ve always loved my neighbor, and given them my money and my help. Yet now, as I have more life behind than ahead of me, I can hardly afford to pay my rent. My brother, on the other hand, drinks and gambles and plays all the time. Yet he has more money than he can count. I’m not asking you to punish him, but tell me, please God, why has he been given so much and I’ve got squat?" "Because," God replied, "you're such a self-righteous pain in the neck."

Guard your attitude. God has gifted you with talents. He has done the same to your neighbor. If you concern yourself with your neighbor's talents, you will neglect your own. But if you concern yourself with your own, you could inspire both.

Gratitude – it’s a choice.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Randy

Commonality

Commonality

As the time of King David’s death approached, he gave this charge to his son Solomon: “I am going where everyone on earth must someday go. Take courage and be a man. Observe the requirements of the Lord your God, and follow all his ways. Keep the decrees, commands, regulations, and laws written in the Law of Moses so that you will be successful in all you do and wherever you go. If you do this, then the Lord will keep the promise he made to me. He told me, ‘If your descendants live as they should and follow me faithfully with all their heart and soul, one of them will always sit on the throne of Israel.’ (2 Sam. 2:1-4)

His story started in a sheep pasture. Woolly heads witnessed his early days. Quiet, bucolic fields welcomed his young eyes. Before people listened to his message, sheep turned at his call. Queue up all the creatures that have heard his voice, and grass-grazers claim a place near the front of the line. His story began in a pasture. A Bethlehem pasture.

The small hamlet of Bethlehem was perched on the gentle slopes. The home of shepherds. The land of figs, olives and vines. Nothing too lush, but sufficient. Not known to the world but known to God, who, for his own reasons, chose Bethlehem as the incubator of this chosen child.

Chosen, indeed. Chosen by God. Anointed from on high, and set apart by heaven. The prophet declared His call. The family heard it. The lad of the sheep would become the shepherd of souls. Bethlehem’s boy would be Israel’s king. But not before he became the target of hell.

The road out of Bethlehem was steep and dangerous. It led him through a desert, an angry Jerusalem and was full of conflict and peril. Leaders had resolved to kill him. His people sought to stone him. His own family chose to mock him. Some people lifted him up him as king while others cast him down. Jerusalem gates saw him enter as a sovereign and leave like a fugitive. He eventually died a lonely death in the Hebrew capital.

But he is far from dead. His words still speak. His legacy still lives. Love or hate him, society keeps turning to him – reading his thoughts, pondering his deeds, imagining his face. Scripture gives only scant information about his looks, so sculptors and artists have filled galleries with their private speculations. Michelangelo. Rembrandt. Da Vinci. Canvas. Stone. Paintings. Sculptures. And books.

Thousands of pages have been devoted to Bethlehem’s prodigy. We can’t stop talking about him. Sand has filled his Judean footprints thousands of times over thousands of years — but still we gather to reflect on his life.

You probably know whom I’m describing. Well, at least I think you do. The pasture. The anointing. The childhood call. The lifelong enemies. Wilderness. Jerusalem. Judea. The lonely death. The endless legacy. Who is this boy from Bethlehem? David, of course.

Or Jesus, perhaps. Or . . . both?

List a dozen facts, and each describe the twin traits of David and Jesus. Amazing. Even more so is the fact that you can do the same with your life, too. For instance, read these truths and tell me, who am I describing? Jesus . . . or you?

Born to a mother. Familiar with physical pain. Enjoys a good party. Rejected by friends. Unfairly accused. Loves stories. Reluctantly pays taxes. Sings. Turned off by greedy religion. Feels sorry for the lonely. Unappreciated by siblings. Stands up for the underdog. Kept awake at night by concerns. Known to doze off every once in a while in the middle of trips. Accused of being too rowdy. Afraid of death. Who does that describe? You? Jesus? Both of you?

Seems you and I, like David, have a lot in common with Jesus. Big deal? Well, I think so because that means Jesus understands you. He understands small-town anonymity and big-city pressure. He’s walked pastures of sheep and palaces of kings. He’s faced hunger, sorrow and death, and wants to face them with you. Jesus “understands our weaknesses, for he faced all of the same temptations we do, yet he did not sin. So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it.” (Heb. 4:15–16)

He became one of us. And he did so to redeem all of us. The stories of David and Jesus share many names: Bethlehem, Judea, Jerusalem. The Mount of Olives. The Dead Sea. En Gedi. While their stories are similar, don’t think for a second that they’re identical. Jesus had no Bathsheba collapse, Uriah murder or adultery cover-up. Jesus never pillaged a village, camped with the enemy, or neglected a child. No one accused the fairest son of Bethlehem of polygamy, brutality or adultery. In fact, no one successfully accused Jesus of anything at all.

They tried. But when accusers called him a son of Satan, Jesus asked for their proof. “Can any one of you convict me of a single misleading word, a single sinful act?” ( John 8:46) No one could. Disciples traveled with him. Enemies scrutinized him. Admirers studied him. But no one could convict him of sin. No one spotted him in the wrong place, heard him say the wrong words, or saw him respond the wrong way. Peter, three years Jesus’s companion, said, “He never did one thing wrong. Not once said anything amiss.” (1 Pet. 2:22) Pilate was the head of the Roman version of the CIA, yet when he tried to find fault in Jesus, he failed. (John 18:38) Even the demons called Jesus “the Holy One of God.” (Luke 4:34) Jesus never missed the mark. Equally amazing, he never distances himself from those who do.

For instance, just read the first verse of Matthew’s gospel. Jesus knew David’s ways. He witnessed the adultery, winced at the murders and grieved at the dishonesty. But David’s failures didn’t change Jesus’s relation to David. The initial verse of the first chapter of the first gospel calls Christ “the son of David.” (Matt. 1:1) The title contains no disclaimers, explanations or asterisks. If it’d been me, I’d probably have added a footnote: “This connection in no way offers tacit approval to David’s behavior.” But no such words appear. David blew it. Jesus knew it. But he claimed David anyway.

He did for David what my friend’s father did for me and Kevin. Back in our elementary school days, Kevin got a BB gun for Christmas. We immediately set up a firing range in his backyard and spent the afternoon shooting at an archery target. Growing bored with the ease of hitting the circle, Kevin sent me to fetch a hand mirror. He placed the gun backward on his shoulder, spotted the archery bull’s-eye in the mirror, and did his best Buffalo Bill imitation. But he missed the target. He also missed the garage behind the target and the fence behind the garage.

We had no idea where the BB went. Our neighbor across the street knew, however. He soon appeared, asking who’d shot the BB gun and who was going to pay for his living room window. At this point I disowned my friend. I claimed to be a holiday visitor from Canada. Kevin’s father, however, was more noble than me. Hearing the noise, he appeared in the backyard, freshly rousted from his Christmas Day nap, and talked with the neighbor. Among his words were these: “Yes, they are my children.” “Yes, I’ll pay for their mistakes.” And I wasn’t even his child, technically speaking.

Christ says the same about you. He knows you miss the target. He knows you can’t pay for your mistakes. But he can. “God sent Jesus to take the punishment for our sins.” (Rom. 3:25) Since he was sinless, he could. Since he loves you, he did. “This is real love. It is not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.” (1 John 4:10)

He became one of us to redeem all of us. “Jesus, who makes people holy, and those who are made holy are from the same family. So he is not ashamed to call them his brothers and sisters.” (Heb. 2:11) He wasn’t ashamed of David, and he isn’t ashamed of you. He calls you brother; he calls you sister. The question is, do you call him Savior?

Take a moment to answer that question. Perhaps you never have. Perhaps you never knew how much Christ loves you. Now you do. Jesus didn’t disown David, and he won’t disown you. He simply awaits your invitation. One word from you, and God will do again what he did with David and millions like him: he’ll claim you, save you and use you.

Your greatest Goliath will fall. Your failures will be flushed and death defanged. The power that made pygmies out of David’s giants will do the same with yours. You can face your giants, you know. Why?

Because you faced God first.

Grace,

Randy