What about when the wrongdoer wins?
I love to sit inside Scripture. When my mind has time to wander, it sometimes runs amok of course, but often it meanders to how I would feel inside a story, how my responses would align with or differ from the character.
One story I return to a lot in my mind is Joseph and his brothers, in Gen 37-50. When you think about it, that’s an incredible chunk of chapters to highlight one person. Of course it’s a critical portion of the nation of Israel’s history but much of the narrative centers on Joseph. He’s a key figure!
You’re probably familiar: Joseph is the favorite and he’s a little foolish. He has these dreams and tells his brothers, which just stirs up the anger and resentment they already feel. They want to kill him but settle for selling him off to passing Ishmaelmite. Hey, at least let’s make some money off him!
Betrayed by your own brothers! Of course things go from bad to worse. He’s eventually falsely accused of attempted rape, then completely forgotten about in prison. Probably 12-13 years go by where he’s forgotten.
He cannot get those years back.
Now of course the end of the story is beautiful. God places Joseph in power over all of Egypt, brings back his brothers who are starving, and Joseph gets to use his power and authority to gracious provide for the people who hurt him. A stunning picture of forgiveness and grace. Yes!
I love it. I really do. But I cannot tell you how many times over the years I have had this nagging feeling.
What if his brothers had somehow risen to power while Joseph remained in jail? Would he have forgiven them then?
Just to be dead bang honest: At least in my own experience, when I come out of a situation “on top” so to speak, it’s easy to forgive.
If I was in a place of power and somehow the people who wronged me came groveling back, bowing, starving, of course I would forgive them. Of course I would use my power to help them. No brainer.
But what if Joseph was still in prison? What if the brothers were somehow allowed to rise in power instead and they remained completely oblivious to their long-lost brother’s plight? What if they strode by him, without ever recognizing him?
Or worse, what if Joseph had to bow to them?
What if Pharaoh had awarded them the “best brothers in Egypt,” award while Joseph had to silently applaud?
Would he have forgiven them then?
Knowing Joseph’s character, my guess is that yes he would’ve, but can we be so honest as to admit that would’ve been a whole lot harder?!
So I guess what I’m wondering is, During those 12-13 years, at what point did Joseph do the inner work of forgiving them? And what would it have looked like if he never “came out on top” but his brothers did instead?
Like, what about when the wrongdoer wins? What does forgiveness look like then?
I don’t have a specific situation in mind, but more like shades of lots of scenarios that crop up here and then in life.
I don’t have the magic answer, but I will say that at one point I was wrestling with God about this, and I asked Him. While Joseph was in prison, before he came out on top and the whole thing became so clear: what was Joseph to do then?
And so clearly the word settled in my heart:
Wait.
Ah yes. Joseph was to wait. When he was bumping along in some donkey cart with the Ishmaelites, terrified, with no idea what the future held, he waited.
When Joseph was falsely accused by Pharaoh’s wife and wound up in prison, he waited.
When Joseph was forgotten by the cupbearer, thus left alone in prison longer and longer, he waited.
If a situation seems upside down and wrong and unresolved and seems like the wrongdoer wins?
Wait.
I’d like to add that this applies to me as well. Often, I am the wrongdoer. I know there are seasons where I’m not quite walking the way I should, but it kinda seems like everything’s still going ok, so that must mean I’m good.
That’s a dangerous spot. Just because it seems like I’m “on top” so to speak or things are going well, doesn’t mean there’s no divine discipline right around the corner. God loves me enough to bring things around that’ll bring me to Him.
Just like the Prodigal Dad, I think it’s safe to say that while he waited, Joseph must’ve done the inner work in his heart to let go of anger, bitterness, resentment, and unforgiveness.
And, I think it’s safe to say that if the brothers “came out on top” that would’ve been a tough pill to swallow for Joseph. It would’ve been incredibly hard for him to bow to them.
But the other truth that keeps haunting my heart is this sense, that the truth is, God would never let that happen. And if it seems like that’s happening, it’s because the story isn’t done yet.
When we ask, “What about when the wrongdoer wins?”
The truth?
He doesn’t.
He doesn’t win. God will right every wrong somehow.
This should be encouraging and terrifying.
I know I for one don’t want God’s just punishment doled out unmercifully on wrongdoers, because I am one.
I want there to be justice, but I want mercy to triumph.
No matter who bows to who on earth, I want all of us to bow to King Jesus in eternity.
Ultimately, the story of Joseph, even more than forgiveness, is about TRUST. Joseph was able to forgive because Joseph was able to TRUST. He trusted that God would figure out his life. That God saw the hidden prison cell. That God saw the inner struggles of his own heart.
Joseph was able to forgive, I believe, inwardly, even before that situation resolved, because he trusted God. It was trust in his heavenly Father that fueled his forgiveness.
Just like Jesus.
Jesus forgave while still on the cross.
—–
And Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:24)
The fellowship of the broken-hearted
{From Oct 2017, right after our first two miscarriages and Jeff’s dad’s sudden death. I was just sitting by the river praying and this came to mind so I’m revisiting this again. It continues to encourage my heart.}
What is wrong with me??
I leaned against the kitchen cabinet, trying to keep the sobs silent. The kids played, oblivious. Jeff worked outside. I just couldn’t stop crying. I tried to text a friend, but a few words in I quit.
Too much. Don’t even know where to begin.
Another deflating disappointment, another super confusing complication that leaves me bewildered, wondering where God is leading all this tangle of seemingly dead-end roads.
I came upstairs, figured I’d put the clean sheets on the bed. Do the next thing.
And there, beside my bed, was my answer. To what was wrong with me.
Except maybe it’s not wrong.
There, beside my bed, I saw the display. My pregnancy book. My miscarriage book. The Pro-Life book. There’s a book on how to provide marriage counseling to those in need. To the left is a book on preparing your daughter for sexual and emotional purity. There’s a photo of my grandma, who passed away this past year. Underneath them all is a phone-book sized biblical parenting book that accompanies a video study. You can’t see the Intercessory Prayer book but it’s there too.
Each book represents an aspect of my life that tears at my heart, that weighs on me, that causes me to cry out in prayer, that, at times, keeps me awake at night. Each aspect represents a part of this past year, something we’ve walked through, or are walking through.
You’re probably familiar with these aspects too, and more.
None of them are cerebral studies. I’m not gathering data for a business presentation.
Each represents, in some way, a broken heart.
Friday night, Jeff and I watched Joan of Arc. I had seen it before, but I was struck afresh by this brave & broken-hearted girl who united France and died a martyr, because she cared.
To care is to cry. To break.
A month ago I spoke to a gathering of pastor’s wives. Before the conference, I was in the midst of yet another emotional episode, and I lay with my face to the floor and asked God how this was going to work, speaking to these women, when I was such a wreck inside. I heard, in my heart:
“The fellowship of the broken-hearted.”
Yes. Of course. Each one of these women, because they shepherd others, they lead, they love, and they lay down their lives … every single one of them lives with a broken heart. To care is to cry. To break.
My friend Christine always says, “Breakthrough comes through a broken heart.”
Certainly much of my own sorrow probably comes from selfishness, but in this particular situation I can honestly say it came from caring. Jesus was a man acquainted with sorrows, and it only makes sense that as we come to know Him more, as we walk His way, we will care more. We will ache more. We will hurt more. There will be victories. There will be hallelujahs. There will be mountain tops and glorious days. But if Jesus wept over Jerusalem, won’t we weep over our nation? If Jesus wept when Lazarus died, knowing He would raise Him, won’t we weep over the sick and disease-ridden, the ones who die too soon, the victims of violence, both born and unborn?
Maybe tears aren’t a symptom something’s wrong.
Maybe they mean something’s right because we care about what’s wrong.
I came back downstairs, did the next thing. Made dinner. While we washed dishes after, Shane & Shane came on Spotify and I heard Job’s words:
Though You slay me, yet I will praise You
Though You take from me, I will bless Your name
Though you ruin me, still I will worship
… Jeff gently pulled me into his arms–he’s part of the Fellowship too. Each word brought out the broken places and the tears flowed freely, safely, onto his shoulder. At the end of the song, I wiped my mascara-smeared eyes on his black t-shirt and SMILED. The true, genuine, hope-filled smile of knowing my Redeemer lives. And just then, another song came on, and as only Providence would have it, Housefires sang out a scripture equally true:
All Your promises are yes and amen!
Yes! Even in the broken-heartedness, His promises are ALWAYS yes and amen. This is not the end.
I love the prayer from Every Moment Holy, A Liturgy For Those Who Weep Without Knowing Why. It ends simply: “Use our tears to baptize what You love.” Amen.
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.
-Psalm 34:18
{Keep fighting, praying, caring. Have a great week dear friends. Thanks for reading.}
That prodigal’s dad
I’ve always read myself as the prodigal.
That story in Luke 15, we all know it. The prodigal son, though he was loved and provided for and had everything he needed, totally disrespects his father, takes off with his dad’s money, and lives in a way that breaks his dad’s heart.
I’ve always just read the story and seen the ways I do this. Little ways I run away, live for myself. And am reminded again and again that all repentance is, is coming home.
Of course I can see myself as the older son too. That pride that takes offense at the father’s lavish kindness on the undeserving younger son.
But I’ve never really considered what it was like to be the dad.
I guess I’ve always reserved that sacred role for God, and it is a picture of God. But it’s a picture of God to give us an example to follow ourselves.
Sit in the dad’s spot for a minute. What would you feel? You’ve given this boy everything. You’ve provided for him financially, you’ve taught him, you’ve loved him.
And in a sweeping moment of chilling disconnection, this son discounts all that, displays a complete lack of even recognition or respect, takes his dad’s money and his heart and runs off.
And here’s what I’ve never thought about before, yes it’s sad that the boy is off “squandering his property in reckless living” but my guess is what really broke the dad’s heart was that his behavior was completely contrary to everything the dad had taught him.
His behavior gave the middle-finger to the dad.
His behavior was like a direct message–I reject everything you taught me, I care nothing for all that you’ve poured into me, and I will waste and count as worthless what you worked hard so hard to earn.
Wow. I mean I’ve never thought about how hurt the dad must’ve felt. Right? How angry. Wouldn’t you be?
It’s interesting, we don’t know how long the boy was gone. It sounds like it was a long time. Long enough to squander all his property (ie. lose everything) AND for a famine to arise, and for him to eventually end up so hungry he’s eating pig slop.
In other words, God was doing His thing, bringing this boy to the end of himself.
And all this time, the dad patiently waited at home. It must’ve taken everything in him to not go out and search, to not go out and beat some sense into the kid, to not go out and take matters into his own hands.
The dad stayed home and let God do his thing. We know it from our own life stories, don’t we? God has a way of bringing us prodigals home.
And what’s beautiful is that clearly the dad attended to his own heart, because after all that time (years?) he hasn’t let his heart go to anger or resentment, because when the boy finally does return the dad sees and has compassion, and as we all know he ran toward the boy, embraced him, kissed him, and threw him a party. And his words are so telling:
“It is fitting to celebrate and be glad, for [the boy] was dead and is alive; he was lost, and is found.”
The dad had the ability to recognize–during that time the prodigal was living that way, he was dead.
We don’t get mad at dead people.
There’s no use hashing it all out or berating him with a barrage of reminders at all he’d done wrong. The dad knew God had already done what needed to be done.
It had taken years, but the repentance was real so the dad simply says, “Welcome home, Son. I’m so glad you’re here.”
I’m so glad the dad didn’t take offense, didn’t sit in resentment all those years, or conversely–didn’t go out and drag the boy home. The dad knew that real change has to come from a changed heart and the boy had to decide for himself who he was going to be.
He had to walk home on his own two feet.
Now that I think of it I know so many faithful moms, dads, pastors, mentors, spouses, who watch with aching hearts while someone they love does just as the prodigal did. I’m overwhelmed with respect for those who truly walk this out so well. I know a number of you. 🙂
And I love God’s Word that is living and active and always gives us what we need for each day.
Our God, our Father, is so patient. His compassion for us is unfailing. {Thank you for reading.}
Love puts up
{From April 2013. Had to share in honor of Friday’s marriage conference!}
“Love … puts up.”
-1 Corinthians 13
I flipped open the laptop–there on the keyboard lay the photo.
I shook my head and smiled, a little surprised at the emotion welling up in my eyes. It’s been 12 years of passing that thing back and forth, sneaking it into unexpected places for the other to find. Both book lovers, we had perused the small used book store at the beach as newlyweds, sorting through dusty titles, searching for some hidden literary gem. I don’t remember what we bought, but when we got it home, tucked within the pages was this polaroid picture.
Now it’s been tucked into places more times than I can count. It’s spoken a thousand words. We’ve tucked it in at times to say, “I’m sorry.” At times it means, “Just thinking of you.” And at times it means so much more. But whenever I see this photo it’s like another stitch, like pulling that thread taut and tugging so slightly, so all the stitches tighten. This picture reminds me of all the stitches over the years and pulls them tighter together.
And now, you’re away. This afternoon you drove off, and Heidi waved her little arm until we couldn’t see you anymore, and I felt silly for feeling so sad. It’s only a week, after all. But suddenly I remembered yesterday, how I had sighed (the classic victim-SAHM sigh) as I sorted through your middle pile. How I eyed you accusingly when you shelled pistachios right after I’d cleaned the counters. How I only half-listened this morning when you shared your idea with me. (How could I forget how much courage it takes to speak dreams out loud?) I remembered how you let me eat your french fries today and how you met us for a picnic when I’m sure you had more pressing things to do. And I remembered how you worked all afternoon fixing the lawn mower, and surprised me with Peet’s coffee for my trip this weekend. Then I remembered how I gave you the stink eye when you ate the last of the caramel corn.
How I left today without even doing your laundry. And how you said no big deal and cheerfully dug through the dirty clothes to find enough socks to wash and take on your trip.
Why do I love so pathetically?
I stared off, sad for all the ways I haven’t loved you more. But then, this picture somehow centered me. It always does.
Because you put it there and it tells me, all over again, that love covers a multitude of sins.
It is us, in so many ways. The faux wood panelling is hideous, of course, and I love it. The artwork is off-centered, and not in an artistic way. The purple and red pillows are delightfully strange, but the faces are the best.
He is Just. So. Happy.
His hand is on her thigh, his tie is huge, and he’s just grinning from ear to ear.
She, well, she’s half-smiling, but really thinking of what to make for dinner.
I am this woman, except I have better hair.
She’s putting up with the picture-taking (and him?) even though she’d rather be checking some ridiculous item off her list.
He’s just happy with his hand on her leg. The End.
He puts up with her half-smile just as she puts up with his beam.
And that’s the beauty of it: Love puts up.
Because not all romance is wild passion all the time. Because I put up with your stuff and you put up with mine. And because even though this couple isn’t running barefoot down a beach, their love is compelling to me. Because that’s just it: Love puts up. Because at different times last week each of us wanted to pack up and quit this ministry life. And both times the other one of us simply put up. Listened. Waited. Stayed quiet. Prayed. And both times we came around.
Because real love is so different than it is on TV. So much better. Because even the “putting up” part is good. It’s the time walking together in the valleys.
It’s the spaces in between the milestones, where you just keep holding hands and holding on.
Kind of like this:
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.
Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always “me first,”
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end. (1 Corinthians 13:3-7 MSG)
Thanks for putting up with me, my love. I really am sorry about the laundry.
{Thanks, all, for reading.}
*Originally shared April 2013.