How Christmas handles our hate
Burn in hell.
I could scarcely believe the rage that surged up and crashed like a stormy wave over my heart. I couldn’t believe those words actually whispered in my mind, seething words I have never spoken, never even thought before, but there they were, in an instant. I put my phone down and pulled Justice into my arms and fled to the closet where he sleeps. There, wrapped in darkness, I could let the flood loose of angry tears. I held him close, bouncing him to sleep, Justice in my arms while I cried out aloud to God,
Where is JUSTICE in all this? How is this okay? How can you let this happen?
From somewhere, all the dozens of similar stories filled my mind. Women hurt by men.
Just last night Jeff and I had sat up late talking about his sermon series. It has been my favorite one he’s ever done—the Mothers of Jesus. Each week he’s been preaching on one of the 5 women in Jesus’ lineage. Tamar. Rahab. Ruth. Bathsheba. Mary. He’s done a phenomenal job. He is truly a man who passionately pursues the good of women, who takes seriously his role of protector and provider. And not just in theory, I have seen him act heroically, in practical ways, on behalf of the vulnerable. It’s one of the things I love about him most.
So when I asked him, last night, “What’d you think about today?” He responded,
“Bathsheba.”
We both sighed. Long silence. Yes. Bathsheba. Another story of so much incredible heartache. The victim of power’s lust, she not only lost her husband, through manipulated murder, but she lost her precious child because of a sin not her own. Yes, she got to be in the lineage of the Messiah, but in her own lifetime she knew bitter sorrow.
But you know…I’ve never actually gotten angry reading those stories in the Bible. I’ve been mildly bothered, but not upset. I’m not, in general, an angry person. I don’t hate anyone. As a whole, I just generally like people. I’ve never been wronged in a way that’s made me enraged.
But what about when someone we love, fiercely love, is hurt? What about when you have to sit back and watch some of your most loved people in the world be treated cruelly?
What if Bathsheba was your best friend and you had snuggled that sweet child in your own arms before he died?
The truth is: It’s one thing to forgive something done to us, but when those we love are wronged, that mama bear protective tendency comes roaring out of nowhere and wants to literally devour the wrongdoer.
What do we DO with that?
The answer, I think, is Christmas. It’s remembering what God DID with that and DOES with that and WILL DO with that.
I love all the coziness of Christmas, but really—Jesus is Justice. Jesus is the birth of God’s justice, the “answer” if you will to all the profound wrongs of this world, the gift to every Bathsheba and every David. The gift to every victim and every perpetrator. We all need a Savior, and it isn’t that we’re all just one vague mess of sin. We each of us sins specifically, and it’s not all the same as if individual wrongs don’t matter. They do. And that’s just it.
Anger, burning hot boiling anger, is the right response to sin.
But not just to his. Or hers.
To mine.
In that dark closet, with tears streaming down my face, God showed me how my sin equally contributes to the heartache of this world. My own pride and selfishness are just seed form of the same gnarly vicious weed rearing its ugly head out in the world.
How can I plead for mercy and demand justice all in the same breath?
But I do. And miraculously, that’s what He gives.
Jesus is the Justice and Mercy of God, born as a vulnerable babe, to bear the ultimate injustice and give the ultimate mercy.
He, in His life and death, satisfies the justice of God and extends the mercy of God.
That’s what He did at Christmas.
And what He does, daily, in our lives, by redeeming what seems unredeemable. Rescuing the hopelessly lost. Resurrecting the long-dead.
And what He will do, in perfect fullness. Every wrong righted. Every tear wiped away. We will likely be appalled at how hopelessly skewed our perspective had been. This will most certainly not be the time where we demand God give account of his dealings during our life. I dare say there will be none of that. Scales will fall from our eyes and we’ll be mind-blown that God even let us LIVE.
And our hate will seem absurd, in light of all this. If only we could glimpse into His glory, how right and perfect and just and gracious and holy and beautiful is the Kingdom of God, we could freely forgive the greatest griefs and live above the fray.
That is, live something like this:
But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you,bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. To one who strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from one who takes away your cloak do not withhold your tuniceither. Give to everyone who begs from you, and from one who takes away your goods do not demand them back. And as you wish that others would do to you, do so to them.
If you love those who love you, what benefit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. And if you do good to those who do good to you, what benefit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. And if you lend to those from whom you expect to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to get back the same amount. But love your enemies, and do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return, and your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil. Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful.
We need Christmas more than ever before. Joy to the world, the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King.
Why I need to linger at the manger {My black hands}
The kids were playing happily with their new gifts, and I had a hankering to get something done. The “doer” in me dies hard. What to do?
Packing? No thank you! Doing dishes? Not a chance. Cleaning this filthy house? I’d do anything to avoid that. My eye fell on the can of black spray paint sitting on the counter. Yes! I’d spray paint the barstools we’d purchased off Craigslist. I slipped into old clothes, set up shop in the carport, and sprayed until I ran out of paint. When I finished, the chairs looked great, but my hands? Black. Because it was so windy outside, the paint covered my hands with a thin grungy layer of black.
Everytime I looked down that day I was reminded of how I feel sometimes.
This may be an odd after-Christmas question, but: Do you sometimes just despise yourself?
I mean despise. Do you sometimes look around at your life and realize how repulsive it is? How filthy? No, I don’t mean you are some criminal or live some secret despicable life. I mean you live a real life. A “normal” life. Sometimes, I look around and all I can think is, “Who am I kidding?” Who on earth am I kidding? I look down at my hands and they’re a picture of me: Filthy.
Not to be a downer, but it’s the truth. The inclinations of my heart are wicked. I, who truly more than anything want to seek God and follow Him, I read the page in Romans 3 and the only thing missing is my name.
“None is righteous, no not one; no one understands; no one seeks for God. All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one.”
I continually unearth pockets of pride in the corners of my life. (Every. Single. Day.)
I look down at my hands again: They’re still filthy.
And sometimes when I feel this way I listen to the slithering serpent’s suggestion: Hide. Run away, hide it all. You think you’re a light to those around you? Ha! There is no “little light of mine” to shine so quit holding your ridiculous arm in the air. Who are you kidding?
And for a moment the offer looks good. Run away. Hide. Quit writing. Delete the blog. Duct-tape up the windows so no one can see in. Get the bushel and crawl underneath.
But then, by some miracle. Christmas comes.
And I remember again that Christ came to a stinking stable.
A stinking stable.
It might as well have been my home.
And if I am hung up on my poor performance I have not understood His perfect performance. I have not understood the gospel. His resumé in place of mine. His beauty for my ashes. His joy for my sorrow. His riches for my poverty. His righteousness for my rags.
I can hang Christmas lights around my home but it still reeks of the sinners who inhabit these rooms. Without His daily grace we are utterly lost. He came into the filthiest places. Most of all mine. I will cling to this. And I will trust this, when I look down, in, deep, at my hands and at my heart, and see the absolute bankruptcy of my soul. I will not get lost in the darkness but turn, look up and hear:
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Christmas may be over, but what if we lingered at the manger?
What if, this week, before we looked ahead to 2013, we lingered a little by His side? Like L’Enchante. And when we looked around that stinky stable we might recognize our own home.
Our own lives.
And we might find ourselves bowed low all week in humble thanks that He has entered our filth and is making us new. The tree will come down, the wrapping paper stuffed into trash bags, fir needles vacuumed, stockings stowed for yet another year.
But what if we stayed low, kneeling to adore Him?
What if we kept on receiving our King?
I really just want to stay here and adore Him. To linger at the manger and rejoice that He has entered my filthiest places and made me new. I know my home is a stinking stable and my heart is even worse, but He came into this place and He is here and He is mine and nothing can separate me from the love of God.
Joy to the world.
{Rewrote this from last year, because it applies this year as it did last. Go ahead and linger this week by His side. He is in the middle of your mess. Stop, bow, worship Him there. Thank you for letting me be real in this place. And thanks for reading.}