Mutually Assured Destruction
“The entire law is summed up in a single command: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ If you keep on biting and devouring each other, watch out or you will be destroyed by each other.” (Galatians 5:14-15)
You might be one of those folks who really doesn’t get what a degree in political science ever did for me. Today, you get to find out. It makes me fascinated by Cold War doctrines like Mutually Assured Destruction. I probably even wrote a paper or two on it for Dr. Eastby in Modern Political Thought.
I’ll squelch the yearning to give you a full scale review, and just give you the condensed version here. Mutually Assured Destruction is a theory of nuclear deterrence that assumes that two global powers (in this case, the U.S. and the former Soviet Union) each has sufficient nuclear arsenals that an attack by one would provoke massive retaliation by the other. It would ultimately lead to an escalation of sorts that would result in the “assured destruction” of both.
In order to avoid complete nuclear annihilation, both sides will refrain from a ”first strike” on the other.
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Now, Paul was a very sharp and perceptive guy. He often had things to say that are so relevant for our time that I’m often amazed at the remarkable insight he had into days he would never see. Clearly it comes of having God breathe his writing.
Still, I don’t know that even Paul imagined total nuclear annihilation. And yet he speaks in Galatians 5 of what looks a lot like a corollary to Mutually Assured Destruction. The history books will tell you the first reference to this type of strategy was in 1870 during the Franco-Prussian War. But perhaps Paul’s letter to the Galatian church was in fact the first recorded appearance of this school of thought.
I wonder if the Pentagon had seen this when they debated deterrence strategy.
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Understand that Paul’s instruction doesn’t comes in the context of global powers and military strategy. Rather, it’s in the context of relationships between everyday believers in the local church.
Paul understood the destructive force of the weapons we pack and the depth of our arsenals. Maybe you’ve seen first hand what it looks like when there’s massive retaliation to a first strike in a church family.
And so maybe you know what nuclear winter really is.
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Before you change the channel to C-Span for some real political thought, here’s what I’m saying. Paul tells us to watch out. If we keep on biting and devouring each other, we’ll be destroyed by each other.
He doesn’t say, “watch out, you’ll hurt somebody.”
He says, “watch out, you’ll be destroyed by each other.”
Destroyed.
If I attack — if I bite and devour — if I criticize and gossip and name call and backbite and wound with harsh words — I’m going to be bitten back. And a cycle will ensue that guarantees our mutual destruction.
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Paul says there’s a better way. It’s the same way Moses said in Leviticus 18. And it’s the same way that Jesus quoted in the gospels. Paul says it again here. And even James said it. If Moses, Paul, James and Jesus all said it, pay attention.
It’s good.
Love your neighbor as yourself.
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Mutually Assured Destruction is about preventing attack. Preventing all out annihilation by having enough destructive force of your own to scare your enemy into not using his.
But Paul’s word to us here is about preventing total destruction by being proactive, about doing the right thing in the first place for the right reasons.
Love your neighbor as yourself.
Build one another up.
Don’t just satisfy yourself, but look to the needs of your brother.
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Between global powers with more weapons than is good for anybody to have, maybe doctrines like Mutually Assured Destruction are necessary evils. But not for us. Not for the body of Christ. We operate on completely different principles.
We love our neighbor as ourself.
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I don’t know what Dr. Eastby would think if I’d have written a paper on Mutually Assured Edification for his class instead.
But I think the Apostle Paul would’ve given the theory an A.
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Superheroes in Training
“You, my brothers, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the sinful nature; rather, serve one another in love.” (Galatians 5:13)
Remember the Super Friends? It’s a classic Saturday morning cartoon with the famous super heroes from the League of Justice – Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman, Batman and Robin. Unbelievable power at their disposal.
I was reading a Wikipedia article on super powers. (Amazing the sort of research you have to do to write a piece like this.) It was long. Pages long, with lists of all manner of powers in the possession of a myriad of super heroes I’d never even heard of.
Everything from accelerated healing and acid generation to wall walking and water breathing.
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The Super Friends actually had a couple of super heroes in training. Marvin and Wendy, and their pal Wonder Dog. Part of the formula of the show had the grown up super heroes rescuing Marvin and Wendy after they managed to get themselves into some kind of predicament while they learned the super hero craft.
Paul tells us here we were called to be free. But our freedom is a funny thing. We have it, and we’re absolutely to use it.
But sometimes we’re more like the super heroes in training. We have to be taught and reminded to use our powers for good, not for evil.
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We just got done in Romans 15, looking at how we’re not to please ourselves but to please our neighbor, to build up our neighbor for his or her good, not ours. It seems to be a recurring theme.
Now, here in Galatians, we’re told that despite the boundless freedom we have in Christ, we’re not to use that for our own advantage, but to use it as a foundation from which to serve others in love.
My freedom would enable me to totally indulge me and me alone.
It’s that free.
But I am instructed – commanded – to use that freedom for the good of another.
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Think about it. Sin is always to satisfy me somehow. Well, my sin is anyway. Your sin is to satisfy you. To fill some need or want we have or think we have. How better to refrain from indulging the sinful nature, satisfying me, than to turn around when tempted and immediately consider how I might serve another.
It seems that to stop sinning, I have to have an alternative. Something to do instead. Otherwise I’m right back at it.
Paul shows us this in Ephesians 4. Put off falsehood and speak truthfully. Quit stealing and start working and sharing with the poor. Stop saying unwholesome things and only say things that are helpful for building up others. Get rid of bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, and be kind and compassionate and forgive each other.
So instead of using my freedom to fill up and indulge me, I can choose to use my freedom to serve and love another. It gives me that alternative I need to turn away from sin.
My freedom requires that I do that, at the very same time it enables me to do it.
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God didn’t give me super powers to be able to generate acid and breathe water. And that’s good, because I’m not so sure how I’d have use for them. But he did give me lots and lots of freedom. And He wants me to use it the way He designed it.
Marvin, Wendy, Wonder Dog and me.
Back at the Hall of Justice, we’re still learning to use our powers for good.
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Mercy Me
“For even Christ did not please Himself but, as it is written, “The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.” (Romans 15:3)
Oh, mercy.
We just saw in Romans 15:1 how we are to bear with one another’s weaknesses and failings. In the very next verse, we find out how: Mercy.
Am I reaching? The word mercy doesn’t show up in this verse. But I think it’s exactly about mercy. Jesus did not please Himself, He didn’t protect Himself, He didn’t elevate Himself as He rightly could have.
Instead, He took the insults that belonged to us upon Himself.
Still, where’s the mercy?
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In verse 9, Paul says that Jesus did all this “so that the Gentiles may glorify God for His mercy.” (italics mine)
Mercy isn’t only about kindness and compassion. It’s more than opening your arms and your heart and coming to the aid of another. It’s hugely more than that, and in saying so I don’t diminish kindness and compassion in the slightest.
But mercy is more. Mercy forgets itself. Mercy is willing to be disgraced for another. To fully take on another’s condition.
The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.
In His great mercy, Jesus, who deserved none of it, took on all of it.
Took on my shame. My weakness.
My smallness and my disgrace.
The insults that should fall on me, fall on Him. He stands with me, demanding nothing of His greatness and taking on all of my smallness. He casts off all He could hold onto in order to stand with me and be associated with me.
And He’s not embarrassed by me. He loses His dignity to stand and be insulted with me. That’s mercy if anything is.
Mercy me.
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Jesus mercies me. (Today, here, mercy becomes a verb.) Can I mercy someone else? Will I? Will I willingly strip myself of all my dignity and all my pride in order to stand with another in need of mercy?
That’s the way Paul says it has to be done. Mercy me. Mercy you.
Lord, have mercy.
(Note: One of the best books ever written is The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Bonhoeffer has the most outstanding treatment of mercy in his chapter on the Beatitudes. I highly recommend it.)
It’s About Me?
“We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves.” (Romans 15:1)
We who are strong are to bear with the failings of the weak and not please ourselves. Pretty straightforward.
I read that, and again this “nobility” rises up in me. In my false sense of superiority, with finger to chin and tilted head nodding, I think, “Hmm. Yes. I must remember not to lose patience and to bear with those who struggle. Those who have not figured it out.”
What complete arrogance.
The truth is that maybe, just maybe, if I stop to think about it, the weak one is me. Perhaps this verse is not so much written to me, but about me. To teach and encourage others to bear with me.
With my failings.
It feels so much better to look at it the other way.
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Ultimately I believe this was written for all of us. It was written both to me and about me.
There are places where God has brought me along, and maybe I need to be reminded to be patient and humble with another. But at the same time there are so many places, way too many places, where I lag behind the pack. There are others who are much stronger who must be compelled to wait for me, to bear with me.
And suddenly, rather than being burdened by the challenge of being patient, I become so very grateful for this instruction.
Without those who are stronger choosing to bear with me in my weakness, I learn nothing. I go nowhere. I grow not at all.
I depend on those who are stronger to walk beside me and help bring me along.
So yes, this is one time I can safely say “It’s about me.” Because at least as important as me bearing with others is the painful recognition that others must bear with me.
It’s the graphic illumination of my weakness, my dependence, my utter need.
It’s about me.
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Playing Peek-a-Boo
“Can anyone hide in secret places so that I cannot see him?” declares the Lord. “Do I not fill heaven and earth?” declares the Lord. (Jeremiah 23:24)
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Over the weekend I watched my 16-month old nephew and his mom playing Peek. One or the other would duck out of view, to his squeals of delight. He seemed to really relish this alternating disappearing act.
The way a toddler figures, if he can’t see you, then it must also be true that you can’t see him.
Some of us never stop thinking like that.
Because I can’t see God, then it’s pretty safe to say that He can’t see me, right?
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Umm, wrong.
It’s kind of like how moms have this way of being present in every room in the house at the same time. No matter what you’re doing, or where you’re doing it, your mom just seems to know that.
Face it kids, it’s what we do. Even when you can’t see us.
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God suggests — well actually, declares, a much bigger word than suggests — that just because we don’t see Him doesn’t mean that He’s not there and that He doesn’t see. When it comes to being everywhere at once, He’s like the Mother of All Mothers.
He is in every room, on every street corner, in every car, in every office, in every yard and on every rooftop. And all kinds of places in between.
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Do you really think there is a secret place He doesn’t know? The Message translation asks it this way:
“Can anyone hide out in a corner where I can’t see him?”
It’s a rhetorical question, and the unnecessary answer is “No.” He goes on, “Do I not fill heaven and earth?” Or back to The Message, “Am I not present everywhere, whether seen or unseen?”
There are no secret places. We cannot hide from His presence.
And we can be terrified by such a thought, or we can be deeply comforted. How can that be?
Terrified because we fear He will see what we would rather hide.
Comforted because we have no reason to hide.
That is, having accepted His redemptive work on the cross and knowing His blood covers our sin, we have nothing to hide. With no reason to hide, we can bask in His ever-presence. We can find comfort in knowing that He sees us, in our deepest need, in our greatest joy, and that He stands beside us in all of it.
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David asked in Psalm 139, “Where can I go from Your Spirit? Where can I flee Your presence?”
Happily, we can say with great confidence that there is truly no such place.
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Connecting the Dots
“But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. Peacemakers who sow in peace raise a harvest of righteousness.” (James 3:17-18)
James draws something of a dot-to-dot diagram in these verses, connecting wisdom to peacemaking in a way I’m not sure I’m totally comfortable with yet. There are a lot of things to like about wisdom. I like to be considered “wise.” It feels good to be viewed that way at times when I might actually demonstrate some wisdom.
But I sure haven’t tended to characterize wisdom the way James has here. I see the parts of wisdom that are, well, wise. Smart. I see an ability to analyze and understand complexities. To cut through the hooey and see things for what they are. To be able to comprehend and apply knowledge in a way that is meaningful, and to make good judgments. To ruled by one’s head, not one’s emotions. And of course, to recognize that sometimes the wise thing is not always the popular thing, and to be comfortable with that.
Well, whoops. James rather blows that up for me. He says that wisdom is pure. Yeah, I can work with that. Wisdom should be pure — free from distraction, stray thoughts, erroneous beliefs. Pure. But then considerate? Submissive? Hold on! Full of mercy and good fruit. Impartial and sincere.
Good grief. The way James tells it, wisdom is soft! It’s peace-loving (not grenade-throwing), it’s considerate and submissive (notice a gentleness that James doesn’t call by name here). It is also full of mercy. I have never wanted to associate wisdom and mercy. I’ll have more to say about mercy another day. But I don’t like the idea of associating the two. I like that I am occasionally viewed as wise and discerning. It has always seemed to give me an excuse to be short on mercy. But when I listen to James, I find I can’t do that! Wisdom must reflect mercy and humility, not justify my lack of mercy and excuse an overt display of superiority. And that’s not soft at all.
And at the end of the day, James tells us, those who are truly wise are also peacemakers. A line is drawn from wisdom to peace, and along the way it connects the dots of purity, humility, submission and good works.
Wisdom does not, it cannot, stand on a pedestal all by itself.
Truth, Lies and Snidely Whiplash
“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because he has not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son. This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God.” (John 3:16-21)
My favorite is an episode with Dudley DoRight and Snidely Whiplash. In case you weren’t so enchanted with talking moose and flying squirrels (or too young to know better), let me fill you in.
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DoRight hates Whiplash, and sets a trap for him. Since he’s come to hate himself so profoundly, Whiplash is thrilled with his capture and incarceration.
In his strategy session, DoRight explains that though Nell does have truth on her side, he’s most certain to win because he has the advantage of superior deception. His ability to twist facts and law and truth will most certainly win out over any real truth Nell may have to offer.
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In the third chapter of John, we read God’s plan for the world. Words we love to hear. If we’ve only attended church for an hour, hopefully we’ve heard these words.
“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
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But He sent His Son. So that through Him the world might be saved.
“This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil.”
Exposed by the Light? Absolutely.
Jesus said over and over and over throughout the Gospels, “I tell you the truth…” He doesn’t lie.
Few Find It
“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” (Matthew 7:13-14)
Same verses. Different take.
The smallness of the gate is striking. The need to stand with Jesus alone and with none of my own stuff. But what also strikes is that so few find it.
Not many. Only a few.
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The other road, the one that ultimately destroys us, is broad.
It’s easy to find, not so hard at all. We lazily, naturally, carelessly find our way onto a fully destructive course.
Many find that way, and do so with no help from anyone else.
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But this small gate, only a few find it. And it’s the way to life.
Some will leave the wide road and enter the narrow one. But only a few.
For me to find the narrow road, someone had to show me. Someone had to point it out. Someone had to walk with me to the small gate.
That’s the plan. That’s the design of the engineer. We find the road because someone leads us to it.
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Many have yet to find the small gate. And in the big picture, there’s not that much time. How convinced am I that people around me need help to find the gate?
Only a few find it.
I want to make it a few more.
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Small is the Gate
“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” (Matthew 7:13-14)
I’ve chosen the narrow road.
I’ve picked the small gate.
I have to wonder why Jesus makes a point of one gate being small, one being wide. Does He want us to believe that we have to work harder to get through the small gate?
That only the really special people get to go through?
I doubt it. Doesn’t seem to match anything else He ever said.
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He said that those who seek Him will find Him. And He also said that nobody gets to the Father by their own specialness, but only through Him.
So why the narrow road? Why the small gate?
Why not a little more openness, flexibility?
Big people don’t get through the gate.
The only way to get in is to drop off all the stuff that makes me big — my own specialness, my accomplishments, my good works, my brilliant spirituality.
My striving and effort and self.
There is only room through the small gate for me to walk with Jesus beside me. I have to slim down, leave the baggage behind. It’s just not wide enough to take my stuff with me.
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On the narrow road, through the small gate, there is room for me.
And Jesus beside me.
And that’s it.
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T.G.I.F.
“It was the day of preparation of Passover week, about the sixth hour. ‘Here is your king,’ Pilate said to the Jews.” (John 19:14)
Today is Friday. Thank God, we say. A long, long week has at last come to an end, and I can finally kick back and relax. Nothing on my list to do but enjoy myself.
And Hooray! for that.
Friday comes as the welcome end of a marathon. But the Friday John was talking about wasn’t just the end of a long week, the sixth day. It was Jewish Preparation Day.
The Jewish people did not spend the energy of Friday enjoying themselves and rewarding themselves for a long week of work. No, they spent it preparing for Saturday — the Sabbath. The day of worship. And rest.
Friday for the Jews was never “Woo hoo! Another week done!”
It was more work, more focus, more anticipation of the Sabbath.
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So how fitting it was that here, on Preparation Day, Pilate said the most amazing thing. As he turned Jesus over to the Jewish leaders, he told the people, “Here is your king.”
They had no idea.
But we do.
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And so we prepare to be presented with our King. And from our preparation, not from our coasting in from the weekend, we worship.
What else can I do when I see my King?
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T.G.I.F.
Here is your King.
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A Different Story
“But My servant Caleb – this is a different story. He has a different spirit; he follows Me passionately. I’ll bring him into the land that he scouted and his children will inherit it.” (Numbers 14:24, The Message)
Here’s the back story.
Caleb has just returned with the contingent of spies sent to check out the land God promised to Israel. They’ve seen the land in all its wonder — it’s everything God said it would be. Flowing with milk and honey, spectacular fruit . . .
It’s all there.
Beyond imagination.
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But there’s this thing about grasshoppers.
They saw themselves and the whole people of Israel as grasshoppers up against the enormous and fierce people already occupying the land. They felt like grasshoppers, and believed they were seen by them as grasshoppers.
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Amidst all the hand wringing, Caleb stands and tells them to be quiet.
Enough with the grasshoppers.
In Numbers 13:30 he says, “Let’s go up and take the land — now. We can do it.” But the whole community just continues to wail. They go to pieces. They actually pull an all-nighter. They go back to their old “we should have stayed in Egypt” schtick. They’re ready to oust Moses and Aaron, and are about to stone them on the spot.
God steps in.
He too says Enough with the grasshoppers.
He’s fed up and plans a plague to finish them all off. Moses jumps into the fray and pleads for his peoples’ forgiveness. God, in His mercy, relents. But He does declare that none of these people who think like grasshoppers will see the land.
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And then He says it. The really big deal.
But My servant Caleb — this is a different story.
Caleb’s story is utterly and completely different. Not just because he stood up to the crowd, but why he did. “He has a different spirit; he follows Me passionately.”
God promised.
Caleb believed God. Passionately.
Caleb followed God. Passionately.
Caleb called others to follow God.
Passionately.
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His passion made him a completely different story. He chased after God, and God recognized the huge difference that makes.
Passionately following God changes the story.
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Why “A Different Story”?
Once upon a time I really wanted to write. Just ask my college friends. I was to have a syndicated column and a best seller by the time I was 40.
Things have a way of not happening sometimes.
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Now and again I seem to have brief midlife crises that arise from not doing this thing I so much wanted to do. I’m doing all kinds of other things I totally want to do. I have the best husband I could imagine, and kids I adore. I love being in my orbit around my family. I am part of a church that seeks after God and allows me to be involved in ministry in more ways than I can count.
But even so there is often this sense that I’m not doing something that just frankly seems in me to do. Every time I’ve thought about writing, I’ve become intimidated by the prospect. Downright scared, really.
Who would want to read what I write?
How can I possibly arrange my life to make it happen?
How do I make it accessible without thrusting it at people?
There’s a lot of exposure in putting oneself out there like that. And so I’ve made a career of finding reasons that the dream maybe just wasn’t meant to be. The closest I ever got to my best seller was my Exodus project, and there are less than a dozen copies floating around, largely unread.
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Life has a way of making us face things we’d rather avoid.
I lost a good friend and coworker in the last couple of weeks. One who had a love for Jesus that came clear from her toes, and who, among other things, had a way of keeping me on track when I would lose my way at work. When I would forget that my job was less about adjusting claims than it was about advancing the kingdom.
In the midst of all that her loss means to so many people, one of the things that I can’t shake is the sense of how she lived her life in such a way that Jesus flowed visibly and comfortably from her. She has now had the humble privilege of falling into her Redeemer’s embrace and hearing the Father speak over her, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Come share My joy.”
And while I too love Jesus from my toes, I sometimes have to wonder if I am truly doing all that is in me to do for Jesus’ sake.
And so here comes this writing thing again.
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For some reasons I don’t fully understand, I’ve been encouraged and challenged to put pen to paper in recent weeks. That thought, while intriguing, frightened and intimidated me all over again. Sure, I already write a lot. But I don’t usually actually show it to anyone. That’s too scary.
So when I sat down to do my daily reading the other day, I felt like a grasshopper. The kind of grasshoppers the Israelites thought they were when the spies came back from Canaan and said it was impossible. There were giants and they were ferocious, and the people of God saw themselves as mere grasshoppers.
But this Caleb, this man of God, stood and said “We can do it.” And the difference, from what God said, was that Caleb was a guy who followed God passionately. It gave him the faith to set foot into the giant’s land and possess what God had for him.
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That’s what A Different Story is about. Reading Caleb’s story, how he was in and of himself a “different story,” made me take hold of this as something I need to pursue. I want to passionately follow God, and step my little grasshopper foot into this land of giants.
Out of that reading came the entry titled “A Different Story.” Read it to learn more about Caleb and his passion to follow God.
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You should know I’m no Bible theologian. I’m a wife, mom, friend and claim adjuster, but most importantly, a follower of Jesus. I like to go into His Word and break it apart into little pieces I can understand. What you’ll read here is what happens when I do that.
It’s certainly not scholarly. But sometimes when the Word and life collide, like they are supposed to, it strikes me in a little different way.
I know application is always important when we look at the Word, but I’ll really try not to tell you what to do. It’s not at all up to me what you do with it.
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God’s going to do His own work there, in both of us.
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