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Talk About Trouble: Chapter 29

“I long for the years gone by
    when God took care of me,
when he lit up the way before me
    and I walked safely through the darkness.
When I was in my prime,
    God’s friendship was felt in my home.
The Almighty was still with me,
    and my children were around me.”

(Job 29:2-5, NLT)

Each heart knows its own bitterness,
    and no one else can fully share its joy.

(Proverbs 14:10, NLT)

It is hard for me not to get stuck in my own grief in these first verses. I want so badly to reach right through the ages and take Job’s hand. I know what you mean, I want to say to him. I may not be as righteous as you were, and my losses might look smaller, but I know what you mean.

Isn’t it a relief to find these words in the Bible? Think about this book. The Bible was written over thousands of years long before technology made writing cheap. It was written long before the general populous was literate. Every word in this book cost more than we can comprehend – in resources, in time, in education, in preservation, in lives lost to its defense. They did not have resources to spare on empty words. These words mattered that much to the people who meticulously, lovingly, arduously preserved them. These are the words, above all others, that they wanted every human to have the chance to hear.

And here, in the middle of them, is a man openly expressing his raw, bleeding sorrow. His vulnerability and gutting honesty meant that much to people, and that much to the God who inspired the preservation of every holy word. I miss him, Job cries. I miss God! I miss what my life was like with him around. Those words are holy when we cry them, too.

Job goes on to describe and clarify what his life was like before this tragedy occurred; he was respected, he was generous, he was loving, he was kind. Every word directly contradicts an accusation his friends unfairly laid at his feet.

I helped those without hope, and they blessed me.
    And I caused the widows’ hearts to sing for joy.

(Job 29:13)

When they were discouraged, I smiled at them.
    My look of approval was precious to them.

(Job 29:24)

The highest officials of the city stood quietly,
    holding their tongues in respect.

(Job 29:10)

If Job 29 comes to its own poetic peak, it is this verse right here:

“I thought, ‘Surely I will die surrounded by my family
    after a long, good life.'”

(Job 29:18)

Job is suffering, along with all else, the loss of his expectation. He thought he knew how his life would turn out. So many of us can relate; we anticipate a certain future, plan for it, work towards it – and yet there are no guarantees we will ever see it. How many of us expect to die of old age, surrounded by family, in peace! Though we know many meet a different end, we continue to expect the ideal.

When Job did not see his hope come to fruition, he concluded the same thing so many of us conclude in that place: God must have abandoned me. We sometimes feel like there is so little to go on to know how God feels about us, so little feedback to use to understand what he wants from us. So we read into our circumstances what we think God must mean. To Job, it was clear: God had left him. How could any of this have happened if God had not rejected and abandoned him?

This is Job’s greatest grief: after all the good he has done, God has still abandoned him. It was his greatest fear all along, wasn’t it? Didn’t he offer extra “just-in-case” sacrifices because he did not want God to leave him? And here he is, after all of it, after all the wonderful things he did just to please God, abandoned.

Or is he?

When my daughter was little, she had a tendency to jump to conclusions. If she could not find something immediately, it was lost forever. If someone else got a cupcake before her, she was not going to get one. I used to tell her, “Lovey, never rush into despair.”

I would not say Job rushed into despair like she so often did. I might sooner say he was rushed by despair! But I would suggest he did jump to one incorrect conclusion. He believed because of all he had lost that God must be among that number. Rejected. Abandoned. He believed he had been left alone.

How many of us have assumed the same?

But just because God may be quiet in grief, it does not mean he is not there.

Those are words worth whatever it takes to preserve them.

This book is about hope.

to be continued…

Talk About Trouble: Chapter 28

“God alone understands the way to wisdom;
    he knows where it can be found,
 for he looks throughout the whole earth
    and sees everything under the heavens.

And this is what he says to all humanity:
‘The fear of the Lord is true wisdom;
    to forsake evil is real understanding.’”

(Job 28:23-24, 28 NLT)

I love Job 28. I love it. I love it. I love it! ❤

“Why, Job?” That is the question his wife asked. Why are you still holding onto your integrity if you are not getting what you deserve for it?

Because, he finally truly answers here, God is still smarter than me. And he says this is best.

Job 28 opens with Job extolling the heights of human ingenuity – that we can dig deep into the earth to pull up treasures from places where not even the wild animals can go.

People know where to mine silver
    and how to refine gold.
They know where to dig iron from the earth
    and how to smelt copper from rock.
They know how to shine light in the darkness
    and explore the farthest regions of the earth
    as they search in the dark for ore.

These are treasures no bird of prey can see,
    no falcon’s eye observe.
No wild animal has walked upon these treasures;
    no lion has ever set his paw there.

(Job 28:1-3, 7-8 NLT)

But – he says – but they cannot find the one thing of real value.

But do people know where to find wisdom?
    Where can they find understanding?
No one knows where to find it,
    for it is not found among the living.

(Job 28:12-13 NLT)

There is one thing, he says, that is rarer than the rarest jewels. Rarer than all wealth. No one perceives it except God himself. Wisdom.

In the previous two chapters, we saw Job establish that he knows who God is, that God is in charge, and that he is, in fact, still determined to hold onto his integrity, despite what his friends believe. But this. This is the secret his friends are really missing. This is what Job understands that his friends do not, the bedrock, the underlying principle of his success: he never did what was right for the reward.

He did it because it is right.

He did it because God said it is right.

He did it because he believed God.

He did it because he knows God has searched out the universe, turned over every stone, examined every evidence, left nothing unknown in all of creation – and God says this is the best way. God did not say it is the best way to get what you want. He says it is the best way to live because he knows it is. He says it is wise.

Then he saw wisdom and evaluated it.
    He set it in place and examined it thoroughly.

(Job 28:27, NLT)

Because God says so, Job says, I believe it. Even if I lost everything, Job says, it does not change what God says is the best way.

Wisdom begins when we understand God rightly – when we know, as Job does, that

“These are just the beginning of all that he does,
    merely a whisper of his power.
    Who, then, can comprehend the thunder of his power?”

(Job 26:14)

Wisdom grows when we accept what God accepts and reject what God rejects not because we will get anything for it, but for the mere sake of what is good. The peace, the satisfaction of knowing it is best, it is right, is reason enough to do it. It is a pleasure in and of itself.

Job, in chapter 28, says – I hold onto my integrity because I found something rarer than the rarest gems, more difficult to obtain than minerals forged in the molten earth, something God alone has the skill, ability, and resources to have mined: wisdom. I am convinced God is right, and it brings me satisfaction to do what he calls right.

The wisest do what is right because it is satisfying to have done what is right.

Unfortunately for the Accuser, the one who set Job up to fail by stripping from him his rewards – Job’s best reward was internal. “Internally motivated,” we call it. He was convicted of more than the belief that he would get something, some external reward, for doing it, but rather was convicted by the belief that the action was the reward. He believed God that completely.

And as God showed us through Abraham, believing God is what God calls righteousness. When he says to the Accuser in the beginning of the book that there is no man on earth more righteous than Job, he means there is no one who believes him with as thorough a conviction as Job does.

People say Solomon was the wisest man to have ever lived. And yet, Solomon’s book of wisdom begins with this echo of Job’s:

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge,
    but fools despise wisdom and instruction.

(Proverbs 1:7)

and continues with this one:

Blessed are those who find wisdom,
    those who gain understanding,
for she is more profitable than silver
    and yields better returns than gold.
She is more precious than rubies;
    nothing you desire can compare with her.

(Proverbs 3:13-15)

Why? Because the wisest man in the world knew wisdom existed long before he did. He did not set out to invent it. He only sought to compile it. He only sought to pick up the torch and carry it forward. So when he saw these words of Job’s, he knew what he had found.

Wisdom. The gem mined from the heart of the universe by God himself.

Job has established his respect for God’s power and right to rule, his agreement with the meting out of justice, and his reverence for true wisdom. He has refuted his friends’ arguments against his character. Now that he has corrected the fallacies in their arguments, now that he has established this base of his true convictions, he can build on top of it the fully accurate truth of his situation. Now, he moves from correction, from rant, into lament.

So at the end of this beautiful chapter, we still find Job’s closing speech

to be continued…

Talk About Trouble: Chapter 25

This is the shortest chapter in the entire book of Job, so it would be easy to just breeze right by it. But it’s the one I really, really struggle with the most. What is so wrong about Bildad’s argument? Isn’t he right? All people sin. No one is righteous before God. It says that. The Bible says that.

How can a mortal be innocent before God?
    Can anyone born of a woman be pure? (Job 25:4)

For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God’s glorious standard. (Romans 3:23)

God looks down from heaven
    on the entire human race;
he looks to see if anyone is truly wise,
    if anyone seeks God.
But no, all have turned away;
    all have become corrupt.
No one does good,
    not a single one! (Psalm 53:2-3)

I was praying about this chapter because I do not know what to make of it. Job’s friends have now gone through all the common arguments about why suffering exists: 1) punishment for sufferer’s sin (they really harped on this one), 2) punishment for someone else’s sin (those naughty children), and 3) generalized sin leads to generalized suffering. Since they cannot find any other reason for Job’s suffering, this is where they ended up. No one is perfectly righteous, Bildad says. Because no one can be perfect, you must have sinned, and that is why you are suffering.

I have heard people make all of these arguments. When I was diagnosed with a painful condition early in our marriage, I wondered if it was because of something I had done. I wracked my brain looking for something to blame, for some unrepented sin that made this happen. My husband used to constantly blame the struggles in our life on foolish choices he made when he was young, and he would mentally thrash himself again and again for those choices. When my oldest daughter was born with a heart defect, we were told it was because we had sinned. “Which man sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born like this?” That attitude still exists, even in the modern church that has the next words of Jesus: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned.”

Let’s look, though, at the origin of this belief, this attitude toward suffering. There’s a good example of sin leading to suffering in Joshua 6 after the Israelites destroyed Jericho. The story is iconic. The people were given the strangest orders to march around the city without making a sound, and then, when they had marched around the directed number of times, they were to shout with all their might. We know this story because the walls literally crumbled in front of them. We like this part of the story.

But it does not end there, does it? The people are given the command to put to death every person and animal in Jericho, and they are to destroy or consecrate to the Lord all of the spoils of battle; the gold and the silver and the fine clothing. They were given precise instructions. Keep none of it, the Lord said. But Achan did not listen.

The next battle should have been an easy one. The spies came back full of confidence, saying the people were few and it would only take a couple thousand men to destroy them. They sent three thousand just to be on the safe side. They did not even bother to ask the Lord about it. No point for such an obvious and easy battle.

They were “soundly defeated.” (Joshua 7:4) Thirty-six men died. That might not sound like a lot for a battle. But every man is one too many, and it was more than they had ever lost before. They were so surprised, so horrified, that it says “their courage melted away.” (Joshua 7:5)

Then they asked the Lord why that had happened, and then he exposed Achan’s disobedience. Thirty-six men died because one man wanted a pretty robe and some silver and gold. Sin = punishment.

Now, is it more complicated than that? Of course. There was also a certain arrogance that had befallen God’s people, a certain entitlement to his power. If they had asked before they went, how differently would the ending have been?

Also, God did not raise his hand to strike those thirty-six men himself. He simply let Israel find out how much of their victory came from his strength and how much of it came from their own. He let them try it without him. They found out right quick and in a hurry that God’s way works and theirs does not.

But the fact remains that God traced the root of their failure back to disobedience, and rather than learning from the Israelites to ask God before making assumptions, what most people take away from this moment is that suffering comes from sin.

This is not a solitary moment in Israel’s history; over and over again they disobey God, and over and over again he lets them find out what it’s like to live without him. It turns out they’re a lot weaker than they think. It turns out most of what they thought was their success was actually God’s. It turns out a lot of us try to claim God’s victories for ourselves. When we do, it obscures others’ views of God’s character. When we do, people learn to falsely worship us instead of truly worshipping God. It was never the Israelites the nations should have feared, but their God.

But instead of learning to fear and worship God, instead of learning to consult him first and do what he says, people have instead tried to figure out how we can control the outcome.

So what is so wrong about what Job’s three friends are saying? Well. I have not heard one of them say, “I asked God, and he said…” They’re all still trying to figure out the right answer by themselves. None of them have actually talked to God. When Job suggests it, they actively discourage him. They’re like the Israelites attacking Ai without asking – no need to bother God for something we can do ourselves.

But they can’t figure it out, can they. That’s because this is one of those, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” kind of moments that Jesus used to knock that faulty logic off its stand. But the disciples did something Job’s three friends did not; they asked. So Job’s three friends don’t know that sometimes God has different reasons than the ones we understand.

All their usual explanations have failed them. And when all other explanations fail, people say, “We live in a fallen world.” I always thought they meant we are all sinful, and we all deserve it.

To some extent, that’s true. It’s forgiveness, mercy, and grace most of us mortals do not deserve. An eye for an eye is fair – equal and balanced – but it is not good, is it? No, when the first wrong, the first bad thing, happened, it could only be equaled, could only be balanced by another bad thing. It may be fair, but in the end sometimes what we see as fair is only doubly bad. It may be justice, but it is not perfect justice – that is to say, it is not mercy, but sacrifice.

I would say perfect justice begins with a kindness, not a cruelty. I would say it equals and balances that kindness with another kindness. I am kind to you, and then you are equally kind to me. Balance. Justice. The perpetuation of kindness and love. That is the kind of justice, I think, that God prefers. That is what makes what happened to Job so objectionable, isn’t it? He was kind and he was generous and he gave with an open heart, and others were cruel and others were selfish and others took from him what was his. The earth itself stole from him with the natural disasters that burned up his business and killed his children. It was not equal, and it was not balanced.

What is wrong with Job’s three friends’ arguments is that they are trying to prove that what happened to Job was equal and was balanced. They were trying to prove that it was fair. But anyone with eyes can tell you life is not fair. Something is unequal here. Something is unbalanced. Something needs fixing.

So what was wrong with Bildad’s argument is that he is trying to use something that is true – God is glorious, and we will never measure up to him – to support a fallacy, that what happened to Job was just.

It is true that no one is righteous next to God. Who could be? By sheer size alone, God is stronger. By sheer size alone, God has the resources to be more generous. By sheer size alone, God’s mind can be more right. By sheer size alone, God’s heart can hold more love. We can be nothing to him. We can never equal him. We can never balance him.

But. Does that mean it is right for us to be punished for not measuring up to him?

This gets into slippery territory.

Someone might argue, “If my falsehood enhances God’s truthfulness and so increases his glory, why am I still condemned as a sinner?” (Romans 3:7, NIV)

But as always, God is right. What good is it to argue about whether or not we should be held to God’s potential as a standard for goodness? We don’t measure up to our own potential, let alone his. That is enough for us to be condemned.

But the question in Job is not about whether or not he deserves eternal condemnation for not being able to counterbalance the goodness of God. That will be judged at the end of the age, and it will depend on far more than what he has done. He will need more than himself for that measurement. No, the question is whether or not he deserves the intense earthly suffering – beyond what most have to endure – that has befallen him here, in his earthly life. We can see, even in our humanity, that some people suffer more than others. The question is whether or not those people deserve to suffer more than the rest of us. Whether or not God knows something about these people that we do not, whether or not their suffering is evidence of some great, hidden (or not so hidden) sin.

Bildad’s argument falls profoundly flat in the face of that question, regardless of whether or not what he says is true. Sure, all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. But does that explain why some suffer more than others? No. By Bildad’s argument – and by the Bible’s truth – we are all equal under the rule of sin. “Don’t be ridiculous, Job,” he says, “everybody has sinned, so you must have, too. That’s why all this bad stuff is happening to you.”

Frankly, then, if Bildad’s argument was valid, unequal suffering for equal sin is still wrong. Even if Bildad’s argument was correct, we’re still left wondering why this happened to Job, but not everyone else.

He cannot refute what Job has said – that sometimes people cheat and get away with it. Sometimes people do terrible things and go unpunished. And sometimes people do great things, kind things, and are punished despite, or even for being good.

Again, this is an integral truth that must be accepted for the basic tenets of Christianity to be believed. If we do not believe the innocent suffer, then who is Christ? But he took our sins upon himself, some will argue. So he was not considered innocent anymore. He was innocent, I will tell you, or else he could not have substituted himself for us. It was the one qualification he had to meet to be our perfect sacrifice.

Martyrs. Saints. Kidnapped aide workers. Victims of the Holocaust. Abused children. All the way back to Abel, second generation human, who was murdered by his brother for bringing a better sacrifice to God.

Our theology must must must allow the innocent to suffer, or it is empty. It ignores what is real. It. is. fake.

The fact of the matter is what happened to Job was wrong. It was unequal and it was unbalanced. Something in the universal justice system is broken and has been broken since the fall of man, since God was generous and kind and gave mankind something good and man was selfish and cruel and stole something more. We broke the balance. By trying to justify, or make it somehow right, that innocent people suffer, we undercut the basic truth that something is flat out wrong here, and it needs to be fixed.

That is what it means to live in a fallen world. It is unequal. It is unbalanced. Bad things are done to people who are doing good. Like Job.

But who can fix it? Job cries out throughout the beginning of this book. Humans cannot be good enough, strong enough, loving enough to fix this broken world! All our love and all our goodness cannot balance the scales.

Yes, exactly. That’s the point.

This is a kind of broken only God can fix.

Job can see the need. He has declared that it will be met one day. But he cannot see how. He cannot see who. He can only see that the system is broken, and it needs fixing.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Talk About Trouble: Chapter 23

If only I knew where to find God,
    I would go to his court. (Job 23:3)

I go east, but he is not there.
    I go west, but I cannot find him. (Job 23:8)

A quick, oversimplified, poorly explained lesson in Hebrew poetical structure:

Hebrew poetry is generally structured with a technique called parallelism. Parallelism is not a lyrical structure, meaning it is not about the sounds or cadence of words like most English poetical structures. It is a conceptual structure, so it has more to do with the ideas being expressed. The way I think about it is a rhyming of thoughts rather than a rhyming of words.

Hebrew poetry is often written in couplets that contain these “thought rhymes” directly. These “thought rhymes” can be two ideas that are synonymous but reworded, like these: “For I have stayed on God’s paths;/ I have followed his ways and not turned aside.” (v. 11) Stayed, followed, and not turned aside are all synonymous in meaning; God’s paths and his ways are likewise synonyms. They can be two ideas that mean the same expressed in opposite ways, like these: “But once he has made his decision, who can change his mind?/ Whatever he wants to do, he does.” (v. 13) No one can change his mind and he does what he wants to do mean the same thing, but they have opposite subjects (no one/he), opposite verbs (change, does what he wants), and yet mean the same conceptually . Or they can be a foundational idea and one that builds on top of it, like these: “If only I knew where to find God, I would go to his court.” (v. 3) The first idea directly leads to the next, and the second idea is only the natural progression of the first.

But the best Hebrew poetry carries this structure farther. The couplets themselves become single units in a larger rhyming of thought; the structure grows and grows, building on itself, to a peak that expresses the main idea of the poem. I think of it like switchbacks, or a spiral trail up a mountain. Mountains have tremendous spiritual significance to the Semitic peoples. Noah’s ark came to rest on the top of Mount Ararat when God’s judgment had passed; Abraham climbed a mountain to sacrifice Isaac and receive the substitute sacrifice; Moses climbed a mountain to commune with God and receive his commands. The spiritual significance of mountains was not limited to the Jews in ancient religion, either. When the Bible refers to “tearing down their high places,” in regards to idol worship, it means that literally. Many temples and alters were constructed on top of mountains in that part of the world and several others. The gods were said to dwell on top of mountains, most famously like Mount Olympus of the Greeks. Wherever there were mountains, it seems, people found some kind of meaning in them. I would even argue we still do.

The ancient peoples, too, saw symbolic significance in ascension: a person began at the bottom too close their ideas, beliefs, questions, or problems to see clearly, and as they rose higher and higher on the proverbial mountain side of contemplation and gained distance from those things, they could see the lay of the land better and better, if you will. Sometimes distance is needed to see the full picture. Up the mountain of thought, the poets went, to gain perspective and spiritual clarity, and then back down into their real life to put into practice whatever revelation they received at the top.

If we apply this structure to the book of Job, Job is just beginning to descend from that peak of revelation that will change how he approaches his life from now on. He has contemplated the failure of his own efforts to achieve a peaceful and prosperous life, despite his flawless actions, and has climbed through the realization that he needs someone stronger than himself to mediate between him and God. He has reached the absolute peak of revelation with his declaration that he will see his Redeemer stand upon the earth, and now, he begins his descent back into his life with this changed spiritual mindset and repaired and refined theology. In other words, now that Job understands his own efforts are not enough and he needs someone to save him, the question is –

What now?

Or, in the words of Francis Schaeffer, How Then Shall We Live?

Job’s friends have made it clear what they believe. They very much represent what the people down in the valley on the other side, who have not climbed this mountain, still believe. Literarily, they provide a contrast to show the extent of his spiritual growth and change.

Physically, literally, they present an insurmountable obstacle. At this point, Job is in an impossible rhetorical position: even though all evidence is on his side, and even though he is telling the truth, he cannot win this argument because of the prejudice of his opponents. Their preconceived beliefs about how the world should be, how they want it to be, prevent them from seeing this situation for what it is. Their own arguments are circular and self-perpetuating: because you are suffering, you are sinful, and because you are sinful, you are untrustworthy, and because you are untrustworthy, your self-defense is sinful, and because you are sinful, you are suffering. They have fallen into the fallacy of presumed guilt. Job cannot reason with them because they don’t believe a word he says. They don’t believe a word he says because of who they believe he is. They believe he is someone he is not, but because of what that is, he cannot even defend himself. He is entirely bound and gagged, and though they tied the gag themselves, they condemn him for not answering.

In frustration, Job wishes for a more reasonable audience: God.

Would he use his great power to argue with me?
    No, he would give me a fair hearing.
Honest people can reason with him,
    so I would be forever acquitted by my judge. (Job 23:6-7)

I can just imagine Job rolling his eyes, throwing up his hands and saying, “I wish I could talk to God and settle this!” He has no doubt that the God who sees all and knows all truth would at least acknowledge what he is saying as true, unlike his “friends”!

This is where Job has arrived on his spiritual journey: he has realized that what he really needs to do, since no human can offer him the right solution, since no human can offer him hope, is to go straight to the source.

But he knows where I am going.
    And when he tests me, I will come out as pure as gold. (Job 23:10)

He needs to talk to God. He does not think it will change anything –

But once he has made his decision, who can change his mind?
    Whatever he wants to do, he does.
So he will do to me whatever he has planned.
    He controls my destiny.
No wonder I am so terrified in his presence.
    When I think of it, terror grips me. (Job 23:13-15)

But it is the only consolation he has left to him, to be acquitted by God. So he wants to talk to God.

Small hiccup: Where is God?

Talk About Trouble: Chapter 19

Job 19 contains one of the most quoted passages in the Bible. It is certainly the most quoted from the book of Job, the one we can really sink our teeth into and feel good about it, the one we like, the moment of hope and redemption in the midst of despair:

But as for me, I know that my Redeemer lives,
    and he will stand upon the earth at last.
And after my body has decayed,
    yet in my body I will see God!
I will see him for myself.
    Yes, I will see him with my own eyes.
    I am overwhelmed at the thought! (Job 19:25-27)

These verses are beautiful, a true anthem for all who are suffering. This is the sturdier hope, the eternal hope that carries us through our worst moments! But we’ll come back to that. Job 19 is more than just these three verses, and there is a verse here that has haunted me for days. I have meditated on it, troubled over the errors I have found in my own heart at different points along the way, wondered if maybe we don’t talk about it enough.

What is so wrong about the argument made by Job’s three friends?

Remember when I said sometimes I wonder? Well, I think I’m starting to figure it out.

You think you’re better than I am,
    using my humiliation as evidence of my sin. (Job 19:5)

If we view suffering or punishment – humiliation, as Job puts it, or in other versions disgrace, reproach, troubles, problems, shame – as our sole evidence of sin — if we reject Job’s plea of innocence as the deceit of a guilty man — then who else will we accuse of the same? Who else will we not believe suffered though he was innocent? Who else endured punishment, the full weight of God’s wrath, though he himself did nothing wrong? If we take the side of Job’s three friends, we will look right over Jesus.

I don’t know if I said that loud enough.

IF WE VIEW SUFFERING AS EVIDENCE OF WRONGDOING, WE ARE BLIND TO THE MESSIAH.

In some small way, it reminds me of the doctors and other medical professionals who were so bent on fixing me, the young mom who clearly didn’t know what she was doing, and what I was doing “wrong” that they almost missed the heart defects in my babies. They were blind to the real problem because they had fixated on an assumed problem: me. What if we are blind to the real solution (Jesus!) because we are fixated on something else? What if we are trying so hard to do everything right to save ourselves that we don’t even see the humble, homeless, hungry and exhausted traveling tradesman who says things we don’t like and gets himself arrested and crucified? What if we let our own self-righteousness blind us to God’s greatest gift of mercy and grace?

What if Job had gotten everything he believed he deserved, what if he’d been allowed to keep it, and what if he’d died believing he’d been strong enough to save himself? What if he’d stood before the God of the universe and found, at the end, his own righteousness compared to God’s – what if he’d seen how short he fell, not because he was not the best he could be, but because he was just too small? What if God had let him believe he, in his own mere human power, could compare with God? Would that have been just? Is it just to let a toddler arm wrestle an adult for his salvation? What if the justice of God considers knowledge of things greater than our minds can hold – what if God’s justice is full and complete, based on things we can’t even know. Are we arrogant enough to say such things do not exist?

Throughout this conversation, because he has suddenly become aware of his own vulnerability, Job has repeatedly cried out for a mediator, someone to stand between him and God and turn away God’s wrath from him. He knows he has done all that he knows to do to earn God’s favor and blessing, and still it has been ripped from his hands. He knows there is nothing more he can do on this earth than what he has already done! He knows he needs someone with more oomph than he has to stand up for him. And it took coming to the absolute end of his own power and ability and failing to gain what he’d tried to gain – security – for Job to realize his need for a Savior, for someone stronger and wiser and more powerful. And it took suffering “unjustly” by his understanding for Job to understand that suffering is not only a direct punishment for the sufferer’s sin. It took all of this for him to be able to see and understand clearly the Savior who was coming. It took all of this for him to be able to recognize Jesus.

And when he finally sees clearly, that is when he cries:

But as for me, I know that my Redeemer lives,
    and he will stand upon the earth at last.
And after my body has decayed,
    yet in my body I will see God!
I will see him for myself.
    Yes, I will see him with my own eyes.
    I am overwhelmed at the thought! (Job 19:25-27)

I know on the front cover of this book, I know in the prologue, the first two chapters, I KNOW it looks like what the Lord has allowed done to Job is completely and entirely unfair. The Lord doesn’t even like doing it – it’s not the sort of thing that brings him pleasure. But we know he is faithful and just and accomplishes his own purposes in his own ways, so how does these two truths reconcile? I don’t know the mind of the Lord, and I can’t see all he accomplished by allowing this to happen to Job. But I do see this: God, who loved Job with a love we cannot even fathom, faithfully corrected Job’s vision so that Job could see a hope that would outlast his own life. God, who loved Job with a love that has no boundaries, stripped Job of the belief that he could save himself, so that he could see what his friends could not – so that Job could see Jesus, plain and clear as day, thousands of years before he walked on this earth.

God looked at Job and said, “I love him so much, I will give him more than the earth. I will give him myself.”

Let that knock your brains around a bit. Thousands of years before Job’s Redeemer walked on the earth, Job said,

Oh, that my words could be recorded.
    Oh, that they could be inscribed on a monument,
carved with an iron chisel and filled with lead,
    engraved forever in the rock. (Job 19: 23-24)

And then he said –

I know that my Redeemer lives,
    and he will stand upon the earth at last. (Job 19:25)

…I will see God! I will see him for myself. (Job 19:26-27)

Of all the words Job wanted to save for us to hear, it was these. Of all the knowledge he had, it was this knowledge that he wanted to ring like a town bell through the ages for all to hear! That though even he, Job, with all his goodness and power and righteousness, was not enough to save himself from the hand of God should God decide against him, there is an even greater hope than self-sufficiency. There IS someone who stands between men and God, and there IS someone who turns God’s wrath from us all.

There IS A SAVIOR.

It is God himself, the Word made flesh.

There is a Jesus. ❤

Talk About Trouble: Chapter 17

My spirit is crushed,
    and my life is nearly snuffed out.
    The grave is ready to receive me. (Job 17:1)

I have been stuck on Job 17 for days. I have been grieving it with Job, feeling the poignancy of his lament. There are questions here, real questions, that are worth asking.

Where then is my hope?
    Can anyone find it? (Job 17:15)

Job 17 is the tree our American Christianity kite gets so wrapped up in: misery, the kind of misery that makes death look friendlier than life. The yearning for a quick end, the fear of lingering on for no purpose but to suffer. If you’ve ever heard someone you love express a desire to die, if you’ve ever had to consider the choice between suffering and death for a loved one, if you’ve ever questioned which is better for yourself, you know – Job’s words tear down a veil we have constructed for a reason. It covers the picture of Dorian Gray; it wraps the ghost of Christmas future; it disguises the shadow of death. We are afraid to look behind it; we are afraid to become what’s behind it.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
For You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. (Psalm 23:4, NKJV)

There are things we teach our children: we don’t touch fire, we don’t look at the sun, and we don’t greet death like he’s welcome here – like he’s one of us, like he’s part of us. These things are dangerous. They damage.

Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

– Dylan Thomas, Do not go gentle into that good night

What do we know of death but its cold shoulder? What should it know of us but ours. Right? And yet, death lurks over us; it is written into our cells and seasons and natural world, and though we try to ignore its presence, it blocks the light and warmth of the sun. It casts a shadow. And we live in it.

When someone like Job – someone who we admired, revered even – falls into this level of despair, of yearning for death – it calls into question everything we live for. It makes us look at death, and most of us would rather ignore that face. American Christians especially shy away from it. Life. Jesus brings life. We talk about life.

The thief’s purpose is to steal and kill and destroy. My purpose is to give them a rich and satisfying life. (John 10:10)

Sometimes, I think we talk about life so much that we have forgotten what it means to live in death’s shadow. We live as if we will go on living forever, when in fact, we are made to live as those who are dying. We build the wrong things, invest our time and energy in the temporal while neglecting the eternal. We trade the eternal joy of heaven for the fleeting pleasures of earth. This is the danger of forgetting death: we wish, we hope, we desire poorly.

It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased. – C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory, and Other Addresses

Job’s depression is hard to sit beside, hard to read, hard to face because it lurks within us all. In our deep places that we keep shut off from our waking mind, the places where our fears reside, the question floats atop an answer few of us have the courage to test: what will I do when my hope is gone? What will happen when there’s nothing left I want?

My days are over.
    My hopes have disappeared.
    My heart’s desires are broken. (Job 17:11)

By this point, Job has given up trying to convince his friends of his innocence with his arguments. For that, he appeals to God, who alone knows the state of his heart. His anger is running thin, an energy that he has exhausted, and all that is left under it is sorrow. His anger has left him depleted. He’s tired.

What if I go to the grave[a]
    and make my bed in darkness?
What if I call the grave my father,
    and the maggot my mother or my sister?
Where then is my hope?
    Can anyone find it?
No, my hope will go down with me to the grave.
    We will rest together in the dust! (Job 17:13-16)

Look at his language. I realize this is a translation, that it can only convey his meaning so well because different cultures embed their own beliefs into their language, but in English, the language around death rings similar to the language around sleep, and in some ways, one is a parallel, symbolic of the other. I believe from the translations I have read – how Jesus had to clarify that Lazarus was dead because the disciples thought he really meant sleeping, how “he rested with his fathers” is the way of saying a man died – that the same connotations are embedded in Job’s language, too. I don’t know that. But I suspect. I suspect what translates as “make my bed in darkness” and “we will rest together in the dust” are both fairly straight translations. The Strong’s Hebrew concordance supports this. Job is tired, and the language he uses is language of rest. He craves satisfying rest; he finds none left in life, and since his exhaustion seems so permanent, he seeks a rest more permanent.

And this is why I think the book is Job is not actually about suffering, as is commonly believed. I think the book of Job is about hope. Because hope is our reason for carrying on through pain and suffering and exhaustion. Job, in chapter 17, could find no more reason to carry on – because he’d misplaced his hope. Like so many of us, his hope was in the temporal. Like so many of us, his hope was flimsy. Like so many of us, his hope snapped under the weight – of death.

No, my hope will go down with me to the grave.
    We will rest together in the dust! (Job 17:16)

Job needs better hope. His life depends on it. Job needs a Savior – the same Savior who is foreshadowed in his own feelings, words, circumstances:

My spirit is crushed,
    and my life is nearly snuffed out.
    The grave is ready to receive me. (Job 17:1)

He took Peter, James, and John with him, and he became deeply troubled and distressed. He told them, “My soul is crushed with grief to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.” (Mark 14:33-34)

I am surrounded by mockers.
    I watch how bitterly they taunt me. (Job 17:2)

God has made a mockery of me among the people;
    they spit in my face. (Job 17:6)

The soldiers took Jesus into the courtyard of the governor’s headquarters (called the Praetorium) and called out the entire regiment. They dressed him in a purple robe, and they wove thorn branches into a crown and put it on his head. Then they saluted him and taunted, “Hail! King of the Jews!” And they struck him on the head with a reed stick, spit on him, and dropped to their knees in mock worship. (Mark 15:16-19)

You must defend my innocence, O God,
    since no one else will stand up for me.
You have closed their minds to understanding,
    but do not let them triumph. (Job 17:3-4)

Inside, the leading priests and the entire high council were trying to find evidence against Jesus, so they could put him to death. But they couldn’t find any. Many false witnesses spoke against him, but they contradicted each other. (Mark 14:55-56)

They betray their friends for their own advantage,
    so let their children faint with hunger. (Job 17:5)

Then Judas Iscariot, one of the twelve disciples, went to the leading priests to arrange to betray Jesus to them. (Mark 14:10)

My eyes are swollen with weeping,
    and I am but a shadow of my former self. (Job 17:7)

Then Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

The virtuous are horrified when they see me.
    The innocent rise up against the ungodly. (Job 17:8)

 A large crowd trailed behind, including many grief-stricken women. But Jesus turned and said to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, don’t weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. (Luke 23:27-28)

When the Roman officer overseeing the execution saw what had happened, he worshiped God and said, “Surely this man was innocent.” And when all the crowd that came to see the crucifixion saw what had happened, they went home in deep sorrow. (Luke 23:47-48)

Even as Job cried out for better hope, his life prophesied his coming: the sturdy hope who can bear the weight of even death and loss and suffering. Messiah. Hold on, Job. He’s coming! Better hope has come at last!

Job wants Jesus. ❤

Power Made Perfect

When I was little, we spent a good amount of time at the Christian bookstore. I loved the little knickknacks they sold there; delicate teacups and wall hangings with Bible verses on them, holographic bookmarks, name cards with name meanings and verses, pens and erasers and journals and gum and whatever little baubles they could slap a verse or clever saying on and call it “inspirational.” I bought a magnet once that had a puppy leaning sleepily on a dumbbell and saying, “If it can’t be easier, Lord, help me to be stronger.” For a long time, I thought that attitude sounded pretty holy.

I have lived around strong enough people in my life to know I am far from the strongest of people. I am the youngest in my family: weakest. I am the girl among the boys: weakest. I am the shy one: weak. The quiet one: weak. The bookish one: weak. Weak, weak, weak.

As an adult, I wrestle with less obvious kinds of weakness every day. I am the disorganized one: weak. The time blind one: weak. “Irresponsible,” people who grow frustrated with my weakness say. “Childish. Lazy.” And I hear what they don’t say: weak.

I hate watching nature documentaries because I see what happens to the weak in a world full of stronger things. I’m not a fool. I know I’m the one the predator targets. I know I’m not the one who wins the fight.

God and I have had many a discussion about my weakness. They tend to go like this: “God, why did you make me so weak? If it can’t be easier, Lord, help me to be stronger! I need to be STRONG!”

And God says: “My grace is sufficient for you, my power made perfect in weakness. Why do you need to be strong?”1

And I say, “But God. People are angry at me. They’re angry at me for being a burden, for being so weak that I tax their strength. I ask too much of them. I need to be stronger! I need to pull my weight.”

And He says, “The strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak, and not to please themselves. Blessed are those who have regard for the weak. I chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. Why do you need to be strong?”2

And I say, “But Lord, Your word says, “Be strong and courageous.”3 I need to be strong. I need to be strong so I can help the weak.”

And He says, “Be strong in me, and in MY mighty power. My power is made perfect in weakness. You have the strength to help the weak; you have Me. Why do you need to be strong?”4

And then I start to really think about his question. Why do I need to be strong? So I can take care of myself. So I won’t need help. So I can be impressive, not disdained. So I won’t be vulnerable. So I won’t be hurt anymore. So I will be safe.

And He whispers, “So you won’t need Me.”

And that’s it, isn’t it. I want to be strong so I can be independent from God. I want to be what He is so I don’t need Him.

And I feel His heart go quiet and sad. Because not only is He strong, He wants to be strong for me. He wants to give me the gift of His strength. He wants to show me His love this way. And I keep insisting that’s not enough for me. What an ungrateful way to treat a gift of love.

And what of this: what if God has allowed me to be weak to reveal the hearts of the strong? What if I am a challenge, a question: What if you were the strongest one? That may be the hardest test a soul can take. What would you do in God’s shoes? My weakness asks the strong. What would you do with His power? Will you spend your strength for yourself, or use it instead on me? How many strong people have flunked the test of the weak! Look at the cruelty splattered across the pages of human history, across our cities, in our streets, in even our homes, from one side of the world to the other and back again. What if my weakness exposes others’ wickedness so that humankind can repent – confess – be healed! What if it makes us marvel all the more at God, strongest of us all, who is never, ever cruel.

And God whispers, “Will you help them see Me? Will you be weak?”

All right, Lord. If my weakness reveals Your glory, then if it can’t be easier, be strong for me. If it can’t be easier, be my stronghold, my refuge, my strength! If it can’t be easier, then Christ’s power rest on me. Mine will be the witness of the weak.

Even the weakness of God is greater than man’s strength!5

“This is what the Lord says:

“Let not the wise boast of their wisdom
    or the strong boast of their strength
    or the rich boast of their riches,
but let the one who boasts boast about this:
    that they have the understanding to know me,
that I am the Lord, who exercises kindness,
    justice and righteousness on earth,
    for in these I delight,”
declares the Lord.” Jeremiah 9:23-24

  1. 2 Corinthians 12:9 ↩︎
  2. Romans 15:1, Psalm 41:1, 1 Corinthians 1:27 ↩︎
  3. Joshua 1:9 ↩︎
  4. Ephesians 6:10, 2 Corinthians 2:19 ↩︎
  5. 1 Corinthians 1:25 ↩︎

Denying the Undeniable God

“Then the Lord gave these instructions to Moses: “Order the Israelites to turn back and camp by Pi-hahiroth between Migdol and the sea. Camp there along the shore, across from Baal-zephon. Then Pharaoh will think, ‘The Israelites are confused. They are trapped in the wilderness!’ And once again I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, and he will chase after you. I have planned this in order to display my glory through Pharaoh and his whole army. After this the Egyptians will know that I am the Lord!” So the Israelites camped there as they were told.” Exodus 14:1-4

My heart squeezes sadly a little every time I hear the Lord say, “Then they will know that I am the Lord!” Do you hear it? Can you hear it in His voice? His desire to be known by the people of his own creation is intense, real, heartrending. Do you ever wonder why he has to go to such great lengths to get people’s attention, to reveal himself? And do you ever read this repetitive phrase – “Then they will know that I am the Lord” – and wonder… but will they?

Because if there is any one power humans have in excess, it is denial.

Look at what God did in Egypt prior to this chapter. He turned off the sun. He turned an entire river into blood. He wrecked their livestock with hail, their produce with bugs, their health with boils, their futures with the death of EVERY firstborn son in Egypt. And yet – Pharaoh, who had been convinced for a moment that he was dealing with a powerful God, once again, changed. his. mind. And came after God’s people, again.

On the one hand, I can’t wrap my head around this point: God turned off the sun, and Pharaoh still didn’t get who he was dealing with. On the other hand, I’ve seen miracles too. I know how hard I’ve prayed for them, and I know it was God who came through. And yet… was it? Was it really? Or did I just get lucky that one time, or did I just work harder than I had before, or was it doctors or politicians or my family or… actually ME who really made it happen? When God uses human hands to meet my needs in miraculous ways… to whom does the credit really belong?

Chances are good that when things go my way, I’m going to find a way to convince myself it was my own doing.

Oof. But it’s true.

So how, then, am I ever going to know who God is when I keep attributing his actions to myself?

Oof.

Well. Human denial can go a lot farther than it should. But it has its (extreme) limits, too, I hope.

Sometimes, to teach us denying humans the undeniable goodness and power of the God we serve, he has to make it really, really obvious.

Sea-splitting obvious.

So he lets us get trapped in a vulnerable location. He himself commands us to go there. He actually tells us to set up camp at Pi-Hahiroth, fully knowing how vulnerable a location it is, knowing that Pharaoh will think we are confused, and knowing he is the only, only Being in all of creation that could pull off what he’s about to do.

Picture it: the people are trapped, completely trapped, between Pharaoh’s army, the most advanced, well-fed, well-funded human army in the world, and the sea. Not the sort of thing that can be forded or swum across, you feel me. No bridges. No boats. No way around. No way out. TRAPPED. With their weak and vulnerable loved ones. With their elderly, their sick, their pregnant women, their children. And beginning to fondly remember their nice cozy (slave) beds in Egypt… because the fact of the matter is, they were about to die out there, in the wilderness. Everything they had feared, every fear that had kept them too scared to leave Egypt until now, until they courageously chose to trust God and head into the wilderness, believing he wouldn’t let it happen, that he would take care of them, that all these horrible things humans had experienced in the wilderness before would not happen to them – well. It was happening, all of it was happening. They were out of their own strength, running on empty, depleted, exhausted, done for. And they knew it. Surrender and suffer, or don’t and die. These were the choices that were within their power.

And that’s it, isn’t it? Never do we ever consider choices outside our own power. We can’t make it work, so surely God can’t either, amiright? I mean, it’s just math. It’s just science. It’s just reality. Some things just. can’t. happen.

“Then the Lord said to Moses, “Why are you crying out to me? Tell the people to get moving! Pick up your staff and raise your hand over the sea. Divide the water so the Israelites can walk through the middle of the sea on dry ground.” Exodus 14:15-16

I’m sorry, divide the what now? What do you mean why are we crying out to you?? Get moving WHERE?? Divide the WHAT. NOW. Have you ever tried to cut water in half? I don’t mean pour one cup of water into several containers, I mean grab a knife and try to cut the water – with a knife. Divide the water. Sure, yeah, why didn’t I think of that.

There are just some things even the most ignorant of us know cannot happen. It does not exist.

But God did it.

And in that moment… they knew. The whole world, for a moment, knew.

I know where I’m trapped in my life. I know the corner I’m backed into, and I know that everything I’ve tried to do to get out of it has failed. I know where I am – I’m camped at Pi-Hahiroth, between Migdol and the sea. The location is vulnerable, and the enemy is – gleefully – coming to take advantage of my folly. There is no escape.

…Or is there?

Lord, rip open the water in front of me. Walk me through it, and let it drown my enemy. I know you’re coming. Let the denying world be silenced and stand in awe and reverence. Be undeniable. You are God.

May we, forever, know it.

Come Back, Judas!

I have a question. I’ve been wondering it for a while, asking myself, trying to dig out my own answer. What did you come to Jesus for? What did you expect you would get if you did?

Who says I came to get anything? Perhaps you say, offended. Or, maybe from Sunday school you say – eternal life. That’s all we’re supposed to want, right?

But dig into your heart for a moment, and see what else is there. What drove you out of your own self-reliance into the arms of Christ? Help with your life’s biggest problems? A miracle, maybe, or boundaries that fall in pleasant places, like David’s. Nothing too ambitious, just something – secure. Or maybe an accolade, finally someone saying, “Well done.” Acceptance, perhaps? Somewhere to belong? Relief from the guilt that plagued you, maybe? Did you come for the shelter, to be protected from pain? Were you desperate to avoid hell? Were you looking for heaven, thought you deserved it, and someone told you this was the only way? Or had you already despaired of heaven, already broken your own standards, already knew you needed another way?

Why did you come?

When Jesus walked this earth, people came. People came by the thousands. They came for healing. They came for food. They came for teaching that gave them hope, not just more rules they could not keep. They came because he took care of them, and that was something unexpected in their world. They came because they saw power, and they wanted it for their own ends; they had enemies they wanted to see pay for what they’d done. They came because they had problems, lots of problems, and in him, they saw a fix.

Messiah, the whispers started. Savior. The promised king.

Judas heard their whisperings. He had been chosen by this man, hand-picked. He might have started to imagine things: himself in Jesus’ government, a trusted official, a confidante, an advisor, a friend. Maybe he imagined himself in expensive clothes, eating expensive food, surrounded by servants to do his bidding. Important, his imagination maybe whispered. Rich.

Judas liked money. I get that, I like it sometimes, too. I don’t know where Judas came from that made him believe money would solve all his problems, but from what I’ve experienced, I’m guessing at some point in his life, he struggled to make ends meet; it’s hard to not have enough. Judas liked money. It made him feel good things; powerful, maybe, strong. Safe. He cheerfully took charge of Jesus’ moneybag. He listened to Jesus’ coins clink when he counted them. He collected offerings. He took his cut, whenever it suited him. After all, it was his to take; no one said anything. No one minded. They all agreed; Jesus gave it to him. It was his to take. However he reasoned it, Scripture is clear: Judas was a pilferer. A thief.

Jesus knew all of this. So what did he do? Remove Judas from his duties by force? Ditch him on the side of the road? Cast him out in infamy? No.

He let him fiddle with the money bag.

Jesus knew how much Judas loved money. So he put it right in his hands, and he gave him a choice. For years Judas followed Jesus, saw his miracles, ate at his table, experienced his love. All the while, clink, clink, clink went the moneybag at his hip. He had everything he wanted. He had both – Jesus and money. No choice necessary. But then.

Jesus started to break the rules.

He healed people on the Sabbath day, which was a legal gray area the Jewish leaders had blocked off with caution laws. He told people they had to eat his flesh and drink his blood, which was definitely outside Levitical law. He claimed to be equal with God – uhh. Dude. BIG “do not enter” sign. He broke the laws of nature, too – this was bigger than turning water into wine, making the blind see or the deaf hear, healing lepers, or casting out demons. He stopped a storm. And then he raised the dead. And some well-connected people who really liked laws started to get kinda… upset. Especially when he insulted them. In <gulp> public.

The whispers took a turn to murder. And clink… clink – the moneybag started to get thin, and Judas began to think he’d chosen the wrong team.

That’s when Jesus started talking about dying like it was the plan all along. He who was supposed to be the richest, most powerful king Israel had ever known, took off his outer clothes, wrapped a towel around his waist, and started washing his friends’ feet, telling them to do this for each other when he was gone. Whoa.

That was not what Judas signed up for, folks. What happened to the fame, the glory – the riches? It became glaringly clear that Judas was not going to get what he had come for.

So I will ask again. What did you come to Jesus for? And what will you do… if you don’t get what you thought you would?

What if the church rejects you. What if you stay broken, stay sick. What if you can never do more than make ends meet. What if you lose your job, your house, every last penny in your bank account. What if your loved one still dies too young. What if a fellow churchgoer tells you you’re doing it all wrong. What if your marriage crumbles. What if it’s even a little bit your fault. What if you keep making mistakes with huge consequences, and what if you still have to suffer them. What if your kids mess up. What if they blame you for it. What if people you trust doubt your faith. What if every time you walk through the doors of God’s house, you’re reminded that you’re not enough.

Love, these are not hypotheticals. I’ve seen friends suffer every single one of them. I’ve suffered many of them myself. And I’ve grieved for too many people who left for whichever of the reasons above.

At the very moment Judas was realizing he was not going to get what he had come for, Jesus knelt down – and washed his feet. Until the very last moment when his choice was made, Jesus gave Judas the chance to choose something better. Him. Jesus knew Judas wouldn’t. How insulting it must have been for the God of the universe to watch a man who’d had every chance to get to know Him… choose the short-lived clink of money instead. Do you see it? Do you see how foolish we humans are? How many of us have done the same! And yet, Jesus – at that very moment when Judas was rejecting him, Jesus! chose to wash his betrayer’s feet. The feet that, only minutes later, would carry him out the door to sell Jesus to his enemies. Squeaky clean.

And do you want to know what the most amazing part of this whole story is to me?

I don’t believe it was that choice, that selfish, foolhardy choice, that condemned Judas. I believe that’s what Jesus was telling him when he washed his feet – I am still willing, Judas. I am still willing to wash away your sin.

Because here’s the thing – Judas was not the only disciple to jump ship.

Peter came closer than any of them to understanding. Impetuous Peter with his ADHD habit of blurting out what everyone was thinking and jumping into situations before he stopped to think – Peter came the closest to understanding who Jesus really is. “Even if all the others abandon you, I would NEVER,” Peter ignorantly boasted. That is not the choice dear Peter made. That choice, it turns out, is harder than we think.

In fact, funny you should say that now, Peter. “I assure you,” Jesus told him. “Before the rooster crows,” – only a matter of hours from now – “you will disown me three times.”

Not one. Three.

I got to wondering a few years back – what’s the difference between what Peter did and what Judas did? They both threw Jesus under the bus to get what they wanted – Judas, money, Peter, safety. Jesus knew they both would do it, and he made sure they knew he knew. So why do we applaud Peter and call him Apostle, and smear Judas and call him Betrayer?

“And when you have turned back…”

Because Peter came back. Peter, the great sturdy rock himself, swallowed his pride, hung his head in shame, and took the most courageous steps any of us have ever taken. He walked back up to Jesus, after everything was done. After Jesus was crucified, and Peter had done nothing to stop it, nothing to share it, nothing to relieve a single moment of the suffering, but rather abandoned him to save his own skin – after Jesus conquered death and came back to life, no thanks to Peter at all, Peter dared to come back. I wonder sometimes how close he came to making the same choice Judas did. How hard it must have been to show his face! Haven’t I felt that, too? Jesus owed him nothing. But before he took matters into his own hands – before he condemned himself – he came to ask. Just to ask. It’s all he had left to do – one last thread of hope. Three times, Jesus asked Peter to tell him that he loved him. Three times, Peter confirmed that he did. One confirmation for every denial. And Peter, wounded as he was that Jesus had to ask, was restored.

Judas, oh, Judas, I wish you had gone back! I wish you had understood a moment of your history, I wish you had listened to your king, I wish you had waited to see his victory! But Judas could not see it; the clink, clink, clink that had deafened him now so repulsed him that he cast it aside, and he did the same thing with himself. He could not see past his own failings to the redemption that would spring up from them; he destroyed himself in despair for the very mistake that God used to save us all. His pride could not bear to look at his own sin. Oh, Judas! He would have taken you back, too. I believe he would have taken you back; I must believe he would have taken you back. If only you had ASKED!

Was there ever a tragedy greater than this? Inches from restoration, Judas did not ask.

It says Jesus’s heart was greatly troubled. Judas chose to betray him, and that must have been a sting – but I believe it was because he would never come back that Jesus grieved.

Whatever it is you came for, dear one – miracles, safety, power, prosperity – whatever you have done to get it when it became clear Jesus had different plans – dear Judas, come back. Listen – I throw him under the bus probably every day. I do not pretend anymore to know what choices I will make in the heat of the moment because the moment I say I would never, there I go nevering. Jesus knows exactly how weak I am. I asked. You can too.

Ask. Jesus came back for you, too. Please just ask.

Grace to you, my Judas. I love you still, too.

-your Peter friend