Judges and Scripture and Life: What Defines the Story?

 “You diligently study the Scriptures because you think that by them you possess eternal life. These are the Scriptures that testify about Me…”

ー Jesus (Jn. 5:39, NIV 1984)

*****

Have you ever read the book of Judges?

Oh, don’t give me that blank stare. You’ve read some of it, at least? 

Okay, here, let me help refresh your memory: Samson? Gideon? Deborah? The chilling summary line: “In those days Israel had no king; everyone did as he saw fit” (21:25)?

Or maybe you’re at least familiar with the so-called “sin cycle” that has appeared on white boards, PowerPoints, and (dare I say) projector slides in Bible classrooms for decades? Here is an example that I drew just for you. Please enjoy the detailed, professional illustrations:

Now do you remember? 

Great. Now let me introduce you to something I heard last night around 12:30 a.m. (Yes, I do confess I was awake at that hour listening to a podcast on the book of Judges. Don’t ask.)

The podcast I was listening to is called The BEMA Podcast. I think it’s honestly been the best gift I have encountered in years. The hosts of the show, Marty Solomon and Brent Billings, give an extensive walk-through of the biblical text over the course of 6 seasons (at least at the time of this writing). They engage the text by acknowledging and wrestling with the tough questions it evokes (rather than just ignoring or explaining away those questions and pretending like nothing’s wrong). They explore the layers of meaning and beauty within the text and provide insights from ancient rabbinical teachings as they go, ultimately highlighting the wonder of what it is to “gnaw” on Scripture and to learn, from it, who God is and who we are meant to be as His people.

Multiple times, their discussions have stopped me in my tracks and made me sit still, just thinking about the weight of what they’ve said, trying to grasp the impact that an understanding they’ve shared might have on my understanding of Scripture as a whole, and marveling at the seeming insanity of the realization that I managed to make it through this much of my life (and years and years of Christian education) without ever hearing of the possibility of an approach like this before.

And last night was no different. I was listening to an episode on the book of Judges entitled “The Redemption Cycle” (released June 29, 2017). And in it, Marty said something that floored me. He mentioned, as I did above, the characteristic “sin cycle” that most people use in teaching the book of Judges, but he asked a question (or, rather, a series of questions) I’d never considered before. In his words: 

My thundering question in my head as I’ve always heard this taught time and time and time again is: Why is this a sin cycle? When we see this cycle of the people in the book of Judges, how come our focus is on the sin and putting flames in the Judges graphic? How come this isn’t on the redemption of God? How come this cycle isn’t about God’s patience and God’s unbelievable longsuffering and His continual, never-ending pursuit of His people?¹

Put concisely, in Marty’s words again, “How come it’s about my failure and not God’s redemption?” (ibid.). Shortly after this, he nearly erupts in incredulity: “We read the Bible through the lens of Genesis 3, and it’s impacted the way we read everything” (ibid.).

Pause with me for a minute. Do we realize the gravity of what he is saying? 

If our outline of Judges is focused on Israel’s sin, Israel’s failings, and Israel’s hardheaded tomfoolery…have we been so focused on that that we’ve missed YHWH in the middle of it? 

And what about when we read the rest of Scripture? How do we write its narrative arc? Is it all about people’s faults and failures, inconsistencies and idiocies? Is it all about what God “had” to do to make sure He kept His promises to Adam and Abraham? Do we read of His victorious redemption as though it was in spite of human behavior? 

What about our own lives? Are they defined by our bad decisions, our stubbornnesses, and our fears? Do we “read” our own story as a record of all the stuff God had to wade through to finally, mostly, get us where He was trying to get us to go? 

In all of it, are we more impressed by the sinfulness of people or by the patience of God? Do we remember stories by just how awful we were (or others were), or is that memory coupled with一better, dwarfed by一the mind-boggling patience and relentless redemption of God?

Let me ask that question again: Do we remember stories based on our foolishness, or is our foolishness dwarfed by the faithfulness of God? 

Marty and Brent took their podcast discussion from here toward a different point, but I can’t help but sit on this more. I can’t help but wonder with them if we are一or, at least, I am一missing something in my thinking about Scripture and my thinking about my own life.

Two thoughts come to my mind.

1. In the verse I quoted at the beginning of this post, Jesus said that all of the Scriptures testify about Him. How we’re reading Scripture, then, is crucial. If we’re caught up in exasperation at the mistakes of humans in its pages without balancing that exasperation with awe at the Lord’s unending determination to save His people and wash them clean, we may have missed the point. The point we’re supposed to get from all those stories is that this is who God is: He is “the LORD, the LORD, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation” (Ex. 34:6-7, NIV 1984). God cares about righteousness. He really does. And yet the ratio there is 1000 to 3. If we fail to be impressed by the faithfulness of His love, manifest in all of Scripture but most manifest in the person of Jesus Christ, I think we’ve missed the point.

2. When we look at our own lives, the same defining arc should guide our interpretation of our story. When we look back, we might remember our sputterings and bumblings and outright rebellions. But they should be dwarfed by the sheer awe that comes from recognizing the mercy of God that’s been there the whole time. Self-accusations, horror at our own failures, and fear of failing in the future all have to bow to His patience and grace, His definition of our story. What He has forgiven is forgiven.

A question popped into my head a few days ago, before I happened upon any of this Judges content, and I think I’ll close with it here: If you found out that you were not all the things you accuse yourself of, what then would you do?

If God’s faithful love defines our lives and our readings of Scripture, dwarfing all our own thoughts about who we are and who we’ve been and what’s possible next, then I guess we’d best believe Him. We’d best believe Him and simply fall on grace. 

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¹ Solomon, Marty. “The Redemption Cycle.” The BEMA Podcast, hosted by Brent Billings. Season 2 Episode 36, 29 June 2017, https://www.bemadiscipleship.com/36.

P.S. If you decide to give The BEMA Podcast a listen, I’d highly recommend starting from the beginning. It’s the best way to get a clear picture of the perspectives they’re teaching and using throughout the podcast. Enjoy!

Accepting the Gift

 “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies...”

~ Psalm 23:5a (NIV, 1984)

*****

There is a story in II Kings 4 about a wealthy woman to whom God gives a gift. But she doesn’t want it. You see, she was the kind of person that did lots of nice things for other people. But she didn’t do them to be noticed. And she definitely didn’t do them to get a gift back.

She asked her husband one day if they could build and furnish a little room on their roof for Elisha, the man of God who came by their house for a meal whenever he was in town. What a little thing, she probably thought. We have the space, and I’m sure he would so appreciate the chance to have his own place whenever he comes here. Her husband agreed. So they built the room and placed in it a bed, a table, a chair, and a lamp. And the man of God loved it. He was so grateful. A place to himself, away from the hustle and bustle of the town—and reserved just for him whenever he came to visit. 

And so he came often, whenever he was in town, and stayed with the woman and her husband. But one day, while he was in his little room and gazing at the kind gift he had been given, he found himself wondering, How can I give a gift to her in return?

He turned to his servant and gave him a message for the woman. “How can we bless you in return for all you’ve done for us?” the message said. “We have connections with the king, connections with the commander of the army. What can we do for you?”

But the woman didn’t need anything. She didn’t have any requests.

So the man of God wondered some more. He asked his servant, “Do you have any ideas?” The servant thought of one: “What about a son?”

A son...the man of God thought to himself. Of course! A son is an excellent idea. Her husband is old, and she has no children now. A son would mean her family line could live on, and someone would be there to take care of her if her husband passed away.

And so the man of God announced the news to the woman: “About this time next year, you will hold a son in your arms.”¹

But then he saw her look down. She bit her lip. “‘No, my lord,’ she objected. ‘Don’t mislead your servant, O man of God!’”²

But what happens when God’s prophets speak is what happened here: the word was fulfilled, and the woman gave birth to a son.

It could have been a great story just like that, and that’s probably all we’d typically want out of it. The woman gives generously to the man of God and is rewarded with a great gift in return, even though she didn’t believe at first that it would happen. 

But the story doesn’t end there. Spoiler alert: The child dies.

The woman puts her son in Elisha’s room, saddles a donkey, and takes a 25-mile trip to find the man of God. And when she finds him, she says just about exactly what we would have expected her to say: “Did I ask you for a son, my lord?...Didn’t I tell you, ‘Don’t raise my hopes’?”³

In other words: What’s this about? I told you I didn’t want a gift. I told you my heart couldn’t take the disappointment. I couldn’t take another chance to be fooled. Yet you went and did it anyway, and now I’m in more grief now than I had been before your so-called “blessing.”

Have you been there before? Have you hesitated to open your hands to a gift because you didn’t think you’d be able to bear it if it turned out to be a joke? Have you opened your hands anyway to receive it, desperately hoping your doubts are amiss and it’ll turn out to really be the blessing you secretly hope for...only to find that it’s not? ...only to find that it’s a slap in the face?

The woman was broken with grief—not just because her son died but because she felt like the whole thing was a cruel mockery of her heart. She didn’t want the blessing because she guessed the blessing would prove to be a joke. And it was strangely worse to find out that she was right, that it did.

But, thankfully, that’s not the end of the story either. The man of God returned with the woman to her house, and he prayed for her son, and her son was restored to life. When the woman saw it, she fell to the ground in humble thanks. It turns out the blessing wasn’t a joke. It felt like it. But in the end, God showed her that He really did intend to bless her, to pour good into her life—real, 100% good, not some shabby, piecemeal, half-good that would more appropriately be called a curse. His heart was not to tease or to mock. His heart was to teach her—in a way she would never forget—that He was out to work for her blessing.

As I read this story, I couldn’t help but think how often in my own life I distrust the idea of blessing. Even little blessings can be suspicious: Did that compliment mean they want something from me now? Do they enjoy spending time with me because they like who I am or because they like what I can do for them? It seems almost every time a “gift” comes my way, I find myself circling around it carefully before I dare open it, listening and looking with every nerve on edge to make sure it’s really a gift and not a bomb...because too many of them have been bombs, and I’m not interested in exploding again.

This woman probably felt the same way. There’s no way of knowing what happened in her life before this encounter that caused her to distrust the idea of a gift now. But clearly something did. Clearly something in her story taught her that gifts were not always good. And she turned out to be both right and wrong: What she thought was a curse turned out to be an even bigger blessing than she expected. Not only did she have the chance to witness God’s assurance that He really did want to give her this gift, but she also was further blessed years later when news of her son’s resurrection reached the king of Israel, whose excitement at the story led to more blessing for her and her family than she ever expected (II Kgs. 8:1-6).

When I look back at my own life, I realize that even those gifts that turned out to be bombs turned out to be gifts again in the end. Yes, they exploded, and explosions hurt...but they taught me how to trust God and gave me tools to help others caught in similar situations. They helped form who I am. They humbled me. They gave me opportunities to give a sacrifice of praise in the midst of the pain. And some of them became the beginnings of a road to what I’d consider now to be some of the coolest blessings in my life.

Psalm 23 gives an image of the Lord providing a “table” right smack in the middle of enemy territory. For some reason, every time I’ve pictured this verse, I see myself seated in a dark, cave-like space with enemies all around. But then the Lord would bring in a nice wooden table and put it right in front of me. I’ve had this image in my head for years, but I didn’t realize until quite recently that every time I pictured it, the table was empty.

What was I missing? That’s not the end of the story. That table’s not empty. The psalm isn’t talking about God following some IKEA instructions and managing to set a four-legged, wooden piece of furniture between us and our enemies. That’s ridiculous.

The expression in the psalm means a feast. The table’s already there. And the Lord is preparing on it a feast that fills it. He’s loading blessings into bowls and arranging them all over so that the table itself is barely part of the picture. When God says He’s preparing a table for us in the presence of our enemies, that means we get the chance to enjoy His rich goodness even as our enemies threaten us with their spears and arrows. And that goodness is full. It’s not a joke.

Pulling all of these strings together, I have a question for you: What do you think of when you think of God’s goodness? What do you think of when you hear that He has a gift in store for your life? Do you hear it as a joke? Are you about to say no because you’re afraid of disappointment?

I’m not very good at accepting gifts. I’m not one to easily think something good might come my way without a “catch” attached to it. 

But I see something in this story—and in all of Scripture, for that matter—that makes me think my suspicions are off-base. Maybe it’s time I doubt my doubts. How would life change if I decided to open my hands to God’s gifts without wondering if He was teasing me? How would life change if I decided to open my heart to God’s goodness without doubting its reality? What if I stopped imagining His table as empty?

Maybe this story—and my own story, when I let it play out—can remind my heart to sing that Danny Gokey song that describes it so well: 

Have you been praying and you still have no answers? 
Have you been pouring out your heart for so many years?
Have you been hoping that things would have changed by now?
Have you cried all the faith you have through so many tears? 

Don’t forget the things that He has done before
And remember He can do it all once more 

It’s like the brightest sunrise
Waiting on the other side of the darkest night
Don’t ever lose hope, hold on and believe
Maybe you just haven’t seen it, just haven’t seen it yet
You’re closer than you think you are
Only moments from the break of dawn
All His promises are just up ahead
Maybe you just haven’t seen it, just haven’t seen it yet⁴

God really is good. Will we give Him a chance to show us that? 

———————————————

¹ II Kings 4:16a, NIV (1984).

² II Kings 4:16b, ibid.

³ II Kings 4:28, ibid.

⁴ Danny Gokey, “Haven’t Seen It Yet” (2019).

The Circus King

There was a hush after he said it. Shouts and whispers stilled. The jaws of some clenched tightly with anger; others were silenced in awe. An explosion had become safe and sacred, and the meaning of it all was still falling into place. Every ear still echoed with his words, resounding so loudly that only a few noticed the lonely clink of one last coin, whose wobbly rolling came to a decided end in the corner of the room.

We felt as though we could hear him breathe. In, then out. The angry ones squinted fiercely, daggers in their eyes. In again, and then they fled. Swishing fabric, the muffled slap of sandals on bare floor, and a single thump as one of them dropped a bag of silver: they were gone.

He breathed in again, and then the silence began to bubble—not yet with words but with the quiet giggles of children, the exhale of the freed, and more swishing cloaks as the rest of those there gathered in.

The place still lay in shambles. Tables and benches were overturned. Coins had been spilled everywhere. Bits of parchment and broken wood were scattered clumsily over the floor, interrupted here and there by pieces of frayed rope, tufts of wool, soft feathers, and empty money bags.

But the crowd didn’t seem to care. For once in their lives, they weren’t here to observe the room’s starchy beauty or to ponder what it’d be like to be on the other side of those tables, wearing linen robes and making the rules since you, after all, were the only ones who could see God. They weren’t here to fear whether their measly sums would be enough to buy their own pardon, nor were they here to be told what other long list of infirmities kept them this time from being really clean.

No, they were here because the prophet from Nazareth let them in. 

“It is written,” he had said, “‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you are making it a ‘den of robbers.’”¹ The surly, teeth-clenched moneychangers had to leave; and the blind, the lame, and the outcasts were welcomed in.

Pretty soon the children were singing. A once-lame beggar was running in circles with his hands in the air. A once-blind man was running his fingers over the holy curtains, wondering at the colors and textures that illuminated his eyes. It seemed like the sound of laughter changed the heavy smell of incense into a reminder not of boundaries but of praise.

They had the place as theirs for awhile, until the noses of the priests came poking their way in. Shuffling around the edges of the rabble, they inserted their questions with disdain. “Do you hear what these children are saying?² ‘Hosanna to the Son of David’? What is this?”

“Yes, I hear them,” he replied. He picked up one of the children at his feet and set him proudly on his lap, brushing back the thick mop of hair so he could peer into the little one’s eyes. “Have you never read, ‘From the lips of children and infants you have ordained praise’?”³

Some more shuffling was paired with discontented grunts. They huddled together away from the troubling Rabbi, and the crowd filled in the place they left.

Pretty soon the work was done, and the Rabbi made his way out. The rabble followed. Silence filled the room again as the muttering priests and teachers realized their “problem” had walked out the door. Alone with the tables and piles of coins, they glared into the darkening night, watching him go. Beneath their furrowed brows, they wondered how much longer this insult would insist on overturning their world.

But the crowd that left with the Rabbi had the feeling that the world was meant to be that way. Their Teacher had said it himself: “‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”⁴

———————————

¹ Matthew 21:13 (NIV, 1984)

² Matthew 21:16a (ibid.)

³ Matthew 21:16b (ibid.)

⁴ Matthew 9:13 (ibid.)

Original Artwork by Miranda Dupree (2021). Artwork Quotations: Song lyrics from “The Greatest Show” (written by Ryan Lewis, Justin Paul, and Benj Pasek, 2017). Lyrics source: LyricFind.

A Call for a Different Flag

Salaman: “You’re either with us or against us!”
Philip: ”I’m not with you, neither am I against you!”
Salaman: “Can he do that?”
Jack Sparrow: “He’s religious. I believe it’s required.”
           —Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides

*****

I can’t say I was the biggest fan of the fourth Pirates of the Caribbean movie, but I can say that this quote has stuck in my head for the last 9 years (since I first saw the film). Jack Sparrow has an unexpected knack for wisdom sometimes, and I believe this is one of those times.

As I expand, perhaps I should clarify up front that, in this post, I aim to speak to the Church, to my brothers and sisters in Christ. The rest of y’all, I love you—but this message is for those who, like me, have called Christ their Savior and Lord.

You’ve all, I’m sure, seen enough of the news and of social media to agree that the cacophony of voices sounds a lot like that first line quoted above. Everybody’s yelling, “You’re either with us or against us!” Opinions rise like forest fires, and it seems like every day we’re bombarded not just with opinions on one cause but by brand new causes (or old causes that somebody thought needed emphasis now). We started with opinions on COVID-19, then we got opinions about stay-at-home orders and masks and proper ways to clean things and who gets to work and what it all means. And then came the opinions about racism and protests and riots and police and social justice and all number of other things that one person or another has decided relates to any of these topics. Then we got opinions about politicians and voting and...the list goes on.

And I’m sick of it.

Hear me well: It’s not the mass bombardment of opinions that disturbs me. That’s been going on for years—decades, centuries...keep on counting.

What bothers me is this: The bombardment of opinions and the aggressive—even threatening—demand for alliance to cause after cause is coming not just from the world but from Christians.

Guys. We already have a flag. And in our pursuit of other banners to raise in the name of justice or safety or whatever else has become the catchphrase of the day, I believe we have been letting that flag drag in the dirt.

Look, the world is doing its best to advocate for what it thinks is right and good. But it’s lost; it’s screaming for causes because it doesn’t know what else to do.

Why are we listening? Why are we caving to the demands of a world that can’t even see the battle that we wage as Christians every day? Have we lost sight of the fact that the real battle is and always has been one “not against flesh and blood but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms” (Eph. 6:12, NIV 1984)?

Don’t you see? The enemy is having a hey-day right now. He doesn’t care what cause you pick if it means he can get you to set down the banner of Christ in order to hold another flag. He doesn’t care what you fear as long as you fear something. He knows that every time we give into fear we’ve given him ground.

Every cause that’s being proclaimed right now has some element of good in it. But we know, don’t we, what happens when we make a good thing an ultimate thing? Any banner we choose to hold besides the banner of Christ is idolatry.

And I tell you as strongly as I know how: The banner of Christ doesn’t look like any of the causes that are being thrown around in this global tug-of-war.

What does our banner look like?

It’s a banner that says when we’re slapped in the face, we don’t go out and hold a protest. We turn our other cheek and let ourselves be slapped again.

It’s a banner that says we clothe our enemies with love.

It’s a banner that says we let people steal from us—no, more than that! We give them more than what they were trying to steal.

It’s a banner that never gives an ear to worry and never lets fear or concern for safety be a reason for any action.

It’s a banner that says righteousness is primary and that the humble get heaven.

It’s a banner that blesses the peacemakers and the ones who work out their salvation in their closets while still being lights to the world.

It’s a banner that says we don’t pay any attention when someone says, “Look, here is our salvation!” or, “No, salvation’s over there!” We know where our Messiah is, and we know that it’s the meek who get to see Him.

Ours is a banner that advocates death as the path to life.

Ours is a banner that advocates suffering as the path to virtue.

Ours is a banner that advocates the kind of love that the world will call pathological, self-sabotaging, and absolutely foolish.

Because it is foolish. It’s always been foolish. 

But I ask you—in tears—will you let that banner drop because the world says it is foolish? Will you let that banner drop because some other cause is ringing more loudly in your ears than your Master’s voice? Will you let that banner drop because you fear men who might kill or shame your body? Have you lost your fear of the One who holds your soul?

My challenge for you, my brothers and sisters—beloved ones who make up the Body of Christ, the Church—is this: Follow HIM. Please. I beg you. Look into His face. Listen to His voice. I guarantee you that His voice is not going to sound like any of the rampant, raging causes that are demanding your alliance. He is the whisper in the whirlwind. He’s the One who says there’s a lot more going on here than the world realizes, the One who’s asking us to pay attention to what He is up to, not to what the world is proffering on its idolatrous tables.

My call to you is, quite simply, what Peter says in II Peter 3:11-14:

Since everything will be destroyed in this way, what kind of people ought you to be? You ought to live holy and godly lives as you look forward to the day of God and speed its coming. That day will bring about the destruction of the heavens by fire, and the elements will melt in the heat. But in keeping with His promise we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, the home of righteousness. So then, dear friends, since you are looking forward to this, make every effort to be found spotless, blameless and at peace with Him. (NIV 1984, emphasis added)

Friends, nothing else matters. Our mission is to point people to Jesus—our existence on this planet is for the sole cause of introducing people to Him, of bringing His Kingdom here, even as He did.

If you find any other flag in your hands, I suggest you drop it. Drop it, and start living in all things the sort of life that our Lord has called us to live: a life of humility, a life focused on righteousness and love, a life that reflects Him.

We’ve been given a Kingdom that heals sickness, casts out demons, dissipates social divides, and throws world systems on their heads through humility and forgiveness, not through uproar. We have nothing to fear. And, on top of that, we’ve got a world before us that is crying out in agony for help.

Let’s help it, then, not by abandoning our flag to take up its causes but by holding our flag up with more courage than we’ve had before. We help the world not by seeking its life but by calling for its death—by calling for repentance and surrender to the King and to the Kingdom that is truly life.

So let us look to Him, lay down all other flags, and hold up His. We are neither for the world nor against it. We are for Christ. And we’re religious, so yes, Jack: that’s required.