The Applause of Heaven - Max Lucado [15]
"All right," he shrugged. "I'll become one of your Christians. But don't expect me to change the way I live."
The conditional answer left my mouth bitter. "You don't draw up the rules," I told him. "It's not a contract that you negotiate before you sign. It's a gift-an undeserved gift! But to receive it, you have to admit that you need it."
"OK." He ran his thick fingers through his hair and stood up. "But don't expect to see me at church on Sundays."
I sighed. How many knocks in the head does a guy need before he'll ask for help?
As I watched Anibal pace back and forth in the tiny cell, I realized that his true prison was not made of bricks and mortar, but of pride. He was twice imprisoned. Once because of murder, and once because of stubbornness. Once by his country, and once by himself.
The prison of pride. For most of us it isn't as blatant as it was with Anibal, but the characteristics are the same. The upper lip is just as stiff. The chin ever protrudes upward, and the heart is just as hard.
A prison of pride is filled with self-made men and women determined to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps even if they land on their rear ends. It doesn't matter what they did or to whom they did it or where they will end up; it only matters that "I did it my way."
You've seen the prisoners. You've seen the alcoholic who won't admit his drinking problem. You've seen the woman who refuses to talk to anyone about her fears. You've seen the businessman who adamantly rejects help, even when his dreams are falling apart.
Perhaps to see such a prisoner all you have to do is look in the mirror.
"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just ..."' The biggest word in Scripture just might be that two-letter one, if. For confessing sins-admitting failure-is exactly what prisoners of pride refuse to do.
You know the lingo:
"Well, I may not be perfect, but I'm better than Hitler and certainly kinder than Idi Amin!"
"Me a sinner? Oh, sure, I get rowdy every so often, but I'm a pretty good of boy."
"Listen, I'm just as good as the next guy. I pay my taxes. I coach the Little League team. I even make donations to Red Cross. Why, God's probably proud to have somebody like me on his team."
Justification. Rationalization. Comparison. These are the tools of the jailbird. They sound good. They sound familiar. They even sound American. But in the kingdom, they sound hollow.
"Blessed are those who mourn ..."
To mourn for your sins is a natural outflow of poverty of spirit. The second beatitude should follow the first. But that's not always the case. Many deny their weakness. Many know they are wrong, yet pretend they are right. As a result, they never taste the exquisite sorrow of repentance.
Of all the paths to joy, this one has to be the strangest. True blessedness, Jesus says, begins with deep sadness.
"Blessed are those who know they are in trouble and have enough sense to admit it."'
Joy through mourning? Freedom through surrender? Liberty through confession?
Want a model? Let me introduce you to one.
He was nitroglycerin; if you bumped him the wrong way, he blew up. He made a living with his hands and got in trouble with his mouth. In some ways, he had a lot in common with Anibal. If he had had a tattoo, it would have been a big, black anchor on his forearm. If they had had bumper stickers, his would have read, "I don't get mad; I get even.
He was a man among men on the Galilean sea. His family called him Simon, but his master called him "Rocky." You know him as Peter.
And though he might not have known everything about self-control, he knew one thing about being a fisherman. He knew better than to get caught in a storm....
And this night, Peter knows he is in trouble.
The winds roar down onto the Sea of Galilee like a hawk on a rat. Lightning zigzags across the black sky. The clouds vibrate with thunder. The rain taps, then pops, then slaps against the deck of the boat until everyone aboard is soaked and shaking. Ten-foot