I'm A Dead Man (And Other Lies We Tell)

"I'm a dead man."

I'd heard him say it before, maybe a year or two ago. I don't see him often, but our paths had crossed again. Once more the familiar words rolled out of his mouth as he reclined on a sofa in rude health, having just enjoyed a large and sumptuous meal.

A few minutes earlier he had been excitedly relating to me the latest on his search for the ideal retirement community – one which would doubtlessly be warm all year long and situated near a golf course. But conversation had now moved on to the topic of life with Christ, and his language suddenly changed so as to suit the occasion.

"I'm a dead man."

I didn't believe his claim the first time around, and this second pass wasn't any more convincing. I've never seen a more self-satisfied dead man in my life. I know something of his daily life, and best I can tell it has precious little to do with daily death.

So much for this other fellow. What about me? I ate that same tasty meal he ate, and I hope to retire one day too. Am I really different? if so, not nearly enough.

We all, to varying degrees, leave the dying to Christ. We are in the business of comfortably living. Our common desire to arrange for a suitable retirement is just the final chapter in a book devoted to the same enterprise.

Christ's participation in our lives is always commensurate with our participation in his death. Given that we devote our lives to avoiding crosses, why should we be surprised that the American church evidences so little of his resurrection power? Only the dead can be resurrected, and we refuse to die.

The question inevitably arises.... What does it mean to die with Christ? The entire New Testament is an end-to-end answer that question. So why then is the question so inevitable? It's inevitable because we read New Testament like the consumers we are. We pick and choose what we read, notice and remember – and it's usually things we've been trained by our consumerist society to value. Given that our society places a premium on avoiding death, it's not surprising that we fail to notice that death to self is the first, main ingredient in God's recipe to make us anew into the image of Christ.

By avoiding the blindingly obvious scriptural call to die with Christ, we generally miss not only the forest but also the vast majority of the trees. Truth be told, it's a good day when we notice the shrubs. Take Mark 10 for a simple example. The entire chapter reeks of self mortification (both literal and figurative), but our consumerist take-away from Mark 10 is the two verses where Jesus promises us a hundred-fold return on whatever we give up for his sake. (1oo-fold? In this life? Yahoo!) Driven by our fleshly desires, we fix our eyes on a solitary shrub in a chapter full of trees.

Even the shrubs we do not examine too closely. Who remembers that in those same two verses Jesus also promised us persecutions? As the old joke goes... "Is that a promise? Or a threat?" At best we in the American church would take such words as "advance warning." Those who have died with Christ, however, call them a promise – and a good one at that. The Apostle Paul said as much in his letter to the Corinthians.

But we don't want a promise like that, so we firstly ignore it, secondly forget it, and thirdly (the coup de grâce) get offended when the promised persecutions arrive. (Witness the righteous indignation in those various circulating religious emails we all see from time to time.)

We forget everything else Jesus said in Mark 10 too, which explains why we proceed to divorce as often as anyone else, hoard up money just like everyone else (for our retirement, we explain...) and avoid placing ourselves in danger just like everyone else. Like the rest of the general population, we want nothing to do with carrying crosses, be they relational, financial, or physical.

Crosses are for dead men.

2 Corinthians 12:10
That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

Mark 10:22
At this the man's face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth.

Are You Lying To Me? Or Just To Yourself?

I am shocked to see how often people speak untruthfully. More shocking still is the sublime sincerity they exude while pouring patent and potent falsehoods from their lips. I am frequently forced to conclude that the sincerity is not a show. They believe their own words. They are the first victims of their own deceitfulness.

And yet I should not be shocked. I sometimes catch myself lying to myself. That is a sure indication that there have been other occasions when I lied to myself... and didn't catch myself in the act.

How often, O Lord, have I lied to you... and believed my own words? How badly I would like to say that never happens.

But I'd be lying to myself if I said that.

Psalm 139:23-24
Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.
See if there is any offensive way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.

Forgive Him. While He Lies To Your Face

A man betrayed my trust several years ago. He lied to me repeatedly, caused me great financial harm, strung me along... and to this day I am not free of the fallout from what happened. It was the financial equivalent of rape. I've still got the baby to show for it.

I was mulling over the nature of forgiveness yesterday as I burned several hours on some unpleasant work related to the "baby" born of that experience. While I worked I reminded myself again and again that Jesus was rather clear about the matter -- if I cannot forgive this person for what he did to me, then God will not forgive me my sins either.

When I got home that evening, I turned to my daily readings from the Book of Common Prayer, where I found (lo and behold) that the Gospel reading for the day was this very passage I had been mulling over. Here it is:

Matthew 18:21-35

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?"

Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.

"Therefore, the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants. As he began the settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him. Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt.

"The servant fell on his knees before him. 'Be patient with me,' he begged, 'and I will pay back everything.'

The servant's master took pity on him, canceled the debt and let him go. "But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a hundred denarii. He grabbed him and began to choke him. 'Pay back what you owe me!' he demanded.

"His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back.'

"But he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he could pay the debt.

When the other servants saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed and went and told their master everything that had happened.

"Then the master called the servant in. 'You wicked servant,' he said, 'I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to. Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?' In anger his master turned him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed.

"This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother from your heart."

As I pondered the parable anew, several new thoughts came to mind.

First, I was struck by the fact that, two years on, I still struggle to forgive the man who wronged me. The bar is set high. (Did Jesus ever set it low?) I should have forgiven the man on the spot while he was lying to me. To say the case mildly, forgiveness is something I have not mastered yet.

Furthermore, I noticed a common thread of deception (of both self and others) involved in both my experience of a few years ago and here in this parable Jesus told.

The debt owed by the second servant is equivalent to the wages a man might make after working 100 days. That's not chump change. In promising to pay it all back, the second servant is quite possibly telling a bald-faced lie -- or something close to it. "Be patient with me," he says, "and I will pay you back." Yeah, right.

One of the things I didn't realize until now is that the first servant was probably being shrewed -- and not simply impatient. He was probably right in guessing he'd not be repaid. His problem is not a lack of patience. His problem is a lack of grace.

Moving on. The second servant may or may not have been speaking truthfully and/or realistically, but there is no such ambiguity where the first servant is concerned. In promising to repay in full, he was lying either to himself, to his master, or to both, and making a fool of himself in the process. A talent is a unit of weight roughly equal to 94 pounds. Did the first servant owe it in silver or gold? Depending upon which you pick, he owed his master either several million dollars or (no joke) several billion dollars. Let's assume it was gold - just for fun. 10,000 * 100 (rough calculation) = 1,000,000. One million pounds. 500 tons. 400 tons, if we round it all down. That is still twice as much gold as the 200 tons of gold India purchased a few weeks ago from the IMF -- for 6.7 billion dollars. "I will pay you back." Yeah, right.

And yet Jesus is comparing me to that servant. It's unpleasant to acknowledge, but the comparison is perfectly apt. My debt to God is unfathomably great -- and it increases daily. I become the third delusional servant if I think for a moment that, with a bit of work, I can get on God's good side. "I will pay you back, God." Yeah, right.

But notice what the master did for the first servant at the start of the parable. He brushed aside his pathetic, blubbering, delusional promise of repayment.... and he just canceled the debt outright! "15 billion dollars? It's ok. You don't have to pay it."

I guess at the heart of this parable are two lying and/or delusional servants... and one tremendously and unspeakably gracious master. There's a lesson or three there for me to remember for the next time I try to negotiate with God!

Firstly, where God is concerned, I have nothing to negotiate with -- so I can stop that game now. ("I cannot pay you back!")

Secondly, I do face a master who graciously forgives massive, massive debts. ("You will cancel my 15 billion dollar debt??")

Thirdly, the only thing that might interfere with this unspeakably gracious solution is if I choose not to be equally gracious toward those around me. ("Uh-oh... there's a hitch?")

Always a hitch. I must go and do likewise.

Yes, the man lied to me. Yes, the cost to me was great. But how does my loss compare to, say, 15 billion dollars? What that man cost me is like dust on the scale compared to what I owe God. Do I want to remember the mite of dust bitterly -- and for the privilege continue to carry my debt to God? Or do I want to wallow in the grace of my Lord -- so much so that I lose sight of what others owe me?

It seems a simple choice... an easy decision. But God, I'm not good at this. Please help me to forgive others from the heart.