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Our defender
By Julie | September 9, 2007
Matthew 15:1-2
Then some Pharisees and teachers of the law came to Jesus from Jerusalem and asked, “Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders? They don’t wash their hands before they eat!”
You are one of the disciples, sitting beside your teacher, your mentor, your friend, the man you want to be like. You’re enjoying the food and conversation. You raise a bite to your mouth and you hear their question. A question meant to condemn you, and embarrass the leader of a group you feel more love and purpose from then any other thing in your life. Ever.
Gulp.
You drop the food on your plate, and look down embarrassingly accused of breaking a law and of being a slob. Just before Jesus answers you peek a quick glance into his eyes, expecting them to shame you, to lash out, to say disappointedly ‘you screw-up!’ But that’s not what you see in his eyes. He gives you a small nod, a hint of smile. Then Jesus turns to the Pharisees and not only defends you, but lectures them for using the law to condemn people, but not allowing it to change their own hearts.
You sigh, more convinced this is the man you want to follow, the man you want to become. You’re in awe that when you were judged by wrongful actions, you didn’t receive punishment. No, your leader defended you. You didn’t deserve it. You did wrong. But He defended you!
In the gospels, Jesus constantly defended the guilty people the legalist used the law to condemn. He didn’t just defend them. He condemned their accusers.
It’s the same thing today.
I am a screw up. I don’t want to be. I tell myself, boy, that was dumb. I’m not going to make that mistake again. But I do. I tell myself next time my kids stress me out, I’m going to look at them calmly and say, “Honey. It’s ok. Just don’t do it again.”
Then, some weird scenario happens, because the strangest thing always occur when kids are involved. Like, suddenly a gallon of milk is dropped and gushes all over the floor. My oldest son screams at my youngest to get out of it. The dogs start licking it up. All before I’ve even computed what happened, let alone grab a towel to clean. Then, my boys are fighting. The youngest is trying to play in the mess. The other is grabbing him to stop. They both end up drenched. The dogs’ tongues head toward my milk-soaked boys. It’s loud, I can’t hear myself think. As I reach the floor to start scrubbing I fall on my butt right in the middle of the milk.
I confess, the first thing from my mouth is not “Honey, it’s ok. Just don’t do it again.” Before I can think, I’ve yelled at the kids and sent them to their room. The youngest, too young to understand, I put in his crib so I can clean. He doesn’t want to be in his crib, and starts screaming and crying. The oldest is crying in his room, yelling he was just trying to help. As I go back to clean, I realize, sending them to their rooms tracks more milk through the house and I’m looking at milk-based foot prints leading to their bedroom doors. In the kitchen, the dogs’ paws are spreading more liquid over the floor. I put the dogs outside. Then, I grumpily clean as the boys cry from their bedrooms for me. Feeling overloaded, I get done quickly, but not thoroughly. The whole time saying, “That’s enough, you two. I’m stressed. I don’t want to hear it.”
When I return to my youngest son, I have to change the crib sheets because I put a sopping wet toddler in there to allow me to clean uninterrupted, which means I have more to clean.
As I get my kids changed, who are crying, and grumpy, because their mother is grumpy, I know that I not only failed myself, I failed my kids, and I failed God. I want it to be different. I know better. I know if I respond without thinking, if I yell at my kids, I will not have the outcome I want in my life. I know God knows it too.
Repentance is hard. It’s one thing in the quiet time of prayer to just decide I will not react in a certain way anymore. But in the battlefield of life, it is so difficult to change the reactions that become hardwired within us. The ones we never wanted in the first place, and don’t want our kids to see, because we don’t want to pass them down.
As a Christian, who wants to live for God, I get mad at myself when I screw up. Again and again. I make the same mistake I’d decided I was never going to make again. I berate myself because I know I’m not living up to God’s law.
I can almost see my accuser up there, saying “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. She did it! She said she wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Look at her. She’s pathetic. She’ll never amount them to anything.”
I think Satan’s accusations must echo to the earth, and ring in my ears because I gather my boys around me for hugs, and apologies, to make up to them. At the same time inside I tell myself I’m a hopeless case and they deserve better.
But then I come to God in prayer. I berate myself to him, and I can almost feel him kindly nod his head and say, “But I know you’re trying. I know you’re heart. Just hang in there. Keep faith. Keep trying. I don’t listen to your accusers. I listen to you.”
Jesus gives me hope. He doesn’t just defend his disciples while being pressured. He defends me, even when I screw up. He’s there for you too, even if you mess up. He knows your heart. He knows when you’re trying. He won’t let your accuser win.
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