Fearless: Imagine Your Life Without Fear Part 7

CHAPTER 8.

This Brutal

Planet

Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul MATTHEW 10:28 Fear of Violence The greatest golfer in the history of the sport sat down to eat his breakfast, never suspecting it would be his last. Byron Nelson had slept well the night before, better than he had in days. He had showered, shaved, and then smiled when his wife, Peggy, announced the meal of the morning: sausage, biscuits, and eggs.

He was ninety-four years old, sixty-one years removed from the streak: eleven consecutive tournament victories. Tiger Woods has won six in a row. Arnold Palmer won three; so did Sam Snead, Ben Hogan, and a few others. But Nelson's record of eleven straight stands out like an oak tree in a wheat field. He retired a year later and bought a ranch near Fort Worth, Texas, where he lived peacefully until G.o.d called him home September 26, 2006.

After washing the dishes, he sat down to listen to a favorite Christian radio broadcast. Peggy left for Bible study at the church. ("I'm so proud of you," he told her.) She returned a few hours later to find him on the floor. No sign of pain or struggle. His good heart had just stopped.1 Russia of the early 1950s needed little excuse to imprison her citizens. Let a person question a decision of Stalin or speak against the Communist regime, and he could find himself walking the frozen tundra behind the barbed wires of a Soviet concentration camp. Boris Kornfeld did. No known record of his crime survives, only the sketchy details of his life. Born a Jew. Trained as a physician and befriended by a believer in Christ.

With ample time on their hands, the two men engaged in long, rigorous discussions. Kornfeld began to connect the promised Messiah of the old covenant with the Nazarene of the new. Following Jesus went against every fiber of his ancestry, but in the end he chose to do so.

The decision cost him his life.

He saw a guard stealing bread from a dying man. Prior to his conversion, Kornfeld never would have reported the crime. Now his conscience compelled him to do so. It was only a matter of time before the other guards would get even. Kornfeld, even in danger, was at complete peace. For the first time in his life, he had no fear of death or eternity. His only desire was to tell someone about his discovery before he lost his life.

An opportunity came in the form of a cancer patient, a fellow prisoner who was recovering from abdominal surgery. Left alone with him in the recovery room, Kornfeld urgently whispered his story. He poured out every detail. The young man was stirred yet so groggy from the anesthesia that he fell asleep. When he awoke, he asked to see the physician. It was too late. During the night someone had dealt the doctor eight blows on the head with a plasterer's hammer. Colleagues had tried to save his life but couldn't.2 Byron Nelson and Boris Kornfeld embraced the same convictions. They anch.o.r.ed their hope to the same rock and set their sights on the same heaven and trusted the same Savior. Yet one pa.s.sed into heaven on a pathway of peace, the other through a maelstrom of brutality.

Given the choice, I'd go out like Mr. Nelson.

The unnamed heroes of Hebrews would have as well. Their stories occupy a curious paragraph toward the end of the patriarch parade. They follow the better-known names of Abel, who though "being dead still speaks" (Heb. 11:4); Enoch, who "did not see death" (v. 5); Noah, who "became heir of the righteousness" (v. 7); Abraham and Sarah, whose descendants are as "innumerable as the sand which is by the seash.o.r.e" (v. 12).

A person might read this far and draw a conclusion. G.o.d rewards faithful lives with serenity and storied legacies. Live well. Live and die peacefully. Right? Then verses 3537 present the hard side: "Others were tortured, not accepting deliverance, that they might obtain a better resurrection. Still others had trials of mockings and scourgings, yes, and of chains and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn in two, were tempted, were slain with the sword. They wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins, being dest.i.tute, afflicted, tormented."

Contrary to what we'd hope, good people aren't exempt from violence. Murderers don't give the G.o.dly a pa.s.s. Rapists don't vet victims according to spiritual resumes. The bloodthirsty and wicked don't skip over the heavenbound. We aren't insulated. But neither are we intimidated. Jesus has a word or two about this brutal world: "Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul" (Matt. 10:28).

The disciples needed this affirmation. Jesus had just told them to expect scourging, trials, death, hatred, and persecution (vv. 1723). Not the kind of locker room pep talk that rallies the team. To their credit none defected. Perhaps they didn't because of the fresh memory of Jesus' flexed muscles in the graveyard. Jesus had taken his disciples to "the other side into the country of the Gadarenes, [where] two men who were demon-possessed met Him as they were coming out of the tombs. They were so extremely violent that no one could pa.s.s by that way. And they cried out, saying, 'What business do we have with each other, Son of G.o.d? Have You come here to torment us before the time?' " (Matt. 8:2829 NASB).

The most dramatic and immediate reactions to the presence of G.o.d on earth emerged from demons like these-the numberless, invisible, s.e.xless, fiendish djinns of Satan. These two men were demon possessed and, consequently, "extremely violent." People walked wide detours around the cemetery to avoid them.

Not Jesus. He marched in as if he owned the place. The stunned demons never expected to see Jesus here in the devil's digs on the foreign side of Galilee, the region of pagans and pigs. Jews avoided such haunts. Jesus didn't.

The demons and Jesus needed no introduction. They had battled it out somewhere else, and the demons had no interest in a rematch. They didn't even put up a fight. "Have you come to punish us before our time?" (v. 29 CEV). Backpedaling. Stuttering. Translation? "We know you will put it to us in the end, but do we get double trouble in the meantime?" They crumpled like stringless puppets. Pathetic, their appeal: "Please send us into those pigs!" (v. 31 CEV).

Jesus did so. "Move," he exorcised. No shout, scream, incantation, dance, incense, or demand. Just one small word. He who sustains the worlds with a word directs demonic traffic with the same.

And though this world, with devils filled,

should threaten to undo us,

we will not fear, for G.o.d hath willed

His truth to triumph through us.

The Prince of Darkness grim,

we tremble not for him;

his rage we can endure,

for lo, his doom is sure;

one little word shall fell him.3

The contest between good and evil lasted a matter of seconds. Christ is fire, and demons are rats on the ship. They scurried overboard at first heat.

This is the balance on which Jesus writes the check of courage: "Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul" (Matt. 10:28). You indwell the garrison of G.o.d's guardianship. "Can anything separate us from the love Christ has for us? Can troubles or problems or sufferings or hunger or nakedness or danger or violent death? . . . Nothing above us, nothing below us, nor anything else in the whole world will ever be able to separate us from the love of G.o.d that is in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Rom. 8:35, 39 NCV).

Courage emerges, not from increased police security, but from enhanced spiritual maturity. Martin Luther King exemplified this. He chose not to fear those who meant him harm. On April 3, 1968, he spent hours in a plane, waiting on the tarmac, due to bomb threats. When he arrived in Memphis later that day, he was tired and hungry but not afraid.

"We've got some difficult days ahead," he told the crowd. "But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do G.o.d's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."4 He would be dead in less than twenty-four hours. But the people who meant him harm fell short in their goal. They took his breath, but they never took his soul.

In his award-winning book on the Rwandan genocide of 1994, Philip Gourevitch tells the story of Thomas, a Tutsi marked for slaughter. He was one of the few who escaped the machete-wielding Hutu murderers.

Thomas told me that he had been trained as a Boy Scout "to look at danger, and study it, but not to be afraid," and I was struck that each of his encounters with Hutu Power had followed a pattern: when the minister ordered him back to work, when the soldiers came for him, and when they told him to sit on the street, Thomas always refused before complying. The killers were accustomed to encountering fear, and Thomas had always acted as if there must be some misunderstanding for anyone to feel the need to threaten him.5 Evildoers have less chance of hurting you if you aren't already a victim. "Fearing people is a dangerous trap, but trusting the Lord means safety" (Prov. 29:25 NLT). Remember, "his angels . . . guard you" (Ps. 91:11 NIV). He is your "refuge" (Ps. 62:8), your "hiding place" (Ps. 32:7), your "fortress" (2 Sam. 22:23). "The Lord is on my side; I will not fear. What can man do to me?" (Ps. 118:6). Satan cannot reach you without pa.s.sing through him.

Then what are we to make of the occasions Satan does reach us? How are we supposed to understand the violence listed in Hebrews 11 or the tragic end of Boris Kornfeld? Or, most supremely, how are we to understand the suffering of Jesus? Ropes. Whips. Thorns. Nails. These trademarked his final moments. Do you hear the whip slapping against his back, ripping sinew from bone? Thirty-nine times the leather slices, first the air, then the skin. Jesus clutches the post and groans, battered by wave after wave of violence. Soldiers force a th.o.r.n.y wreath over his brow, sting his face with slaps, coat it with saliva. They load a beam on his shoulders and force him to march up a hill. This is the condemned sharpening his own guillotine, tying his own noose, wiring his own electric chair. Jesus shouldered his own tool of execution. The cross.

Cicero referred to crucifixion as "a most cruel and disgusting punishment." 6 In polite Roman society the word cross was an obscenity, not to be uttered in conversation. Roman soldiers were exempt from crucifixion except in matters of treason. It was ugly and vile, harsh and degrading. And it was the manner by which Jesus chose to die. "He humbled himself and became obedient to death-even death on a cross!" (Phil. 2:8 NIV).

A calmer death would have sufficed. A single drop of blood could have redeemed humankind. Shed his blood, silence his breath, still his pulse, but be quick about it. Plunge a sword into his heart. Take a dagger to his neck. Did the atonement for sin demand six hours of violence?

No, but his triumph over sadism did. Jesus once and for all displayed his authority over savagery. Evil may have her moments, but they will be brief. Satan unleashed his meanest demons on G.o.d's Son. He tortured every nerve ending and inflicted every misery. Yet the master of death could not destroy the Lord of life. Heaven's best took h.e.l.l's worst and turned it into hope.

I pray G.o.d spares you such evil. May he grant you the long life and peaceful pa.s.sage of a Byron Nelson. But if he doesn't, if you "have been given not only the privilege of trusting in Christ but also the privilege of suffering for him" (Phil. 1:29 NLT), remember, G.o.d wastes no pain.

Consider Boris Kornfeld, the Russian physician bludgeoned to death because of his convictions. Though the doctor died, his testimony survived. The man with whom he spoke never forgot the conversation.

There, in the quiet camp hospital recovery room, the doctor sat by his patient's bedside, dispensing compa.s.sion and peace. Dr. Kornfeld pa.s.sionately related the story of his conversion to Chritianity, his words flavored with conviction. The patient was hot and feverish, yet alert enough to ponder Dr. Kornfeld's words. He would later write that he sensed a "mystical knowledge" in the doctor's voice.

The "mystical knowledge" transformed the young patient. He embraced Kornfeld's Christ and later celebrated in verse with this joyous affirmation: G.o.d of Universe! I believe again!7 The patient survived the camps and began to write about his prison experience, disclosing the gulag horror. One expose after another: One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, The Gulag Archipelago, Live Not by Lies. Some attribute the collapse of Eastern Communism, in part, to his writings. But were it not for the suffering of Kornfeld, we'd have never known the brilliance of his young convert: Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

What man meant for evil, G.o.d, yet again, used for good.

CHAPTER 9.

Make- Believe

Money

Do not fear, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.

LUKE 12:32 Fear of the Coming Winter A Monopoly champion sits in your office. The Michael Phelps of the game board. The Pele of the Boardwalk. He spends all day every day slam-dunking the compet.i.tion, collecting houses, Park Places, and make-believe money the way Solomon collected wives. He never goes to jail, always pa.s.ses Go, and has permanent addresses on Illinois and Kentucky avenues. If the Fortune 500 ranked Monopoly billionaires, this guy would out-Buffett Warren Buffett. No one has more money than he.

And he wants you to help him invest it. You are, after all, a financial planner. You speak the language of stocks and annuities, have ample experience with IRAs, mutual funds, and securities. But all your experience didn't prepare you for this request. Yet here he sits in your office, encircled by bags of pink cash and little plastic buildings. Invest Monopoly earnings?

"I have 314 Park Places, 244 Boardwalks, and enough Reading Railroads to circle the globe like thread on a spool."

Is this guy for real? You do your best to be polite. "Seems you've ama.s.sed quite a Monopoly fortune."

He crosses his arms and smiles. "Indeed I have. And I'm ready for you to put it to work. It's time for me to sit back and take it easy. Let someone else monopolize Monopoly for a while."

You take another look at his stacks of funny money and toy real estate and abandon all tact. "Sir, you're crazy. Your currency has no value. Your cash has no clout. Outside of your game, it's worthless. I'm sorry to tell you this, but you've made a foolish mistake. In fact, you are a fool."

Strong language. But if you choose to use it, you are in the company of G.o.d.

And [ Jesus] told them this parable: "The ground of a certain rich man produced a good crop. He thought to himself, 'What shall I do? I have no place to store my crops.'

"Then he said, 'This is what I'll do. I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I'll say to myself, "You have plenty of good things laid up for many years. Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry. '

"But G.o.d said to him, 'You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?'

"This is how it will be with anyone who stores up things for himself but is not rich toward G.o.d." (Luke 12:1621 NIV) He seemed to be a decent fellow, this wealthy farmer. Sharp enough to turn a profit, savvy enough to enjoy a windfall. For all we know he made his fortune honestly. No mention is made of exploitation or embezzlement. He put his G.o.d-given talent to making talents and succeeded. Flush with success, he resolved to learn a lesson from the fable of the ant and the gra.s.shopper.

The gra.s.shopper, you'll remember, wondered why the ant worked so hard in the summer day. "Why not come and chat with me instead of toiling in that way?" The ant explained his labor: "I'm helping to lay up food for the winter and recommend you do the same." But the gra.s.shopper preferred to flitter than work. So while the ant prepared, the gra.s.shopper played. And when winter brought its harsh winds and barren fields, the ant nibbled on corn while the gra.s.shopper stood on the street corner holding a cardboard sign: "Any work will do. I'll hop right to it."

The tyc.o.o.n in Jesus' story wasn't about to play the role of the gra.s.shopper. No food lines or soup kitchens for him. And no food lines or soup kitchens for us either. We empathize with the fecund farmer. Truth be told, we want to learn from his success. Has he written a book (Bigger Barns for Retirement)? Does he conduct seminars ("Recession-Proof Your Barn in Twelve Easy Steps")? Doesn't the barn stuffer model responsible planning? And yet Jesus crowns him with the pointy hat of the dunce. Where did the guy mess up? Jesus answers by populating three paragraphs with a swarm of personal p.r.o.nouns. Reread the heart of the parable, noting the heart of the investor: And he thought to himself, saying, "What shall I do since I have no room to store my crops?" So he said, "I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build greater ones, and there I will store all my crops and all my goods. And I will say to my soul, 'Soul, you have many goods laid up for many years; take your ease, eat, drink, and be merry.' " (vv. 1819) This rich man indwelled a one-room house of mirrors. He looked north, south, east, and west and saw the same individual-himself. I. I. My. I. I. My. I. My. My. I. My. No they. No thee. Just me. Even when he said you, he spoke to himself. "You have many goods. Take your ease."

And so he did. He successfully h.o.a.rded enough stuff so he could wine, dine, and recline. He moved to Scottsdale, bought a five-bedroom split-level on the third fairway of the country club. He unpacked the moving vans, set up his bank accounts, pulled on his swimming trunks, and dove into the backyard pool. Too bad he forgot to fill it with water. He popped his skull on the concrete and woke up in the presence of G.o.d, who was anything but impressed with his portfolio. "Fool! This night your soul will be required of you; then whose will those things be which you have provided?" (v. 20).

The rich fool went to the wrong person ("He thought to himself ") and asked the wrong question ("What shall I do?"). His error was not that he planned but rather that his plans didn't include G.o.d. Jesus criticized not the man's affluence but his arrogance, not the presence of personal goals but the absence of G.o.d in those goals. What if he'd taken his money to the right person (G.o.d) with the right question ("What do you want me to do?")?

Acc.u.mulation of wealth is a popular defense against fear. Since we fear losing our jobs, health care, or retirement benefits, we ama.s.s possessions, thinking the more we have, the safer we are. The same insecurity motivated Babel's tower builders. The nations that spread out after Noah's flood decided to circle their wagons. "Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower whose top is in the heavens; let us make a name for ourselves, lest we be scattered abroad over the face of the whole earth" (Gen. 11:4).

Do you detect the fear in those words? The people feared being scattered and separated. Yet rather than turn to G.o.d, they turned to stuff. They acc.u.mulated and stacked. They collected and built. News of their efforts would reach the heavens and keep their enemies at a distance. The city motto of Babel was this: "The more you h.o.a.rd, the safer you are." So they h.o.a.rded. They heaped stones and mortar and bricks and mutual funds and IRAs and savings accounts. They stockpiled pensions, possessions, and property. Their tower of stuff grew so tall they got neck aches looking at it.

"We are safe!" they announced at the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

"No you aren't," G.o.d corrected. And the Babel-builders began to babble. The city of one language became the glossolalia of the United Nations minus the interpreters. Doesn't G.o.d invoke identical correction today? We engineer stock and investment levies, take cover behind the hedge of hedge funds. We trust annuities and pensions to the point that balance statements determine our mood levels. But then come the Katrina-level recessions and downturns, and the confusion begins all over again.

During the economic collapse of October 2008, a Stamford, Connecticut, man threatened to blow up a bank. When he lost $500,000 of his $2,000,000 portfolio, he planned to bring a gun into the facility and take the lives of innocent people if necessary.1 As if a shooting spree would do anything to restore his loss. Fear has never been famous for its logic.

If there were no G.o.d, stuff-trusting would be the only appropriate response to an uncertain future. But there is a G.o.d. And this G.o.d does not want his children to trust money. He responded to the folly of the rich man with a flurry of "Do not worry" appeals. "Do not worry about your life. . . . Do not seek what you should eat or what you should drink, nor have an anxious mind" (vv. 22, 29).

Don't follow the path of the wealthy b.u.mpkin who was high on financial cents but impoverished of spiritual sense. Instead, "Do not fear, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom" (v. 32). This is the only occasion when Jesus calls us his "little flock." The discussion of provision prompts such pastoral concern.

I once rode on horseback with a shepherdess through the Black Mountains of Wales. The green valleys were cotton-puffed with heads of sheep. We came upon one member of the flock that had gotten herself into quite a fix. She was stuck on her back in the rut of a dirt road and couldn't stand up.