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Why Not Rather Be Wronged?

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This is something that is really hard for me to write about because it cuts so close to my own natural proclivities. My wife and my children know that I speak the truth when I confess that I am defensive. I easily bristle at slights, often even when they are meant as jokes or completely unintended. I know rationally that such defensiveness betrays insecurity and an ego that is easily wounded, that my guard goes up because I do not want to appear vulnerable, but despite my best efforts, I can’t seem to remain open and affable when berated or insulted. Nevertheless, I continue to strive against defensiveness.

Jesus was not defensive. In fact, it would be hard to find anyone more mild-mannered while facing his harshest critics. After Jesus accused his detractors of being children of the devil—harboring in their hearts the same antipathy toward life and truth that characterizes the devil—they said to him:

“Aren’t we right in saying that you are a Samaritan and demon-possessed?”

John 8:48

To understand the full impact of this insult, we need to put it in more contemporary terms. In calling Jesus a Samaritan, the Jewish leaders were questioning the legitimacy of his birth as well as his racial purity, something they regarded as very important. In effect, they were calling his mother a whore and claiming that he was not really Jewish. “You are a half-breed bastard,” we might say today.

Likewise, in calling him demon-possessed, the Jews were questioning his mental stability. They were calling him crazy, or, more politely, mentally ill.

Jesus carefully frames his response in a way that patiently answers their charges while preventing them saying he is self-aggrandizing. It is a very delicate matter to claim to be God’s unique son in a culture where such claims are regarded as blasphemous! Jesus defends himself without being defensive. Later, of course, he faces much worse: insults, blows, torture, and an ignominious death. He says nothing in his own defense but suffers cruelly and unjustly for a purpose greater than his own life.

His followers quickly gain a reputation for the same kind of attitude. When they are beaten, they rejoice (Acts 5:41). When they are put to death, they pray and forgive (Acts 7:59-60). When they are imprisoned, they sing (Acts 16:25).

It is in this context of a willingness to suffer rather than fight back that we must understand Paul’s frustration with the Corinthians in I Corinthians 6:1-11. The believers in Corinth were taking disputes to the civil courts instead of resolving them among themselves. In our litigious and rights-obsessed culture, this seems only fitting. Why shouldn’t we go to court and involve lawyers to resolve disputes? That’s how we avoid bruises and bloodshed. But Paul has no quarrel with the civilizing influence of the courts. His concern is for the unity of the church, and what he finds is a willingness to assert individual rights against that unity. The unity of believers is so paramount that it takes precedence over our own sense of injury. “Why not rather be wronged?” he asks. “Why not rather be cheated?”

This same impulse to privilege personal justice over collective unity has done great harm throughout Christendom. Where I see it most in the online world is in comments from Christians defending some supposed biblical point of view with all the condemnation and vituperation they can think of. Whose purposes does that kind of behavior serve? It is not loving toward the one with whom they disagree, nor is it attractive to those outside the faith. When we fight—for conflict is inevitable—let us do so with vigor but also with grace and love, as those who value the bonds of Christian intimacy above our own righteousness.

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Self-Checkout

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“Does your cat like that?”

The question barely penetrated my consciousness because I was busy looking up PEPPERS–JALAPEÑO. So she repeated it.

“Sir, does your cat like that?”

She was pointing at the bag of dry cat food sitting on the out tray.

“Yeah,” I said wondering where this was going.

A few moments earlier she had noticed me turning the parsley over in my hands looking for the four-digit produce code. She had come over and punched in the code from memory. I had thanked her and reckoned that our interaction was at an end, but there she was asking about my cat food.

“I use Purina,” she volunteered.

“Mm,” I responded as I picked up the cat food and my bag of other groceries.

“I’ll have to give that a try,” she said nodding at my cat food.

I walked away. I’m sure she was just being friendly, perhaps even trying to relieve the tedium of watching over the self-checkout lines, but if I had wanted human interaction, I would have waited in line for a cashier.

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Early Memories – Part 1

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Much of my earliest childhood memories form a mosaic of images and places unconnected by any narrative or larger meaning. There are some that have no distinct chronology at all, more like snapshots found in a shoebox, jumbled and confused.

My dad was a Marine. I don’t remember ever seeing him in dress uniform, but I recall being on base at least once and seeing tanks which I believe he worked on. Before I was born, he shipped out to Japan with Korea as his ultimate destination. It must have been 1953. He never made it to Korea. His orders were changed, and he spent his entire tour in Japan. His tour included support for at least one nuclear test on a south Pacific island. He had photographs of the mushroom cloud formed by the explosion. He also had a black-and-white photo of my mother colorized by a Japanese artist. That photo, treasured by my mom, hung in the great room at Walcutt Road. My dad was an accomplished marksman and had several awards from Marine Corp competitions. He always said that never drinking alcoholic beverages gave him an edge because he could hold his gun steady and take aim without any tremors. All his Marine Corp paraphernalia and photos were lost in the fire that destroyed our Walcutt Road home.

I remember being small enough that when my mom was folding laundry and put one of my dad’s undershirts on me, it hung down to my ankles. My dad was my hero.

Because my dad was in the Marines, we moved so often that I can’t even count the number of places we lived. I know that we lived in several places in California, at least one place in North Carolina, and at least one in Hawaii. My only memory of Hawaii is an indistinct impression of the Honolulu Zoo. They had crocodiles (or maybe alligators) in a big open pit. I’m told I ate the large garden snails that could be found in our yard. Perhaps “ate” is not quite the right word since my mom managed to get them out of my mouth before I swallowed them. Two of my sisters, Lani and Kathy, were born in Hawaii. Lani’s name is Hawaiian and means heaven or sky.

I have a few distinct memories of North Carolina. We lived in a house on stilts on the beach. While we lived there, a hurricane came ashore and we had to evacuate to a nearby city. The only thing I remember about it was seeing house roofs sticking up out of the water. It struck me as highly unusual. In advance of the hurricane, there were public service announcements on the radio advising people to put valuables and linens on the highest shelves to be out of reach of flood waters. My mom dutifully did just that. Our house did not flood despite being so near the sea, but the gale-force winds drove rain under the eaves. Everything she put up high to keep dry got soaked.

Due to a pay mix-up, my dad didn’t get paid for several weeks when we moved to North Carolina. A buddy of his who worked in the mess hall would leave a sack of potatoes and cartons of milk outside the back door for my dad. We ate a lot of potato soup. I still love potato soup to this day. But it was also in North Carolina that I acquired a distaste for fish. I don’t remember the details, just that we had fish sandwiches that tasted very fishy indeed. After that I could not eat fish for many years.

Another incident from North Carolina was told and retold in our family so often that it became family legend. Once when we were sitting down to eat, my mom sent me and my sister, Marsha, to wash our hands. I washed my hands, but I saw something move in the shower, so when I returned to the table, I announced, “There’s a bug in the shower.” Marsha came back a few minutes later and dissented. “It’s not a bug,” she said; “It’s a worm.” My dad went to have a look and found a rattlesnake! Our shower drain emptied out on the sand underneath the house. The snake had slithered up the drain and into our shower. My dad drove it out of the house with hot water, then crawled under the house and killed it. Did I mention that my dad was my hero?

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